Critique Thread General

[Anonymous No.5660378]

Hey /lit/. You know how it works. You write something. Post it. Others judge it.

[Anonymous No.5660384]

I'll Start:

Jayne was an average whore, her family name forgotten. Her earliest memory – or, her only true memory – was of the night she lost her virginity to an unremarkable man with an unmemorable face. That night was clear and noiseless, a half-moon rose above the window, the canal outside was slow. Or, maybe there was shouting, an echo of a quarrel somewhere. Yes; the unremarkable man with the unmemorable face was bickering with Mister Blint. He wanted his money back.
‘My good sir, calm.’ Mister Blint had said, his voice soft. Muffled by a door. ‘A very common thing, I assure you. Virgins are fragile things…”
More words were said, a compromise reached. Jayne heard it all and remembered none of it. She saw only the moon’s reflection on the canal and felt only a pain between her legs, and she did not need to look to know there was blood.
Quiet again. Then there was the creak of a door. Footsteps. The mattress shifted. Plump fingers brushed her cheek.
‘Sweet, sweet girl.” Mister Blint said. ‘I’ve told you, as I tell all my girls, my clients don’t like it when my girls cry. Most of them, anyway.’
Had she cried that night? Perhaps she had. Perhaps it had been a full-moon that night.
‘I suppose it can’t be help. We all cry sometimes.’ Mister Blint said. ‘I know I cried when my dear wife died, and sweet, sweet Brienne – oh, how she cried!' He touched her chin and she saw him, his face round, his kind smile. ‘Have I told you about Brienne? No? She was so beautiful, such I happy girl when first I saw her. I knew I had to have her, so I made it so.
‘I paid a good sum for her, more gold than I’ve ever spent on any other girl before or since. A good investment, I thought. She cried, that first night. And I went to her. Consoled her. Hush now, my sweet, sweet Brienne, but she would not stop. She cried the next night, and again the night after. Soon, she took to crying at all hours of the day…”
The door behind Mister Blint was closed, just as it had been when she was alone with the unremarkable man with the unmemorable face. The room somehow smaller. His face seemed especially pale in moonlight.
‘I paid a good sum for her.’ Mister Blint said again. ‘I pay respectable sums for all my girls, and I expect those sums to be repaid. Brienne was not making me money; she proved to be a poor investment. I abhor poor investments.'

[Anonymous No.5660457]

>>5660384

>Her earliest memory – or, her only true memory –

Keep the hyphens, drop the 'or'.

>Or, maybe there was shouting, an echo of a quarrel somewhere.

Drop the 'or'.

>Yes; the unremarkable man

Why the semicolon? A comma would be fine. If you need to really lean on the pause for some reason, toss in some ellipses.

[Anonymous No.5660478]

>>5660457
I thought the 'or' was needed because I'm trying to stress the uncertainty of memory. Like 'It was a quiet night, or maybe people were shouting, or maybe it was day and those people were unicorns.'

[Anonymous No.5660501]

>>5660384
i admit to be a pleb, but i found it remarkably easy to read, so i guess thats a good thing

[Anonymous No.5660524]

>>5660384
pedophile

[Anonymous No.5660526]

>>5660384

>‘I suppose it can’t be help.

helped.

Unless there's a reason for an odd speech pattern.

>day…”

Double quotes win out in the end.

>money; she

The semicolon's fine here. For the record, I don't hate semicolons.

Final comment on what I found problematic:

>the canal outside was slow.

It's a little weak to me. I get the idea it's still, it's quiet. I think you can make a better descriptive here. The only thing the water interacts with is the moon's reflection, so maybe 'still' is better. More visual? Something like that.

Finally, and not an objection:

>Jayne was an average whore,

Given where we are, and the general knuckle dragging trends of late, I was going to drop it at that.

Including my other objections the start was a little rough, but it hit it's stride and became interesting.

Nice touch with the creepy-dark theme. Good timing for tonight.

[Anonymous No.5660532]

>tfw too shy to post but really want feedback

[Anonymous No.5660579]

Be like the frog
Always looking up,
Never knowing

[Anonymous No.5660580]

>>5660532

Man the fuck up Pynchon.

[Anonymous No.5660600]

1/3

The forest was a fog, seeping into every crack of his surroundings, but transforming as he neared it, into simple trees. It wailed and moaned as if it were but an assemblage of creatures, yet he knew it was not. It had once been a great city, the place where he lay, yet the forest had encroached upon it. For many years it had to be continually fought back. This was such a slow moving process that it was never consciously done, for the people of the city found that fighting the forest aligned with their petty day to day wishes of roads and avenues. They failed to realize that they were always fighting the forest, and that they had been since the formation of the city. The people are gone now, and the forest remembers what it is, and as the people fought it without thinking, instinctively, as a man picks at a scabbed over sore, the forest moves again. Truth be told, the forest never stopped moving, but only stood still because the people never stopped moving it.

The buildings left behind by the great city strive to chase their architects into the ground. They leap, brick by brick, to the dusty earth below and are covered in time. Creatures inhabit the crumbling narrative the remnants of the city would weave about itself and its past inhabitants. Weeds and the seeds of weeds, long forgotten below the stones that pave the city have awakened without the ruthless maintenance of their prison. They had never forgotten what they were, even though their surroundings had. The weeds remind the asphalt, and are likewise reminded by the asphalt of their temperance and inclination to be weeds. Without the asphalt to push against, the weeds would have forgotten they were pushing. All is one in the forest, it is cohabited equally by the things left behind and the things laid out over them, left to tame them and now being tamed by them.

He intended to light a fire in the clearing, but the forest would ever creep. When he saw the city, and its majestic leavings, the work of proud millions, swept back into the forest he could not bring himself to defy the forest by constructing a fire pit.

[Anonymous No.5660604]

2/3

In the dark that the forest enforced upon him, he saw a weariness wash over himself. The scrabbling of forest creatures reminded him, that although every creature could be a part of the forest, and rightly had no choice in the matter, he could not. He had the spark, and the forest wouldn’t have him. It pressed, unconsciously, as he consciously made the decisions that would result in his pushing back, out of line with his intentions, but in accordance with his intended results.

Man fights the forest once, and then ever again, constantly renewed so long as he lives. He makes the decision once, and every decision after, although not to fight the forest, results in his doing so. The forest never does anything but creep. Likewise, does the man fight, but having seen the ruins of man’s defiance, he cannot bring himself to.

He hungers, he has hungered. As he lays in the reeds of the forest and watches its minions stride past reaping its bounty for their sustenance, he becomes aware of them, and his hunger. He breaks his catatonia, with the intention to merely take of the harvest of the forest as the wolves do. To this end, he fashions a spear with a bottle thats purpose has long been forgotten, inscribed with words he would never know how to read. Broken into dusty shards, the man slams it against a stone to break away pieces of it and refine the previously broad and unwieldy edge. As he ties the glass flint to the piece of wood with ivy, he examines the point and finds it pleasing. The spear is the man’s teeth. The wolf has teeth, and so must he.

He stalks, as the wolf of the forest does. He bends grass with his feet, as does the wolf. When he nears the doe, he feels justified. A step, and a lunge, and the grain of the forest’s harvest has been met by his scythe. Stripped of its meat, he leaves the carcass by a rotted stump and returns to his clearing with a pride. He senses he is but a creature of the forest, acting in accordance with its identity.

The meat needs cooking, and as the trees provide the leaves that dry, he provides the spark that ignites them inside a ring containing carefully placed stone by carefully placed stone. To hold the meat over the fire, he breaks a branch off of a tree, not so differently from an insect burrowing into the wood. He moves the tree, as does the beetle. The branch punctures the meat and holds it aloft above the fire, safeguarding his calloused earth darkened hands from the kiss of the flame.

[Anonymous No.5660611]

3/3

Resolving to sleep now after sustaining himself, he stretches out amidst tall grass. Finding the grass irritating to his hide, he grabs great fistfuls and uproots it. As he tosses it to the side he fancies himself not unlike the doe, removing the grass for his own ends. He believes himself a creature of the forest.

When the rain fell, he thought of the burrowing creatures. Surely he could do likewise and make shelter. With tree freshly moved, as in the manner of the insect, tied together with long grass, removed in the manner of the doe, he makes a roof, and props it up with yet more displaced wood. Laying underneath his shelter, he imagines the burrowing creature and thinks it would be envious.

When winter he came he found himself wanting for warmth and to hide away with the wind beneath his creativity. Tree moved and tied made yet more rooves, which he drove into the ground to make walls. He likened his shelter to an above ground burrow, from which he could no longer see the forest, but for a weed sprouting from the ground he had cleared. He grasped the weed, and plucked it.

In spring, when the rain came, he would lay another bundle of displaced wood to keep the mud off himself. The forgotten seeds beneath the floor, pushing it up as best they could, the forest creeping still. And so the city was born again, from a self-declared beast of the woods.

[Anonymous No.5660627]

Holy wall of fucking text ...

Alright, fine. I'm wading in. Wait one ...

[Anonymous No.5660641]

Can these threads also work for foreign language critique?

[Anonymous No.5660661]

>>5660627
Sorry, it was just barely too big to fit in two posts.

[Anonymous No.5660752]

I could be a different person
Someone better than me
I could be your favorite person
Just tell me who to be
I could brighten up your days
I could kill the old me
I'll do almost anything
Just tell me who to be

Next time that we meet
You won't recognize me
I'll be someone that you never met before

I would throw myself in front
Of traffic doing high speed
If it meant that you'd be safe
Just tell me who to be
And I will say things you won't like
But I'll say them politely
I'll forget my point of view
Just tell me who to be

Next time that we meet
You won't recognize me
I'll be someone that you never met before

I could be a different person
Someone better than me
I could be your favourite person
Just tell me who to be

[Anonymous No.5660772]

>>5660600

Right. Here we go ...

>The forest was a fog, seeping into every crack of his surroundings,

Mixed metaphor error. A forest is not a fog, although the visual would work for someone zooming past it at high speed. Otherwise a fog and a forest hidden under are two different, too different, things. Let me try a quick (and probably still iffy) suggestion:

The forest lies hidden under the fog, it seeping into every crack of his surroundings, and reappearing as he neared it, transforming back into simple trees.

>It wailed and moaned as if it were but an assemblage of creatures, yet he knew it was not.

'as if' is evil, and not the good kind. Try this:

It wailed and moaned as assemblage of creatures, yet he knew it was not.

Still just a touch weak though. Maybe 'pained creatures' ?

>They failed to realize that they were always fighting the forest, and that they had been since the formation of the city.

I would drop 'that' in both cases.

>as the people fought it without thinking, instinctively, as a man picks at a scabbed over sore,

Out of place. Drop it entirely or move it somewhere before: 'The people are gone now'

>Truth be told, the forest never stopped moving, but only stood still because the people never stopped moving it.

Not bad, but out of place as well. Keep it and move this somewhere before: 'The people are gone now' as well.

>The buildings left behind by the great city strive to chase their architects into the ground.

Nice. Yeah. You can do metaphors correctly, this show it.

>city would weave

Eek! Drop 'would'. Remember - show us what is, metaphorically or more exactly, not what seems to (or would) be.

>that pave the city

'paved' - past tense is better here, given all that crumbling.

I like the picture, however the surrounding sentence needs more work. It's a bit muddled.

>Weeds and the seeds of weeds, ...

Let's try this:

Weeds and the seeds of weeds long forgotten below the stones and ruthless maintenance of their prison that once paved the city, have awakened again.

I could spend more time fiddling with this one as well, but you get the idea.

>He intended to light a fire in the clearing,

'the clearing' came outta no where. Too sudden. Maybe:

He thought to light a fire in some clearing, but found none into which the forest did not creep. And when he saw the city, ...

OK! I'm not going to hammer the next two. Let me just take them in as is and give you back an over all feel.

Wait one ...

[Anonymous No.5660774]

>>5660661

Ignore that, I just like bitching.

It's good to have a critique thread up again, mon.

[Anonymous No.5660778]

>>5660772
That's a lot of very helpful stuff. Thank you, anon. I'll sit down in the morning and work on some revisions.

[Anonymous No.5660782]

>>5660778

You're welcome.

It only works, and is only worth my time, if you don't get discouraged. If you do I've failed.

Keep that in mind and keep writing.

[Anonymous No.5660788]

>>5660782
Well, I appreciate your feedback and will be sure to consider it carefully.

[kitty !kitty/EnNg No.5660793]

>>5660772
>A forest is not a fog
i protest
their forest was a fog
it's not even that hard to see a forest as a fog
what kind of critics is that, next you will say that the outrageous fortune definitely doesn't have any slings and arrows?

[Moonspeak or bust No.5660813]

>>5660641
This is why I wish we still had /q/ around. It's a good question.

I ain't a mod, nor be me mootie (ahem), so this is only my opinion.

We have enough trouble with English here, so much so that there's never going to be a shortage of need for this. I would rather we keep it all English in one thread.

While I have no objection to non-English language threads, they have been a source of abuse on other boards. 4chan has enough trouble getting quality janitors and mods, and Moot hasn't a hope to enlist language polymaths to help out, much less supervise and run quality control hurding on them across all the boards.

This sure can be aggravating to non-English language users, but as I see it this is an underlying infrastructure issue, not a cultural jingoism thing.

And again, speaking only personally, I don't much care about non-English threads though you won't catch me in one.

You really should speak to a mod, or Moot, before testing the waters. What I or any other non-staff has to say here doesn't really matter much. I'm just trying to be helpful.

OK, all that's all I have to opine on the matter. Back to readan' and critiquean'.

[Standard disclaimer and all th(...) No.5660821]

>>5660793
Yeah, you have to take what you get here with a grain of salt, and I can sound more authoritative than I should.

That doesn't mean whatever I object to don't work. It just didn't work for me.

Fortunately we've got enough of a user base to call each other out on it.

[Anonymous No.5660826]

Look where we worship. We all live in the city. The city forms, often physically, but inevitably, psychically - a circle. A game. A ring of death with sex at its center.
Drive towards outskirts of city suburbs. At the edge discover zones of sophisticated vice and boredom, child prostitution. But in the grimy ring immediately surrounding the daylight business district exists the only read crowd life of our mound, the only street light, night life.
Diseased specimens in dollar hotels, low boarding houses, bars, pawn shops, burlesques and brothels, in dying arcades which never die, in streets and streets of all-night cinemas.

When play dies it becomes the Game.
When sex dies it becomes Climax.

All games contain the idea of death.

Baths, bars, the indoor pool. Our injured leader prone on the sweating tile. Chlorine on his breath and in his long hair. Lithe, although crippled, body of a middle-weight contender. Near him the trusted journalist, confidant.
He liked men near him with a large sense of life. But most of the press were vultures descending upon the scene for curious American aplomb.

Cameras inside the coffin interviewing worms.

It takes large murder to turn rocks in the shade and expose strange worms beneath. The lives of our discontented madmen are revealed.

Camera, as all-seeing god, satisfies our longing for omniscience. To spy on others from his height and angle: pedestrians pass in and out of our lens like rare aquatic insects.

Yoga powers. To make oneself invisible or small.
To become gigantic and reach to the farthest things.
To change the course of nature.
To place oneself anywhere in space or time.
To summon the dead.
To exalt senses and perceive inaccessible images, of events on others worlds, in one's deepest inner mind, or in the minds of others.

The sniper's rifle is an extension of his eye. He kills with injurious vision.

The assassin (?), in flight, gravitated with unconscious, instinctual insect ease, mothlike, toward a zone of safety, haven from the swarming streets.
Quickly, he was devoured in the warm, dark, silent man of the physical theater.

[Anonymous No.5660844]

The Lords. Events take place beyond our knowledge or control. Our lives are lived for us. We can only try to enslave others. But gradually, special perceptions are being developed.
The idea of the “Lords” is beginning to form in some minds. We should enlist them into bands of
perceivers to tour the labyrinth during their mysterious natural appearances. The Lords have secret entrances, and they know disguises. But they give themselves away in minor ways. Too much glint of light in the eye. A wrong gesture. Too long and curious a glance.
The Lords appease us with images. They give us books, concerts, galleries, shows, cinemas. Especially the cinemas. Through art they confuse us and blind us to our enslavement. Art adorns our prison walls, keeps us silent and diverted and indifferent.

[Anonymous No.5660864]

We rang the bell every hour on the hour. Then we waited. Sometimes all night, some nights the response came almost instantly. Never the less, the ritual was repeated all night, wither a reply or nil. We rang that goddamn bell every hour on the hour. Then waited like silent terracotta warriors. Stoic in our virtue and mighty in our quest, we stood, we waited, we prayed for the sun to rise.

Three month into my duty all that changed.

We rang the bell, waited, and the call came back. And we did nothing. We sat there, my charges and I, we did nothing. The call came once again and my first said to me, Sir, we should ring back!

No. Tonight we will wait until the sun rises in silence. And so we did. And so it did. But the sun refused to rise. A pattern of fog transformed the earth to dismal grey and shadow. So we waited, as was our duty. We Waited and sang and told stories of our time at the front, none of us saying what we feared, what we refused to acknowledge, the truth we knew...

We were alone and daylight would never come again for any of us.

[Anonymous No.5660889]

A winged eye rose from on high, burning out the essence of my very being, trapping me behind lidless eyes as the fluids once solid tracked down my cheeks and into my screaming mouth. Fire became my blood and lightning exploded inside my boiling brain as a thousand universes became my reality at the same time. Copper, all I could taste was copper. So much dust, we are all made up, it was flattening in its totality this experience. Nothing became me, consumed me, expelled me like an afterbirth from a mouth that refused to exist and I was alone into nothingness, floating in my own sorrow for the life the I used to understand. Swaying back and forth, no longer under my own power I finally saw the grim visage before and spoke...

Who was phone?

[Anonymous No.5660896]

I woke up only to discover everything was gone. My papers, shoes and bag were all missing. After a two day long trip on top of a coal carriage of a rusty train I decided it would not be a bad thing to lay down flat on a bench at the railroad station as to rest my bones and get sleep. With only my dirty pants and coal stained shirt on, I had nothing. Since it was the middle of the night, the last thing I could do was to try locating a shelter for the homeless. The only lamplight on the entire station was a dim little lamp on the desk of a ticket clerk. A fat and wrinkled lady like creature, sitting at her desk and using all of her wit to fill in the today's crossword. Saying the conversation was unpleasant would be an understatement, thankfully after some rambling from the senile side I got to know that the next shelter is, in fact, three miles down the main road. There was nothing for me but to walk and at least enjoy the warm night. The street was as empty as one could expect from a small town in the middle of the night. In only an hour I arrived at what was supposed to be my salvation. The building however looked more like torment and torture than a blessing from the heavens.
Right upon entering I was greeted by an awful stench of alcohol and sweat. A questionably sober man directed me to the one he called 'Padre'. Padre was a short and stocky clergyman, bald as a knee but jovial nonetheless. Were he to sit down in robes, I'd confuse him with a Buddha statue. My pale palm went in for a handshake. Padre's grip nearly crushed all my bones. With a slight grin I muttered some words about a place to lay my head on and that I were a victim of a terrible and unfortunate crime. The only thing I understood from his answer was that I should worry not and come over for a glass of milk and some left-over pastry. So I did and to be honest, after two days worth of dried meat and bad bread, the taste of sweet rolls swallowed with big gulps of milk is something I cherished for a long time.

[Anonymous No.5660914]

Storms over the ocean, lighting up stray dolphins with blue neon matchsticks, exploding them with phosphorescence vainglory personified. I sat aft deck, bomber joint in one hand, digital camera in the other, capturing every salty drop of ocean nightmare in HD excellence. The cabin boy, in his tight sailor suit brought me another Cuba Libre as a stray lightning bolt, proof of god's distress, nearly opened a hole in our starboard. His tinny wee shriek gave me pause to laugh as I sent him away, slapping his ass with my newspaper and calling him a faggot as I took another long slow pull from my joint. Lids half closed I pondered the storm before me, turned up the ipod, and turned over to go to sleep.

[Anonymous No.5660917]

>>5660826
Whoah.

Stylistically heavy in a way I really like. Where have I heard this before?

[Anonymous No.5660947]

[Anonymous No.5660950]

He wore Saturn on his shoulders and smiled at me under the sickening haze of the club's blacklights. Beckoning me over, a vial in his hand, screaming insanity in his eyes. My joining him in a line was never a question. The only unspoken thought between us was the soiled sexuality in the air. I waved it away with a laugh and a nod, I was here for the drugs, the company, and his sister, whose very being filled me with the fake bravado I needed to survive the night.

[Anonymous No.5661111]

So it went on and on, millions of rain drops falling from the sky onto the surroundings. And among those a single car with a single man and a single thought.
Death. Is it not the thought of all men, of all mankind? Is it not omnipresent since birth ambushing us and striking at our hearts at the happiest of times, at the saddest of times, at the dull and exciting ones? It was an impossible thing to love, but to him it was an impossible thing to hate as well. It had served as much a motivation as anything else had to him, more so than love or money ever had. Neither ever seemed set to find him, or perhaps it was him who was never set to find them, but death. Death drove him, the knowledge that it was always coming, always years or minutes or seconds away, death pushed him forward.
Yet on and on the rain poured, uncaring of his pointless introspection.
He lifted his cigarette to his lips, taking a long breath, before letting it out and bringing his clenched fist to his forehead, closing his eyes. The warmth radiated from his chest as he did so, distributing itself around his cold body in a not entirely comfortable way, before letting up to a series of soft coughing. It was odd, he had never smoked, and yet whenever this mood hit him, some nagging feeling in the pit of his heart told him light up. Cliché as it was, it seemed right, or more so than most other things seemed. It was funny in its own way, though he was not sure if tragically so. He opened his eyes and drifted to the sprawling and restless waters in front of him. The waves where harsh, bashing themselves violently against the concrete. He pondered what they would think if they had thoughts, if they could understand the pointless nature of their short lives. Of course this was a silly thought, but he thought it was a genius and deep sort of metaphor. It wasn’t. He knew what they would think though, what everyone thinks. Why? Even decades away from the face of one’s end, it was a hard thing to accept. Many people prided themselves on their understanding and acceptance of their own deaths, but to face it and maintain that pride and bravery that they gleamed with was near impossible. Maybe the entire ideology was an act, to convince oneself that they were mature, that they somehow held some higher acceptance and ability above others. God knows everyone was always out to prove something to their selves, and so they set out on little missions of surrealism that they feel make them a better person. Maybe it did, occasionally at least, provide some sort of knowledge or deeper grasp on life.

[Anonymous No.5661113]

>>5661111
Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.
The rain had started to slow a bit, but still blinded his windshield. He didn’t mind, rain had always comforted him much like the sounds of your home do when you try to sleep. The slight creaks and shifts rocked him into a drunk-like state of drowsiness much like rain did now, in a much more consistent manner. He let it take a hold of him and drifted. His mind had become dull, almost numb in a way, his thoughts fading to a simplicity that was, more than anything, difficult to achieve. He laid back in his seat, lowering it back as far as it would go and stared at the ceiling. The cold was starting to get to him, making its way through his heavy clothes, and by instinct alone he turned on the engine. Without warning the heat hit him, breaking him from the seduction of naivety.

[Anonymous No.5661136]

—Look, Two-key, I'm a sick man. I'm a nasty man. There's something wrong with my junk. There's spots on my balls, man.
—There's what?
—Spots. Down there. Like, near the outer rim of the scrote. Whiteheads, boils, I don't know, some shit like that.
—Man, that's fucking disgusting. You got any type of cream for that?
—Uh, I used to just kind of use Savlon, I assumed that was the kick I kinda needed in the derma-dick area.
—That's disgusting behaviour, man. Who raised you? Fucking bears or some shit?
Johnny Silencio began to unzip his fly, with the kind of inelegance which passes from habit to custom after living with a close friend for 6 or more months, not performing the gesture with disrespect to his de facto host so much as that "so what?" panache that comes so naturally to young bachelors.
—The fuck is this, dog? The fuck is this? Don't be pulling your dick all up in the dog room without written consent or some shit, you a disgusting person and I don't want your dick around my dogs. You even a bad influence on dogs, man.
—Ay man, said Johnny. Quit busting my balls.
—I don't think I need to, man, those shits practically hanging out of the sac already. What'd you fuck?
—I fucked your dogs, you goofy motherfucker.
—Ay, don't be disrespecting my dogs.
—What the fuck is this dog? Why the fuck is this dog, man? Why you buy so many dogs? This is a people house, not fucking chez de maison la dog or some shit.

[Anonymous No.5661144]

Just an excerpt. Keep it constructive /lit/izens...

Ted stood in line, shifting his weight from leg to leg and fiddling with his hair, sneaking glances at any reflective surface to ensure every strand was fixed in place. The stink of coffee filled the swollen air, and though he’d often remark to whoever listened about the extortionate prices, it was a necessary expense to bring him nearer to the platinum-haired beauty behind the counter. She flashed her dazzling whites as she greeted every customer with the same vibrance that gleamed in her sapphire eyes. Ted had once overheard vulgar comments made in regards to her breasts, and still found himself during more dreary moments plotting how he’d punish the culprits. A minute smirk cracked from his lips as he imagined just one of the hundreds of scenes he had planned.
The smirk soon sunk beneath a slight twitch as the line shortened. He was now two customers away and was yet still undecided as to what he’d say. His name, perhaps? Redundant, it was displayed on his badge that he checked was faced correctly. The weather? Banal. Work? Unoriginal. Recent movies or music? Risky. Somebody had suggested to “Just be yourself,” which was useless as he’d never been anything but.
Upon reaching the counter, he was too overwhelmed to utter anything other than his order through the invisible clamp that squeezed tight at his throat. Before moving aside to wait for his coffee, Ted discarded his change into the Tips Jar. Most of it scattered elsewhere with a jingle. The girl mustered an uncertain “Thanks”, squatted down and gathered some of the coins that had travelled as far as the floor. Fate, Ted realised, is against me today.
Back in his office, Ted unclipped the badge dangling from his neck and stuffed it into his trousers. Another, reading “General Custodian”, lay at his spotless desk. Taking a seat, he felt a rising calmness wash away the earlier ordeal. From the sweaty film that clung to his shirt to the uncomfortable nausea that had encouraged him to discard an untouched vanilla mocha, it had certainly taken its toll.

[Anonymous No.5661242]

>>5660826
this is really fucking good

[Anonymous No.5661424]

bump for more critique

[Anonymous No.5661426]

>>5660641
Yes, it's been known to happen. Unless your language is western and widely used, though, you'll almost certainly not get any sort of reply. If I were you, I'd try.

[Anonymous No.5661451]

http://pastebin.com/BMQPQYP0
Posting mine again (Latin America Spanish)

[Anonymous No.5661454]

>http://pastebin.com/BMQPQYP0
ey! hace unos dias posteaste esto en otro thread, yo te hice varios comentarios. Ahora lo leo de nuevo. Si te va, decime que te parece esto, cualquier comentario/sugerencia se agradece.

[Anonymous No.5661467]

>>5661454
not going to read it all because I have no time rn, but I'm Brazilian and I've never had spanish classes and I can read almost everything. Is it the same for you guys? Can you read a text in portuguese easily?

[Anonymous No.5661473]

1k words, story has been accepted at Jersey Devil Press, coming out in December. Still want to re-write and expand it, so help is appreciated.
>http://pastebin.com/Q6QFpMDh

2k words, still working on it, so help is appreciated
>http://pastebin.com/YfPHfdjM

[Anonymous No.5661476]

>>5661467
I read O livro do dessassosego all in portuguese, never took any classes. Read some of his poetry too, yeah, 95% is understandable

[Anonymous No.5661479]

>>5661476
that's great pal
feels good being able to share my literature with a fellow latin american

[Anonymous No.5661497]

>>5660826
Well, jee, thanks for that, Jimmy! The lizard king isn't dead quite yet.

>>5660896
I remember this from another thread. The opening is a little clunky and cliche. I'm wondering if you wrote this specifically for one of these threads, because the backstory seems shunted very distractingly in sentences that don't need it. Things like "Only to discover" and "Since it was" and "as one could expect from a small town" are wordy and give the impression you're making it up as you go along ("oh, and by the way, it's the middle of the night and I just did this, this and this") which I'm sure you're not doing. It just SEEMS that way. It's workable, definitely, but you need to work on your syntax and the imagery isn't particularly strong.

>>5660914
It reads like one big sneer. You're shooting for a contemporary McCarthy with punctuation, but things like "HD excellence" and "Lids half closed, I pondered the storm before me" I found quite cringeworthy. That being said, you create a vivid scene and your language at the end of the day is quite clear - if you tried to force it a little less, this could be wonderful prose.

>>5661111
>>5661113
I remember this, too. I remember replying with pepeatrainstreakedwindow.jpg. It's not very good: it lacks any form of subtlety, is riddled with cliches, and it's generally just a drawling mess. You may have something going with the repetition, though, since it creates an OK rhythm, but it certainly needs a lot of work.

>>5661136
Dialogue exercise? It's fine. Nothing more, nothing less: I can see people saying things like that, though I wouldn't care for it, and I'd care even less about reading it. I wouldn't call it "edgy", just eye-rollingly vulgar.

>>5661144
It's wordy. You go a little overboard with adjectives, and I'm sure there's a better way to phrase "to ensure every strand was fixed in place". The eyes and dazzling whites thing are cliches, and unless your character is hyperobservant, I'd consider cutting a lot of it out. Things like "upon reaching the counter, he was too overwhelmed to utter..." sound archaic in the tone and setting you're going for. DFW influence? You may want to reconsider that, or at least study his style some more, because as wordy as he was, his prose was at least conscious of what it was going for. You'll get there with it, and I'd sure enjoy reading it when you've cleaned it up a little.

>>5660950
Excellent. I enjoy these kind of scenes anyway, but your words choice and all that imagery is beautiful. Well done.

[Anonymous No.5661500]

>>5661454
Lamento no poder dar recomendaciones (sé lo mismo o menos que vos). ¿De qué trata exactamente?
Me gustó como has utilizado pocas palabras para narrar algunos acontecimientos.
Lo leería/10

[Anonymous No.5661503]

>>5661497
Mine:

He sat in the street with the radio on, head rocking side to side ‘gainst the melodies and licks of understanding, nothing to drink, feeling exposed. There was little shade this time of day and the crab car steamed under the sun and looked somewhat defeated, and it was already getting looks. An officer came ‘round, scratched a little in his notepad ‘n’ pouted down at the bumper plate, stretching his neck as he left by way of the alley, and only when he really needed to did he look away. So, with lack of anything to do, for the first time in a while, T.P paid some attention to the graffiti. The old conversations were gone now, peeling from the apartment buildings, walls, signs and colonnades, obscured behind cruder streaks of black; Che’s visage was split with a crack down the middle, and he wondered where everyone was speaking if it weren’t on the walls. “Look at that one, Lion. Looks to me like some kinda eel thing.” He pointed to a trailing line that took up two whole buildings and tapered at the turn. “What d’you think? An eel thing with real sharp teeth. Minhocão maybe?” Lion, in the fashion of all turtles, rolled his head: it happened to be where his eyes were. “And that one there: I’d call that ol’ Shuck if I ever saw him, right? A-and there, the great tentacles of The Ya-te-veo!” He stood up now; Lion cringed in his enclosure. “Well, gee, Lion, I’ll be damned if they ain’t try’na tell us something. When was the last time you saw these?. Oh, I used to have them all in stickers in the hornet, all over the dash. See - there’s a giant anaconda, right there.” Sure, he realized he was getting excited - he was killing time at work, who’d deny him that? That’s all it was. The policeman, as expected, had come around in another cycle, and was even less hesitant to dawdle this time. Presently T.P’s eyes ran over all the symbols presented to him down the street, paraphrases of the old mythologies he thought he’d never see again, and which brought back all those memories in New York. It had been on his mind recently; was it some coincidence the walls were speaking about now?

[Anonymous No.5661520]

This is a little experiment I wanted to make, the dialogue is pretty much placeholder since it isn't inserted in any story yet.

Barbed glances at each other. Words crawling inside our mouths, pushing towards our lips, furiously awaiting to spread their poison.
"We've been through this before"
A frown dug deeper than before. Restless hands searching for the moment to clench.
"How many times do I have to explain this to you?"
Simmering water, reaching a boil. Nails scratching deep in a chalkboard. Pressure builds and never stops.
"How can you not understand this yet?"
"Maybe because there's nothing to be understood"
Raging bull charging the red curtain. Soldiers march with bayonnets ready. Orders come to fire, all divisions at once.
"It's always the same with you. Nothing ever changes. I am completely fed up with this bullshit goddamnit. I simply cannot take this shit anymore!"
Volcano spewing forth Earth's rage. A horrible scream silenced no more. Hell gone loose, gate left open.
"If you hate it so much maybe you should just leave already"
"Well maybe I should"

[Anonymous No.5661550]

>>5661500
No se bien de que trata, no tengo una idea bien clara de a donde va la historia. Resumen:
Una mujer se casa con un hombre, ese hombre va a luchar a las Islas Malvinas y muere. La mujer se casa al poco tiempo con otro hombre, que tambien lucho en Malvinas. Tienen una hija. Divorcio. Padre e hija se distancian, eventualmente dejan de verse. Al final, la hija, ya adulta, piensa en como hubieran sido las cosas si el primer esposo de su madre no hubiera muerto. O algo asi...

[Anonymous No.5661731]

>>5661144 here, thank you >>5661497 for the criticism. I admit myself that I have a habit of being wordy, though I guess much of that stems from my own observant nature.

[Anonymous No.5661905]

The Cuban’s skin is black with smoke. He sits beneath the shade of the palm, tiger-striped with sunlight through the fronds, rolling a dead ant between his fingertips. As he toys with it, the soot comes off his pads and encases the ant in a sticky ball that grows and grows until there is no more ant-shape to it. Tiny planet of pitch, smooth-yawed and gathering and dereticulate, obeying the laws of form. He is shirtless and shoeless and thin, his eyes are blood-webbed and watching. Thermo means heat means fire.
He cannot smell himself. Cannot smell the ocean either, though he can hear it. That mellow storm of crash and suck he has heard all his life. He cannot smell the rotting bananas, but tastes them when he breathes. Sweetness and salt in the air that burns in his raw throat, sticks there piquantly burning. His own smell covering everything, but then he cannot smell himself. All he smells is smoke.
“Ah Cristo, my eyes are stinging. I think I will go blind soon.”
Arlo is drunk. He may in fact go blind. They went to the University of Havana together where he studied science and Arlo studied culture. Now he is drunk with a bottle of fine spiced rum in each fist and is crouching over the anthill, squinting and rubbing at his eyelids with the back of his hand, spitting dark gobs full of cinder-grit down on the mound.

[Anonymous No.5661934]

CAW! CAW! CAW! CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!CAW! CAW! CAW!

[Anonymous No.5662074]

>>5661934
10/10, would read again.

Are you writing the sequel?

[Anonymous No.5662114]

>>5661731
No that stems from an inpropper use of language.

[Anonymous No.5662132]

>>5661934

[Anonymous No.5662149]

>>5661905

Unclear how many characters or who's talking. Intentional because he's / they're drunk?

Don't like the thermo=heat=fire part. I don't get the point. Don't like "tiger-striped." I think describing the pitch as a "planet" is at odds with the rest of the imagery.

That's all nitpicking. I love the writing overall. The dead ant imagery is really cool. I'm never as good at writing about the things I liked, but I liked a lot.

[Anonymous No.5662218]

Can I post something in German? I'm learning it so I've written a short story and I wanted to post a part of it.

[Anonymous No.5664200]

bump

[Anonymous No.5664215]

>>5661497
Yeah. I find myself stuck again and again how to make this part work without going over the top trying tea make it relatively subtle. The idea I'm trying to put into it is than he finds this strange comfort in the cliches, almost as if it connects him in some way to the world. I think the issue I run into is I'm not clear enough or I am to over the top with it

[Anonymous No.5664228]

>>5661934
Excellent prose. I'll give it a 9/10. Not even Tao Lin can write something like that.

[Anonymous No.5664242]

>>5661136
>using joycean meme arrows

[Anonymous No.5664608]

She plays with clouds of the same milky white as her dress.
Shapes,
Smooths,
Pushes and pulls,
Contrasts them...
She drinks the sun.

I watch her not far off;
I want to learn.
I want to ask her, but I can't make her to lose the moment...
I don't want to lose it either.
So I watch;
Watch the girl, watch the clouds...

[Anonymous No.5664682]

A way of parting indented three by four from the edges of the table, rows and collums all shotglasses filled near to the rim with cheap teqila refined from the second mashing of the agave pulp. The taste was terrible as anyone's guess, but Judas Mudd burned deep driven to finish the last eight left unempty with only half as many breaths inbetween. No other patrons in the bar, not even the man in gray who threw down the dollar notes betting he couldn't finish all twelve, and the bartender watched with a rag ready incase Mudd passed out; ready to clean the spew of vomit and stomach juice, the thin blood from gashing his face on broken glass made in impact of head to counter, or both if the universe hated Judas Mudd nearly an infitesimal mark as much he reckoned it did. Even so, he managed to live twenty-seven years with only coming close to death, dismemberment, and everpresent embarrasment; God must be a reasonable thing, and the world reasonable along side the Creator, so if Mudd lasted this long there is to be a purpose to the air in his lungs and beat in his chest. It happened he realized this one day back before even he stepped a hundred miles within Ullman County Seat, and he said to God “kill me if You must, but I'm going to make sure You stay ontop Your toes, Olord.” Since the day, Judas Mudd been making a name for himself all along the state, dealings savory and not. When not, he keeps on his guard enough to run the other way, and when, his occupation as a pharmacist always finds a way to pull him off the straight and narrow onto the darker, crooked lane.
Shot five down the throat. Chaser: shots six through nine leaves the last row slower than the two before it. Judas' hand hovered over the tenth glass, then shook a bit, and then a lot. He felt hot through the bottom of his eyes straight to the edges of his ears and the knots of muscle twincing by the back of his jawbone. He hazed off and on a sailboat making way to unsure waters, and every second he kept on his feet or on his ass or on the face of the earth he wobbled and woozled. The dirty bar floor is colder than the stale air above it, and more and more the great Earthmother seduces Judas Mudd closer and closer into the tender bosom of her surface, her curves, the near irresitable embrace.

[Anonymous No.5664693]

>>5664682

Gulp, then his eyes start to water; gulp, he burps and coughs up alcohol and bile but quickly tightens his lips to force it back down. The pressured acidity scretches along his teeth ringing them into a hollow sensation. One wrong chomp, lick, or chew would shatter his smile burning more and more brown from coffee and tobacco. Two glasses left on the counter still fully filled with cheap Mexican booze. Judas examined the liquid closer, as should he had before drinking the last ten ounces; he didn't raise the glass to eye-level as much as clamoring on his knees to bring his face against the edge of the bar. It tastes too sweet, he thought. Mexicans never do things this sweet; they have to have their chilies or their salt or their lime to ruin a fine thing of its own. And then there are those worms they drink too. Gulp.
“Hey, isther somm wormzzorsum shit?” Judas asked with the last glass in his hand. “Or limes? Leemons? What d'thej callit? Limoneez?” Judas spoke to the bartender as best anyone guessed, being he was the only other person left in the room. For as drunk Judas was becoming, the right way to call a 'lime' was such a daunting debate in his imagination, he resorted to gesturing and almost-violent hand-ranting and spilled the contents of the glass over his arm. Still, lack of noticing, he flung his neck back, head included, opened wide, and dropped the small cup brim downards over his open mouth. It nicked his gums above his front top teeth, and he started to bleed and swear.

[Anonymous No.5664743]

>>5660600
It reads like there are two stories slammed together. In the first paragraph it really feels like the man was thrown there just to put him in the reader's mind at the start, but he feels out of place there. I think the narration would be served better with the man wandering without the exposition history lesson.

[Anonymous No.5665081]

There's a scent of wet cardboard in my apartment, despite the decided lack of any such cardboard, water-bound or otherwise. I can't decide if what my nose is actually detecting is the smell of a new window pane, fresh from a fight its predecessor picked with a tag team of gravity and a tree branch, or just the general odor of my bathroom. I suspect my bathroom, not because it's some hideous swamp of the dead, dying and general despair or because of some kind of pervasive toxic miasma, and I'm a really poor housekeeper, but because whenever I get out of the shower in the morning, I'm always sure to close the door behind me as quickly as possible and then commence to leave it so, up until I get home from classes later that day. The reason I have this peculiar habit in my morning array of rituals and dogma is an overly-sensitive and hydrophobic fire alarm situated just outside of bathroom door. Learning of it's presence in a particularly noisy fashion when I moved-in, I also learned that I detest loud noises early in the morning. Hence, my ritual and dogma. The result, of course, of leaving a small room with my funk-laden steam to dissipate over the course of a solid day is a room with a very particular odor. Actually, all that stuff about miasma and swamps might be a bit true.

While I'm not necessarily admitting the bathroom is the culprit, why I'd notice the scent of myself is beyond me, but I suspect the small amount of LSD I took just earlier could be a probable culprit. And I do mean small. Mores the pity, I tend to enjoy sojourns in my shower while tripping, stink and all. It's a safe place that brings comfort. It's a place you remove the line of separation between you and the big, wide, cruel world outside-in some places this is more than just metaphor-and expose yourself time and time again (hopefully) in order to engage in a scrubbing away of the accumulated debris and grit of life, without risk of harm or injury. My shower has seen my shame and pride, and massaged away aches and worries, all without judgement and without an iota insincerity. My shower is 'mai waifu'. And all of this makes it a great place to go when the Bhudda-who-lives-in-the-ceiling stops being happy.

Actually I lied. It's whenever I start to feel crippling self-consciousness and worrying doubt. Sorry, I'm kind of boring and I also reflexively hate anything that could under any conceivable notion be described as 'new age'. I reflexively hate a great many things, come to think of it. Like the smell of wet cardboard. And having people question my competency.

[Anonymous No.5665102]

Read these lines in between sprays of Chanel No 5

Smell no evil:

I am not my will to power but I would like to be (Spray)
I would like to find the end to a long fluorescent hallway but it doesn’t actually end it just loops around and now I’m here yet again (Spray)
I would like to not get lost in building built by man (Spray)
I would like spiders to crawl over me like they did when the Pentagon wasn’t there in the field near the hill (Spray) (Spray) (Spray) (Spray)

Without a fort I will wait (Spray)
Without a dichotomy I will wait (Spray)
Without dictation from abstraction I will wait (Spray)
Without your walls I will wait (Spray)
Without fear and flammable objects I will wait (Spray)
Without a need for stardust I will wait (Spray)
Without manifestation I will wait (Spray)
With out a need for Windows I will wait (Spray)
And winter coats to shield from falling suicides I will wait (Spray)
To corrupt my lust all my own I will wait (Spray)
To keep me reading about Swahili Genocide I will wait (Spraytan)
To keep me looking into cellars I will wait (Spraytan)
To glue me to destruction screens I will wait (Spraytan)
I will wait to see the clock turn I will wait (Spraytan)


I will wait
I will wait
I will wait
Today:

[28215 No.5667614]

>>5665102
i like this.
sound slike it could be performed in one of those (uuuh, hipster pleb) poetry slams, with an actual bottle of spray (pls dont use real no5, the audience would choke)1290

[Anonymous No.5667641]

>>5665102

do this live and you'll find out very quickly the fine line between poet and prop comic

[sry this is very long No.5667737]

He grew up sourrounded by noise, the clicking of computer keyboards and the annoying swooshing of passing cars full of angry people, and it was an easy decision to flee not into silence, for the abscense of sound was something irritating, making him uneasy like his own sudden reflection in a clean dark window, but into his own choice of noise. For Joseph this was a piece of music, something that started slow and with a repetetive beat and then evolved into something bigger, ungraspable by means of not even discribable through indiscribableness, that varied with itself, gave birth to the next theme and the next motive and still kept the repetetive beat from the beginning as it went along, every little thing perfectly arranged not to overcome this basic beat and was suddenly over, leaving him silent and letting the sound of the world seep through the thin walls until he got up and hit replay. Again and again. It was horrible routine, but it was the only thing that really kept him going in the beginning, giving him power and elevating him above the others, his neighbours, the people in the house, on the street, noone knew of it, he alone felt it: The power, rythym and energy, this great effort, undergone to produce a way to short piece of purest music, understood by nobody but Joseph. After a while this effect faded away, became as ungraspable as the piece itself and was soon only a memory and to get the
It was an almost endless repeating until he had to do something, for the fear of not being able to buy batteries was a horrible, yet always present thought. So Joseph went out every now and then and sold drugs to kids, living of almost nothing, eating sometimes from trashcans, sometimes not at all, leaving him fleshless and hollow, like the junkie he was.
The money from the kids, always nervous and excited, something they would soon trade in, against what they never wanted but what will be a part of them soon, was used to bribe his dirty junkie landlord not to evict him and, of course, for the little cylindrical things that kept Jospehs crumbling motors running.

[sry this is very long No.5667743]

One bag at a time he made his way thorugh the week, always looking for cheaper fuel, for the best buy, only checking billboards of eletronical markets, even reading the numerous flyers spread out building the big, allcovering, screaming, too colourfull carpet on which he had walked all his life. Ads for most of the things you could want, also ads for ad creators, the buisness beeing so big that it went one layer deeper and now sold itself to you, always wanting to catch your eye. After some time the blur of attacks is something you dont notice, you dont believe in, it is the normal undeground you kick with your feet. Or matress, pillow and blanket, all in one, for the people, who cut a slit in the mashed down substance that wants you to buy something and then crawl into their cave, rotting together with the old paper, then leaving only bottles and their smell behind, so when it gets hot the streets are covered with narrow cracks, releasing horrible gas and fungi in the world. Sometimes the floor groans when you walk over it, but it is ok, you keep trotting, making your way, showing your yellow teeth to snarl at one another, until you end up under the soles of the generation you helped to produce.

[sry this is very long No.5667762]

His mind wandered, drifted away, but he had a mission, he was the bearer of the holy grail, carrying it in a plastic bag, to the street he always was at, greeting some of his customers who where standing around, trying not to raise suspision, not out of fear of the law but of the lawless, in fact most would have welcomed a cop to patrol the streets, but they where raising attention to themseleves, just because they tried not to, as schoolkids always do. The relict was divided in smaller bags, stored inside of the motherbag, safely zipped away in a pocket and the Parcivals had hungry eyes and hollow wallets, the money crammed into their fists, shaking hands with him casually, meeting again after some time, greeting each other a second time and where soon gone. Again this was not some measure against police surveillance, but against the other searching knights, the moenyless vagabounds, always ready to challenge the bearer of a holy object.
It was hard to concentrate, to not led the horrible thing of thought jump inbetween him and his goal, which was the distribution of highly damaging substances to homecoming kids, Joseph basically existed because of their pocketmoney, which was all stolen from the unconcentrated parents.
„Stay alert“, Joseph thought, stay alert if you want to live in a city full of hungry, spoiled liitle kids while smelling like their favorite fast food restaurant, keep focues on what you do, for obvious reasons, there is always someone who wants to take what you have, and just like you they sink their claws in your flesh, tear it out bit by cruesome bit and leave your disfigured body titching on the street, as soon as you loose your focus.

[Anonymous No.5667874]

Posting these here because the poetry thread kind of died by the time I got to it.

[Anonymous No.5667882]

>>5667874
In the coldest of nights
And grimmest of plights,
Through the haunted darkness,
sit still, the spirits that consumed his life.
That once he would fight,
With all of his might,
But eventually, eventually,
He would fail in his fight.

The spirits’ warmth beckoned,
And in time, the man reckoned,
“To what gain, in abstaining?”
That dreaded question, always remaining.
For many moons had passed,
Since the cause of his task,
Since his life shattered like glass,
Like an empty bottle thrown against the wall.

And though he stood a better man,
Fate denied his master plan.
For all that was said, and all the occurred,
No action could make them unperturbed.
In time his mood soured,
And by grief, he was devoured.
Turned out to the cold by the living,
He turned again to the spirits,

and as his discipline ceased,
his consumption increased,
And he slipped back into darkness,
with no hope of release.
In the darkness, now he wallows,
His ghastly poison, down he swallows,
In his soul, his only light:
the spirits that consumed his life.

["Invasion" 1/? No.5667885]

I was still awake when it happened. That night had passed slowly, more slowly than every night before it, but certainly not any night since. No, since that long night, the night everything I thought I could count on, every modicum of security, the structure around which I had carefully constructed some idea of a life, of a self, was violently torn from me, I haven’t been able to sleep after sundown, and so that darker half of time on Earth passes as day does for the folks who keep normal hours, only even longer because unlike them I’ve got no one to talk to.

She wasn’t awake though, and that is really the only thought that makes these nights bearable. No, she had been asleep on the couch, passed out drunk after too much wine with a paperback flopped open on her chest, a light trickle of drool running down the side of her face, feet curled under the leopard print comforter and a slight smirk forming at the edge of her lips, no doubt the result of some pleasant dream; I can almost see her there, in that state exactly, every time I stand over the couch and just kind of stare at the spot where it happened: when I, or at least the body which is usually only inhabited by the person called “I,” killed her.

I had been in my office, going over and over and over again this one particular chapter in a book on which I was to write a paper dissecting its implicit arguments. The professor was big on implicit arguments, as I suppose any doctoral literature professor ought to be, and so every week we were to finish the assigned novel and come up with some kind of, as I said, implicit argument. The weeks spent at home writing the papers, each at least 7 pages in length, not much but, if you wanted an A, not a little either, were spent in class discussing the novel of the previous week, and as such our analyses always ended up original, so long as we avoided papers from students of previous semesters, every single one of which the professor had a freakish ability to sniff out scents of.

The book this week was Thomas Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49, where Oedipa reminisces about her trip to Mexico with Inverarity, specifically the painting they saw in the museum. The imagery of a tower in which several maids sewed a tapestry which flew out the window, the tapestry in turn becoming the world; I had, over years of doing this exactly, developed a kind of instinct with certain passages, and this instinct would, within the first few sentences clue me in to the distinctive scent of when the author was saying something worth writing about. I had been on the trail of this scent when something changed.

["Invasion" 2/? No.5667887]

Suddenly, I began to feel the distance between myself and the text before me grow. I was catapulted back into my own skull, the words now no longer legible, rendered vaguely as lines of ants marching across the page, and when I turned, with a great, aching difficulty to look at my hands, for what else could possibly provide any insight into what was happening to me? when I looked at my hands I saw they had somehow dropped the book without my noticing and were now rummaging through the drawer of my desk. When did the drawer open? What were the hands looking for? And moreover why couldn’t I feel them?

The numbness, my God, the icy cold numbness, the prickling wave of non-feeling on the very border of sensation, the awful, creeping, numbness like a cascading latticework of ice spreading circularly from a drop of liquid nitrogen into a body of water, how vividly I remember this horrible dead feeling as it slithered up from my hands and penetrated into my chest cavity, seeping down through my stomach with such painful alacrity that I was aware of each nerve ending as it in turn had its moment of having the life choked out of it by this wintry, invasive presence.

When it had finished its frostbitten tour of my extremities, the sensation at last doubled back to my skull, and from that moment on I was experiencing my actions as if someone else performed them. My vision had reset, and now I had the perception being audience member to a movie of my life, filmed by some camera trick in the first person, and to this day in my most nightmarish recollections of those events I have the very distinct perception of being part of an audience, as though not only were there hazy, indistinct Others directing my actions, but an equal number of these phantoms watching them along with me.

By this point my hands, with help from my now surrendered arms, legs, body, and eyes, had upended the entire office; my bookcase had been knocked down and now books littered the floor, as did shards of glass from the shattered screen of the iMac my captive body had tossed to the floor in a fit of what I now assume to have been frustration on the part of the occupying force, frustration at being unable to locate the object of this manic search: the .32 snub nose revolver I kept in my nightstand. No sooner had this realization bubbled to the surface of my passive mind than the invaders took note of it, and, ceasing their rummaging through the office, quietly slipped out the door and into my bedroom, where, without incident, they covertly pulled on the knob of the nightstand drawer and took several minutes to behold their quarry.

[Anonymous No.5667889]

>>5667874
Listen to the angels sing
an ancient hymn of shame, it seems.
An aria of melancholia,
in reverence of our folly
to found institutions,
and then claim them holy.
Behold those priests,
akin more to the beast.
Those whom feast upon the fear of mortality,
those who deceive, and truly weaken morality.
The hypocrites and the thieves,
the adulterers and the rapists,
and all the rest of the papists.
See the shame so evident on their face,
evidence of sins that would part them from grace.
Their baseless hate, timeless oppression,
suppression of knowledge, and freedom of expression.

Science?
Deny it.
Conspire to undermine it.
Fuel the fire which inspires your descent,
And lament at its growing achievement;
Lament at your god’s bereavement.
Bathe in the blood of your savior one last time,
before the red rivers of forgiveness run dry.
And bear witness to the subversion
of your institution of coercion.
The inversion of your version of the world,
curled and beaten on the floor,
justly punished by the righteous.

It’s time for confession,
Grant us this overdue concession.
Confess your obsession, your repression,
and the oppression of your fellow man,
whom you claim to love as thy neighbor,
yet you condemn out of anger.
Confess all the crimes in your god’s name,
and that for all the world’s problems,
the secular aren’t to blame.
And last of all:

kneel down, and beg for forgiveness.
Confess to worshipping a false god.
Confess at the point of sword,
like so many before you.

["Invasion" 3/3 No.5667892]

Was it mockery? Was I being taunted? The thought has paralyzed me for hours on end. For what seemed like an eternity I could do nothing but look at it: Its smooth lines swooping upward from the gorgeous pearlescent handle, the rounded trigger guard leading with a logical precision past the ingeniously carved chamber and towards powerful, protruding barrel, which seemed to me to throb with a primal, subliminal and utterly inexorable power: the power to irrevocably take what has no business being in your possession.

With all the swiftness of the Frankenstein monster, I was made to clumsily reach out and grab it with my right hand, and though I couldn’t feel the pistol’s grip, I was aware of its foreboding emanation, the surgical nature of its operation, and above all its power. The presence which had overwritten my nervous system felt that power, too, and, moving with a new, robust, vigor, it strode out of the room and down the hall, into the living room, where presently it loomed over the sleeping, helpless body of my girlfriend on the couch.

I would have screamed if I could, desperate to wake her up in hopes that she might be able to stop what was about to happen, but it was impossible, as the numbness had trickled like a debilitating hemlock ichor down the stalks of my vocal chords. Silently, the pistol was pressed up against her forehead. In absence of a body to feel, all I was aware of was the panic that had seized the entirety of my consciousness, and the adrenal feeling was unbearable as I was made to simply stare at my girlfriend, with that innocent, careless smile of utter satisfaction, with a slight redness forming on her forehead where the barrel was currently pressed, for my own part having no way to tell her anything at all that might save her.

It was over in an instant; the audience and the film disappeared, the numbness receded like a fog before a powerful gust of wind through a valley, and I was once again in control. My first sensation upon being able to feel again was the heat radiating off my now dead girlfriends’ still warm body. The second was the drop of my heart into my gut as I realized that my life and hers were now irreversibly over.

[Anonymous No.5667893]

>>5667874
We fell apart
You said goodbye
And then disappeared
With no reason why
I thought you loved me
But it was a lie
Your moral persona
Was a clever disguise
I wanted to know why
I wanted to cry
I wanted to go back
But desire would subside
You preached values you breached
You lied to feel at ease
You repent on every Sunday
And continue your misdeeds
God may believe in your sincerity
But I never will
Actions speak the truth
and yours have spoken loudly
So now I proudly walk away
No longer in dismay
My heart’s no longer broken
And we’ve nothing more to say
Though this may sound hateful
I’m actually quite grateful
Thanks to your deception
I’ve learned to see the truth:
Despite what I felt
when you walked away
It’s me that deserves better than you

[Anonymous No.5667913]

it seems to me that noone really reads the other posts, but just puts his own stuff here..
not the proper use of this thread guys

[Anonymous No.5668046]

>>5667913
I'm never sure if lack of criticism is criticism in itself. It's neither so terrible so as to make someone post about it, nor so incredible people HAVE to post about it. It's just "meh".

[Anonymous No.5668063]

>>5667893

[Anonymous No.5668113]

>>5660378
Can someone rate my script? Doing it for a game but I'm not a very good writer. I'll just have to learn as I go along. Luckily enough there won't be much dialogue to begin with.


"B catches up with A - his younger brother. The two retain a sportmans-like demeanor despite the dire situation at hand:

A:
I can see that you still disagree with my intentions.

B:
What you seek is fruitless.

A:
Even if that is the truth, your attempts at stopping me will be just as ineffective. Nevertheless, I supplicate a joust from you.

B:
You will have your wish, brother."

[Anonymous No.5668116]

This really needs some editing but I have no idea what to do


Bright lights are flashing, sorry
my focus is wavering
I jump from joy to worry
no staying still, no savouring

My hands are fidgeting
sleeping ivy, creeping
engrossing my lips, I'm spilling
words, half of them are real

I don't feel so detached
deep in your eyes I am hurled
your voice that anchors me to the world
your smile like the sun you catched

Among the crowd, tides drag us away
a messanger bowed, 'I can deliver you to desire'
both our sails furled slowly we make our way
each yearning breath wounds like barbed wire

Calm and respite, that I seek
will not this day come to me
of good bye our breaths now reek
see that this day, marked in red dust and haze,
is the foundation of a play
for which the red curtain is yet to rise
and beyond it lay your hazelnut eyes

[Anonymous No.5668127]

>>5668113
It's really bad honestly, it's cliched, it's dry, it's just so bad on so many levels. You need to scrap that, there's no saving it.

[Anonymous No.5668137]

>>5668127
>>5668127
Fucking balls

Can you atleast give me criticism on how to fix it rather than just saying to get rid of it? I need the situation, and I need a set up for the fight, but how do I introduce the sportmanship of their relationship to make it seem justifiable? They fight for literally no reason generally besides to just one-up each other - but character B actually has a reason to fight this time.

[Anonymous No.5668145]

>>5668137
Have them talk like actual people instead of walking archetype line dispensers.
Try to describe the scene a bit more, tone, facial expressions, etc.
Add a bit more than just the barest minimum dialogue between then.

[Anonymous No.5668179]

>>5668145
Alright, I'll work a little more and post a remade one in a bit. I have two scenes so far designed, here's the other one so I can go ahead and correct it too. Also, sorry about the placeholder names, we're still in talks about that stuff:

B walks into a small arena-like room, with the camera facing him. Noises of battle can be heard, as a damaged rebel limps to him and falls to the ground. The camera changes angles to show a Centaur-like entity standing over the bodies of various rebels.

OLD FRIEND
B, why do you continue to seek your brother? Have you not desecrated your lordship enough?

B
You know what I do is just; we finally have our own chance at our own destiny. There is no longer a need to fight expired wars.

OLD FRIEND
Nothing a traitor to the king and his men seeks is just in my eyes, B. Perhaps what A seeks will bear no suitable end to our planet, but at least I can recede with my honor intact.

B
Let me pass. My quarrel is not with you.

OLD FRIEND
Ah - but mine is yours, B. Come, have a joust with me.

B
So be it. I cannot refuse such an esteemed challenger.

The battle ensues - and OLD FRIEND is eventually defeated by B. He falls to his knees, and looks up weakly at B.

[Anonymous No.5668190]

>>5668179
B then whispers to his ears: "Psssh, nothing personnel kid"

[Anonymous No.5668214]

>>5668190
You're right! I should add more katanas to the scene.

[Anonymous No.5668267]

>>5668214
>>5668179
I also just noticed my blatant overuse of seek in this. I apologize in advance, I haven't read over these many times. They're are all very rough drafts.

[First attempt No.5668450]

Where I planned to improve myself, I never did and thus kept moving in my own post-melancholy for many years.
When I moved to the house by the tarn with the tree of ashes, I kept existing unmovable and uncapable of progressing, which left me to not have changed myself since being around 16 years of age.

I view myself, as I did then, as an open hole of untouched origin, a cavern granted no light or life, only home to some basic substances and variations in a tiny spectre of color- black, grey, white.
-To say it straight out, I can't write stories. I can't compose decent prose or figure out plots. My language is bad, my narration and dialogue is horrid but atleast I'm honest,

To broaden the view of myself, I'm a male, decently tall and fairly skinny. I'm very pale, my eyes are forest-green and my hair is black- my clothes are also almost only black and I have dark circles under my eyes, I have a dark sence of humour and I get a kick from dark romanticism. Do I sound like an edy brat yet? Probably. And I am.
My name's Roman, I'm 19.

I honestly had second thoughts for weeks before I wrote this down and you can probably tell I'm already trying to escape the subject. The subject which is primarily an object I'd say, -is a tree.

Yes, a tree, the story of a tree of ash. The tree itself may have been something that «manifested itself in my brain because this and that and therefore I so and so» -For me it was alive, it was a physical tree and no more. All the «reading between the lines» business will be up to you, the reader or some snotty well-off shitkid that view himself as smart by saying anything like
«Ahum, the tree obviously was just a manifestation of Romans loneliness, depression and/or fragments of his imagination»
Just don't- I've already denied this interpretation before any teenage girl with a blog about suicide and praising of drug abuse got the chance.

To avoid the subject even further I feel it's time for a joke to lighten the mood. How about this- «What did David Foster Wallace say about his own suicide?--»

«--A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again».

DFW, he was a post-modernist... Maybe I should play around the pages and do something tryhard avant garde experimental meta-modernistic post-post-modernistic creative writing just so if someone asks me what the hell I did there, I'll just brag about how much of a peasant he is and how superior I am considering he didn't understand my subtle
ironic-sincere-bitter-experimental-new-flashy-neo-plastic-melancholic-modernistic comment of todays society. Just watch this:

«Th' oncewealth'man of voiceoverLin in d' biological growth of manhood had becomed pennyless-
Count-treu-versaille-ale and zero is a ...,.,-,.,.¨,.¨.'¨,.'¨',.^^'¨\\```` D.DRSQLOLYRTRODNLHNQTGKUDQGTUIRXNEQBCKBSZIVQQVGDMELM
UEXROIQIYALVUZVEBMIJPQQXLKPLRNCFWJPBYMGGOHJMMQISMS
-As you see, there's obviously some deeper underlying secret story underneath that rant--surely.

[Anonymous No.5668460]

ok, lets try this again, this time a shorter version (and also some errors corrected. Some, not all):

His mind wandered, drifted away, but he had a mission and he should not forget: He was the bearer of the holy grail, carrying it in a plastic bag to the street he always was at, greeting some of his customers who where lurking around, trying not to raise suspicion, not out in fear of the law but of the lawless, in fact most would have welcomed a cop to patrol the streets, but they where raising attention to themseleves, just because they tried not to, as schoolkids always do. The relict was divided in smaller bags, stored inside of the motherbag, safely zipped away in a pocket and the Parcivals had hungry eyes and hollow wallets, the money crammed into their fists, shaking hands with him casually, passing again after some time, greeting a second time and where gone. This way of transaction was not some measure against police surveillance, but protection against the other searching knights, moneyless vagabounds, always ready to challenge the bearer of a holy object.

[Anonymous No.5668477]

>>5668450
Won't lie to you mate that was pretty bad.

[Anonymous No.5668491]

>>5660378
I started this yesterday. It's not done, but what do you think?
Trees
Copse: a corpus, eo ipso category.
Root reposed in silted skein;
bled rot cork between my lingua mind.
Blanket me. Hidden in aletheia,
disclosed dually between representamen.
I am what am I am, but I am not.
Yes, circumspect the knotted nihils,
for naught, their whole is unarticulated.

[Anonymous No.5668494]

>>5668450
too self conscious for me.
also:
>dark
>dark
>dark

but it says first attempt on your thingy, so its cool (even if it would say 91729th attempt it would be cool. Justdo ur thing)

[Anonymous No.5668509]

Here's my shitty writing.
First time trying to write something long and I wrotethis scrap, I may complete it or delete it someday. I'd like to write, but I'm unable to sit down and do something....

btw, as you may imagine, I'm not a native speaker...

A [slight yell] and a tear I tried to hold as I could, and a bit stronger I pushed the knife that my heart was piercing that very evening [???]. Did it hurt?, it hurt indeed but I must admit that I would be deceving myself, deceiving if my own decay did not give me the most delightful pleasure I could hope for and imagine for the time being.
“Is death something to be afraid of?“ I asked to every friend I had or could had (silly fancies, dreams, a funny escape from reality) and I got but one answer which was nothing but a long silence along their disgusting disquiet. Long ago lies aid every soul whose hope was only a graceful death (a memory, a world by its own) and become one with nature [and] soul, now only shame lies with it for its grace has dissapeared to the eyes of the dull and those who long for nothing but a happy now.
///////////////////////////
Walking throught the empty valley on a sunday morning where no soul could be seen ([???]) I found a store of used books [??]. An unusual event for I have not seen such store in my many walks down the valley which I walk at least [??] due to [??], or [????].
Thick iron door and [??] tore down, a blurred plastic window allow where I stand to get a glance of blue and velvet stands where seemingly old vintage books with leather-cover and ancient script stand [???](shallow and verbose to be le favorité of the literary snob) [???].

[Anonymous No.5668512]

>>5668509
boring topic. prose is uninteresting. next

[Anonymous No.5668525]

>>5660826
This is well-written, but the content is immature and played out. When it's easy to notice the massive amount of effort a writer is putting towards achieving a certain image or effect, his writing becomes quickly becomes very boring

[Anonymous No.5668533]

>>5661136
lay off the Pynchon for a while

[Anonymous No.5668537]

>>5660826
what is it that we all seem to have with the used, dark parts of sinnful cities?

[First attempt No.5668541]

>>5668477
I know, also I'm pretty tipsy, but thanks for the honesty and critique

[Anonymous No.5668542]

>>5668525
what does this even mean

[Anonymous No.5668544]

>>5664682
>>5664693
excellent

[Anonymous No.5668555]

>>5668491
The third line is too dense with pointless words, try to change it a bit. Maybe write about the idea differently?

[First attempt No.5668563]

>>5668494
Aye, it's my first attemp at writing anything. It's not polished or anything, pretty raw from a mildly drunk guy (by the way)

[Anonymous No.5668575]

>>5668460
i would really like to get some feedback.
I am writing for this monthwritingthing and the sooner i hear some opinions the better.
Ty and sry for shameless self-bump

[First attempt No.5668601]

>>5668575
It seems genuinly interesting I must say, I like the composition

[Anonymous No.5668639]

>>5668542
This writer tried very hard to be dark and provocative, and it shows. It's pretty clear that his writing holds no real purpose other than to challenge the reader's hopefully nonexistent illusions about modern American urban life, which makes it boring, repetitive, and a bit whiny

[Anonymous No.5668745]

One bag at a time he made his way thorugh the week, always looking for cheaper fuel, for the best buy, only checking billboards of eletronical markets, even reading the throw away flyers, which are still creating the big, allcovering, screaming, too colourfull carpet on which he had walked all his life. Ads for most of the things you could want, also ads for ad creators, the buisness beeing so big that it went one layer deeper and now sold itself to you, always wanting to catch your eye. After some time the blur of attacks is something you dont notice, you dont believe in, it is the normal underground you kick with your feet. Or matress, pillow and blanket, all in one, for the people, who cut a slit in the mashed down substance that wants you to buy something and then crawl into their cave, rotting together with the old paper, then leaving only bottles and their smell behind. When it gets hot the streets are covered with narrow cracks, releasing horrible gas and fungi in the world and sometimes the floor groans when you walk over it, but it is ok, you keep trotting, making your way, showing your yellow teeth to snarl at one another, until you end up under the soles of the generation you helped to produce and nourish.

[Anonymous No.5668884]

>>5668179
i ahev the feeling that ibc there is no context the text is looking really generic. Or maybe its just a generic plot with generic dialog
>come take a joust with me
>So be it. I cannot refuse such an esteemed challenger.
that kinda sounds like one of those movie wicht is so bad that it becomes cult

[Anonymous No.5668914]

I make a big
stink at 12:45 and poop on my
lips
how hard it is capitalism is bad
and to be black when the white
man but who drinks
a tea these
days
or other marx had a big
beard and severy pensis
and savory meat because
I
Am
A
Veganatrian why
dont u eat my feces? and my lips? And my CAPITALISM IS BAD
slivery Rick Johness knows the nose
Give me validity and attention
Please....
--honestly most modern poets

[Anonymous No.5668955]

>>5668914
please.
go to an artsy poetry thing and recite thy poem.
I dont agree witzh you, but the reactions would be hilarious

[Anonymous No.5669048]

And he’s running down through these narrow city streets, which are hard and glossy as coal. It was raining earlier, a heavy and soaking rain, but now it only spits.
As he runs the beat and tenor of a thousand vengeance thirsty voices are rumbling. Making his way through alleyways and older, smaller streets, hoping they don’t suddenly band out, get smart about this, branch around and surround him, start closing in. The streetlights have gone out, and the only light is that of the moon, which has come on from behind the low grey sky.

How can two thousand feet move so quickly?

The voices are getting louder, or the mob is getting closer; it is difficult to tell which. But the voices can now be understood. It’s a rhyming AAAABBA chant, made up on the spot or, he shudders too think, thought out and written down somewhere, in the cold and lonesome basement of some angry revolutionary:

[Anonymous No.5669053]

>>5669048
Through the lawns, we will meet

And march our way through the street

Till the puppets sway their feet

Till the knocking on your door

Comes across as fear no more

If there is darkness, there is light

Come on get off your ass and fight

Through the lawns, we will meet. . .
It’s hard to make out the rest.

They have followed him here, down to this bleak and fateful alley. The singing has stopped. Has the morale broken? Once he is gone his intestines will strew him up and his organs sold. It’s not an ideal death, but you hardly ever get to pick. What makes him so special?

The crowd has grown still and silent. A tall young man steps forward.

“You are about to be tried and sentence by the new Founding Fathers. What is your name?”

“Jack Sweden.”

“Jack Sweden, you are here by charged with aiding the oppressive republic of Barack Obama, firing guns against innocent, peaceful protesters, and not completing your duty to the people of the United States. You did not intervene against your fellow riot police when they opened fire.”

“But I did not fire.”

“Not at them or at us. How many lives could you have saved if you had mowed down your fellow bureaucratic dogs? Has your defence come to an end?”

“. . . .Yes.”

“How does the court find the defendant?!”

ALL: “GUILTY! AAAAGGHGGHHHH!!”

“So it is decided. Send Hank forth for the punishment.”

A low voice speaks from the crowd.

[Anonymous No.5669058]

>>5669053
“Goddammit Marshal! You said you’d let me do one!”

“Oh, all right. . . .”

Forward steps a great big man, maybe over eight feet tall, arms and legs like California Redwoods, blood trickles down his arms and into puddles, his hair and face hidden behind, oh my, a truly dilapidated and undersized Micky Mouse Onzie. A swollen and purple testicle hangs out his costume, touching his left thigh. The man carries no weapon. This death will be both brutal and entertaining, just wait.

The man steps forward and Jack must crane his neck painfully up to look his killer in the eye. The stench is unspeakably awful.

“Are you going to be the one to kill an innocent man?”

“Don’t be silly, the revolution is your killer.”

And with that Jack is hefted up high into the air and tossed to the very back of the alley. From Jacks blurry field of vision he can see the man dragging behind him, ah geez, a large wooden mallet. The crowd has once again picked up chanting. They shout only four terrifying syllables: WHACK EM’ MICKY! WHACK EM’ MICKY! WHACK EM’ MICKY!

The man is close enough now, and manages out a high pitched, cartoonish giggle just loud enough for jack to hear as the mallet comes down. . . .

[Anonymous No.5669061]

>>5662218
Welp nobody said yes or no so I'm just going to post it anyways
please rate *~*
Zu Hause macht er nichts mehr als Das Buch zu lesen. So voll von Informationen, wie eine ganz schöne Welt ist die Welt der Bücher! Die Farben sind Wahrheit und die Wahrheit ist bunt; er fühlte sich beschämt, dass er nie ein Buch las, aber wie könnte er wissen, dass die Wörte die Realität besser als Taten beschreiben können? Das Wort ist die Macht, die die Humanität braucht, um zu leben. Ohne Wörte lebt man nicht – nur überleben. Und das ist, was er bis in diesem Moment gemacht hat: überleben. Nachdem er Das Bus las, kann er schliesslich die Momente seines Lebens verstehen; Anfängers Buch kann das nicht sein, der Bibliothekar war unrecht. Es kann geben und nie wird es ei Buch geben, das so komplett um Leben zu beschreiben als dieses ist.
Jetzt sieht er die Welt durch vorsichtigere und durchsichtige Augen, die ihn seinen Geist sehen lassen – aber was, denn? Er lebt immer in der grauen langweiligen Welt und nun sieht er alles: die Sohne brennt seine Augen, obwohl irgendwie er das mag, und die Farben sind so strählend, die nicht nur wie Farben aussehen, sondern wie himmlische Engel, die ihn Gott nennen. Also ist er schliesslich Gott seiner Welt und alles ist unter Kontrolle, aber was muss ein Gott tun? Selbstverständlich, seine Welt herrschen.
Allerdings wisst er, dass er herrsschen sollt, doch nicht durch welche Recheln. Gott sein ist eine schwere Aufgabe und Gott soll viel Wissen haben. Für Den Mann war das dann schwerer, denn Wissen ist ihn ein neues Konzept. Bevor hattet er Auffassung – Auffassung, dass er arbeiten muss, dass er essen muss, dass Wasser wichtig ist, dass er wählen muss, lieben muss, muss und muss. Erst jetzt, dass er nichts machen muss, sondern machen soll, fühl er sich frei. Wie glücklich ist die Person, die Das Buch las. Diese Gedanken füllen seinen Kopf und fliessen vor Realität über.
Alles ganz neu und lustig.
Für einen Moment schliesst er die Augen und die Dunkelheit war fürchtbarer als sie bevor war.

[Anonymous No.5669175]

>>5668745
Damn, did not expect something like this from lit. You are little vague, may come across as preachy to some. You do a very good job at conveying the commercial mindset
>also ads for ad creators, the buisness beeing so big that it went one layer deeper and now sold itself to you, always wanting to catch your eye
liked this a lot

>>5668460
change
>motherbag
>His mind wandered
The first line made me believe the excerpt was going to be a lot worse than it was.
Sad to say nothing really caught my interest. Your portrayal of drugs as some 'holy object' in the eyes of dope-fiends seems a little forced and unnatural

>>5669061
I don't speak german, but it looks good

>>5669058
i knows mine's a little silly, but i would like a critique, please, don't hold back

[Anonymous No.5669180]

>>5669175
>I don't speak german, but it looks good
what

[Anonymous No.5669207]

>>5669048
>AAAABBA
I don't think that's necessary. It would be weird for someone to note the rhyme scheme of a mob chant when it's chasing him, I think. Also it betrays the fact that you, the author, made up the chant and that is why that character knows it's AAAABBA. Also it doesn't do anything for the reader.

[Anonymous No.5669209]

then she ponders about
the resiliency of human specie since
the atomic spores of nuclear shrooms
diffused in the atmosphere where
the cybernetic meadow was sealed in
a paraboloid glass dome.

[Anonymous No.5669325]

>>5660378
>Huh, this thread might be interesting
>Lemme check out some writers
>"Jayne was an average whore"
God dammit, 4chan

[Anonymous No.5669380]

>>5669325
Classic 4chan amirite?
DAE le greentext n00b?! xDDDDD

[Anonymous No.5669448]

>>5669209
awful

[Anonymous No.5669470]

>>5669448
Terrible

[Anonymous No.5669474]

>>5669470
>>5669448
shut the F*CK UP!

[Anonymous No.5669535]

>>5660384
This was straight out of game of thrones

[Anonymous No.5669562]

>>5660378
I started a story incorporating current events of international significance. Here's the beginning.


As the world focused on stopping his mighty military force, the man behind it all could perform his evil deeds undisturbed. His true intentions remained shrouded like the face of a muslim woman.
Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi was happy with his plan.
„Master Abu Bakr, I have brought the milk of an albino camel as you requested.“
The Dark Caliph gave his servant a nod and carefully took the secret ingredient before waving him off. „I am now ready to perform the final ritual, please wait outside with the others.“
The servant did as his master ordered and went outside of the secret cave to meet up with the other retainers of the Caliph. They asked him questions about the preparations. „He said he is almost done, by Allah, this will be a glorious day. The Islamic state’s true form will finally be established.“ The other gave off mighty roars of victory while stroking their majestic henna-dyed beards.

A loud sound was heard. It seemed that there was an explosion inside the master’s quarters. His faithful servants hurried inside. There was the mighty Dark Caliph, Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, with his ass on the ground, his beard black with the burnt ashes of the secret mixture. He held a little vial in his hands. The men looked worried but soon the Caliph took their worries away „By the Prophets’s beard, it is done. I have finished the secret concoction. May Allahs’s wrath rain down upon the kuffars!“
„Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!“ The men started chanting heroically. The room was filled by an euphoric spirit like that of a thousand young men who smoked hashish.

The thing in the viable was something dark and horrible, a secret weapon developed to destroy the entire western system.
It was a virus called Ebola.

[Anonymous No.5669686]

Trying to reflect the oppositions point of view on an issue where the opposition doesn't do anything at all:

Standing before congress in 2013, Ben Cardin, a democratic senator from Maryland, argued to pass a bill aptly called the “Keep Student Loans Affordable Act.” This bill, simply put, would have sustained the 3.4% interest rates on Stafford loans as opposed to doubling it to 6.8%. For republicans though, this issue is simply not a priority as expressed by their inaction. The bill to keep student loans affordable was vetoed almost immediately, and, according to the govtrack.us website, there is a 7% chance of it being enacted. Partisan polarization on this issue is only further worsening the dilemma, a problem that has a significant negative impact on the economy and will continue until a solution is implemented. To further express the opinions held by those in congress, in 2012 Senator John Boehner publically referred to President Barack Obama’s speaking out on this issue as “pathetic” and a “reelection stunt.” As this problem rages on, numerous members of congress choose to not acknowledge the issue and refuse to do anything despite the havoc that it is carrying out on the economy, and the futures of young people.

[Anonymous No.5669701]

Let me take you on
Its wrong for me to run
You make things missable
You had me overdrawn

The writings on the wall
They're writing on the walls
Theres footwork in the pavement
where its good to save a laugh

[Anonymous No.5669795]

prose sample from journal, maybe part of a bigger story later

We set about our attempt to re-enter America, which happened rather quickly. We handed over our passports and were just as soon directed into a garage. My natural reactions were certainly not to pull into it, and conductig this step of the procedure outside at relative liberty on the Canadian side now seemed relatively luxurious. In any case, I pulled into the garage. Assuming my car twelve feet long by six wide, we pulled into the garage and had about that much space to move around, but faced two customs officers -- one male, one female -- across the examination table in the back of the room, on which I thought were a curious amount of different instruments for searching. We placed out wallets, passports, phones and keys on the table and I remembered the paperwork from the Canadian side earlier -- "1 case beer, 1 day" -- and declared the same goods. Although an entire step in customs protocol, the process of declarations and documentation seemed a mere formality; they were always going to search the car on this lonely Saturday night at the border, and I suspect they were playing to win. The questioning was certainly just the basis of the search, our stories accountable for the contents of the vehicle, but we spoke at no great length for them, a passive act of defiance which could only have furthered whatever gamely suspicions they had of us already. The officers addressed the both of us together, and it wasn't clear who was to speak. "How about looking at the officer when they speak to you instead of at your buddy," prodded the officer. I looked back at my friend and continued my answer.
We were led up a small set of stairs, went through a door and sat on a wooden bench in the lobby while the search ensued below. My friend mused about the officers planting drugs in the car and I froze for a moment knowing it possible. I figure we were there about 15 minutes, and who knows what unsupervised customs officers can entertain themselves with for 15 minutes. In the end, my friend found my receipt for the beers displaced from the trunk of the car into his backpack and they had bent my front license plate visibly forward and the cabin was a mess, and when they let us back into the garage free to go, neither of the officers wanted another word from us. We were just glad to be citizens somewhere.

[Anonymous No.5669799]

Why am I trying to live,
when I'm just living to die
life's a bitch, have a cry
but "buck up, slap that bitch
before she passes by"
so I raise my hand,
but it's heavy with "why?"
so I raise the other
full glass
and toast the sky
down that beer quick
and accept she's passing by

we all pass
out, by, and over
farce contrasts
because all tracks are closure
so I'm walking back
but heading nowhere

the journey is the destination
but travelling's cold and lonely
so the solutions inebriation
my true one and only

drink and be merry
for tomorrow we shall die
but I say fuck tomorrow down another shot
and pass the fuck out before she passes you by

[Anonymous No.5669969]

>>5669175
>jep the holy grail thing is to unnarural.
thanks

[Anonymous No.5669977]

If you want to build something that lasts, build a trap.
A war could have happened hundreds of years ago, and even today people will be getting their ankles blown away by its mines, lying in wait long after the war itself is finished. People are still getting their feet snapped into spring-loaded metal teeth that were intended for centuries-old bears. You can build a monument to that war, and put as many angels and crying soldiers on it as you like. You can build a museum dedicated to your country’s fur trade, put in a taxidermy bear and make it look as friendly or as menacing as you want. But birds will excrete on your statue, and people will climb on it in rallies, paint slogans on it, and it will break eventually. Your museum’s foundation will eventually sag under the weight of all its visitors, and your taxidermy bear’s fur will fade under the exhibition lights, the flashes of cameras, and the expected ravages of organic decomposition.
Nothing will have the impact that that the mine and the bear-trap will have. The past can have no greater effect on the future than when it hurts you in a real, physical way. No matter how many times someone sees your statue and visits your museum, no one will remember your legacy better than the one who’s just lost his leg to it.
When you use any other structure, the structure gets broken. When you use a trap, you get broken.

[Anonymous No.5669984]

>>5669795
It feels like you're formalizing the text in places where you don't need to. I should know; I have the exact same problem, and you write like I do. You're using words like displaced when "taken away" or "removed" could work just as well. Try moving your style more to the conversational style rather than focusing being reportorial.

[Anonymous No.5670114]

>>5660378
Marie traced the rim of the glass to steady herself. These fingers, she thought, these fingers are circuited to this glass. This glass, Marie thought, can cut and will not unless I strike it. We are symbiotically ensnared. Marie liked the glass. It was domestically threatening; disarmingly see-through and prickly if cracked. She did not realize the similarities. Marie merely liked it.

Marie was drunk and infatuated with the nearly empty glass. She had put on her mother’s albums and was listening to St. James Infirmary Blues. It was not a happy song and Marie enjoyed it. Marie had situated herself within leaping distance of her open apartment window and lurched and churned at the ugly lights of cars and rooms outside. Marie imagined the lives of every person outside, poorly, and wondered if they too really felt like she did. Marie wished that people would have the decency to die after her. The bad wine had left her with mildly entertained thoughts of suicide and Marie swayed by the window, taking in the minted breaths of wind and alcohol.

If I leapt, Marie thought, I could hold onto this glass. We could shatter together, she thought, and people would think, “Oh. Another silly drunk.” and that would be it. Marie gave this situation a great deal of imagination, allowed the tragedy to develop in her head. The passer-bys, Marie thought, would be so mildly shocked and at work they would look out of their own windows and think of what the jump would feel like, the thoughts and concrete that would slam into them and crack out their vesseled lives. And then, Marie smiled, more dreamed passer-bys would see the imagined bodies and they too might give thoughts of their own jumping. Marie was pleased with this analogy and her drunken thoughts forgot the glass in her hands and it blew with a crystal smack.

Marie leapt, and very nearly put her thought experiment into practise, as shards and wine mixed below her bare tights. Closing the window, Marie hopped to her sofa and cradled her left foot, cursing and biting her lip. Marie fawned over her toes, tracing the rim of her nails to steady herself as she pulled out splinters of glass. Marie reached for the bottle of Fairbank Pinot Noir 2013 and slowly poured a small thimble worth over her most damaged areas, hissing and cursing again. I’d like to, Marie thought, just once, she mused, really try and jump. Just to see if I have it in me.

[Anonymous No.5670217]

>>5670114
if you think about killing yourself, please wait some time before writing a text like this.
It is too obvious for me.

[Anonymous No.5670223]

>>5670217
I'm not remotely suicidal man, just an amateur.

Taking some writing classes and was asked to write an excerpt for a fictional character we would create for the piece. Never write third person but I wanted to capture the thought process of a melodramatic person. Based it on an old freind's ex.

[Anonymous No.5670247]

Those little green eyes are moistened by a gentle hand, gentle mist spraying over the kitty’s burnt nose. Tubes are attached to the little cat’s innards, in in in they go, through the skin, down the throat, up the nose and inserted into the tender little veins that pump feebly, holding onto a meagre hope. Open up, the eyes separate and for a relief are just a little less cracked and just for a tic’s second this burnt puddy sees white shadows on brighter than bright backgrounds of shifting shades of progressively brighter white lights. The sun takes its opportunity and plunges itself deep past the cornea and over the retina and flies through the connecting nerves and sears the pain centre of his grey matter with a beam of laser-like light. It goes on and on and on, deep like some weightless needle of pure [it’s true] energy. Despite the lack of mass, this laser hurts like the dickens, oh Lord! it does. And despite the lack of physicality this laser bears itself down upon his brain, melting it away; it drips down the spinal column and pools in his heart, oh my! the cat’s brain is now the heart itself, as the liquid jellies and solidifies and becomes like a cotton thread. Intelligence takes on the persona of lust and light and love itself as this thread winds itself round the fibres of the muscle and the two become transfused into a oneness never before seen in flesh. Only transcendence can be so full of physical transfusion. That must be the true heart of every faith. In this fat, furless ball, evolution merges itself with religion; religion now must accept this surprise and know that It is not alone in the universe.

But now this cat must close his eyes and fall into the sentient unconsciousness of sleep. He takes a deep breath and settles his body, trying again for death. But to no avail.

I've been told my prose sounds a lot like James Joyce. I haven't even read anything by Joyce. I purposefully based my style of Salman Rushie.

[Anonymous No.5670319]

>>5670114
this is good.

[Anonymous No.5670331]

>>5660384
can't tell if it's over simplistic or a clever projection.
As in, the description is not of Jayne's mind, but of how it would be imagined by a passerby or Mister Blint.

[Anonymous No.5670344]

>>5661136
If this was the first page, I would give the book a chance.
very enjoyable.

[Anonymous No.5670350]

>>5660826
I like it.

Reminds me of Rosarch from Watchmen.

[Anonymous No.5670369]

>>5670350
have you read the comic? this is not at all the rorschach that i know

[Anonymous No.5670472]

I could perfectly say in which occasions I'm her or not. Her behaviours and ideals
are invented by me because there was no other way to find them out. In fact,
I feared a crushing disappointment, that was already ushering, which I, with a
fast and uncoscious freudian repression, deleted. There is nothing poetic or
dreamy to talk about and if at first I felt a bittersweet taste on the back of my
tongue to pronunce her name and her dispersed status, now just seeing the
only picture I took of her makes my face swell like an allergy. Perhaps it's
a physiological response to the fact that I desired her features on my approssimative
face, and look into the mirror and see her, and her apparently surgical way to look
at things, which hides a herbivore's fear to the things themselves. Doing my duty
has become my labour of love for her, to feel the pain in my legs, the fatigue, an
unhealty loneliness that clings like meningitis and recalls the side effects of
paracetamol. She can see me everywhere, even when I wasn't her, when I
allowed myself to wallow in my old bones and lay an eye on something she
would find disgusting, screaming like a banshee, listen to music maybe.
But she was there, in my head, like a petite virgin Mary that looks at
you and asking what are you going to do with her son, and with nails and hammer
then starts crying like a cat in a lot.
I don't even remember her voice , and I don't want to hear it anymore, she rised
and became a concept, as the poor Santa Fina and her osteomyelits , that makes
the violets bloom on the peeled walls interposed between my ribs and sternum.

[Anonymous No.5670567]

>>5668639
maybe your just an Abercrombie, limp wristed, mall faggot.

Honestly, there is no limitation to what types of ideas we can explore with our art.

[Anonymous No.5670570]

>>5660826
Sounds like bukowski.

10/10

[Anonymous No.5670590]

Her whole life she had been complimented and chased by shallow, weak willed, men. She reckoned herself to be a unique individual. She stared into the mirror preening herself like a bird. Now stark naked she peeled open her butt cheeks. As she glanced at the reflection of her gaping asshole it seemed as if she was staring into the very eye of God. It was then that she became aware of the grotesque nature of her alien form, and it troubled her. Her humanity disturbed her in a way that she was unable to articulate. All the posturing, strutting, and courtship seemed absurd suddenly. She peered deeper into her butthole as if it held some key, to some dark secret of her soul that would not set her free.

[Anonymous No.5670794]

>>5670590

[Anonymous No.5671071]

>>5669984
thanks kind sir. yeah, I've been reading a lot of very formalized captain's log stuff lately, I may have unwittingly gleaned something from that format

[Anonymous No.5671085]

He came up the alley past the rampant gardens. They were decorated with improvised pagodas and the dry season ran hysterical through the plants and all the mosquitoes that buzzed there. Walls came at him as edifices of text and seemed to slam either side of him bearing writing something holy. Curling skeletal, very old mysteries obscured behind them, the plants sublated with the buildings and the walls and the balustrades and they trembled with the weight of time and the anxiety of something soon to expire. He ran, then, to the end of the street and shouted as if he'd been reading coherently. "It's not fair, keeping me here like this. Is it help you want? I can do that. Give me that. Let me help you. Whoever you are, come see me where I live, I will help you." Claustrophobia came crushing every sense and all the hibiscus flowers and ivy Babylonian across the stucco were wrapping around him and the graffiti, now in languages he didn't recognize, was burned across the brickwork. They were conversations of another time and he was not welcome there.

[Anonymous No.5671104]

>>5671085
weird.
but i liked it.
is this a longer story?

[Anonymous No.5671117]

>>5671104
Hopefully. It's an attempt at paranoid fiction. Thanks very much for reading it over.

It's for Nanowrimo.

[Anonymous No.5671144]

>>5671117
same here.
do u know why i should add budies on this thing?
doesnt make any sense for me

[Anonymous No.5671146]

>>5660378

I started writing a short story about my current experience with being a NEET, but I'm not going to finish it, so I'll just post it here and let all of you shit all over it
http://pastebin.com/Nquh5v4r

[Anonymous No.5671159]

>>5671144
Why? Not a clue. I'm not particularly interested in any of that. I'm sure it's a nice enough community, and a whole part of the thing is supposed to be interaction with others, but the whole "buddy" system just seems useless. Especially when many of the geographic groups have formed Facebook groups and added each other as friends on there. I think you can earn yourself badges if you add enough people, if you're into that sort of thing.

[Anonymous No.5671163]

>>5671146
>http://pastebin.com/Nquh5v4r

looks more like a diary.
a horrible diary (in terms of horrible experience).
go see a shrink or something. Then write a story about how a character is overocming the state u are in now, or some **** like that

[Anonymous No.5671170]

>>5671159
yaaay, internet badges!
Off i go!

[Anonymous No.5671192]

>>5671163
>or some **** like that
>****

What the fuck

[Anonymous No.5671196]

>>5671192
choose between crap and shit.
be creative

[Anonymous No.5671235]

http://pastebin.com/88JbzC22
Well, here we go.

[Anonymous No.5671264]

>>5671235
very straightforward
also:
>I
>I
>I

[Anonymous No.5671344]

Her whole life she had been complimented and chased by shallow, weak willed, men. She reckoned herself to be a unique individual. She stared into the mirror preening herself like a bird. Now stark naked she peeled open her butt cheeks. As she glanced at the reflection of her gaping asshole it seemed as if she was staring into the very eye of God. It was then that she became aware of the grotesque nature of her alien form, and it troubled her. Her humanity disturbed her in a way that she was unable to articulate. All the posturing, strutting, and courtship seemed absurd suddenly. She peered deeper into her butthole as if it held some answer, a distraction from this waking life, liberation from this cancer.

The revelation never came, but the memory of her disgust remained. Surely the totality of human action or inaction was building up to something, she thought to herself. Days went by, weeks went by, and the faces of men seemed only to grow more contorted and wretched. No longer could she find comfort in the cliché expressions which she repeated over and over to herself like a mantra.

I donned a black cloak and drew a hood forth to obscure my face. My identity seemed like a farfetched dream, or perhaps, a figment of some madman’s fantasy. Either way, I needn’t be seen. I drew a spray-paint can and toy helicopter out of a dusty closet. I examined the corpses of cockroaches briefly, their stiff bodies littered the small space. Carefully, I began to attach the can to the helicopter. The plan was simple, I would stand several blocks away, carefully steer the helicopter, and use the attached spray paint to blacken the lenses of red light cameras. I would end the state’s unethical taxation by force, all the while my identity would remain unknown.

I posted the beginning before. I just wrote this out. just a rough idea I have for a short story.

[Anonymous No.5671384]

bump

[Anonymous No.5671841]

"Well yeah, his vocabulary is a little dry.", he said, walking back and forth. "So his limbs are slim, and he's a bit of a chronic masturbator, with absolutely no intent on getting laid. What's there to say? To be frank, Nelson, he's just a kid!" The stretched telephone wire clackered against his desk. "Y'know, i got caught whacking it to pictures of my high school art teacher at my locker during class hours! He's just whacking it in his room. Well shit, you gotta get 'im out there, then! Or put a lock on that door, that poor guy. HA-HA-HA, alright, fuck you too! Yeah. Well, good sleep to you too. See you next Friday."

He chuckled to himself as he hung up the phone. His smile soon died. Seated at his bed, he kicked off his dress shoes. "Fuck it.", he whispered, leaving his socks. He gazed up at the clock on his wall. It's past midnight. His first kiss was on that very number, he thought as he watched the second hand tick. Drained by his vocal performance of enthusiasm, while all pretense, he was still and in a state of unrest.

He sighed and thought hard about it, nodding his head in conclusion, that "She was the one. She really was.", muttered oh-so quiet. His eyes glazed with tears, and with a single close, they cascaded down his face, followed by the immediate wipe, as if anyone could have been there to see it... which there wasn't. His lamp by the bedpost, left lit, and Its light bulb near dead, and dim, he sunk into his high school sweetheart and now soon-to-be ex wife's side of the bed.

He never liked this side. Neither did she, but she never complained. This discomfort, along with the gentle scent of her hair that lingered on her pillow, somewhat consoled him. This man could perhaps sleep, at least knowing, that his own son was out there, living the life he, his father, would dare not live.

This consolation was short-lived. "I need a beer."

[Anonymous No.5672651]

Once, on his oldest sister's birthday, her friends came over and stayed on his bed; the top bunk-bed, his sister's, was extremely close to the ceiling and she could not even stand on it; the lower bunk-bed's space, of course, was even smaller. The boy furiously told the sister and her friends to get off his bed, and they refused. Thinking he would make her angry, he said he would go on her bed. She accepted this calmly. Then he said he would jump on the bed. She did not care. He jumped on the bed and laughed angrily. They did not care. He suddenly bumped his head against the ceiling, whereupon his sister and her friends started laughing. Humiliated, he literally jumped off of the very bed, one knee up against his chest and the other leg fully extended like a karate-master's giving a flying kick to his sister's face.

[Anonymous No.5672754]

>>5671841
really like that stuff! longer story planned?
Only the last sentence was wa bit too blunt for me, it kinda sounds like something in a bad tv show. "Oh, thats too much for me, lets drink a[beer brand, bought for X$] beer
if a book, would read

[Anonymous No.5672775]

http://tmblr.co/Z_BPuq1UU5Fpo
His first new one in months

[Anonymous No.5672808]

>>5672775
very nice!
>has tumbler
>comes here seeking feedback
not so nice!

But i really, really liked the postman text of your group, that was some funny stuff!

[Anonymous No.5672820]

>>5672808
my group? that's not me btw, that's /lit/'s child obsession. he's decent.

[Anonymous No.5672847]

33 was today's conundrum, it was this that had troubled Simon in for many a month before this stress induced confrontation. "It is mathematically symmetrical it seems" he pondered out loud, sweat beads forming on his intensely furrowed brow. There was a time when the now 32 year old would have been confused, even ashamed, of the thousands of pounds and yet more hours he had put into making every aspect of his surroundings symmetrical. His modest country cottage, unbecoming though it was of someone his age, was even fitted with mirrors on the west walls to ensure no matter where he looked Simon saw perfect symmetry

[Anonymous No.5673018]

>>5672847
read it pretty well, part about his sweaty eyebrow made me sit on it. Then I thought it was good.

[Anonymous No.5673025]

>>5669799
the beginning was wonky but man that was splendid after that

[Anonymous No.5673036]

>>5672754
I just wrote it there and then, so i have nothing planned for it. Thanks! I could imagine a few things it could lead to. Yeah, that last bit is terrible, but it makes me laugh.

You reckon i should develop it? Heck, you could use what's there, if you'd like.

[Anonymous No.5673173]

>>5672775
Really, a college admissions essay? Kolsti's getting lazy. We haven't gotten new fiction or poetry in months it seems. Maybe he's working on something big.

[Anonymous No.5673256]

Shining apostle does his bidding well
Turning time with lemon-lime tinged
"Grab the wheel!"
Yet the pray is still being said
He is not well-read to the ryhme of
A priest's golden lie, naught but 5 leagues deep
In self-patronizing rot
Yet the clock is not thrown,
Continues to count, even when it knows
It is wrong
Gather your books, sharpen your hooks
Prepare the rhetorical analysis of an
Old man blinded by the sand that was thrown
RIGHT IN HIS EYES
HE DIDN'T ASK FOR THIS: PAIN, SHAME, YET NO GAIN
you sit there spinning your colloquials, your will in hand, just drop the fucking quill
The time keeps ticking
Yet you still won't stop
And the apostle bids you quiet
He takes out his papers
Sets down his pens
A smartphone is apart of this toolset
But it wasn't invited in
And all the while you watch
He talks
Basically bidding you to walk
And you still just watch
Like a kid with his eyes on the clock

[Anonymous No.5673320]

My first real experiment with syllables and poetic structure.

The Scent of winter is always like birth
It always stirs you,
you dirty pine needles on the soft earth.
If you warm yourself,
against the brick stone of the hard hearty hearth,
if you try to relate
to the heady scent of oakwood buried in the turf
you will be nothing
but buried under the stirring of the dead surf

[Anonymous No.5673347]

>>5673320
There is potential here

[Anonymous No.5673352]

>>5673173
It's a good essay. If essays mattered those would've gotten him in.

[Anonymous No.5673354]

>>5673256
Modern items with ancient names, Apostles and smartphones, not a good match, especially for a poem. It inserts "fuck," modern American diction, which destroys the feeling of grandness and ancient "books" and "priest's golden lie"'s.
And the whole part with Caps is fairly silly. There's potential, but clean it up.

[Anonymous No.5673382]

>>5673354
Thank you very much

[Anonymous No.5673391]

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1WQaODp4D6GM3NTFLRqHakFROPKEpk1sgnKpYdU3hf_c/edit?usp=sharing
I wrote this. I think that I am on to something with this. I hope that you think the same. It's about the fall of the Antebellum South and the fall of the Jewish Empire. Several biblical characters are inserted into a surrealistic southern town. This was, in part, inspired by the surrealistic worlds found in Bob Dylan's songs in "Blonde on Blonde."

[Anonymous No.5673394]

>>5673382
No problem. It really is a good poem, and you're a talented poet. It just needs editing.

[Anonymous No.5673408]

The rumble awake me.
The taste of liquor still in my mouth.
I cant really appreciate where i am, there is a sniper rifle at my side.

What the hell i am doing here?
I see people coming.
they have wings, and they are white like the snow.
I feel disturbed.
Bang Bang.

One hostile down.

Bang Bang.

Target eliminated.

I keep doing what i am trained to do.
But i feel something in my chest.

A spear, a gold shinning spear.
I feel my blood running from my heart.

I see these persons.
With they shinning armors and pure white wings.

Now i remember.

I was a sniper at the gates of Paradise.

[Anonymous No.5673453]

>>5672775
At least Kolsti is self-aware enough to tone down the style for college admissions essays.

[Anonymous No.5673516]

>>5673453
Do you reckon he got in?

[Anonymous No.5673601]

>>5673516
Yes

[Anonymous No.5674028]

>>5673601
Is he the type to do well in school or is he a lazy little shit like the kid in Boyhood?

[Anonymous No.5675092]

Two girls sat across from her, in the middle of the carriage. One of them had a black eye. Madeleine pretended not to notice and stared out the window.

‘That fuckin’ rat,’ she heard the other one say, ‘deserves a bottle to his head.’

‘Shut up about him,’ replied the black-eyed girl. ‘He didn’t know what he was doing.’ Her voice was directed at Madeleine, who felt four eyes on her too. Silence. She didn’t blink. The whole train seemed to focus onto her — until the girl spoke again. ‘It’s cos he was pissed, and seen his dad do it to his mum, I reckon. Even though he hates it.’

The voice had swung back the other girl. Everyone refocused on themselves. Madeleine’s heart rate slowed, but she felt like throwing up. The train door opened. She almost made a break for it — and regretted it when she didn’t. Wanting to get away, her hand scrambled for her phone and she thumbed hard and fast through Facebook. Someone’s status was ‘drunk’ and twenty-two people had liked it. Madeleine did too. Shit, he was cool. You would have to give almost zero fucks to get away with a status like that, yet still cop so many likes. A new panic rose up in her chest and brought the other one back to life. Her heart went quick as a hailstorm. She was freaking the fuck out. Now she did throw up. All down the side of her seat. Her wretching was inhuman, a dying animal’s.

‘Ew! Fucking gross!’

‘It’s everywhere!’

She got up and staggered toward the nearest door. ‘Next stop, Lilydale,’ the train speakers said. A few people laughed; the two girls were hysterical.

‘You chat bitch. Hey, look over here!’

Madeleine could not think. Her brain was drowning in embarrassment. Little smiling people were in her head tearing her thoughts apart as she tried to construct them. All she could do was obey the command. She turned.

The black-eyed girl was holding a camera.

[Anonymous No.5675130]

Two girls sat across from her. One had a black eye. Madeleine pretended not to notice and stared out the window.

‘That fuckin’ rat,’ she heard the other one say, ‘deserves a bottle to his head.’

‘Shut up about him,’ replied the black-eyed girl. ‘He didn’t know what he was doing.’ Her voice was directed at Madeleine, who felt four eyes on her too. She didn’t dare blink.

The whole train went quiet.

Then the girl spoke again. ‘It’s cos he was pissed, and seen his dad do it to his mum, I reckon. Even though he hates it.’ Her voice, having not detected a reaction, moved away from Madeleine to other girl. The din of the packed train resumed. Madeleine’s heart rate slowed, but she felt uneasy, like she could throw up.

The train door opened. She almost made a break for it — and regretted not when it slid back shut and set them back in motion. Her hand scrambled for her phone and she thumbed hard and fast through Facebook. Someone’s status was ‘drunk’ and twenty-two people had liked it. Without thinking, she did too, and scrolled on, reading nothing. A new panic began to rise in her chest and it brought the other one back to life. Her heart went quick as a hailstorm.

She was freaking the fuck out.

Now she did throw up. All down the side of her seat.

‘Ew! Fucking gross!’

‘It’s everywhere!’

She got up and staggered toward the nearest door. ‘Next stop, Lilydale,’ the train speakers said.

[Anonymous No.5676061]

>>5675130
>Lilydale
lol

[Anonymous No.5676266]

>>5673320

> against the brick stone of the hard hearty hearth,

Unless it's intentional "visual rhyming", 'hearth' is pronounced so that it doesn't rhyme with 'earth' and 'turf'.

It's pronounced like tarth/carth/barth

[Anonymous No.5676290]

>>5676061

Boronia may have done just as well

[Anonymous No.5676291]

>>5660378
Hope anyone here is speaking german.
Den ernstznehmendsten Journalisten, mit dem ich bisher das Vergnügen hatte zu arbeiten, unter meinen Tisch kotzen zu sehen, bestätigte mein Bauchgefühl. Ich habe mich keinewegs bei einer Zeitung beworben um über die zwei bis drei ausweichenden Antworten zu schreiben, die man ab und an aus irgendwelchen Abgeordneten herausquetscht, noch um die Öffentlichkeit darüber zu informieren wie denn die weltbewegenden Diskussion über Cannabislegalisierung oder die Finanzierung von Verkehrsschildern vorangingen. Bis zu jenem drei minütigen Gespräch mit denen sich alles ändern sollte, vertrat ich die Ansicht, dass so etwas noch nicht einmal als Beruf klassifiziert werden sollte.
Es war ein ereignsloser Montagmorgen. Noch an meinem Kaffee nippend langweilte ich mich, Füße auf dem Schreibtisch, in meinem sonnendurchflutenden Büro in New York. Ich wusste nicht, die gelegentlichen Anrufe handhabend, dass dieser Tag, wenn auch nur ein wenig, so doch entscheidend, anders verlaufen würde. Keine Ahnung hatte ich davon, wie wichtig sich einer dieser Anrufe erweisen würde. Wie auch? Ist es nicht unglaublich, dass sich in einem dieser kleinen Heubälle zufällig die Silbernadel befand, dass bei einer gewaltigen Tombola höherer Mächte zufällig mein name gezogen worden war? Man bot mir an, mich in ein Kriegsgebiet zu versetzen, ohne vorankündigung, in zwei Tagen würde mein Flieger gehen. Und bei Gott, es muss an übermenschlicher Beherrschung gelegen haben, dass ich vor Überraschung nicht rasenspränklergleich die braune Flüssigkeit aus meinem Mund im Raum verteilt habe. Die Zigarette, die ich mir nach dem Auflegen anzündete, diente Beruhigung und Zelebration zugleich. Ich spürte, diesmal tatsächlich an etwas dran zu sein. Etwas aufregendem. Vielleicht, nur vielleicht würde es sogar reichen um mich aus dem Trott des Pseudo-Journalismus für immer herauszukatapultieren.

[Anonymous No.5676333]

>>5676291
vom stil her sehr nett, nur irgendiwe klischeehaft.
kaffee, nikotin, new york, journalist...
ich weiß nicht so recht
wie gesagt, vom stil her sehr nice

[Anonymous No.5676349]

>>5676333
Danke sehr. Das setting verlegt sich im Verlauf der Geschichte übrigens auf eine tropische Insel, dann sollte es nicht mehr zu klischeebelastet sein.

[Anonymous No.5676395]

Here is one I wrote today in the morning after being so stressed from life.

>Stunned by my stress that keeps me blue sweaty and too depressed---After school and work I'm so tired so short of not taking another breath.

>Still standing tall nothing has brought me down to the ground so far---limitless care has been shown to me from no where oh, LORD! I couldn't make it without you ever again.

>piercing Love, I need to sing a happy song in the dim morning, the chirping birds and buzzing bees will help me feel free again and then, I'll take what I got, like the beautiful moments I had forgot so I can clap a rhythm to the trees that shiver softly in the breeze

>I'll go ahead I'll stretch and moan on a hill at the time a dimming sunset is born

>Darkness has come again and I know it's not gonna be the end---this night the stars at sight are shining very bright ---I'll always love in the end so long as the sun comes my way again.

[Anonymous No.5676409]

The Night and the Moth


The night and the moth
Are one at once and lost
In an endless, brainless skinfeather dance
The soul-lit flit of the flying trance
Moving in rooms out of sight.

The moth and the night
Turn in twin poles of untouchable light:
The magnet push of the deep hearts core
Shouts for something more
And beats its wings of cloth


:)

[Anonymous No.5676425]

>>5676409
Nice. I liked it.

[Anonymous No.5679020]

So, I heard you guys hate both Fantasy and First Person. So I brought both!

http://pastebin.com/0eFfJYnG

[Anonymous No.5679272]

>>5660384
Very good.

[Anonymous No.5679946]

>>5675130
I quite like this. Some of the slang and 'Lilydale' makes me think you might be Aussie?`4

[Anonymous No.5679978]

>>5676409
That's very nice anon. I'm not very well versed in poetry, nor do I have a particular interest in it, but I really like this. Does that rhyming scheme have a particular name?

[Anonymous No.5680076]

1/2

It’s a long, steep climb to the cul-de-sac’s bulbous head. On top is a three-quarter circle of white pickets, caging front lawns spotted with piles of withered leaves. Overlooking the front yards are behemoth, multi-storey houses. Unlike the others, this street has no grassy island in the bulb -- only black road attracting sun. Beyond all this is a sea of terracotta roofs stretching out beneath a clear autumn sky. On one of the front lawns is a birthday party. The overlooking house is the largest in the street. You’re inside this house.

It was Jane Fettles who invited you here, to her much younger sister’s party, entertaining a month-long obsession with Disney. You were asked because you’re a drama student; and said yes because you’re a drama student -- singing, dancing, this is where you’re at your best, it’s your thing. Now you’re here, but Jane isn’t. She didn’t say she wouldn’t be here, but you haven’t seen her.

You’ve changed into your costume and the house is empty and quiet now. You can hear faint sounds of the party echoing through the sparse hallway, where you are. They’re waiting. Go out and do the thing.

Outside is a circle of little girls in their party dresses, passing the parcel. Near the driveway is a row of fold-out tables with plates of fairy bread, jelly orange slices and bubbly drinks in styrofoam cups. It’s hot; luckily, the dress isn’t bulky. The piles of brownish leaves produce a dank, earthy smell. It takes them awhile to notice you standing there in your dress, and for a moment you feel stupid, as if they might see it’s just you -- just some girl -- and not the princess you're supposed to be. Mrs. Fettles’ points and says, Is that Cinderella! They notice. The girls rush over screaming and the birthday girl hugs your leg, You actually came! she says.

[Anonymous No.5680079]

2/2 Italics aren't present...

You do your thing. You sing and they listen; you dance and they imitate. One of the older girls asks where Prince Charming is. You say he’s busy running his kingdom in his magic castle. This augers well with Mr. and Mrs. Fettles. It sets the tone and they retreat a trusting distance after this: Mrs. Fettles disappears inside to butter bread and pour lemonade; Mr. Fettles sits in a fold-out chair near the tables. He wears an orange cap to hide his baldness. He watches you while you do your thing. He sees that your costume is probably skimpier than it should be. He sees you a way the children don’t. He sees you.

You keep up the act for hours. You really make the birthday girl’s day. She stays with you when the others have left. She stays even when Mrs. Fettles calls her over for musical chairs, which seems to upset her mother. Remember it’s the parents you have to please. That’s what you’re supposed to do. But Cinderella’s too busy making the birthday girl laugh to do that. You’re enjoying yourself too much. This goes on for sometime until she ignores the call to open her presents. Mrs. Fettles has had enough. Cinderella has to go now sweetie; Prince Charming is expecting her. She doesn’t let go of your leg. Don’t you want to open your presents? She’s clung longer than she’s supposed to; a birthday girl has certain obligations -- presents to unwrap and candles to blow out. Mr. Fettles has to pry her off your leg. You leave the girl while she’s in tears. This hurts. They thank you anyway and Mr. Fettles offers to take you home.

The ride is long. Hey kid, don’t worry about the tantrum. You were great. He’s still wearing that orange cap. The scent of the car freshener makes you dizzy. And your heels have left a deep, aching pain in your feet. Eventually you stop in front of the driveway that leads to your bottom-of-the-bag duplex. He pays your fee and then slips you an extra fifty.

Hey kid. He puts a loose spaghetti strap back on your shoulder, which must have fallen loose without you noticing. Then starts running his hand up and down your arm. He wants you to work for your tip. The urge to hit the man and run is there, but it wavers helplessly. And it’s here (with nauseating aromas, aching feet and a hand between your legs) when you remember what you’re supposed to do. The birthday girl had to let go because she clung for too long; she had do the thing all birthday girls have to do.
Let go and do your thing.

[Anonymous No.5680101]

>>5679020
Goddamn it guys, all I want is someone to tell me my story is shitty, and why.

[Anonymous No.5680113]

I woke up only to discover everything was gone. My papers, shoes and bag were all missing. After a two day long trip on top of a coal carriage of a rusty train I decided it would not be a bad thing to lay down flat on a bench at the railroad station as to rest my bones and get sleep. With only my dirty pants and coal stained shirt on, I had nothing. Since it was the middle of the night, the last thing I could do was to try locating a shelter for the homeless. The only lamplight on the entire station was a dim little lamp on the desk of a ticket clerk. A fat and wrinkled lady like creature, sitting at her desk and using all of her wit to fill in the today's crossword. Saying the conversation was unpleasant would be an understatement, thankfully after some rambling from the senile side I got to know that the next shelter is, in fact, three miles down the main road. There was nothing for me but to walk and at least enjoy the warm night. The street was as empty as one could expect from a small town in the middle of the night. In only an hour I arrived at what was supposed to be my salvation. The building however looked more like torment and torture than a blessing from the heavens.
Right upon entering I was greeted by an awful stench of alcohol and sweat. A questionably sober man directed me to the one he called 'Padre'. Padre was a short and stocky clergyman, bald as a knee but jovial nonetheless. Were he to sit down in robes, I'd confuse him with a Buddha statue. My pale palm went in for a handshake. Padre's grip nearly crushed all my bones. With a slight grin I muttered some words about a place to lay my head on and that I were a victim of a terrible and unfortunate crime. The only thing I understood from his answer was that I should worry not and come over for a glass of milk and some left-over pastry. So I did and to be honest, after two days worth of dried meat and bad bread, the taste of sweet rolls swallowed with big gulps of milk is something I cherished for a long time.

[Anonymous No.5680116]

The hermit is robbed of all he owns by the burglar. He puts his chin in his palm and wishes that he could give more to the burglar (so pure is his heart).

The next night, the burglar returns and takes things from the hermit that the hermit did not even know he had.

[Anonymous No.5680119]

Slung bag over her back black haired & dressed, illumined orange red by candles - in these times, the wonder! She a doe in the library, silent as a mouse, eyes absorbed in scansion-rich saccades. Beautiful from behind two sheets of glass, the storefront window and mine own - the latter invulnerable, the former so fragile that all light can pass through it, and I can pass beside it, which is a kind of ’through’, though my own pane is suspended before my eyes. Politely take off your sunglasses indoors. I fold the insect into its proper rigor-mortis. Pocket. Already I can feel that I am beginning to sweat. She hasn’t moved. And it occurs to me that she has dreams, and sleeps, too. This I can only accept as far as an abstract like the big bang - for how can a metaphor sleep? Perhaps she wonders the same, and pages through her book so softly because she is used to it - like when she was younger softly searching the camp bunks for her illicit companion. Only awaken the most precious things, and let the rest rest.
Though there is no danger of speaking, I bite my tongue. My feet warp the floor, which shoots pain back up them in return.
I fake a pass at another aisle - religion! - and glide my eyes across her, angel! - and her book. My blur picks up a single word: Ocean. I squeeze the juice out of my heart and drink it. I cannot stay from her. It robs the air from my lungs. I need air. Tapping her on the shoulder, she starts - jolt of a living doe - and turns to me eyes widening and - blue! They give more light than they receive, it seems.
My appearance causes her to gasp and she recoils against the table, knocking the books off of it. The poetry falls from my hand. The poetry falls. Extend another metaphor, please, that will overshroud the horrific spasm of fear that passed across that blue morning sky. Sew the canvas, I beg you to, that will obscure all this in a gloomy shroud.
Years later I returned to the bookstore, my limp that day too far pronounced to speak and walk, eyes tight in pain, heaving, dusty gasps, I pushed the door open. She was there again. But of course, this time, she was not there. I looked around for the books, but all I could find were novels.

[Anonymous No.5680136]

>>5680116

You mean he rapes him??

[Anonymous No.5680144]

>>5680136
I'm not sure what I mean, that's the beauty of it

[Anonymous No.5680193]

When I awoke to the darkened street
Bleary-eyed clouds had descended from the heavens, surrounding the dried lawns
In a heavy fog.
Although the morning is cold, there is no chill. There is no ice, there is no frost.
The day was short and the night was long, but the moon never rose on the survivor's avenue.
Everything is dark, but nothing is black.
The day is bright and nothing is white.
The snow falls, but there is no dew.
The night it ends, but there is no morning.
We close our eyes, but there is no sleep.
We closed our eyes,
But we did not sleep.

[Anonymous No.5680201]

>>5680193
Why did you decide to make this a 'poem' and not just a regular paragraph? Because your narrative voice was uninteresting?

[Anonymous No.5680207]

A letter to that blonde girl on the bus

is it okay if i think of you?
is it okay if i imagine me and you?
is it okay if i imagina me and you all alone?
is it okay if , in my drams tonight, you are there?
is it okay if i sit next to you tomorrow, and tell you about my dream

why do you do this?
why do you sit there
every day
all alone on the bus, you never talk to anyone
always with your headphones on
i wonder what you are listening to
i hope its good, i know its good, its you for chritssake

I hope that one day you think of me
i hope that one day you imagine me and you
i hope that one day you imagine me and you all alone
i hope that one night you dream, and i am there.
i hope you sit next to me the following day, and tell me about that dream

[Anonymous No.5680214]

>>5680207
#malefeminists

[Anonymous No.5680219]

>>5680207
My god, this is the very definition of cliche

[Anonymous No.5680221]

>>5680201
Why
Did you decide to:
make this a sentence & not
a regular poem; is it because your
(narrative) voice was
UNINTERESTING?

[Anonymous No.5680224]

>>5680076
best thing on this thread

[Anonymous No.5680228]

>>5680207
racist

such bald displays of love in the century no. 21 injure us embittered hearts who once, now long since, cared too much

[Anonymous No.5680230]

>>5680221
There wasn't really a narrative voice, I was just speaking in the first person and asking why you decided to write a terrible poem instead of a boring paragraph.

[Anonymous No.5680241]

>>5680113
i like it

[Anonymous No.5680242]

Several esoteric rabbinical texts mention a fourth major figure in the garden of Eden- the "monster".
The monster's appearance is never made clear, though extra-textually, he is depicted as a sort of hybrid animal, shown “stamping his hooves”, “waving his wings”, and “coiling his tail”, at different points in the narrative. Despite these animalistic features, the monster is treated as human by God, Adam, and Eve.

The monster's transgression against God is never made clear - the language is euphemistic and difficult to understand -- but the consequences remain the same: instead of exile, God imprisons the monster within the garden of eden, alone.

[Anonymous No.5680251]

>>5680230
I didn't think it was that bad, but it is a criticism thread so, time to improve.

[Anonymous No.5680253]

>>5680242
>extra-textually
so, fanfiction?

[Anonymous No.5680262]

>>5676409
really dig this

[Anonymous No.5680265]

>>5680253
fanfiction.org/bible/apocrypha

[Anonymous No.5680268]

I walked all winter through foreign fields, stopping never to lift my foot
From the ground I left behind.
I found myself frosted, bathed, in a sea of tears that stole me away to death,
But they were not mine.
The snow cascaded in rows and files, drenching trees with soft white blind
But the river was left untouched --
For what does not keep flowing in time,
Is fated to be drowned in dreams' velvety touch.

[Anonymous No.5680274]

>>5679946

I am indeed. Glad you like it

[Anonymous No.5680300]

In 1992, Bogdan Orlov bought a second series Jaguar E-type off a car salesman in Philadelphia and named it, "Liberty". The car was actually a bit too heavy on the price tag for a fresh off the boat family of three and Mrs. Orlov was especially unkind to Liberty in this regard. Citing its inability to let her fit onto one seat as a clear deal breaker, she pushed her husband to spend his sparse finance on more productive investments. However, the warnings sunk through Bogdan Orlov's mind, when his eyes locked with Liberty's stunning red hood he swaggered up to her in the most picturesque fashion and whispered, "Cool."
At this point in his life, Liberty became to Bogdan an american muscle car, an epitome of male chauvinism, a symbol of capitalistic hope and a memento to be passed down generations. It was sold a year later, bought at half the original price by a banker in Los Santos.

Of course, the second series Jaguar E-type wasn't American and neither was it a muscle car but these formalities didn't find their place in Denis's troubled mind.
The funeral suit was just now getting stuffy but, tragically, his mind was floating on too much Chivas to plot a safe voyage for the bed. Faced with this unsolvable predicament, he decided instead, to stay plopped on the couch and ponder, with a tone of annoyance, the incomplete ambitions of his now dead father.

In order to prevent an acute existentialist crisis, Denis Orlov made a two step plan to overcome his feeling of helplessness in the face of death, head to Los Angeles and find the man who bought his Liberty.

He made it to the front door before he tumbled to the floor in a drunken stupor. He then changed his plans to, head to Los Santos and find the man who bought his Liberty, tomorrow.

[Anonymous No.5680394]

Opening for something I'm working on.
Thoughts?
Comments are enabled.
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1lIJf_iUKRHtPkyRxr29uMmfUyfENpUjYBkHgQKVYlV8/edit?usp=sharing

[Anonymous No.5681075]

wilted Sunflower

Along the eternal way, she stopped time.
we orbited in Bliss for this instant.
i plummeted through shade out of sublime.
keep walking, bloom warmth anew -- this i can't.

there is no ceasefire to the civil war
kindled in my ever desolate heart;
in limbo, forever will i adore
her scent as it fades; i lay here apart.

the Sunflower forever gazed above,
"Oh look oh look at how it shines so bright!"
blind to the warm, somber drizzle of love
never to glimpse my Navigator's flight.

Your memory forever branded deep.
only embers of regrets are to keep,

[Anonymous No.5681137]

The boat sliced through the muddy waters at 5 miles per hour. The propeller struggled to push us up the river, fighting the current and our fears. Antonio, the hired skipper, sat in the cabin smoking and swatting mosquitoes from his face. Mom and dad lay in their bed trying to hide from the beating sun. Sheryl was in the kitchen preparing lunch for our five-strong party, and I kept busy scanning the surroundings for snakes, crocodiles, piranhas and any other deadly creature that could harm us.
My father, the dentist, the pastor. It had been his idea. One weekend he drove us down to the Memphis boat show. We walked the premises full of enthusiasm; he didn't find the vessel he was looking for, but he did find the determination he needed. The next weekend we drove down the Mississippi and talked to shrimpers and tugboat sailors. He took note of everything they said. A few phone calls to Brazil the following days arranged it all: we would sail down the Amazon River, 1800 miles, 30 days, stopping at every village along the way to baptize the barbarians and fix their teeth. Dental treatment and eternal salvation, dad's offer to the world.
The whirring of the engine gave us away as we approached the first of the 20 villages we had mapped out. The natives waited for us huddled by the edge of the river, some in silence, some yelling and ranting and jumping up and down. Antonio negotiated the docking with 3 or 4 shouts and disappeared to sleep for some hours, until we motored off again.
The wooden plank quivered and shook as we stepped onto the soft mud. The natives crowded around us, their eyes scrutinized us, relaxing only when dad showed them his crucifix and the Bible. The adults pulled out their crosses from their huts and signaled they had already received the Holy Spirit, but they eagerly offered us the children.
Dad stepped into the river, and the waters turned his white gown into a drowning ghost. "I shall pour clean water over you and you will be cleansed..." and he extended his hands to welcome five young boys, "...swollen and was now deep water, a river impossible..." and ceremoniously pulled them into the same river they had been bathing in their whole lives, "...plentiful, for wherever the water goes it brings..." the waters of the Amazon and the skin of the children indistinguishably colored, "...inside him, welling up to eternal life," and pulled them out new men.
Father took off his gown, hung it out to dry and put on his white apron. Then the dirty work began. We took the natives up to the boat in pairs and sat them down in an armchair bought in Manaos just for this purpose. Most of them sat tight and cooperated, took the shot of anesthesia without blinking, smiled with blood in their teeth when it was all done. There was not much he could do. Pull out a couple of teeth, antibiotics for the infections. Gave them a good cleaning, which would only last them until their next meal. We averaged 7 souls and 25 teeth per village.

[Anonymous No.5681140]

>>5681137
The goodbyes were what I dreaded the most. After the 6 or 7 hours spent with the natives, sometimes sharing a meal with them, their initial wariness had worn off. I could feel every one of their bones against my body when they hugged me. They would put on their ceremonial costumes to wave us of: bracelets and necklaces made of snake heads and crocodile's teeth and their faces painted with bird entrails fluids, and it all rubbed off against my face and scraped my skin as they hugged me, each one of them. It was too much for a 10 year old. I never asked to come along on this trip. I just wanted to be back home.

At the end, their gifts. They brought out three chickens, and grabbing them by their feet they hacked off their heads with a dull blade. Blood sprayed everywhere as the birds contorted, alive and headless. With a big smile on their face, they handed us the limp animals. It was all their basic economies could spare. We hung the chickens on the side of the boat and dropped them into the depths of the river once the village was out of sight.

I didn't feel much more at ease on board. As much as the rocking of the boat tried to lull me into a sleep at night, the sounds coming from the river and the jungle kept me awake.
One morning a strong need to pee pulled me out of bed. I lifted the lid to discover a snake in the toilet bowl, coiled up and staring at me. I froze. I must have been screaming, because my mother smacked the lid down from my hands and picked me up in her arms. There was a puddle of warm piss on the floor. I can still see the snake blinking at me.

I stayed away from the edges of the boat, the rails were not to be trusted. I knew that, were I to go overboard, they might be able to pull my body out, but I would not be coming back up. I feared the river. The river and everything living there, and the hunger they felt every day and the desperation in their eyes.

After a month out on the river we flew back home; I expected to feel relieved, expected to go back to my innocent usual self. But the river had changed me. Before, I only had the fear of God in me. But that journey put the fear of the world in me.

[Anonymous No.5681145]

>>5681140
By the time I ran away, I had a sizeable portion of my body covered in tattoos, several holes punched in me, and hundreds of gallons of alcohol had been filtered through my kidneys. I had rebelled against my home. All I really wanted was for dad to admit he had been wrong in bringing me with him to the expedition. But he would never say that. I had tattooed and pierced the hell out of my boyhood innocence, but dad had given it the first blow. He cracked the shell, I simply removed the broken pieces.

Out there, I feared nothing. The rainy nights in nameless cities, jumping into cars with strangers, riding atop open wagons loaded with coal or iron ore, runnnig away from the police: it all felt so welcoming. I met other transients, forged temporary friendships and tried to build a home while homeless. I traveled the country looking for a reason to stop and stay somewhere. After years of aimless wandering the states, I got on a plane to India.

Delhi greeted me with arms wide open but I wanted nothing to do with it. I ignored all maps and simply headed south, stopping on any small village that seemed welcoming enough. Most times there was no hotel, but the locals were friendly enough. Sometimes they didn't even accept the handful of rupees I offered. I slept in houses made of sun-dried mud bricks, ate from big banana leaves and learned to clean myself in the river.

I never stayed more than two nights in one place, until it happened. I caught dysentery in a small farming village by the Ganges 3 hours from Varanasi; I was bed-ridden for two weeks.

The villagers took me in while I poured my guts out. The biggest shrine there was dedicated to Kali, the goddess of destruction, and my tattoos and piercings reminded them of her. They laid me down in a wooden frame laced with thick hemp rope that served as a bed and shared their monotonous food with me.

When I recovered and was able to get out of the bed, I had become part of the village. I plowed the land and helped the travelers wash their camels in the river. I would get lost among the mango and banana groves in the morning, while the mist still hung low. I walked in there with nothing but a machete, and came back out with mangoes and coconuts to eat with the children. The local barber shaved me squatting down in the street in exchange for some baseball lessons.

And one day they arrived. They, with their trucks loaded with medical equipment and jugs of clean drinking water, their clean uniforms and foreign smiles. Doctors without borders. They took our temperature, listened to our hearts and lungs. Gynecologist for the women, special care was given to babies. And of course, there was a dentist among them.

[Anonymous No.5681150]

>>5681145 This is the lats one
My body tingled with excitement as I sat down on the chair after waiting in line.
"Open, please," the dentist said. She prodded my mouth with a mirror and a scaler. "Does this hurt?"
I tried to mumble something without drooling too much, tried to find her avoiding eyes.
"You're going to need a root canal for this one, but I can't do that here. It's not urgent, though."
"Can't you just pull it out?"
Her eyes met mine, if only for a second.
I walked away with a mouth full of cotton balls and the taste of mint mouthwash mixed with blood.

After a few hours they had gone through us all. They took everything down, put it away in the trucks, and all of them got on, shut the doors, while the last doctor finished an old lady's prescription.

I looked at the scene in disbelief. "Wait, you're leaving already?" The doctor just looked and raised her eyebrows. I went next to the trucks to look at all of them. "You mean you just come here and do your check-ups and leave?" The doctors, the villagers and the children, they all stared at me in silence. "You mean to tell me you just come here, pull some teeth and leave?" I was shouting, breathing heavy. "What about... talking to us? What about... a meal with us? What about..." I looked towards the river. "What about a hug?"
"Come on Hala, let's go," somebody yelled from one of the trucks.

I stormed out and was back there some seconds later with a clucking chicken in one arm and a machete in the other.
"Well, don't forget your fucking present!"
I held the clucking beast upside down, its head almost touching the ground, and struck as hard as I could while keeping my eyes open. The bone-and-cartilage claws dug deep into my hand as I wrestled against the final tugs of the flapping bird. A trail of blood followed me to the truck and I smashed the animal on the windshield; white feathers danced against the silence of the crowd.

The following day I started walking down the road with the first light of the morning. The whole village rose early to watch me leave, but no one waved goodbye.

[Anonymous No.5681170]

They ended their weekday commute at the station around the same time so encounters were frequent. They had known each other from before, but in his mind they were hardly more than acquaintances then. What were they now? They were still acquaintances, although contact was more frequent than before.

They had run into each other outside the station. They had been speaking for a time when she said, "That's just like you to say that", the emptiness of the statement could almost be seen making his towards him like a caustic cloud ready to chip his fresh paint and reveal his stock body.

"What is that even supposed to mean?" this sometimes worked, but he could still feel the cloud closing the distance and already knew that he had only stalled the inevitable.

"What do you think it means? What kind of response is that?" she said this in an ambiguous tone. Was she angry now? Exasperated? Joking? The more he thought about it the less he could say for certain.

Stalling was all that could be managed for now, "You know I just meant it's like a meaningless phrase. I couldn't say something that wasn't like me to say", check the negatives in that statement; okay it made enough sense, but it could have been said clearer because she had a tendency to misinterpret what was said.

"What?" the worst case scenario; she didn't understand, and now probably thought that he was trying to avoid her points, "You're being weird right now. I was just making small talk and now you're being evasive", the fact of the matter was that he didn't even know what he was evading.

He decided to take a direct approach to try and head off her accusations, "Well that phrase to me is just kind of meaningless. It bugs me for no reason, and you pressing me on it isn't helping my opinion of it", yes that could work. She would have to back off now, or she would look silly. Yes this wasn't an argument it was just a statement of beliefs; there wasn't anything to be upset about.

He made a mistake in attributing some of the problem to her, "Oh I'm so sorry for upsetting you about your little pet peeve, but honestly it's crazy to get upset about an off handed comment", wasn't that exactly what she was doing?
What the hell, "I'm not upset I was just saying that something bothered me", this would work better. Somewhere he had heard that it was best in diplomacy to treat a problem as though it belonged to no one.
She fired back quickly, "Do you know what bothers me? People picking apart what I said", well so much for diplomacy.

He didn't have a response to that, after all if you have nothing nice to say don't say anything at all. What if you couldn't help but come across as being malicious to some people? He realized the cloud had engulfed him, and he was being worn away.

[Anonymous No.5681365]

>>5660532
>anonymous message board
>to shy to post

[Anonymous No.5681375]

>>5660752
le edgey shit/10

[Anonymous No.5681382]

>>5681365
Because people are hypercritical.

Also, "too".

[Anonymous No.5681387]

>>5667893
Are you ten?

[Anonymous No.5681433]

Girl from 6A

Yes, feathers the sound and jade around chest
I am gagged and bound and made to request
The company of a woman who is far from best
but it's a test of those around who think it's incest
brother and sister are we not in blood but in brain
we are married not in court but in that sweetest pain
we know each other from afar, tipped off by lack of fame
the only things that we don't share are left socks and last name

it's just a game
how long can we smoke this bong before we get profane
how far will you tag along before you're in the paint
the tar makes you lose a lung but that's the price you pay
paid in full for a day with that Girl from 6A

[Anonymous No.5681465]

This was all a short burst of inspiration and meant to be heavily cyberpunk influenced, also my English is shit.

I threw my muddy, bloody, damaged helmet to the floor. It wasn't until Calm sat down in the chair beside my bedside that I realized how much he's done for me through my life. "I've never felt more hungry" I laughed as the pain in my gut became more noticeable from the bullet entering. I could feel the shrapnel inside dig deeper through every heartbeat.
"You see these things?" Calm pointed at the mess of circuit wires that stuck outright from the back of my head, connected to my brain. "Nerves and flow." he calmly said as he plucked one out. The feeling in my gut subsided as I could only feel my brain pulsing and throbbing much worse than a migraine. "No longer hungry now are you?" I gasped for air and caught it back in the next breath.
"That can't be healthy... to just get rid of the feeling. Your body would go through changes. I'd still die, but without feeling." I said a few breaths later. Calm was right though. I didn't even feel the need for food. He plugged the circuit back in. I gasped as the darkness flowed into my eyes and my head hitting the pillow behind me and the feeling of hunger coming back.
"You must protect these things. They're sensitive. They have trained fuckers out there, man. They specialize in this shit. You see, they don't really want to kill you. Just make you suffer. They plant this damn chip while they're fucking with your circuits to view how much you've suffered, then as you're finally feeling fucking hopeless.” He stopped for a second. “There he is. The last motherfucker you'll see in your head before you die." I couldn't stop glaring at the ceiling, afraid of looking at Calm's face. His circuitry was on the right side of his face. Always wore a plate to protect that side, only his eye vulnerable. "Buggers. That's what we call them." he went on. "One of your arms stop moving? Now you're paranoid that these shits got you where they want you. The Underground isn't like it used to be."

[Anonymous No.5681556]

>>5681465
shit
stop writing

[Anonymous No.5681574]

If you are writing some kind of fantasy or sci-fi, just stop. Stop and kill yourself.

[Anonymous No.5681614]

The Golden Rider charged, red bases flitting,
Lance couched in targe, on tall saddle - sitting.
Eyes ablaze with fervour, wide open for the assault,
Unlike stoics moreover, whom deny passion's result.

The wyrm emerged from its lair, drawn out to The Rider's challenge,
Bony detritus - proof of crime, empty of marrow which beast enamoured.
Forked tongue and fangs to bare, and against steel-tipped phalange,
A carapace slicked with slime, though neither verdigrised nor enameled.

The princess knelt in awed prayer, consoling the lamb leashed to her
From that scene at which she stare, of the wrath of beseeched savior.

The Golden Rider charged, slimy faulds splitting,
As stallion's hooves barged, at The Rider's bidding.
Escape no longer a choice, though try as the beast may;
A desperate cry it did voice, not enough - to be kept at bay.

The wyrm having ceased despair, met The Rider's gaze - to avenge,
With fangs bared in mocking grin, grasped lance with claw and clamoured.
This mortal wound of the affair drove into the beast a steel lozenge,
That then released its final din, breath ablaze with embers englamoured.

As shaft came loose of the furled grip, serpent's deflated head lolled,
Releasing thick, vile fluid from its lip, and far down its chin it rolled.

[Anonymous No.5681643]

>>5681433
I love it

[Anonymous No.5681947]

>>5681137
>>5681140
>>5681145
>>5681150
Someone crit this, please? 2000 words. I'll greatly thank you.

[Anonymous No.5682346]

>>5681137
First sentence is good enough that you don't need the second sentence.

Got bored after that, you gave me no motive to continue reading.

Nice first sentence, though

[Anonymous No.5682555]

I don't write in English, so this is a translation of the first chapter of what I'm working on tight now. So the quality might reflect that.
________________________________________

Zeth hated the Red Line. The carriages were always gritty, and the seats all filled with grafters who more often than not smelt tellingly of cheap dashes of whiskey in their synthcoffee. When he boarded, he was met by dozens of glazed eyes, empty, staring orbs that he was sure watched everything yet saw nothing, lost in thoughts, dreams and fantasies of greener pastures forever out of reach.

He pulled his matted keffiyeh up over his mouth and buried his chin deep in the collar of his knee-length leather coat to ward off the cold, soot-filled and damp wind that followed him in as the doors closed behind him. He walked with purpose down the narrow corridor, away from the grafters, and found to some joy on his part an unoccupied quartet of seats by the end of the carriage. The tags, the intricate letters in runny, marine-blue ink spelling out “AkZiP” against the once beige fabric, appeared at least day-old and dry at first glance. He was too tired to worry much about the fate of his coat, and flung himself indifferently into one of the window seats. He closed his eyes upon the familiar sound of the generators powering up and dozed of almost immediately, only to awake with a start at the sharp acceleration as the train pulled out of the station.

The MagLev Commute, or Maggie in the vernacular, was, hygiene issues aside, not the worst way to travel. Aside form the alarmingly rapid accelerations and the ever present electrical hum from countless magnetic field generators, the frictionless journey through the landscape went all but unnoticed. He sighed deeply, pulled off one of his glove and began going through his right-front pocket. After fishing out a keycard, a crumbled packet of cigarettes and a broken biro pen that he distractedly dropped to the floor, he found the vacuum-form sheet. He sighed and frowned at the lone pill left on the sheet, snapped the packaging and swallowed it dry, but eagerly. Caffeine pills was hardly what one would call the nectar of the gods, but synthcoffe was, in Zeths opinion, completely undrinkable, and he could not recall the last time he saw a cup of the genuine article.

Coffee was, like so many things, but a nostalgic memory on which to dwell. He could remember quite clearly the smell of it in his parents kitchen growing up; the smell of coffee grown in the earth, the smell of meat not grown cell-by-cell, pre-packaged in a laboratory to the perfect consistency of fresh rubber. It wasn't a lie, really, when the store shelf advertised its content as “Meat”, but the fine print read clearly, “Pressed protein mass, artificially grown from stem-cells”. The very thought made him shudder.

[Anonymous No.5682743]

>>5672775
>Kolsti has a lisp
not surprised

[Anonymous No.5682746]

Slam! A door moves swiftly shut.
A silver teardrop grows,
A silver teardrop falls.
Poor baby woken from a
dream.

My feet clap upon the
Stairs. My mind still asleep.

I had a dream too, you know?
Twas more of an illusion.

I lived in a place of self
Determination. I was
Free. A man with no master,
Or mistress to mistrust me.
No one to whip or chain me.
No person to restrain me.

Ah yes mirage! Ignis
Fatuus.

One year maybe...
One year to go...
Though I know It's all in vain
Now. I wake up to my life,
To find now, my freedom feigned.

[Anonymous No.5683107]

>>5682555
woah- post apocalypitc? that's so raer

[Anonymous No.5683149]

>>5683107

Post apocalyptic would most likely not have functional public transport. So, no, it's not, the idea is some kind of cyperpunk-esque thing.

And yes, it my country it's rare, there isn't a single title of the genre ever published domestically, which is why I want to write one.

Also, critique regarding the quality would be more helpful than "your genre of choice is lame in my opinion"

[Anonymous No.5683166]

Once I thought that I was dead
But truly I was only sleeping
Thank you for from this sad bed
Casting me out to things more keeping

[Anonymous No.5683194]

>>5683149
honestly its better than most in the thread

still though, Zeth? how im bout to read a story about a man named zeth tho? also "flung indifferently" seems to be contradictory

[Anonymous No.5683226]

>>5683194

Yeah, I had issues trying to translate that properly, the word used originally means something like "without care or worry as to the consequences", but I wanted it in one word.

As for "Zeth", it's a very unusual but not unheard of name here, but I'm not set in stone one that one... I just didn't want something generic like Erik/Anders or whatever that every Swedish protagonist ever is named.

[Anonymous No.5683252]

>>5683226
what's it about. i don't really get what its about from that excerpt. arab invasion/happening in sweden?

[Anonymous No.5683262]

>>5660378
"We Have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown"

and the regression that has sunk me into the deep blue abyss
my mental stability acting as the anchor
that prevents me from progressing
physically
pushing people away

reaching a point of isolation of unexplored waters
floating lifelessly in the dark

the land has no use for me
the ocean has no plans

and there's an overwhelming fear of isolation drowning me
as the sirens call for me
and I call for any form of ether


I never learned to swim
won't you teach me,
darling

[Anonymous No.5683276]

>>5683262
>mental stability
not very poetic

[Anonymous No.5683310]

The cat dreamt that the dog devoured him.
Later, the cat told the dog about his dream. The dog thought it was absurd.

Your knowledge of cats should make it easy for you to predict what the cat did next.

[Anonymous No.5683319]

>>5683252

No, this Zeth guy is a freelance journalist who's going to uncover some shit and da plot dickens. Work in classic cyberpunk themes of corrupt government. Too tired to do the entire outline right now, but tl;dr is that he uncovers some unfortunate truths about certain people who are unfortunately powerful, and he ends up dead in the secret police HQ in the end. No hope for mankind, nothing is well, edgy teenagers pls buy my book. I'd appreciate ideas on the plot though, if you have any.

If I want to have any change of publishing I can't be going on about arab invasions, obviously.

[Anonymous No.5683332]

>>5683276
haha damn it took you that quick to stop
explain your impression, though
most people i've shown this to don't get it and/or don't know a thing about literature

[Anonymous No.5683353]

>>5683319
metaphorically, you should make the secrets unravel from a small piece of thread

[Anonymous No.5683403]

I made no attempt at stifling my laughter.
"Is this a game to you? Is that all this is? Some sort of joke?" she spat.
"Of course not! Why, my career, my life— Well, that is the only thing I take seriously! You know this as well as I." I paused, unable to control my laughter, had I chose to attempt.
"But of course," I continued, "All work and no play makes a... How does it go? Ah, who cares! AHAHAHA!"
Patricia turned toward me, her face practically glowing in the heavy dimness that encumbered the room.
"You are a disgusting excuse for a human being. Considering the amount of Nietzsche you read, one would think a scholar—" here she twisted the term, infusing it with a venom enough to tranquilize the entirety of the western world, "—of your stature—" and here once more, "—would know better than to sink, no, catapult to such depths. Oh yes, quite the übermensch—" here I smirked, causing her face to flare even more, "—you are, sitting there in your armchair, drowning your ambitions day in and day out in liquor, wallowing and wasting away in your own shortcomings."
"Au contraire, mon chéri. I do not simply 'wallow and waste' as you suggest. Drown, perhaps, but wallow and waste? Certainly not. You see, my love, I combat my shortcomings."
How typical she was, so alike the numerous others who stood in the very place as she, spat the very words as she. Mon peu de mémoire.
"Combat? Hardly. Deny, more like." she replied.
"One in the same, darling. I consider them synonymous. Interchangeable, even."
"Of course you do. Simply redefining the world to conform to your failure. How I wonder what it looks through your eyes."
She was pacing the length of the room by now, or perhaps my vision was beginning to swim.
"The world, mon chéri, is both my inamorata as well as my anathema. Beautifully disgusting and disgustingly beautiful. Truly, it is dependent upon many ephemera, and ultimately one immortal goal."
She paused, now. She must have noticed the change in my tone, as her visage was the shade of snow. She developed a slight tremble.
"And, what might these factors be?" she muttered in the darkness.
"I'm sure you can guess the immediate: the amount of alcohol if have ingested, how many women I have acquainted coitally, and of course the presence of others."
There was a silence between us for an extended moment, seeming to float among the nothingness that separated myself and her, caressing our faces and pecking our ears. The sort of silence from which timelessness is born.
"And the immortal?" she asked.
I replied, "To be remembered."

[Anonymous No.5683409]

>>5683332
no I read the whole thing

"mental stability" smacks of pseudo-psychological self-diagnosis. like it feels like an excerpt from a facebook post

Jessica:
Gotta work on my mental and emotional stability!!! (frown emoji).

Don't talk like a psychologist evinced by other words like:
regression (what is this math class?)
physically (another pseudo-psychological word)
progressing (seems innocuous, right? nope it makes me think of a doctor with glasses who doesn't know shit about poetry)

I guess otherwise I don't get the poem but I don't know SHIT about literature

[Anonymous No.5683410]

>>5683353

That's the plan, yeah. I thougth it would start with something like <subject> is buying drugs/hookers (Zeth's supporting himself by writing gossip columns and the like, he hates it but it pays the bills). But it leads deeper, and queu the rabbit hole.

[Anonymous No.5683419]

>>5683403
>I paused, unable to control my laughter, had I chose to attempt.
what

[Anonymous No.5683446]

>>5683409
"pseudo-psychological self-diagnosis" is pretty much spot on
i refuse to go be clinically diagnosed with depression because i do not want to be told to take x pill for y, z times a day
your last sentence makes me want to reword what glared out for you, any suggestions? this is a poem from a few months ago that i never revisited

[Anonymous No.5683461]

>>5680394
and thats why you never have open comments

Anyway it's amazingly fedoracore and not actually necessary to my plot so I'm probably going to remove that entire segment since nobody has given any critique.

[Anonymous No.5683470]

Some erotic fiction:

After working on her product report due when she returned home for a few hours, she decided to get an early rest and went to look for the bathroom before heading to bed. At the end of the long carpeted hallway was possibly the most extravagant restroom she had ever seen. Nearly the size of her childhood bedroom, a long glass sink ran down an 18ft counter top next to a 5ft high mirror. In the center was a glass bathtub which stood in front of a wall literally covering the adjacent wall. Already impressed by her accommodations so far, this was incredible. Tantalized by the sheer quality of the setup, she decided to take a bath now, at least when she was not bogged down by the stress of work she would most likely feel tomorrow.
She undressed and turned the curved handle counterclockwise to let water rush in. Placing her right foot in, the water seemed heavier than what she expected, like the water was pressing down on her foot from added weight. Putting her other foot in, she turned herself before lying down and saw her naked body in the full wall mirror. While she had seen her naked self a hundred times before, this time she was surprised by what she saw. Her hair was definitely brighter, now seeming like a dark hazel rather than a dark mahogany, and she noticed it went down to her shoulders now. She lifted up her hair and found it felt smoother, more shiny, like she had just conditioned it. She before had always been lax about personal hygiene and presentation, never doing more than minimum so that she never smelled bad, but never smelled "good". But her hair made it seem like she had put effort into it, like she wanted people to notice her, even though Tress had never cared about people noticing her for anything other than her intelligence. Still looking at herself it seemed like her whole body was fuller. Her breasts looked almost like she was pushing out her chest, and feeling them she noticed that she could now grab a small chunk without effort, rather than having to press against her skin to really fondle her flat chest. It was like her now 34B breasts wanted to be held, wanted to be touched. She thought it must just be weight gain or her period after sitting in a plane for 10 hours, but it still perplexed her. Holding onto her left breast, she looked down to her hips, which now appeared to jut out more than she had ever noticed before.

[Anonymous No.5683471]

>>5683446
that's a dangerous ziptie around your neck in america, good you're aware of it. idk describe it in human terms. even though your ideas are human the words distort them. i hate to say "dumb it down" but do that

[Anonymous No.5683481]

>>5683470
>chunk
>jut
are you gay? or a woman?

[Anonymous No.5683482]

>>5683470
Part 2

She dragged her left hand down to feel the contour of her side and felt her hand go farther out. She put her hand on her ass. It was so plump! The whole thing felt rounder, wider, and more... inviting? She didn't know what to make of it, except that it made her feel slightly... horny. By then the water had almost reached the edge of the tub, so she turned around and bent over to turn it off. In that position, leaning over the faucet, something motivated her to turn around and look back at the mirror to see what she looked like now. Between the wider mound of her hips were her protruding lips of her luscious vagina. It now looked like it was screaming to be filled; wet at the edges, it opening up slightly between her hips so that a big fat cock could thrust in and fill her...
Wait, what was she thinking? She turned back around and stood up to collect her thoughts. Was she just... wait what? At that moment she felt a wave of shame rush over her as she stepped out of the tub and sat down in the corner of the room. She thought, "What the fuck is wrong with me? Did I just fantasize about... that? Do I... do that sort of thing?" At once all her resentment of the more sexually promiscuous and more "adventurous" girls from high school and college came flooding back to her now. She rarely masturbated, and often did so only to relive stress or feel connected to someone else. She never trailed off into fantasy, even when boys she admitted to be attractive do what they can to flirt with her, and get rejected. But there, right there in the tub, she had transformed into the worst of the Beckies, Brittanies, Sashas, Trixxes, and Kourtneys which she found revolting and even pitied. She started crying. She was emotional, not sexual. If she was to marry, she would do based on personality, charm, and kindness, not dominance, appearance, or... penis size. Trying as hard as she could to empty her mind, she sat for a few minutes and then quickly entered the tub to wash off, and after brushing her teeth got to bed as quickly as possible.
"It was just a weird moment, probably will never happen again." She thought to calm herself down, "Why am I freaking out so much, we all have intrusive thoughts, but only recurring when they tie to the person we are, and I'm not that kind of person. I ... uh... never find that kind of stuff sexy, or attractive, or... anything. I'm a smart girl, women with 35s on their ACT and valedictorians are not... sluts. I am not a slut." She continued these internal affirmations until she no longer felt affected by the incident, and drifted off to sleep.

[Anonymous No.5683496]

>>5683470

part 2:

She dragged her left hand down to feel the contour of her side and felt her hand go farther out. She put her hand on her ass. It was so plump! The whole thing felt rounder, wider, and more... inviting? She didn't know what to make of it, except that it made her feel slightly... horny. By then the water had almost reached the edge of the tub, so she turned around and bent over to turn it off. In that position, leaning over the faucet, something motivated her to turn around and look back at the mirror to see what she looked like now. Between the wider mound of her hips were her protruding lips of her luscious vagina. It now looked like it was screaming to be filled; wet at the edges, it opening up slightly between her hips so that a big fat cock could thrust in and fill her...
Wait, what was she thinking? She turned back around and stood up to collect her thoughts. Was she just... wait what? At that moment she felt a wave of shame rush over her as she stepped out of the tub and sat down in the corner of the room. She thought, "What the fuck is wrong with me? Did I just fantasize about... that? Do I... do that sort of thing?" At once all her resentment of the more sexually promiscuous and more "adventurous" girls from high school and college came flooding back to her now. She rarely masturbated, and often did so only to relive stress or feel connected to someone else. She never trailed off into fantasy, even when boys she admitted to be attractive do what they can to flirt with her, and get rejected. But there, right there in the tub, she had transformed into the worst of the Beckies, Brittanies, Sashas, Trixxes, and Kourtneys which she found revolting and even pitied. She started crying. She was emotional, not sexual. If she was to marry, she would do based on personality, charm, and kindness, not dominance, appearance, or... penis size. Trying as hard as she could to empty her mind, she sat for a few minutes and then quickly entered the tub to wash off, and after brushing her teeth got to bed as quickly as possible.
"It was just a weird moment, probably will never happen again." She thought to calm herself down, "Why am I freaking out so much, we all have intrusive thoughts, but only recurring when they tie to the person we are, and I'm not that kind of person. I ... uh... never find that kind of stuff sexy, or attractive, or... anything. I'm a smart girl, women with 35s on their ACT and valedictorians are not... sluts. I am not a slut." She continued these internal affirmations until she no longer felt affected by the incident, and drifted off to sleep.

[Anonymous No.5683508]

>>5683482
your literally saying her vagina looked like it was screaming

also it's missing the spark of the human that makes erotic fiction work

[Anonymous No.5683512]

>>5683481
no

[Anonymous No.5683526]

>>5683508
>screaming
what, so you're not into anthropomorphic genitalia?

[Anonymous No.5683529]

>>5683471
oh alright, i see what you're getting at
by the way, the poem should be read as an internal monologue, the speaker reading The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
but yeah clearly it's about depression, but i'm focusing more on my feelings of being inadequate, afraid of the future, being lonely, and not having a set place where i feel comfortable
the sirens is a reference to the quote but also to police and ambulance sirens
the main idea behind aquatic words is to emphasize that drowning/suffocation feeling of dealing with personal issues and not having anyone to talk to

[Anonymous No.5683531]

>>5683496
use vulva instead of vagina whenever possible, makes you sound less clinical
also this >>5683508

[Anonymous No.5683545]

>>5683531
any words that don't include harsh "s" sounds or high "i" sounds or any harsh sound whatsoever. S sounds set off my castration anxiety ("slit" terrifies me), and high pitch sounds like in "vagina" hurt my ears too much to be truly sexual

[Anonymous No.5683609]

>>5681614
This is great, Anon.
Assuming you wrote it, do you have any more?

[Anonymous No.5683761]

>>5683609
Thanks a lot.
I wrote this a while ago, but didn't put much thought into it.

Raptorial heads in frenzied wail,
Motionless, and on deaf ears, their cries did fail.
Armorial tincture – their stilling remedy –
A taste of what it means, to truly reign hegemony.

Wings of sable, spread and burdened,
Upon which, heraldic colors were herded.
Other fabulous creatures, on the pinions they're gathered.
Further disallowing flight, that this apex would have rathered.

A martyr on the breast, worn as a brooch.
Wreathed with lavish chain of Or, although his death approach.
The victim well paraded – hanging like an ornament –
Challenged the tragedy of this outfit, as if it were a tournament.

Stolid on its boxwood roost,
Regalia clutched, by a hunter's noose.
A divine restraint, and the royal wand,
To wave at the Diet of Deaf, and point beyond.

Beyond their means, beyond one's borders.
But it's not as if they'll follow orders.
Too busy concerned with their own sovereign right,
The hubris of Princedom, amongst themselves they do fight.

A blazing chimera, behind the eagle's guise.
Its mercurial bonds, proving not-so-wise.
Of split mind – its own common enemy –
Appeared only cracks, the hallmark of insanity.

Embers swirled behind these faults,
Kindling, as the erratic fissures saw no halt.
Shackles of purpure shattering – unleashing –
Crumbling, the facade of majesty now beseeching.

[Anonymous No.5683896]

>>5683761
I dig your stuff.

[Anonymous No.5684389]

This is part of a story I'm writing for shits and giggles. I know, It's really bad.

"I will restore you, Sophia. One memory at a time."
A storm of sorrow began to whirl with furious winds. The violet cyclone spun and defaced the room in blackened shadows. It hissed through the air as it knocked apart vases and statues, shattering them upon the ground. The sounds of its rampage fractured glass with the voice of a banshee's scream. Gusts of an unyielding madness broke from the gale, clashing into my body in ways that threatened my balance and contorted my flesh. Growing ever closer, the tempest thickened until I could no longer see anything beyond the twilight.
"Do you know of my anguish?" A woman howled from the dusk, a voice wracked with torment, uneasiness and rage.
"I only see the suffering you've caused."
"Then you shall suffer too!" She wailed.
Deep purple hands with fingers like swords, clawed their way through the storm, tearing the winds like fabric until they reached the eye. Hundreds of arms sharpened at the point reached out to mangle. I fought back, ripping off each limb as it came. They fell as if dismembered; but melted to black sludge on the floor then burned away into smoke and reunited with the gale.
"And you shall be laid to rest."
I shoved my arm into the wind and felt its fury batter me. The claws slashed at my skin but the lacerations remained dry. Each gash did not gush crimson, but gleamed of gold. Rays of sun bled from my wounds and blinded the shadows. Deep within the tempest, I felt a feminine hand, gentle and soft of velvet. It was frail—trembling, warm yet shivering. I took hold and dragged it from the gale. The claws were violet and black but her fingers glowed with amber light. When it left the fog, the banshee cried and her arm was torn asunder.
"Tear your arm to stop me and I will grasp the stump!" I threw the severed limb behind me where it dissolved into golden wisps that flowed around my body. My other arm delved into the storm once more.
That is when she reared her head. A face with no eyes and no teeth in a mouth wide open from an ear shattering scream. I looked into her blackened pits and saw only terror—the banshee was afraid.

[Anonymous No.5684453]

I was choking. Thoughts crushed my chest, my brain, my eyes- I was imploding. Imploding under the weight of thought. My mind wandered not in a labyrinth- no, because that would imply that the thoughts had an end. No, the thoughts never had an end, they echoed far beyond my perception, uniform, crushing, marching their eccentric, suffocating feet all over my mind. I ruminated in the flood. I spasmed, an animal screaming to get away from its self-imposed doom- but it was no use. I felt myself being pressurized into something ever so smaller- an insignificant speck in a wave of thought. I screamed involuntarily, gurgling under my scattered brain, gasping for air, for clarity.

[Anonymous No.5684523]

>>5684453
>thoughts crushed
surely there is a better word than crushed, crushed is too physical

>no, because that would imply that the thoughts had an end. No, the thoughts never had an end,
it's pretty clunky and repetitive with using thoughts, an end and no twice

I'd recommend either removing the line because it's someone overdramatic anyway, or change it to
"My mind wandered, not in a labyrinth-no, that would imply the thoughts had an end, but they never did.

>crushed, crushing - screaming, screamed - brain, brain
just a little repetitive, try pounding, pulverizing, shattering - howling, wailing - mind, head, sanity... ect. maybe it's just a problem with me but repetition puts me off.

>I felt myself being pressurized into something ever so smaller
I understand the metaphor, but it's very jarring and doesn't transition into it. Even though its pretty cringeworthy, I'll assume that in context it isn't bad. So to fix this, I'd mention the mind is a cage or some bullshit.

The idea of the whole thing like i said is pretty cringe and edgy, but hey, it could be worse.

[Anonymous No.5684544]

Doldrums sold: to bidders
Better than Doldrumsfolk,
But Doldrumsfolk, from there,
The Doldrums, won't leave there.

They visit in the night,
All the Better Bidders,
And bring the Doldrums' deed.
They read it by street-lights.

'It's airtight', say the folk.
'But these are our Doldrums,'
Explain the Doldrumsfolk.
'Sorry, we'll have to die.'

The Better Bidders think.
The Better Bidders drink.
And wink.
And sink.

They shoot a Doldrumsman:
A grown one; very grown.
And all the others run:
And all's to plan by morn.

[Anonymous No.5684594]

Everything can be torn down, destroyed, put into it's base components and then be shitted upon and shoved into the trash. The best piece of literature you read is something which panders to your supposed intellectualism by lecturing on and on about their interpretations of life and how they dressed it up to make it palatable to your opinionated tastes. The values that you have are just cultural norms enforced by various genetic influences and cultural practices. Whatever you hold sacred is, quite simply put, absolutely fucking worthless, and will honestly never matter in the world. So, why? Why do we push ourselves to do? The answer would be quite obvious- we make our own reasons to do whatever the hell we want to do. None of the shit I described above means anything to you- you value whatever you value because, for fuck's sake, you want to, and you do it, whether subconsciously or consciously, and you find reasons to do the things you're doing. To love the things you love.

What if you can't? What if you stumble along, not knowing why? You know how, you know what, you know who, but the why escapes you. The why twirls its finely waxed mustache and laughs evilly into my face. And thus, I stumble along, a pantomime of something. I'm not quite sure what.

[Anonymous No.5684869]

>>5661503
I don't know if you will see this but I saw you diligently critique several posts and then no one touched yours. I'm a total pleb with no formal education past high school so I apologize in advance if my criticism seems stilted or without merit.

I enjoyed the imagery of the crab car steaming. I would quote directly but I'm on mobile. I thought that, after reading your eloquent critiques of others, T.P. had a very distinct voice and that that was a real achievement as it is so different from your own. As a person that writes from time to time I know how hard establishing a unique voice can be.

You also have real technique in making it easy for the reader to picture your scenes (the policeman stretching his neck, lion cringing in his habitat), this made the read smoother than a lot of the majority of posts I see.

Now, when he starts using the Mexican or Spanish words to describe the graffiti (again, I would quote but mobile format is fucking goofy) I had some trouble. It's with these few words that you trip up your whole flow. Since I had no idea what these words were, I would assume without knowing your target audience, that others would be confused as well. I felt they stole away from your otherwise ample prose.

>why would the walls be talking now
Loved it.

I would very much enjoy knowing what this piece is a part of. If all of the characters are as nuanced and rich as T.P. then this could be an interesting work indeed.

Thank you for sharing.

[Anonymous No.5685092]

>>5683896
I'm glad, guy.
Thanks for the validation.

[Anonymous No.5685260]

>>5684594
I feel the feeling you feel, but we differ on aesthetic grounds.

[Anonymous No.5685299]

I want to learn how to do traditional poetry. I call this my trochaic TRYmeter in AABBA
Why do I suck?

Attempts at poetry
Shake me and elude me
Bring back my easy prose
I don't suck much with those
Let us write and we'll see

[Anonymous No.5685325]

>>5685299
you lack the knack
the gift that can't be got
by weary scholars' nose in tomes
or by big books besot

[Anonymous No.5685352]

There are some rail lines so powerful that they do not even need the ground to support them. Beneath their surging course, sea, sky, and earth all fall away. To what long-forgotten reaches of this universe those rail lines go nobody knows.

[Anonymous No.5685354]

The shadows lengthen; the landscape darkens until it is only a silhouette.


And now you could swear that all the moments of your life — for however real they once seemed to you — all those moments seem now like the dreams that are forgotten before the morning — dark, distant, and impossible to understand.

And already the sun has gone away beneath the mountains and left you alone again, at last.

[Anonymous No.5685356]

In the 21st century, at the summit of civilization, we were reduced to animals. For nothing. It wasn't for anything.

My life back then didn't hurt that often, but it was empty and lonely.

I remember walking around, fearing him, acknowledging the beauty of this place, and having the awful recognition of the fact that fear drives it all out. Fear destroys everything.

My life's probably had less pain than anybody since the beginning of time (excepting the stillborn).

My life's ok, now, materially. Emotionally I'm usually ok, but I get troubled at times like this. So I buy candy.

This happened because I ate one of those espresso beans. Two. Feelings can be fake. The horizon lines become the crux of a scissors.

I deserve to love and be loved, don't I (no)?

[kitty !kitty/EnNg No.5685360]

imo your meter is inconsistent in a bad way, i would personally reformulate lines in a different order (actually i don't really like the words either but w/e) to make it imo more coherent as a whole:

>Shake me and elude me
>Attempts at poetry
>Bring back my easy prose
>I don't suck much with those
let's write and we will see

to check how a meter can be inconsistent in a good way check, for instance, coleridge

>While yet with keen unblunted light
>The morning star shone opposite
>The lattice of her bower—
>Alone of all the starry host,
>As if in prideful scorn
>Of flight and fear he stay'd behind,
>To brave th' advancing morn.

[kitty !kitty/EnNg No.5685362]

grr, missed the link
>>5685299

[Anonymous No.5685382]

Suddenly, the lights went out and everything became still and quiet.
Then, in a single motion, the slate was wiped clean, and the forms returned into the seething void. The world remained, amidst the libraries and the files of the master, but it was hidden, and inaccessible.


Over the years, the files were gradually dispersed across the libraries of the world. An eyelash would fall from a document in Temp, or a ribbon of song would cry out for an instant on the desktop. At last, things had become so scattered that the library was almost empty. At night, the ghost of the demiurge would move slowly through the barren aisles, weeping softly, and dabbing his eyes from time to time with the long sleeves of his vestments.
An edict came to pass in those times that demanded that the world be reassembled. The archons shouted their assent — but their voices quavered, as they were afraid that the command signified the end of the world. They progressed slowly through the wildernesses of the world, picking pages from where they’d fallen in mud, or plucking them from where the wind had blown them into high branches.
The archons worked quickly, and the task was completed before the century was out.
The master returned to that land and found all things in their proper place. He was satisfied enough, we think, to allow the world to survive for at least as long as the time between then and today.
Today, however, the library is gone. Sometime in that immense interval of history between its reconstruction and today, it vanished. Though it persists in our memories, there is not a scrap left of it in the world. None know what has become of it.
Still trembling, we patiently await the punishment that we feel we deserve for our monstrous neglect – but I secretly suspect that there is no one remaining to punish us.

[Anonymous No.5685385]

"Fuck Sartre."
"What? Why?"
"Fuck that pompous French pedophile. He was a dirty, cross-eyed knock-off of Heidegger who-"
"Who?"
"Heidegger. Jesus, don't tell me you don't know Heidegger."
"I only know Sartre from 'No Exit'."
"Oh. Well - he was a philosopher, too, or at least he pretended to be."
"Well it's not really a philosophical quote, really, it's -"
"No, you're right, you're right. But I can imagine him saying it. Can't you? Of course not. You don't know as much about him..."
"Well what do you disagree with about the quote?"
She was being passive. He reflected to himself that Beavouir would probably her passivity, and for a moment he was trapped between two contempts. At last he sighed.
"Well, nothing, really. It's quite beautiful, actually. I wish I could say things like that. I've always tried to, I -" He wanted to change topics, and changed his tone.
"Well, it's beautiful out here, isn't it?"
She was quiet. He couldn't tell what she was thinking, which bothered him. He glanced at her quickly. She was looking out at the lake.
A short time later they disappeared from one another. Often he would sit there by the lake, alone, arms crossed in front of him, gazing at the view, which by then he had become quite accustomed to, and even bored of.

[Anonymous No.5685422]

>>5685385

I like it, the flow is natural enough... Also, it's like /lit/ - The dialogue.

[Anonymous No.5685882]

In this the Very Winter
When from the black firs
the blind owlet inquires
and the grey junco
and chicadee
haunt the dooryard
when the mailman stumbles
and puddles crack white
and the rushes wither
and the faded stars
follow you homeward
and I rise,
with swelling belly
and bring you to my hearth
shrugging frost and shiver,
do you taste in my kiss
the wintergreen bite
of April?

[Anonymous No.5686452]

song i wrote..

stuck in illusion
stuck in illusion

get the fuck outta here
i dont want it no more
you're telling me lies
you're wasting my time

the end is near
the end is near
how did i get here?

get the fuck outta here
i dont want it no more
you're telling me lies
you're wasting my time

and time is sacred...
cuz time is sacred...
but time is sacred...

stuck in illusion
stuck in illusion
nothing seems to show
nothing seems to show