Critique Thread

[Anonymous No.7083568]

I promise we won't call you stupid or worthless or bad a grammar.

[Anonymous No.7083578]

My critique is that the one on the left has no body but is kind of cute, and the one on the right would look better in her natural hair color

[Anonymous No.7083583]

>>7083568
>bad a grammar

[Anonymous No.7083590]

>>7083568
Your thread bad, so you r thread not so good

How'd I do?

[Anonymous No.7083621]

The days have passed and I still haven't found her. A her, the her. The her or the she that will make me feel, feel real. Someone I can love.

'Maybe some day I will be happy', I think to myself, and immediately I realize, 'but that day will never come.' I am the force of Chaos, I praise the God of Destruction, and my life has long been destroyed. 'Who am I?', indeed, I do not know, nor will I ever. I am darkness. But a her... the her... that's all I ask for, a her.

'Where is she—where are you? Do you dwell in the same pits of loneliness as I do? Because I have not yet seen you. Come to me.' In vain I call her, and the vanity of my plead echoes throughout the mountains. The her... the her.

The night approaches—even if my whole day is a night—and I confront the fears of my Unconscious:

My Mind is the landscape of the abstract and the terrible. I am the metaphysics of pain, and I stand still, contemplating the power of death. All the dreams I've had are now nightmares. All the good and virtuous turned to shit. Everything smells of shit—even yonder flower irradiates a putrid odor of wickedly-rotten chrysanthemums, shivering the swing that is the meter of the wind transporting the scent of pain. My life is a metaphor. I need the symbol of Hope—a her.

[Anonymous No.7083633]

>>7083621
If this is a Fedora character in a bigger piece, it's amazing, holy fuck. I actually can't fathom it being anything but that, so awesome. It is seriously hilarious.

[Anonymous No.7083638]

>>7083621
Ha gay

[Anonymous No.7083641]

>>7083621
Please stop, please for the love of all that is holy stop.

[Anonymous No.7083642]

>>7083621
nice

[Anonymous No.7083643]

>>7083578
Your standards are too high my man. They've both got A-grade bodies as far as I'm concerned. And the one on the left is exceptionally cute.

>>7083621

Oh, please. Obsession with "her" is so very overdone. Maybe I could better judge you if you wrote about something less utterly banal, although frankly your writing seems way too overwrought to begin with (though of course this may just be the topic shrouding the style: the inverse of what is usually the case). Be original, will you!

[Anonymous No.7083649]

>>7083643
>he doesn't like huge racks

[Anonymous No.7083652]

Just got a nutjob from the redhead in the back lol she sucked my BALLS bro fuckin gobbled em gave em the asian popsicle iykwim lmao yah that sucky sucky bro fucking hit this bong real quick it's that dank shit josh calls it president bush hahaha clever right yeah dude anyways that nutjob though fucking straight swallowed the gnads bro no joke had to wait for her to shit em out ten hours later no lie easter bunnied my nuts had to go lookin for em for a good minute lmao u know what I mean bro fuckin bomb ass nutjob

[Anonymous No.7083656]

>>7083621
>I am the metaphysics of pain

[Anonymous No.7083659]

Original story and characters:
So Gene is at the boat ramp talking to his friend and they get on the boat.
While they're out fishing Paul said to Gene that it was wicked fishing today since they had caught so many fish.
When they were back on land later they sold some fishes than they went home.
The end.

[Anonymous No.7083708]

>>7083621
gag ugh OK dude now write how you actually think and speak without trying too hard. maybe throw a plot in there, some characters, you know--a story.

brb gotta brush my teeth bc of the gagging and bile

[Anonymous No.7083716]

>>7083659
One of the better stories posted on lit. It has a preface, beginning, middle, end, and afterword. 10/10: it's like seeing Keira Knightley's tits.

[Anonymous No.7083742]

>First passage of a short story I'm trying to write. Please be as critical as you like, because I'm new to writing and would like to improve.

The rain was relentless and the street was deserted and the stranger’s hand was edging ever closer to my wife’s breast. Their kiss was filled with a sort of passion that I had always felt but was never able to show. When I saw her hand grip the back of his head hungrily pulling him in for more I knew that the perfect life that I had dreamed for us would never come to pass and that from this moment on I no longer had anyone I could completely trust and all of a sudden I felt painfully alone.
I did not know whether I wanted to cry or vomit or both and in the end I did neither and just watched the scene unfold before me because it was the only thing I could do. He was tall and handsome whereas I was not, he was dressed stylishly and expensively whereas I was not, and he could make my wife squirm about in pleasure with his kiss whereas for the past two years our sex life had been so joyless and conventional that to look back on it now filled me with shame and regret.
Why did she not long for me like she clearly longs for him? Would things have been different if I worked harder and earned enough to take her to hotels like this? Would I be enough for her then? It was pointless to even try to answer these questions, because what love she had ever bore me was clearly gone now. Her love was in her thudding heart as he pushed her firmly against the wall, in her body as it yearned for his touch, in her eyes as she stared into his. I was no more than a memory she was already starting to forget.
After what seemed like hours they finally broke apart. I was too far away to hear what was being said but the general mood was obvious. He brushed the rain from her hair tenderly and they whispered and giggled together in the hushed excitable tones of lovers. He gave her one last peck goodbye and they turned away from each other, she with a spring in her step as she bathed in the bliss she was feeling. I could almost see a disappointment in her too, as if she had just realised that the highlight of her week had ended and now she had to return to her boring life with her boring husband.
No sooner was she out of sight then I cracked and started to weep in a way so unexpected and uncontrollable that I felt like a boy again and just wanted someone to hear me or to help me or to be with me. This was not the way it was meant to be. This was not the way it was meant to be.

[Anonymous No.7083748]

>>7083742
Fag

[Anonymous No.7083749]

>>7083742
Formatting got fucked in the copy and paste, sorry.

[Anonymous No.7083754]

>>7083749
Faggot

[Anonymous No.7083761]

>>7083748
>>7083754
Hey, keep the criticism constructive ok friendo.

[Anonymous No.7083762]

>>7083742
>> The rain was relentless and the street was deserted and the stranger’s hand was edging ever closer to my wife’s breast.

This fascination with cuckoldry has to stop.

[Anonymous No.7083773]

>>7083761
metafag

[Anonymous No.7083781]

>>7083761
Fag lord

[Anonymous No.7083787]

>>7083781
gr8 minds think alike

[Anonymous No.7083810]

>>7083659

Clear and direct. You cover a day in three lines, and it's very easy to recall what you read after reading.
It has the sonority of a joke, even if it's clear it's just a story.

As a final product it's shit but as a post it's very good. If I were a writer I'd probably steal "your" technique so ty for writing it even if you thought it was just ebin troll

>>7083742

You've posted this before yes?
I quite like it.

I'd write:
>Their kiss was filled with a sort of passion I had always felt but never was able to show
I'd delete
>and all of a sudden I felt painfully alone.
or maybe write:
>completely trust. All of a sudden I felt painfully alone.
Even if I really dislike "all of a sudden."
I really like your long sentences and you show great skill controlling them but beware of pushing it too far sometimes

Your putting the rain at the beginning was brilliant. Every thought you wrote read in the sound of rain in fitting melancholy. The continuity and length of the sentences is like the rain.

I'll try and edit your excerpt in another post

[Anonymous No.7083815]

>>7083742
Wow ur a fag lol

[Anonymous No.7083819]

Part of a novelle I wrote and posted on my blog/Medium: http://www.cartapaulista.com.br/post/128440010104/silent-prayer-to-a-deaf-god

Mr. Reynolds woke up in the middle of the dark. A cold ground, a freezing wall. He was presumably near the dump of an old alley somewhere in a cold city in a dark night. Still sleepy, he woke quickly when realizing he was nowhere near his comfortable bed. He was in the middle of nowhere. It felt like the same city he knew, but he didn’t recognize where. He rose, and fumbled down to the street. “What in Heaven’s name have just happened?” , he thought to himself.

That place was dark like no other, and the sound of the wind barely reached to his ears. Once again, he was alone with that terrifying silence. The street of the region he was in was no familiar to his memories either. He walked a little more, but the place was completely desert. No people, no noise, no light but that of the moon.

[Anonymous No.7083841]

>>7083810
Thank you very much for the feedback. I posted something similar 3-4 months ago, but I think I've changed it quite a lot since and also tried writing other passages (though no coherent story just yet). I'm still trying to find an honest style/voice, so all of your criticism is very helpful and I'd be very grateful of an edit.

>>7083762
I know it's become a bit of a meme on 4chan, but I came up with this story idea way before that and I think it's an interesting concept.

>>7083748
>>7083754
>>7083773
>>7083781
>>7083815
Don't you get bored of this sort of shitposting?

[Anonymous No.7083842]

I was finally doing it, sucking my own dick. It had taken many months, but I finally gained the flexibility. At first my ribs were very sore attempting such a feat as this. My neck also felt a great strain, but slowly day by day I could lean ever close to my tip.
One morning during my daily attempt, I touched the tip with my tongue! Yes, a real breakthrough! It felt so good, if only I could get deeper. I finished myself off with my surrogate pussy (hand) that day.
The next morning I could pop the whole tip in my mouth. I sucked really hard but nothing came out yet.
And again, the next day - progress. I could deep throat that son of a bitch and make my eyes water. Wow, this must be how girls feel. It's too bad I didn't shower, my dick was pretty smelly. I came very hard into my mouth and swallowed the milky white nutrients.
I had finally attained mans most desired dream.

[Anonymous No.7083843]

That's ridiculous. Why would he need proof?

Just because he doesn't remember her doesn't mean he didn't know her. He probably did back when he was younger. There was no reason to doubt that. Why would someone come and lie about being friends in the past?

And yet, he couldn't resist replying.

“...I don't believe you. Show me."

“Sure." She took out a piece of paper from her skirt pocket and lifted it up to show him.

It was an old photograph. Even in this technologically backwards village, cameras were not unknown. Naturally, family households would keep photo albums, where they stored pictures to view a few years or decades down the line. That is what a photo album is for. Minato had a family, as a matter of course, so her family would logically also have a photo album that contained pictures of when she was young.. Therefore a countryside girl like Minato holding a black-and-white photograph was not unusual. Yet the picture felt very strange to look at, Sumida felt.

[Anonymous No.7083893]

>>7083742

The rain was relentless and the street was deserted and the stranger’s hand was edging ever closer to my wife’s breast.

Their kiss was filled with a sort of passion I had always felt but never was able to show. When I saw her hand grip the back of his head hungrily pulling him in for more I knew the perfect life I had dreamt for us would never come to pass and that from this moment on I no longer had anyone I could completely trust. I felt painfully alone.

I did not know whether I wanted to cry or vomit or both and in the end I did neither and just watched the scene unfold before me, because it was the only thing I could do. He was tall and handsome and I was not, he was dressed stylishly and expensively and I was not, and he could make my wife squirm about in pleasure with his kiss whereas for the past two years our sex life had been so joyless and banal that to look back on it now filled me with shame and regret.

Why did she not long for me as she longs for him? Whatever love she had ever bore me was clearly gone now. Her love was in her thudding heart as he pushed her firmly against the wall, in her body as it yearned for his touch, in her eyes as she stared into his. I was no more than a memory she had already started to forget.
After what seemed like hours they broke apart. I was too far to hear what was being said but the general mood was obvious. He brushed the rain from her hair and they whispered and giggled together in the hushed excitable tones of lovers. He gave her one last peck goodbye and they turned away from each other, she with a spring in her step as she bathed in the bliss she was feeling.

No sooner was she out of sight then I cracked and started to weep in a way so unexpected and uncontrollable that I felt like a child again and just wanted someone to hear me or to help me or to be with me. This was not the way things were meant to be, this was not the way things were meant to be.

(THE ¶'s aren't meant as such they're just paragraph breaks ofc)

>>7083841
As for a "style" of "voice" I'd suggest maybe a joycean one like in the short story A Painful Case

[Anonymous No.7083910]

>>7083842
>I was finally doing it, sucking my own dick.

[Anonymous No.7083924]

>>7083568
Ew, teenage-pussy. I will pass.

[Anonymous No.7083975]

>>7083893
Thanks, I will definitely take the edit into consideration. The style I'm trying to go for is somewhere between blunt/simple but descriptive (e.g. Hemingway, McCarthy) and stream of consciousness (e.g. Selby Jr.), but I'm finding it pretty hard to reconcile them and just end up going from one to the other all the time.

[Anonymous No.7084011]

Your words are daggers and they cut me down to size

they get under my skin and then they tear me up inside

and i've got nothing left to hide anymore

because you spilled my guts all over the floor

now i've got a puddle of apologies pooling at my feet

and a mess of broke promises pounding through my teeth

well you took my tongue and the air out of my lungs

hung up the phone and left me to die alone

you better watch where you point those words,

those words can do some hurt

sticks and stone can break my bones

but words like those will kill me

your words are anchors at the bottom of my heart

they drag along the surface and they tear it all apart

now im standing on the raft that i made

until you pulled it out from under my legs

now ive got an ocean full of apathy

trying to pull me down

and a tide of insecurities

tossing me around

you took my soul and the only thing i know

hung up the phone and left me to die alone

[Anonymous No.7084015]

here is mine; I'll comment on some others now.

[Anonymous No.7084023]

The two cormorants argued in their unpleasant manner while circling the beached ship. The dark plumed one contrasted sharply both with the look and outlook of its albino counterpart. The ship did not participate in the discussion though, but it wished dearly for its words to reach the twin sources of white and grey deck stains. The cleft lipped watchman on deck trying to sleep pressed his hand to his ears as they endlessly grunted in disagreement.

"That serpent is carved from the prow of the ship and couldn't possibly manage to do anything you blind fool."
"I'm blind to shapes, but those have been proven unreliable by wise men. The ship would speak if you listened, but its words are only of complaint much like your own."
"You would rely on the sophistry of wise men when you are but a blind bird? You are not only blind but mad you old fool."
"Keep calling me a fool and you might believe it, but you will never find truth in saying it, and really this is a time when you would benefit most from truth. Look over their laid out like the snake he is on the rocks. Do you not see the old serpent of the steppe I speak of?"
"That is a man and he is not laid out he is sitting and watching the ship, but I doubt he is a part of its crew."
"He has only shed his snake skin for a more useful form in these god watched lands. I have met him before in this life and previous ones, and he is nothing but a deceiver. This time though my eyes do not warrant trickery to enter my vision."
"You have less sense than color in your feathers and I do believe you when you say that trickery cannot enter into your eyes, and especially when your vision is nothing but trickery of your own manufacture. I'm going down to prove that serpent is no more than a lay about basking in the sun."
"You're the greater fool then and will regret not heeding my words."

Eyes that did not blink followed the descent of the dark bird until even the minor imperfections on its body covering could be made out. Heavy lids closed out the image just as the shadow of the bird's wingspan totally engulfed the warm spot on the rock. They lifted and the bird stood within arms reach drying its feathers and blocking out the sun's rays making the spot of granite colder than its occupier preferred. Despite the intrusion the man's eyes closed once again and he relaxed onto the cooling stone. The bird looked up to the speck hovering in the blinding glare of the sun and cried triumphantly. While its attention was averted the figure in repose brought forth a a length of rope and tied it into neck sized loop. The man stood stood behind the cormorant with loop in hand while the bird still squawked loudly at the albino who saw all to clearly what was to transpire. In an instant the loop was around the the long neck of the beast and in the next it had taken flight only to be dragged down.

Over and over it lifted itself only to be brought down by the insurmountable pull of the once again reclining man.

[Anonymous No.7084027]

1/3

[Anonymous No.7084032]

>>7084027
2/3

[Anonymous No.7084036]

>>7084032
3/3

[Anonymous No.7084057]

>>7084027
Looking forward to seeing it in the next /lit/ novel.

[Anonymous No.7084066]

>>7084057
The next /lit/ novel?

As in the next piece of collective literature or what?

[Anonymous No.7084135]

>>7083621
I literally rolled out of my chair heaving with laughter when I saw that you capitalized 'My Mind' and 'Unconsciousness'.

>>7083742
Could benefit from describing the visual POV of the dude.

>>7083819
Honestly; I lost interest and didn't read it all.

>>7084011
XXXcoreXXX

>>7084015
Taking on the ol' roaches and banks clique hmmm? I like it.

>>7084023
It reads like you wrestled with organizing your thoughts.

>>7084027
Did you actually take the key ... seriously?
The wizard made me laugh.

[Anonymous No.7084141]

>>7084135
>Did you actually take the key
What key?

[Anonymous No.7084152]

>>7084135
>mfw ignored
;_;

[Anonymous No.7084161]

>>7083843
I would need to see more to judge this. It seems fine.

[Anonymous No.7084165]

>>7084141
Footnotes.

[Anonymous No.7084174]

>>7084165
Oh nah. The footnotes are my idea of a joke. Kinda making fun of my own infatuion for DFW and Infinite Meme, Ya Know?

[Anonymous No.7084175]

>>7084027
>>7084032

hnng

[Anonymous No.7084178]

>>7084175
Good or bad?

[Anonymous No.7084180]

>>7084175
although I don't like the ulysses reference and the footnotes are useful for my particular understanding but as a finished product just begone w them

[Anonymous No.7084181]

>>7083621
The writing isn't bad, but as others have pointed out, the subject matter is fedora-tier. There's nothing wrong with writing about loneliness, but for me this is over the top and doesn't convey anything real.

>>7083652
Nothing wrong with this style of writing per se, but I'd need to see a longer piece to get to know the character and see if this fits for him. Also, I'd avoid using 'lmao' because that's a text/internet term and doesn't reflect someone's internal thoughts, which I think is what you were trying to go for.

>>7083819
'What in Heaven's name have just happened' - should be has, not have. Other than that, it's a nice start but it feels a little bit underdeveloped and I'd like to see it fleshed out a bit.

>>7083842
Interesting subject matter, but it doesn't work as a standalone and at the moment I can't see where it would fit into a narrative. Also, given that it's also a bit of a weird theme, I'd like to see the writing get weirder too.

>>7083843
It started off well, but I felt there were a few phrases in the last paragraph that were a little out of place and/or clunky, so maybe consider rephrasing.

>>7084011
Not bad, but there are too many cliches and overall it lacks a bit of subtlety. Keep working on it until you arrive at something that's a bit more honest.

>>7084015
I like the way you slipped between the conversation and the character's thoughts, it flowed pretty seamlessly. I think the paragraphs could use a second draft though, it feels a bit needlessly over-descriptive in parts.

>>7084023
This is a little bit difficult to follow. You've got a pretty proper and traditional style, but the sentences are a little bit clunky. Try rephrasing and simplifying a little bit, and your ideas should be translated more clearly.

>>7084027
The writing seems good, but it takes effort to follow the prose properly and nothing about the story made me want to persist with it. Maybe it would be different for fans of fantasy, I don't know.

[Anonymous No.7084188]

>>7084180
>just begone w them

Why?

[Anonymous No.7084189]

>>7084027
>>7084032
>>7084036
Ye need to forewarn yr readers that y'll be casting black faggotry @ them. Otherwise it's fine I guess, so what?

[Anonymous No.7084191]

FIRST TIME BE GENTLE

The offices of the New York Times were as they had been almost six years before: a vast, meticulously tidy space, whose consecrated silence was disturbed only by the occasional shrill rings of a telephone, or the incessant, staccato beat of a typewriter. Jake Morrow, a man who was supposedly “one of the editors”, had scarcely changed either. Here was the same pencil moustache, the same broad shoulders, the same shit-eating grin. The pinstriped Brooks Brothers, however, was new.

‘Goddam,’ he said, eyeing me up with that fake, plastered on smile. ‘If it ain’t the late Willy Boyd. Last I heard you overdosed in some Brussels whorehouse.’

‘You’ll have to print a retraction on that one,’ I said, and took a glance out the window at 43rd Street. All the people and automobiles seemed like toys. Morrow chuckled.

‘You can’t blame a newspaperman for keeping up with the rumours,’ he said, inclining his head as though humouring my insipid character. His smirk was still there like a little streak of shit that just won’t wipe off. ‘But since I’ve got the chance for an exclusive: where in hell have you been these last six years?’

I turned to face him, and, with some satisfaction, noticed that he flinched. ‘Following a story, if you’d believe it.’

‘Well,’ said Morrow, hastily regaining his composure and checking his wristwatch, ‘Duke’s is still open. Fancy breaking it over absinth?’

‘Bourbon, sure,’ I said, and we retrieved our hats from the stand by the door.

[Anonymous No.7084213]

>>7084191
I hate to advocate alcohol abuse, heroin, domestic violence, or rollercoasters during pregnancy, but in yr mother's case things turned out perfectly. She may or may not cringe at yr use of meticulously, but she's drunk who cares, that bitch is always DTF w/the GTL crowd, you just have to see that flowery pussy, oh my god dude, can you say roast beef? he asked meticulously in his meticulously tidy bedroom.

Morrow answered w/a cliche and ye hung up the phone.

[Anonymous No.7084222]

Business casual; attack of the clone lone rome and gnome. Fro getta dont foe get ha. Metta betta set to set cet ketta ret. Ming on the sling king ring to the bring to shink brink and sink tinkering rinkering drinkering to thingk. Mass molybdenum mine mastiff fine rats riff tragic magic binge fro idas pre ideas midas mind the kind that turns to gold the manner manor of the sine inside. Indo blown gown frown cinder ode code transmission power. Very alone cone on the head bedded sed. Act red mad hatter said mona - Asil blaise lacsap maze track gap. Canna manna Rotnac Georg in the gorge roar and soar boring lore of the bind. Hind mind noun verb adjective signs. Put it on the vine some kind of fry. Immediate mind kind that so kind that blinds a sigh makes it to cry. Onus on the mandarin machine candor caprice overload rice paid some ecirp for some equip to stay close to the mentality. Sods morality blown on across the desert wish. Kiss of bliss. Risk risqué mistaking hay for hey lay sob. Built guilt to the hilt of power. Now the cast of the play thing dances up the maw of the devil wing ladderman shoot. Boots on the hoot an owl of long walks to talk the klat. Megamanic say titanic center of the human natural coined unnatural disaster. Like apes when they don't get along any longer and so come up short of language and instead beat one another with sticks. Ping. Out of the haze and schism a kernel of corn edible and preferably not to oedipal arises unmistakably like some kind of underwaye couldn't save it from the fridge left so long left alone by it self in a fridge after you came back from a spontaneous vacation. The bridge edgier lib rib on rib on subtle gestalt. During calliope never hilltops see; ‘crime built machinery’ said prometheus to cyclops who's single eye meant fire.
Rye desires. Basic; ires too much for them. Too complicated. Obligatrix delegata. My alma matta. Matter of the meter reader - I’ll see her and raise her too. Lamed - all the blame that came pouring down. So many mistakes crowned by the achievement of war. Callow whore of the people. Thats why I don’t do politics my friends. A mother cannot afford such callow honey. Cables of filter. Millitant killer. Swill on the drill pill willard. Omni kiss kriss in the back clack clack lack go the key note breeze snake on the brake for the nape of lime. Sub trine love rhine blown back to the dust in re. Must we build so freely. We must. Whine the machinery. The clover of keen preenery. A million oceans. Heritage of a lunatic. Some kind of futurist.

[Anonymous No.7084230]

>>7084222
cont.
Mutualist hiss. Behind the mist. The oh voidal hole behind the ovoid. Hidden forever in the dark spot behind the planetoid never to see the sun doomed by rotation simply to hover in sight of one and the same. Rare but stupid.
Cantop the millio cprice of large moneys. Clumped though. Into just as many clumps as you and me clump our monies. Coffee monies, book monies, game monies, movie monies, travel monies, research monies, eco-monies, building monies all clumped into clumps of four and five.
Existential levels. Leveling hovels. With WMDs. World war three. Skree. Using the knowledge of ancient power. Going through the meta to the other side of the same.

Amos avos actos aros elliad picktor rasill mecht abromov miso pact.
Identity flown acting fully poetic picking (rasill) mechanically molotov mine pact.

Just a subcutaneous injection. Nothing to worry about. Unless you lied to me you punk ass. But… perhaps you told the lie when you couldn't know if you told the lie. Kai wishes to die on the fire. But the pyre hasn't been set for millennia. Copper lode. The goad of morose soda code. Canse. Ransom bind. His mind flow fire kie. Repetitio repetiti tactic so sweetly coned like a hat for your delight. The delight of wearing such a fine coned hat. Boned dat. Datum fat. Bone daddy rat. Wearing such a fine hat. What a fine hat. All across town. Up and down the streets. What a fine hat. Emperor’s new hat.

[Anonymous No.7084233]

>>7084189
Black faggotty?

[Anonymous No.7084238]

>>7084230
cont.
The emperor; not so stupid as they think. A very democratic fellow actually. Piqued pip-squeak and just how myght that work with a tweak here and a tweak there until he does so volitionally. And does it make things better or worse just because he does so volitionally. I dont think so. It sounds like the worst thing in the world to debase yourself so… But then he wouldn't have the mind of the master. The master of the universe would. Would… Wood. Turn to wood. Unable to do the basest of maneuvers. Out of grace in the woods. Woodsman. In the forest of rudeness. The streets not of amazement and baffled awe but the streets of an enraged revulsion. Ah hahahaha scream the peasants the fool stone him to death!

[Anonymous No.7084241]

>>7084222
Semicolons and hyphens where there should be colons and Em-dashes. The words "Risk risqué" right next to each other. & also ye even continued posting more:
>>7084230
I can feel my sinuses twitching!

[Anonymous No.7084249]

>>7084238
cont.
*Controlling the subjective experience as a form of entertainment. This doesn't translate well into non-textual media.*

ranta ranta ranta ant can't the smalls gone tallon. Manta ray. Pedantic antic. Katta kata. Skillard disdainful skill-shot. Bought a million trots. Caught a million cauts. Warning warning. Lissard tourning. Touring lizard burrowing lizard worrying lizard. Blizzard hissard just a kissard whispered. Whispered the miser. Cow la owla old prowla howla break back trowla. Streams leamur animalia qualia combinatrix delegateta.
Marbase erased sas. Equation backtracks 23^2x+23x-23+23^2y/23^2y max mega ortega brown has only three fingers. Lingering twinge. Deranged wince. Hints. To get to the mix. Minx trinket rink blink of the eye.
Ammulata rotten haus brought a message to the missile behest trammel. Camel drama rama gamma ray trauma. Caste blist mellow mist hello riz. Chiseled bliss. Wistful gristle. A-moral quarrel poor all poor all. Score hall. Core all. Bore. Pinge. The fringe engrave Eva forever. Minx trine tricks whine blistex kind wizard hex hind. The business whine. Sold to the love rind. Ground to busts perfect trusts never touched. Or they get the fine. Fine but we sold them to the sad other kind.
Stine mallow follow wallow cinder odes fire toads lost in the wooden jungle of goads. How a jungle never seems wooden really. Pillory sepia colored stained just right bite back night. The rebels heppa fresh rhymes in an endocrine lime light dime best find.
Kill joy Loyde and his ripple reveling blind side. But a dropplet in the ocean. Watch your mind blow and from the ashes grow lives hoe the seedlings glow. Crows whistle socials while wait want glazes your night with death appropriate. The room groom Poed loaded a load and walked off. Thanks toad. Licorice show. Candy oh oh oh. Motor home. Chlorine dome. Mow the grass feed the dooge check the mail pale as pale as make the dinner say ‘hey champ’ ‘hey winner’. BF skinner dome. mow the lawn feed the dooge. Cogs wheelly whats the deally really man. Stan fresh banddesh clandestine rand-ish blandish on the stand while the judge hastens to make demands.

[Anonymous No.7084257]

>>7084249
cont.
Omnicron bites midnight delights kited. No. I wont sigh. Lie the kai jive rival. Trivial tribal spy hole. Semper fi military carnival. Marlboro holo dance prances the prance gender neutral yeah right. The worse menace and for the penance of toleration actons will accrue to your general propriety. Alrighty.
Streams of dreams bleeding creams and ointments frozen appointments on days you cannot make a cake lagos subjective cogs nose mechanical comportment. Entanglement ranggled and met with the crew Ouch! the sting of en-ringment. Tinkling swing bet.

“Cozmet ozbelacozi cozi met cender eppa tet octa lotter hedda osca omna heckt.”

“Trigonometrically touching the backside of reason because of the meeting of the cinder sent tangentially of the eight sided lottery headed obscurely multifacetedly into six sided hell.”

Coasted she boasted what maters the most Ed. I hate. There I said it. I hate so much I cannot stand how much I hate. So much hate that, hate that, ate my late wife. Hate that rated the movie R instead of pg 13. That kind of hate and so much of it. Casper’s shadow hellio
strophe mal code ware commission omitted and pitted against the so THE could do what it wants for once goddamnit.
Metaphysic mystic kiss the stick Watson and Cricks genetic mode. Cetteris para marrow. Neuro Euro. Supine. Inclined to wha wha wha.

[Anonymous No.7084262]

>>7084257
cont.
Proper Eingleis. Casper casper. Flee cant take it. Gotta wake up to take a take up. Up take a great quake. Meta ice elemental supplice. Geist of the mice. The small ones hollo-puns. Gun-son of a. Cove of the ocean above you. Caught by waves in and of you. Interogone. Eros mon. Terrorerrorists eros moxxie forbidden toxin to the brain. Disdain the fluid load. The state of berate ov. Why why why. The ov must go to the right side. hate ov so wrong. Why hate ov. The ovs too strong.

[Anonymous No.7084266]

>>7084262
cont.
Gabb araab blah blah syncopated rablaise malaise raid. Saigon trade paid in and paid out lout. Laid arrest paid to behest grave. Raving growls paved with howls of laughter in the rafters pealing reeling with the concourse of discourse. Founded and grounded in the mystery mixolydian mode goad. Showing the sewing code doubled ode circe so alone. Siren beckoned of the reckoning second seconds sure if its pure say ill or for a pillar of skill bequeath a million wreaths of barrier reefs. Seethe in a bereave in a grave of a wraith that can take baits and mates for a lifetime hates the life crime waits till the right time. Crates the boat homes. Crates the load domes. Crates the show tomes. Crates the cold roams. Crates the bad loans. Crates the simple ones. Crate the dimpled drones. Crate the foundry stones. Crates the bones of droves of cone hated loved ones. Crates of Thebes. Crates would wheeze on and on. That boner of a lad circa BC 300.
Lately on the rube tube a callow sir of many mallows eaten searched the web for a trouncing beaten reader reaten scree den. Mechtable meeten drainable seachen wane stained a free then. He that would regenerate a pretenderate beachhead. Local social. Colatoned bowler. Molier scoffed holler. Mixolydian seizeure just a breeze here. Cant get the switch bitch richter scale out of the ditch witch into the synch. Cappa Gamma Cappa way point go to the glow dirt wax and wane and dont disdain for a single moment the fan-based fantasy that lays ahead of you. The pew pew pew of the lazer rifle the mew mew mew of the cat the shoe shoe shoe of the broom and the bang bang bang of the bat echo-locative dative. Masssive rasta cast hive blown dirt crispers bang fringed missvies and cat lounged blisses to another day to another day. Wonderling lays dance on the waves of cave’s cave. Forever the nave whisk whisk whisking a bruise brisk sky wing to the gallows for nice things.
Dream cave wave looming. Dream cave wave reubing that goldfeild. Paved with wails of the dead. Red herring said daring things. Laird with a care for stings in the ping ping groaning. Ding bat tone sing. AHHHH what a thing. What a thing for the swing of the ming dynamic dynastic. Mind reader fantastic. Dial soap plastic hope parasitic dope. Mope but better cope with the nicean fuge down near batton rouge. The yellow man.
The yield of sanders sand. Tangential bandering banter cat catering. Latteral manta ring. Circle circe geo pierce the veil of mystic hearse bewail the young who thirst. Can I… Can I… Can I… do my worst?

[Anonymous No.7084275]

>>7084222
i demand a vocaroo reading by the author

[Anonymous No.7084285]

>>7084275
pls no its so bad let it curl up and die from dehydration

[Anonymous No.7084368]

>>7084275
http://vocaroo.com/i/s1yniC3grMM1

[Anonymous No.7084383]

>>7083716
She was 16 at the time of filming that movie, technically this is illegal to post

[Anonymous No.7084389]

>>7084368
cont.
http://vocaroo.com/i/s0IgsKTKhMGn
http://vocaroo.com/i/s0FBbprhaHCa
http://vocaroo.com/i/s1fTo3cEn1MH

[Anonymous No.7084422]

>>7083742
Got cheated on recently. Fuck you for making relive this but congratulations on making me relive it I guess.

[Anonymous No.7084431]

>>7084266
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZC8KFQEPolk

[Anonymous No.7084444]

>>7083568
I'd rather fuck a girl who had something interesting to say after the sex.
>inb4 women have anything interesting to say
my ex used to talk to me about theater and art

[Anonymous No.7084448]

>>7083659
I would like Paul's character to be fleshed out a little more, as well as the nature of his relationship with Gene. The repressed homoerotic elements are clear - but subtle - but I also feel there is a strong rivalry beneath the surface that I would like explored more.

[Anonymous No.7084469]

>>7084368
>>7084389

this is fucking genius and I don't know what to make of it

[Anonymous No.7084524]

>>7084422
I guess if I hit a sensitive area then I was at least reflecting the real experience of watching a loved one be unfaithful, so I'll take that as a positive. I had something similar happen to me and although it is painful to bring that sort of feeling back to the surface, writing about it can be cathartic too.

[Anonymous No.7084617]

>>7084469
Thank you sir.

[Anonymous No.7084622]

>>7083633
this tbh

[Anonymous No.7084769]

>>7084431
Eric Andre's such a mess.

[Anonymous No.7084770]

>>7084524
Yeah that is essentially what I meant with my post. You captured the feeling quite well.

[Anonymous No.7084908]

>>7084266
>>7084262
>>7084257
>>7084249
>>7084230
>>7084222

musical but totally incoherent meaninglessness, which I assume is the point?

>the point: anoint light a joint and relax, Max. No tax or takebacks that's the facts. Axe whacks a lax Snorlax, we free /spee/ or we see the trees, the bee's knees. Homeostasis emancipates us and erases cases; the bases chase us to Playstations, become asians and blasians and blaxxploitations eating craysins

There, it's jibberish too.

[Anonymous No.7084955]

>>7084908
I know haven't I written utter crap?

[Anonymous No.7084971]

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1wPkcqgyTmQfbcGLZiUSGg_XeKKOapKsv5PfuWXTxh8s/edit?usp=sharing It's really not good at all, goes to absolute shit around page 18, maybe it'll give someone a good laugh?

[Anonymous No.7085039]

>>7084908
And yet it depicts a thought as in a not totally gibberish sequence of words. It explicates the implicate order of your subconscious.

[Anonymous No.7085058]

>>7085039
the unconscious is structured like a language

[Anonymous No.7085065]

>>7085039
>Everyones subconscious is Dr. Seuss reincarnate
Don't know about you mate, but I know my subconscious doesn't constantly produce melodic ramblings.

[Anonymous No.7085069]

[Anonymous No.7085092]

>>7085065
>implying you know what your subconscious is producing

[Anonymous No.7085095]

>>7083568
to live properly he slowly sees
is to come to terms with messy, messy childhood
cody sulked
his poor, unopened blossom of now

before mother earth reaches up to take it back
cody flips through an introduction to object relations theory
'this looks hard!'
he says

just to not touch the whiskey
that's the easy part
courageous cody continued
and embraced his self with a bib

[Anonymous No.7085099]

>>7085039
>mfw people try to justify meaningless drivel like this

[Anonymous No.7085103]

>>7084213
>Morrow answered w/a cliche and ye hung up the phone.
nice.

[Anonymous No.7085112]

>>7085095
>and embraced his self with a bib
and embraced his bibbéd self

[Anonymous No.7085183]

>>7085092
Well I know it's not something with a controlled metrum and melodically matching words, otherwise I'd probably be hailed as the second coming of Goethe.

[Anonymous No.7085193]

>>7085183
Metre. Not metrum. That's German.

[Anonymous No.7085322]

>>7085069
It seems like theres a lot happening at once... kindof Dan Brown ish...

[Anonymous No.7085341]

>>7085322
so you're saying it is gonna be very commercially successful

thank you so much anon for this great compliment

[Anonymous No.7085354]

>>7085095

[Anonymous No.7085491]

enjoy the laughs

[Anonymous No.7085707]

>>7085491
This some Neil Stephenson>

[Anonymous No.7085803]

(tl'd from Spanish)

Daniel Steinberg was pacing, looking at the floor, among the tall trees. He'd run away from his responsibilities, again, knowing, again, that he'd end up paying for his pigheadedness, again, but that, in the end, he'd end up doing the same thing even though right now he wanted to change his life, again. Occasionally he had thought of taking his life, when he couldn't find how to escape from it, but since arriving to this forgotten piece of land, where there was quite a lot of greenery, he'd acquired the habit of hiding in the ample veg. Oh, if only he hadn't ever realized the disgusting associations of that color, his favorite color green.

So our co-protagonist (or rather deuteragonist, otherwise half-main or super-secondary character), as the proper Hebrew he was, knew that time is money, and much like a 21st century banker, he was about to use the economy in stupid and potentially catastrophic moves, but unlike those other dudes, Dan "der Mann" Stein would incorporate nobody else on his squandering. So, again, he was completely alone when he heard the noise of an approachan choppa.

"Oy vey," he said with ironic intention, for our good boy made every possible effort to disenfranchise himself from any race, religion, ideology, gender, or anything else that could lead to him getting criticized*, "oy gevalt." The airraft seemed to spin around, looking for where the fuck to land, because obviously magic medieval castles know nothing of no heliports. Finally, it found a clearing in the forest to come to rest.

From the golden insect hopped down a WASPy blonde, tall and blue-eyed, hair reaching her shoulders wide-wavy and collected by an obsidian plastic headband, kinda long in the visage but still cute, with silver void rhomboid earrings, a white bishop sleeved shirt with a sable black tie on the neck, grey camo short safari shorts from the bellybutton to the top of the legs, black pantyhose on the rest of these long duo, and small white cotton shoes on the feet.

Once eye contact was made, Lily Anne Lofting smile at our buddy, uncovering the brace-metal on her dentures, prompting Dan to think: "this chick is monied to the teeth."

* that this gesture was in accordance with the historical Jewish position towards cultural assimilation, wasn’t something Dan “you get the Zerg if you fuck with the” Berg was aware of; we can’t tell for sure if he’d have changed his actions if he were to be, and we won’t go further into this, because that would be speaking of things that haven’t happened, and, as it is known, talking of non-facts and possibilities, be them past, present or future, is idiocy.

cont.

[Anonymous No.7085808]

>>7085803
"Howdy, Ah find myself on Ythland island, correct?" and he assented.
"Oh, nice! How Ah've been expectin this moment!" and he started to make distance with stealth.
"Where're you fixin to go, pal?" she said and so he turned.
"Sorry, but I was in the middle of… something important," this remark surprised her a bit.
"What important somethin? You're a sorcerer, correct? Yeah, Ah'm sure you're. Ah'm here to start mah sorcerin education, y'see. Could you escort me to that there castle? Oh, sorry, you were in the middle of somethin, wouldja mind tellin me what? It's somethin ta do with magic, ain't it?"

And here our lovely Semite found himself in a conundrum, for he, as we know, really had nothing good to do. Now he imagined he only had two options, either to tell her to fuck off, or tell that he actually was doing nothing: in both cases he'd end up in a bad light. Of course he also had the third option: deception, but due to his nervousness he had no skill for lies; and the fourth one: silence, would make him anxious also. So here we see Daniel Steinberg's character: more than anything he'd choose whatever would make him feel less bad. How can one not empathize with his frustration then, when he’d went to that forest to be alone and that little yank princess had shown down, and of top of being rich, was being nice and cheerful to him, and now that they were a little bit closer, he’d realized she had a grade-A rack! Him being a young man who pretended to avert from the physical as much as he could, it was these kinds of things that made him question his faithlessness, since such coincidence could only be orchestrated by some sort of God, Devil, or at least Demiurge.

“You wanna see it?” he asked.
“See what?” she uttered predictably.
“What I was about to do, the sorcery I’m constructing,” Daniel rescued himself, finding something to halfly lie with.
“Hmm, alrighty!”

[Anonymous No.7085816]

>>7085808
And so they entered the flora. Now, one could think this girl we just met was doing something dangerous by following some stranger to the middle of nowhere, but I can assure you that neither you nor she had a thing to fear, because she always packed heat, as the good Usonian she was, and this was no exception. Rather, on this occasion it’s the male side of things that we should worry about, given not even he knew what he was doing, and repeated mentally: “What am I doing? Where did that comment come from? Do I show it to her or not? What if she tells somebody? I gotta write a mental note saying to tell her it’s supposed to be a secret. Should I threaten her? No, that’s too much. Maybe she won’t even realize what I’m doing. Be strong, be strong. But jeez what a nice pair, huh? Oh c’mon, I have better things to think about than that! Here? Yeah, here’s fine.”

They’d reached a forest obscuring (a place where the light does not enter obviously). He sat down and she followed his example. He started taking his baggy sweatshirt off, and seeing she was again imitating him, asked her to stop it. D. Steinberg’s skeleton-like physique was now visible, and much more visible was the strangeness of his left arm.

[Anonymous No.7085825]

[Anonymous No.7086031]

“Come in, come in. See those certificates? All bullshit. There is no Harvard School of Physical Positioning. There is no Oxford College of Applied Commercial Appearances. I think the Beijing Number One Faculty of Personal Space Management may be for real, but I sure as shit didn’t go there. And I tell you this not only without shame, but with pride. Because what I do here, what my clients learn here, is pure boardroom stance-based alchemy, my friend. And that can’t be learned in a classroom. Except this one. It can be learned in this classroom.”

This is Maurice Van Der Doelen, New York’s best-paid commercial stance consultant. His clients include Ernest Piccolo (“A great guy, a real pro, godfather to one of my kids, I think”), Oprah Winfrey (“A natural redhead, can you believe that? Hot damn, what a sight”), Donald Trump (Skin like a leper, but a very keen student”) and some years ago, most of NWA (“Bunch of pussies, except Ren. Me and him hit Vegas like the SEALs hit Bin Laden”) . Maurice charges a thousand bucks an hour and Maurice is always busy.

“I get them all in here. Fat housewives dripping with jewels and reeking of Xanax. Oh, Mr Van Der Doelen, my husband barely looks at me any more, if only I had some leading edge, scientifically proven-to-be-successful new way of standing around in my ridiculous lingerie, with my gut spilling over the top like some kind of Bangkok manatee, then I’m sure everything would be blah blah blah. And you know what I say? I say hey lady, do I look like Jenny Craig? This is a specialist practice, and my shit is strictly boardroom."

Maurice places one foot on a designer chair and rests an elbow on his raised thigh.

“Anyway, open kimono time. I know what you’re thinking; you’re thinking damn, this guy is extremely charismatic, perhaps I should ask him if he would like to have sex with my wife, no strings attached? And all I’ll say is this: I’m grateful for the offer, sincerely I am, but let’s keep it professional for now. Once our hour is up I’m just a regular joe with physical needs and primal desires, same as any man, except mine are maybe more urgent and, okay, I’ll say it, kinda fucked up. I’m not talking dog piss cocktails drunk from a corpse’s asshole, but I'm not not talking that either. Mmm. Say, you're not wearing a wire are you? I'm just kidding! Mind if I just...ah, boy, you really work out, huh? Hot damn. Anyway, we can talk about your wife, daughter etctera afterwards. You got a dog? No no, tell me afterwards. Right now, I’ve got a great new way of leaning on a desk to teach and you, my Saudi friend, are right at the front of the class. Let’s get started, we’ve only got 52 minutes left, and if history is any guide I’m likely to need a substantial crap at the halfway point.”

[Anonymous No.7086060]

[esther works at macys, and got off the horn with her manager a few moments ago; the entire men's dept smells like skunk, or natural gas]

Soon thereafter, Men’s smelled even worse, and the LP guy with his cronies roved the area, along with a guy with a gut hanging out of his Star Wars t-shirt who called himself the ‘Engineer’ (Esther had never seen him), and the management team hovered suited around the Polo section at the intersections of Men’s, Cosmetics, and Ready-to-Wear, fondling their phones and biting their nails, trading concerned platitudes and constructing managerial schema, prepping for the possible evacuation.

Lorraine, who had been leaning idly on the counter the whole time, was about half Esther’s height and said, ‘This has happened before,’ muffled by the bundle of paper towels she held up to her mouth and face to filter out the bad air. ‘They closed the place down for about a week. They fired someone, too, but that was different times.’ Weakly, Lorraine lifted a withered hand towards the entrance and added, ‘You could see the fumes coming out the door.’

Esther was looking at the clock on the register. Only ten minutes had passed, but the smell had gotten worse and nothing else had changed. The radio had been out for the past few weeks, and the guys corporate dispatched to repair it were idling under one of the Price Check Kiosks over near Suit Separates, watching the scene. ‘How long ago was that,’ Esther wondered aloud, then turned to Lorraine, who looked at Esther and said, ‘In the Lazarus days. Before your time,’ flatly. Before her time, when the phone was beige and its labels were accurate. When they could fire a manager to make up profits lost due to gas leak. It wasn’t all that long ago. The world couldn’t have been that different. People still must have worn jeans and t-shirts. Nike’s logo was still printed in bold, italic Futura. Seinfeld was syndicated by then, but Esther hadn’t known very much else about the world. Her ‘world,’ as it were, was small enough to fit in the cafeteria, where she and her friends had sat pigtailed at the end of the lunch table and giggled at the boys vying for space opposite them. Reflecting now on frat parties, beer pong, keg races, football, or on Modern Lit 303, where bespectacled, effete Marx Bros. competed for Prof’s approval of their most dangerous post-structuralist readings of Portrait, Esther figured the world hadn’t really gotten much bigger; it was only that she had gotten on top of it, or had somehow sidestepped it into some backstage, where the pulleys and gears, set in motion once, ages ago, teetered on in automation, giving off by their teetering among other things the vague impression of disrepair, of overuse, though Esther couldn’t tell why or how. Something felt inefficient.

[Anonymous No.7086062]

>>7086060
And yet: Lazarus disappeared in 2005. DeMinos disappeared then, too. On paper, hadn’t the world gotten smaller? The load lighter? Two entries struck from the list meant less ink weighing down the page, n’est pas? Esther figured that if you struck out all the names that had been gobbled up and just didn’t know it yet, still stuck in digestive limbo, or that knew it and were plugged into some kind of life support, an IV drip straight from one of their jealous, gobbling mother’s teats and down her throat to feed the residents of her own gullet, there would only be about six names left. Why couldn’t the little ones just be absorbed already? Make the list neater. It seemed like you needed to make those smaller names fat enough for slaughter first. Get some meat on the bones, so that the stomach’s acid pumps get good return on their activation energy. The catch was that they were fed by the thing that would eat them: cyclical flow, a short circuit of capital; really a kind of cannibalism, once you factor epigenetics. The body becomes more and more like itself, less and less like its parts. But the milk? Esther shrugged and went illicitly to the elevator.

[Anonymous No.7086074]

how to be a writer

upon invitation to the midnight basement meeting
I accepted
and arriving (late) I was honored
even if it was with a cafeteria tray sort of fidelity

“i don’t wanna be your
damned poet warrior!” i screamed
turbulence ensued
thank god for these waiting room magazines

finally: “you’re being rather negative,
anon” they voted to riposte
unanimously
and then i was a writer

[Anonymous No.7086090]

Yesterday I saw a girl at a restaurant who had hair so long and was so young that I thought maybe it had never been cut, that this was her first hair, that the very tips were the first hair that ever emerged from her bald baby head, and I thought that this might be a poetical image in some sense, but that it was fundamentally incomplete, that it still signified nothing despite its potential to signify, and that it reminded me of walking on an early spring day and seeing lawns that were overgrown and had yet to be mowed since the end of winter, their first growth, going wild, full of weeds and jagged grass, looking very different than it ever would again, like a teenaged boy's first beard, which he wears with so much pride, although it is patchy and asymmetrical and uneven, all of these meaning nothing, except maybe for just a hint of some future nostalgia, some late summer day when you think of the early spring, when things were so wild, and could go in so many directions, and that it inevitably goes the way it goes, a truism, that you will only remember the way it actually goes, but now it seems to contain everything, every tangled path, every split of a split, and for a second you feel like you can see it all, and in the next second it's gone.

[Anonymous No.7086106]

>>7086090
Pretty good.

[Anonymous No.7086124]

You're misunderstanding, you wether.

[Anonymous No.7086181]

It was at 3 o'clock at the time when the children came screaming out of the school next door that Harold discovered something terrible.
Coming through the front door he found the house silent. He went into his son's room to ask how was his day.
Beatrice his second wife came inside from the patio where she had been tanning. Her flip flops made a loud sound in the hallway as she came closer.
She found Harold standing in the doorway. She looked at him.
He wasn't looking at her. His face was twisted and confused.
"My son."
When she saw it she raised one hand to her mouth because she did not know what else to do besides.
"Oh, honey."
"My son."
He screamed. She rested an arm on his shoulder and said words.
The note his son had left was written in big sloppy letters. It said:
">tfw no gf"
He picked up the note and pressed it gently between his fingers and made pretend it was his son's wrist when he was a baby. Then he pressed his forehead to hers and cried.
"Harold, honey."
"My son", he said. "My son."

[Anonymous No.7086360]

>>7084222
>Let's make a book of alliterations! People like alliterations!

Seriously though, why'd you think this would be worth it?

[Anonymous No.7086391]

>>7085069
I like it. I don't think there's too much going on or anything like that, but the thoughts projected in the second paragraph could be a little better organized. Overall though not bad.

[Anonymous No.7086625]

>>7084011
Why is it that when I read unpublished poetry it is almost exclusively about some lonely masochist? You don't need recognition, you need a hug.

[Anonymous No.7086687]

Billy ran towards the woman, the one woman he'd loved.

"Wait!"

She stopped, her lips inches from the other man's, and turned to him.

"Billy?"

"Margaret Thatcher, I just wanted to tell you that I am deeply in love with you, and I want you to be with me, not with him!"

"But...Billy, I don't love you that way. I do love him, though. He is so much bigger and more handsomer than you. I'm so sorry!"

"Oh, that's ok! Have fun!"

Billy turned to skip and frolic away, but Margaret called after him.

"Wait! Is that it?"

"Of course. Why?"

"I don't know, I just thought...maybe you'd put up more a struggle, offer more of an emotional response."

"Haha, ah Margaret, how little you know about me! You see, I wanted you, but now that I can't have you, I discard you! I do not give you power over me, Margaret. I have thrown off the shackles of my feelings for you, and now I am a truly free man, a true, voluntary egoist!"

"What...what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that your rejection of me does not make me feel bad because I do not allow it to. You are my property, Margaret. Why would I let my property harm me?"

"You're despicable! I thought you really loved me!"

"Love is a spook, my dear Margaret. Good day to you both!"

Billy went home and had a vigorous cum while watching some pornography, but only because it pleased him to do so at that moment and was not harmful to his self-interest, not because he was enslaved by the pleasure of watching a lesbian go elbow deep in another woman's ass.

Fin.

[Anonymous No.7086690]

>>7086687
Problem-less. I like the end.

[Anonymous No.7087882]

>>7083621
i can't believe you actually wrote this and posted it even if it is a troll this is unfathomably bad at every level

>>7083652
i would like to read a sustained piece like this, more please

>>7083742
there is nothing wrong with being a cuck anon but at least do something new with it yknow this is pathetic daytime soap opera bullshit and it's so overwritten as well words words words to describe such a nonevent
also i hate how you describe how she was feeling like
>she bathed in the bliss
>her love was in her thudding heart
you don't know how she feels don't be so presumptuous

>>7083819
>silent prayer to a deaf god
wouldn't even be a good evanescence song title

>>7084011
what's your favourite linkin park song

[Anonymous No.7087925]

>>7084023
some of this is OK but it's pretty incomprehensible and wordy try cutting back the sentences shorter and snappier and cut out that ye olde bullshit in the dialogue too

>>7084191
starts off good but then
>was disturbed only by
horrible cliche and also the sentence would have been much better just ending there anyway. some lines are jarring and don't work like "shit-eating grin"
also the "cool" ambivalence seems forced

>>7084222
>>7084230
>>7084238
>>7084249
>>7084257
>>7084262
>>7084266
this is obviously the best work in the thread and is wonderful to read thank you anon

>>7085095
sometimes being oblique doesn't make your boring story any more interesting

>>7085808
>she had a grad-A rack!
lol epic bro

>>7086031
horrible, horrible writing
unearned arrogance, nonsense/insulting references to real people in bluntest postmodern style, horrible

>>7086090
it's good, the last section gets a bit obvious when you start talking about nostalgia

[Anonymous No.7087966]

>>7086031
taught in a classroom, surely?

you write like a sci-fi novelist from the mid-1900s, Sheckley etc, which I don't think is a bad thing at all
it's not realy my place to say but I think it gets too lurious and wordy and actually loses my interest near the end

[Anonymous No.7088277]

There is some awful writing in this thread.

[Anonymous No.7088499]

Reactionary Identity: An Inquiry

I follow, of course, my forefathers in making
names for myself from the raw materials of trodden faces

too long swept under the rug by the broom of capital.

Claiming this time as my own is not without difficulties,
the usual defense being, ‘too white,’ ‘too fake’— but look:

I call myself what I will, and play both halves of the jury.

My father was an immigrant to this privilege; so too shall I be.
Greece wasn’t white enough for Germany— So too ‘dark’ shall I be.

If you try to edge me out I will scream just as loud

Following the script you all wrote for me.

Coda: That the debt of capital is too much to bear for my sad little country of rocks and thinkers and olives is no small coincidence, and that reparations are denied on the basis of some ‘statue’ or statute of limitations amounts, in my subjective judgment, marred as it is by the libinitudes of self-interest, to another silencing injunction, and (which is more violent?) to an assertion of buffoonery. I heard the same thing for twelve years of public schooling, where, yes! despite my ostensible genteelism! my own name was used as a tool against me, because as we all know, Americans need help with words longer than three syllables. I’m not worried: there is no dictionary for names. If you’d like to hear it said, if the consonants suggest a foreignity just domestic enough to be palatable, if your epiglottis quivers in anticipation of another orgasmic swallowing of the exotic (but not poisonous, not even alive), you come to me. I own these phonemes, and when you ask to hear them, you ought to be on your knees: I’ll see to it that you will swallow everything you see and hope to feel writhing deep in your sorry fat body; you will swallow and swallow until your throat overflows and you choke on your own wretched bile, the revenge of the digested tissues of my culture and others.

[Anonymous No.7088509]

>>7088499
write a short story instead

[Anonymous No.7088633]

There was a doorway ahead, with light pouring through it in daggers and shocks. I alighted the Griffin and made my towards the source of streaming light; It looks a door one does not come back through, a place counter to this; the Griffin will not fit through the door. Yet, a sturdy anchor gently toed my musing mind as these eyes became as black suns drawn towards jovial festivities of light, like discs hopping through the sky in some chase of gaiety - some pointless fervour, a display for itself and itself only. The rays began to swell around the body, lapping the skin with waves of encompassing tidal emanations. An arrhythmic thudding sound falls, chugs, beats. Notes of lavender and sandalwood dance within the nasal cavities. Light desperately reaches for you, inviting you closer; There is then an ethereal knowing that when you enter the light it may consume you wholly. You remember yourself in school as a small child, snot-nosed and helpless; the first time you fell in love. The plump rosy and moist flesh upon moist rosy and plump flesh. The intrusive, vulnerably overladen texture of another’s tongue pressed against your own. You remember your first fight, the red haze consuming senses as they arrived; weighted limbs thrown across the sky; staking claim on territorial bruising. The victory, on the surface, always short-lived. You remember, after a long night, shuffling, shoulders tensed by excited neurochemistry, through the fields beneath the dawn blood moon, as you knew not where to go. You remember the green horizons of the sun’s conquered months, how it poured onto all who greeted it, and you greeted it with smiles, strong fruits and drink. You remember the darkness within them, how when you split time together it was poured out of them -You remember the years they lost when they poured it out, and how time seemed ineffable when they poured it out. You notice how you valued it to such a degree that many pursuits were a waste of time. Time was of such value that it needn’t be frivolously spent, but caught to pursue. The light beckoning you is certainly all around you now, it is a senseless embrace of the invisible visible.


You enter through the doorway and a dart slaps your pharynx and expands; you imagine somebody blowing up a balloon inside your neck, the pressure reaching up to your jaw and further. Your jaw begins to resist pressure and you feel an increased tension as your jaw is pushed upward against its will. Your jaw is tight now and you it is as if you are pre-empting the moment that the tension peaks, brings the jaw to it’s furthest point of strain, and finally snaps. The tension dissipates and you feel a wetness around the lower face, gravity tugs upon your face, and you want to reach out and hold your jaw but there is no jaw.

[Anonymous No.7089706]

He himself has no son. His childhood was spent in a family of women. As mother, aunts, sisters fell away, they were replaced in due course by mistresses, wives, a daughter. The company of women made of him a lover of women and, to an extent, a womanizer. With his height, his good bones, his olive skin, his flowing hair, he could always count on a degree of magnetism. If he looked at a woman in a certain way, with a certain intent, she would return his look, he could rely on that. That was how he lived; for years, for decades, that was the backbone of his lie.

Then one day it all ended. Without warning his powers fled. Glances that would once have responded to his slid over, past, through him. Overnight he became a ghost. If he wanted a woman he had to learn to pursue her; often, in one way or another, to buy her.

He existed in an anxious flurry of promiscuity. He had affairs with the wives of colleagues; he picked up tourists in bars on the waterfront or at the Club Italia; he slept with whores. His introduction to Soraya took place in a dim little sitting-room off the front office of Discreet Escorts, with Venetian blinds over the windows, pot plants in the corners, stale smoke hanging in the air. he was on their books under 'Exotic'. The photograph showed her with a red passion-flower in her hair and the faintest of lines at the corners of her eyes. The entry said 'Afternoons only'. That was what decided him: the promise of shuttered rooms, cool sheets, stolen hours.

[Anonymous No.7089726]

>>7083568
It's a post-apocalyptic novel set in a world where mutants roam the cities, entire towns are controlled by factions, etc.

The protagonist was a normal guy living in the wasteland. Every day he wakes up, hunts, eats, drinks, and go to sleep again.

One day, he went to the market. That market was basically a bunker that got filled with merchants, hookers, mercenaries, etc. He was walking through the crowd, when he heard someone calling his name.

It was a familiar voice. When he looked back, he saw his friend calling him. A friend he thought was dead. He thought he was killed by mutants, but turns out he escaped, but lost a leg.

He said he was recruiting people to form a crew, to go to the Unknown Land. Nobody knows anything about the Unknown Land, except for myths and speculations. Only a few people managed to enter it, and never came back. He said he had a plan to enter it, and after entering they could take an abandoned railway line to the center of it. Since nobody ever got back, the land probably was filled with treasures and other things. If they survived, they would get rich.

It may sound boring, but it's just the prologue. It'll be filled with epic scenes and chapters. For example, i'm planning a chapter where the protagonist tries to sneak into a faction to get something, but he gets caught. They decide that his punishment will be exile. He'll be sent alone, with no weapons or food into an empty country, like Siberia

[Anonymous No.7089769]

Fearful of how feathery the singing
Adroitly the swinging clings to the inner rings
The red and orange fabric and foreign gestures
Fabulous, a reign upon common vestures.

[Anonymous No.7089816]

>>7089706

Oh mans you must be bored.

[Anonymous No.7089856]

>>7089726
literally this:

John Stalvern waited. The lights above him blinked and sparked out of the air. There were demons in the base. He didn’t see them, but had expected them now for years. His warnings to Cernel Joson were not listenend to and now it was too late. Far too late for now, anyway.
John was a space marine for fourteen years. When he was young he watched the spaceships and he said to dad “I want to be on the ships daddy.”
Dad said “No! You will BE KILL BY DEMONS”
There was a time when he believed him. Then as he got oldered he stopped. But now in the space station base of the UAC he knew there were demons.
“This is Joson” the radio crackered. “You must fight the demons!”
So John gotted his palsma rifle and blew up the wall.
“HE GOING TO KILL US” said the demons
“I will shoot at him” said the cyberdemon and he fired the rocket missiles. John plasmaed at him and tried to blew him up. But then the ceiling fell and they were trapped and not able to kill.
“No! I must kill the demons” he shouted
The radio said “No, John. You are the demons”
And then John was a zombie.

[Anonymous No.7089872]

>>7089856
>“No! You will BE KILL BY DEMONS”
I'm dying

[Anonymous No.7089918]

The caws of those who love their rocks and see nout but wires under ye yonder flesh yield a cowering against the darkened moon, for that light which is pure is soon to be the dawn.

[Anonymous No.7090032]

>>7083742
First line is a good hook, but doesn't sustain interest at all

[Anonymous No.7090082]

Gregor was sitting on the backseat while his dad drove him to school.

''You've been driving me to school since I was 4 years old''
''Yeah so?''
''I'm 18 now''
''Yeah so?''

After that reply, Gregor turned his head to the left window of the car and stared at the dark river under the beautiful night sky.

''It's so early in the morning''
''Yeah so?''
''I hate getting up this early''
''I have to get to work early''
''Why can't I just take the bus like a normal person?''
''To save some money''
''Don't you spend the same amount of money in fuel anyway?''
''Hush''

With that, Gregor relaxed his neck on the support of the backseat and closed his eyes, slowly dozing off into a deep and peaceful slumber; Gregor was happy.

[Anonymous No.7090117]

>>7090032
If it's not a stupid question, could you say what it is about it that didn't keep your interest? As in, did you just find the subject matter boring, or was it the writing style, or some combination of the two?

[Anonymous No.7090127]

Josef Matthews woke up from his bunk abruptly. He specifically woke up to the intercom siren, it seemingly had just began to ring, just after he woke. After the siren went off, a female voice blared throught the barracks and said “We are under lockdown, enemy forces outside, all units, lockdown.” This sincerely confused Matthews as they were in the middle of Virginia in a National Guard base. As he rushed out of bed and got on his gear, he thought, “What enemy forces?” He found out soon enough as he walked downstairs. He reached the bottom floor through the usual staircase and opened the door. The picture he saw as he opened the door will remain in his mind forever. All personell were on the ground with there faces facing the floor and there hands over there head. There were armed men walking around with various assault rifles. What shocked him the most was that these men were not wearing United States Uniforms. His flight or fight instincts kicked in when suddenly he was grabbed and swept to the floor. The concrete was hard in his body. After that it was a daze, he heard the guy who tripped him say “We got another one sir.” The man who supposingly was in charge said “Good, that should be the last of them. Marshall, Cormack, make sure Unit 3 has secured the armory, after that help all the Prisoners up, then direct them to the mess hall.

Matthews looked around, there had to be 40 of them as far as he could see, all on the spread out across the concrete. He was still confused, he looked back at the door he came out of. Armed men were standing there, seemingly waiting for more to come out. “It was a trap..” He thought. Once the two men who seemed to be Marshall and Cormack came back, they ordered all the men to get up. He did as he was told, as these men were armed, and he wasn’t. Both were wearing military BDU’s, he couldn’t however see any flags on them. Both looked like special forces tier soldiers. Or Perhaps ex- Special Forces. It didn’t matter. He did as he was told, and moved with the others toward the mess hall.
The farther he got, the more surrendered men he saw. The men filing them in seemed to all be battle hardened and peak physical condition.

The mess hall was unusual. The tables were moved to the sides to fit in the huge croud of captives. In front of the huge crowd of captives was a man standing on the only table not on the side wall. He looked mildly overweight, was probably in his 60s, and had a huge red mustache with a military cap covering his seemingly bald head. He began to speak.

[Anonymous No.7090149]

>>7090117
The first line made me cringe tbh. 'Stranger' doesn't conjure up anything in the mind's eye, so it's an easy fix. That other guy don't know what he be talkin 'bout.

[Anonymous No.7090167]

>>7083568
Just for some background. This story is set in 1885 and follows the exploits of a journalist who thinks the nation is being inundated by Chinese migrants. So it's written from his sort of warped perspective (pic related). My main concern with this is that I'm trying to make it subtle but not too subtle. "Long-tailed men in tasselled yellow pyjamas" I think is an accurate description of the Chinese stereotype at the time, but if the context of the story isn't clear it'll just confuse the reader. What do you lads think?
~

Out of the bluish haze stumbled a man wearing a cowboy hat. He headed for the Haymarket. People shouted. Trams shrieked. Chickens clucked and scurried about. Men in shirt-sleeves glistened and heaved goods onto horse buggies.

‘Fine work you’re doing lads,’ the man said, doffing his hat.

The men cheered ironically.

He whisked along, through the crowds and clouds of pipe smoke, and ducked into a narrow alley. Squeezing out the other side, he found shoeless urchins playing marbles. They groaned.

‘Pardon me,’ he said, laughing and trampling their game as he hopped to the side.

Muffled shouting could be heard through the red-brick walls. Dust stirred. Above his head seagulls squawked, flapped their wings, rattled the tin rooves. There was movement in the distance. He strained his eyes and saw: Careening towards them, a pack of long-tailed men in tasselled yellow pyjamas.

‘Heavens,’ falling and kicking up dust. ‘Quick, hide!’

‘Go away,’ one of the urchins said, crossing her arms. ‘You wrecked our game,’ said another.

The man scrambled to his feet, trembling. ‘Go, run and hide, quickly!’

The urchins glared at him. The pack was closing in.

‘Bastard children.’ He reached into his pocket and tossed some pennies into a side street. They scampered off. The man, panting, staggered into a shadowed doorway. The pack thundered past, tassels whistling behind. The man wobbled to his feet. ‘Damned Chinese.’ He spat and straightened his hat. He bolted off.

[Anonymous No.7090171]

>>7083568
>bad a grammar

Oh don't worry, I don't think you could spot a grammar error, let alone call someone out for it.

[Anonymous No.7090578]

>>7090171
>falling for cheap bait

[Anonymous No.7090728]

In all things, in the trials and tribulations of life, there is solace in casserole. Think calmly, think midwestern people, think midwestern things. Wooden spice racks, communal suppers and the special sort of calm that accompanies the orange dusk of a hard day’s work. The sun sets, slowly drifting underground, and your skin is cracked and dry, sore knees and blisters, perfumed lotion as you grip an iced tea and calculate the sleep you’ll get for tomorrow’s toils. The zen calm of a summer day on the plains, everything moves in a directional concert, conducted by the sister winds from any random direction. Hot breezes pour into your ears and all you can smell is the earth, keep slouching in a lawn chair and digest that potato salad. Fine art and learned scholars are exchanged for deviled eggs—experimental substances and wild incense is left behind for tomorrows newspaper and cheap potpourri. Calories and finicky nutrition labels melt from the forefront of your mind—a day on your feet can purchase as many breakfast sausages as it takes to fill you up. Coffee is black, and only serves to get your morning started, the evening is reserved for beer, and only serves to lull your day to its end. Still kitchens, cicadas, air conditioning, freshly vacuumed carpet, bare feet, cherry tomatoes.

Dirty boots, hard slung over white gravel work sites, thousands of miles walked under steel toes and X many days without an accident. Laborious repetitive machinations that make the pillars that make the foundations that keep the Burger King leaning into the whooping winds of the plains. Every day is powered by a routine, a careful set of rules that keeps the whole thing on its feet, a thermos full of coffee and a protein rich silver canister that can survive a high-beam drop. Tire sales. Dentists offices with ancient fake wood paneling, little pictures of dogs and sticky notes all over monitors that went out of fashion back when Friends was still on the air. Drywall experts and the long story about the time they did the thing at the place and saw someone famous.

[Anonymous No.7090733]

>>7090728
You’re going to need a belt. A belt holds the jeans to the waist, gives the shirt a foundation, and displays a commemorative buckle. Pagers and cell phones need the belt, something to clip on to, and the belt is where we loop the little holder for a multi-purpose cutting tool or an aged pair of pliers. The belt is a weapon. Swatting flies and wrapping around knuckles, the belt is an all purpose survival device. The belt used to help get your point across. Any belt taken to a spouse can be later used to strangle you in a jail cell, and any belt taken to a child can be returned when the child is old enough to shave, and you are unwell, and those bad grades come slapping back with teary rage. The belt will never wear out, and its tanned leather will absorb the character of everything you do in the plains. The belt is a reliable constant, fixed into the universe with a specific purpose, if for nothing more than a rack for your thumbs when pondering a particularly thoughtful something.
Little league, high-schoolers serving licorice and cheap nacho cheese, storms you can actually see coming. De-tasseling corn, sweaty acne riddled faces getting in the way of an underpaid migrant worker. Sun tea, panting dogs, bare and dirty feet. The post office, the bank, the bar. Angry men staff the tiny monopolies and squint for their keys—too cheap to get that prescription, and too frustrated to read a book about Europe. Pleasant men cut the hair and sell the fishing lures—too alone to ever update the candy dish, and too bipolar to keep the shotguns in high places and unloaded. The schools are a crushing thing, they eat at your will and they eat at your dreams. The teachers are a varied thing, some drink for the next check, and some strive to keep you hungry. There are places away from the show, places all over in these blue and yellow maps, and while the midwest consists of every state between pizza and surfing, there are things to learn, ideas to form, and brainwashing to shake. Thick boots, computers, plane tickets, ethnic people. If you’re different you’ll never belong, but if you belong, you’ll never be different.

[Anonymous No.7090735]

>>7090733
Casserole is a high holy art form. It sits in the base of the world, simple foods designed to keep you from drying up, and in the midwest, they are a special clay. Generations of grandmothers and people from the boats have their fatherland foods warped into dishes that use whatever is available, be it tree bark or candle wax. Creative layers of noodles and corn and cheese and protein and flour and whatever will bind and slice. The thirty something past-participle-addicted-would-be writer sitting in front of a keyboard, craving these lineal and genetic foodstuffs, everything needs to be sliced, everything should be the bastard child of lasagna. The casserole is always layered, always baked, and is only complete when there is that perfect crust—that perfect layer of crunch that will never scrub off—a kitchen cabinet forever full of dark tinted glass dish-ware, memories of elder women with purple veins in their hands. Aprons, mashed potatoes, the beans nobody eats, grandmother’s smile and her gold crowned tooth—the tiny king of her disposition.

The communal feast, different shoes, still sweating after a shower, cologne, the high school gymnasium, thin fake wood paneling. You head out for the evening, something to kill a wayward and irregular Thursday after work, something to break up the end of the five-day and smooth out Friday for the weekend. You head out for the evening, something that’s not like at home, food that you’ve eaten but isn’t familiar, sitting with Thy Neighbor and communing with the group think. Cold salad, garlic rolls, spaghetti from a tin trough, eye contact with your underage yet future bride, the ambience all fluorescence, and a respectful but deafening murmur about the village, peace be with you, and also with you. Ten hours in any direction is still home, and ten hours in any direction is a total and complete cultural shift. Foreign lands, mountains, deserts, unfamiliar ways to pump gas, more plains. Tiny pockets of New Thought, Mr. Oberst’s silly hair, stinky leather school buses and the twelve year girl who told you about her alcohol poisoning.

The plains are empty, the plains are silent. Somewhere in a tractor leftovers are consumed, Van Halen will never die. Grass between your toes, clouds that look like something, bored afternoons, oxycontin, not a thing to do and a generation of questionable tradition. Butter on your nose, pickled pigs feet, the traveling rodeo, cow tipping, swing dancing, telemarketing, state-line casinos, dollar dance weddings, summer squash. I burned my textbooks and imitated a rain dance. It’s all up to you.

[Anonymous No.7090741]

>>7090167
It depends on how long you want to make it, but a great way at doing this would be having the character become more paranoid and more blatantly sinophobic as the story progresses until most lines of dialogue are an Ignatius-Reily-esque paranoid fever dream. Have some fun with it

[Anonymous No.7090785]

http://pastebin.com/0ytsXA77

received high praise last time with the first three paragraphs, expanded a bit but will remove some of the new paragraphs/change the story + will expand on the plot a bit more

I'm struggling with keeping in tune with the first and second paragraph

let me know - cheers

[Anonymous No.7090795]

>>7090735

Bravo tbh!

[Anonymous No.7090817]

>>7090728
>>7090733
>>7090735

Fantastic stream of consciousness, sprinkled with some very interesting relevant statements.

[Anonymous No.7090846]

>>7090741
I was thinking of doing something like that. The character is actually based on a journalist who was active in my city at the time, so I have all his paranoid writings to base dialogue like that on.

At the moment I'm not sure how long it's going to be, but I've just been inspired by reading about this guys life that I had to write something about him. We'll see how it goes.

[Anonymous No.7090931]

(half of a short story I found saved on my computer... i dont really remember writing it but whatever)

The flames had cut through all of the meat and fat of the wood, leaving only a charred skeletal frame which stood far off in the distance, across the cold night and a good quarter mile from myself, acting as a beacon of light for the guide-less flies who swayed and hula-hooped and vomited and prayed to their new temporary God. Some cried, some took another hit, most just hung around fighting back the voice in their heads that began to ask “is that it then?” in a soft disappointed whisper. I turned away from the fire and took a look at the van next to me. Pacho nodded at me, and began to turn the dogs that were cooking on the grill in front of him. I had only known Pacho for a few hours; a few hours in which he said nothing at all, yet there was never a sense that we needed to say anything at all to each other. I guess that’s how a lot of us felt then. We didn’t feel the need to clutter the truth with conversation. Our presence in that desert spoke louder than anywhere else, and for once, it was enough.
“The Astronaut will want to see you soon,” said Pacho.
“Have you two been talking about me?” I asked.
“No,” he responded. He fell silent again, and turned back to his grill. It was the last time we ever spoke.
Knowing that an audience with The Astronaut was around the corner, I made a point not to stray too far from the convoy in which Pacho’s van was a part of. I took a stroll around a nearby mound, lighting a joint and tripping over discarded flyers and bottles of water. Soon, the burning man had run his course, until he was both no longer burning, and no longer a man. I looked into the night, into the darkness of the desert, and tried to find the traces of that magnificent fire. Was it truly gone that fast? An event which took such effort and time to manifest, and yet it was struck down with so little effort and so little time. Would I be the same?
Little Rabbit ran down the valley to find me, shouting to both me, and the spirits she sensed floating around me, shedding their own auras and corrupting my own. “Be gone, Kami of the West,” she shouted as she skated down a sandy hill, her shell and bead necklaces flapping in the wind. “Be gone, for The Astronaut summons.”
“Where is he, Little Rabbit?”
“His vessel is purple. It leads the trail, it cuts the wind. Quickly, you must go,” she whispered as she neared closer to me. I thanked her, and began making my way towards the nearby convoy of vans and buses. I looked towards the front of the convoy, and saw a large refurbished trailer painted purple and green, covered with pictures of pyramids, lily-pads, and the chemical compound dimethlytryptamine. I headed towards the trailer, approached the door, and considered knocking before making the decision that this wasn’t a knocking sort of situation. I opened the door and made my way into the trailer.

[Anonymous No.7091166]

Hahahahahaha it starts with a laugh. That’s right bitches. But seriously now and into the night, there’s something somewhere somehow all the time. That doesn’t mean they’re not, just that there’s not not. Because, honestly, not not is quite complex even for Jimmy Prachet-Sanders, and not not not phew, let’s not even go there, quadruple not though, that’s extrangely easier to court y’know, we will go on into dark dark places. While not not might not not yet be here, here is not not there now, so we can say that the night as we know it, hasn’t actually started, but its door is open for you if you still wanna get out from it. To be honest, it’s hard. Wet it might be, but hard always. The ocean flows from Sancta Monica and we still don’t know why, even if all of NASA’s funding went into that; I mean can you imagine where we would be if it wasn’t? Right, you can’t. Only I can. That, here, there, where, you, I, not – all these aren’t actually a thing, but to use they are. Wardil though, had forgotten all’s been said above and was trying to ignite the rocket. “Fuck,” he said, “akka yisida ntarurukanla.” Wiser words were never written. “Makka laipoto udoduzi”, he continued, “anaaaaa!” His mom came to him on the scooter, as always. “Palala mmasaya?” Why did he have to do this every day, she thought. “I’m quite close now, y’know?” Close doesn’t cut it Jimmy. “But still I can’t seem to get it right, something with the cosine.” Cosines don’t exist anymore Jimmy. “Because, honestly, not going there would be a waste of colon.” Colombus died for this Jimmy.

Fucking Jimmy man, I swear one of these days. One of these bloody days I’m just gonna. I’m gonna. Argh, it doesn’t matter anymore, forget all of this would you.

[Anonymous No.7091185]

>>7083621
this is incredible I love you

[Anonymous No.7091287]

>>7088633
Purple prose to the maxx. A lot of this doesn't work at all because it's overstuffed with words. The narrative is generic fantasy stuff so it doesn't seem to really warrant it either.
however parts of it are really good
>imagine somebody blowing up a balloon inside your neck, the pressure reaching up to your jaw and further
damn that's evocative
remove "pharynx" from the preceding sentence replace with a more natural word like throat

>>7089706
;)

>>7089726
crappypasta

>>7089769
this is nice it's a bit pompous in that artificial "ye olde" tone a lot of writing in these threads has but still quite nice

>>7090082
really good i like this a lot. the dialogue hits a perfect pitch of funniness/sadness and the snippets of description are highly effective

>>7090127
really boring

>>7090167
>want it to be subtle but not too subtle
>"Damned Chinese" he spat"
lol

[Anonymous No.7091363]

>>7090735
>>7090733
>>7090728
Fantastic, obviously some of the best writing in the thread
>Somewhere in a tractor leftovers are consumed, Van Halen will never die. Grass between your toes, clouds that look like something, bored afternoons, oxycontin
really good

>>7090931
good in bits and pieces but falters under its own over-description and cryptic-ness
>flames cut through meat of the wood
good
> covered with pictures of pyramids, lily-pads, and the chemical compound dimethlytryptamine
bad, too obvious

>>7091166
you jump from idea to idea too quickly in this but it suggest potential for something better

[Anonymous No.7091391]

Just a something I got an idea for and haven't expanded on yet.

Jack drained his glass empty and blearily reached for the bottle of scotch, as he picked it up and found it was empty his face fell in anger. "GOD DAMN IT FRANK I SAID KEEP THE DRINK FLOWING!"
A muted groan escaped the slumped figure across the table before Mac pipes up and shouts "SHUT THE FUCK UP JACK! SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Before Max begins to whimper again and starts rambling about tentacles and fucking cultists and dead languages.
Much more softly this time as if in mourning Jack says "Frank just bring me another bottle of scotch here. I know your sticking your neck out here but I will pay triple for your trouble."
Frank walks over and places a bottle of his finest scotch on the table and pats Jack on the back gently. "Its alright pay me at the regular rate. Feds ain't gonna find us here. How 'bout you come on up when yer ready and tell me about it."
Jack grabs the bottle pouring another glass and nods his head non-committally and then downs the glass as he considers the several grand pocket change. "Maybe delta green can help you Mac. Maybe." Shaking his head he pours both Mac and him another glass before downing it and thinking back on if the job was worth it.

[Anonymous No.7091412]

It's been a while since I posted. Only two poems, mostly about seasonal things and nature.

http://pastebin.com/Q9yb8CmN

Critique is much appreciated, I mostly feel like I've been writing about the same thing over and over lately, and I feel like a lot of the same words have a tendency to repeat in a lot of my writing

[Anonymous No.7091441]

Tired of it all. Of critique, of critiquing, of being critiqued. Editors, especially. Fuck 'em. Tired of writing, most of all. I have bad circulation, you know. Varicose veins. Because of all the time I spent at a desk. I thought I was doing something good. Meaningful. Important. Get published, I thought, get published and it'll all be worth it. Get some big awards with big prizes. Well, I'll tell you something: pancakes you buy with book money tastes the same as pancakes you buy with ditch digging money. I've made three mistakes in my life, and the only one I regret is deciding to get paid for writing. Not worth the varicose veins.

[Anonymous No.7091611]

>>7084181
Tempo and vocab is very readable, you're also believably sincere, coming across as slightly cringey but not so much that its unbearable. I sprinkle in some a little irony, maybe some sarcasm or a some brief, light hearted self deprication. The narrator character seems is fairly likeable, if (like I mentioned) slightly cringe worthy (reminds me of that one kids at school you didn't wanna be friends with but you liked talking to because it was easy). My major criticism is what he/she (i presumed male) is talking about, it really didn't grab my interest/

[Anonymous No.7091625]

>>7083568
I challenge myself to write a short story intro in 20 mins or less every day. Thoughts? I'm not sure about this one


His face stood still, neither in expression of neither fear or disappointment but rather a mixture, as if releasing a truth he once knew but chose to forget seeping back into him. He looked at the kite, tangled in the trees, it was identical to the one from when he was a young child. Bright and yellow but black on the inside. He thought of how his kite now sat in his wardrobe, pushed back into the shadows and covered by a file cabinet. A child sat there crying, also looking at the tree, it was that little boy’s kite. So the man threw down his briefcase, threw down his tie and threw down his suit jacket to climb that tree. With every reach for a branch his heart leapt, he did not fear the fall but rather just enjoyed the climb, to sit with the birds, to look out over his office and think that again in 20 minutes he would have to put his suit back on and re enter.

[Anonymous No.7091640]

Dreamt I was reading Vonnegut, but I was living the story. there was a water balloon nuke that I had to take care of. I was reading the story, and there were transparent icons on the pages that would sometimes light up. It was like the icons in a car dashboard, but they were in the page. I couldn't control myself. I tried to stop myself, but I couldn't. I threw the nuke behind the stove. I couldn't control myself. water starting spraying out, and I dove over the stove to try and pick up the nuke before it went off. Then I saw several flashes of light(1), and things cut off into a monologue describing what was going to happen after the explosion. I was so sad that it had exploded—I felt that it was the end of my life—but the voice told me that I wasn't going to die. I was just going to be different for the rest of my life. For the rest of my life, something was different. The nuke had deformed me. My friends resented the fact that I had set it off. I couldn't blame them.

(1) Cherenkov radiation.

[Anonymous No.7091644]

>>7091625
>neither in expression of neither
???

[Anonymous No.7091656]

>>7090931
don't be cormac maccarthy, h'es already him

[Anonymous No.7091665]

>>7090167
>glistened
yo their not pussies or organic honey, why would you say that. just say shone

I love this concept though. When in doubt, err on the side of more subtle.

also

>muffled shouting could be heard
PASSIVE VOICE BITCH

this is actually kinda funny though. carry on... make him go fight in the seige of peking... such a cool chapter of american history

I miss the dreams of empire, when everyone wasn't frothy with slave morality :(

[Anonymous No.7091667]

>>7088633
>pouring
>daggers
>shocks

hmm

like blacks and the chiense, some things don't mix

j/k, there's a part of a city in china were immigrant from some african country settled in a diaspora and it's called "chocolate city" lmao

[Anonymous No.7091670]

>>7091667

suace


http://www.aljazeera.com/indepth/inpictures/2014/09/pictures-chocolate-city-2014911115258446208.html

[Anonymous No.7091671]

>>7091665
>yo their not pussies

This was actually my intention. The main character is a socialist so I thought it would be funny if he fetishised the working man.

[Anonymous No.7091673]

>>7091441
Wow. You could be a drummer. Very 'clean'

[Anonymous No.7091675]

>>7083621
>I am the metaphysics of pain

[Anonymous No.7091677]

>>7089726
I know it's pasta but this summary is pretty entertaining. Just the joy and lack of self-censoring is nice

it honestly sounds like a rip roaring adventure you cunts

[Anonymous No.7091680]

>>7090785
the old suburbs glows?

[Anonymous No.7091685]

>>7091671
oh I guess it's too short for me to pick up on that.

under orthodox freudianism and later, you would never fetishize a pussy/attribute pussy attributes to a fetish-object. the point of the fetish is to avoid having to deal with the existence of pussies, difference between men and women

[Anonymous No.7091687]

>>7086090
pretty good

[Anonymous No.7091689]

>>7086060
>>7086062
I'm really sad and lazy so I can only critique this obliquely, but it's great. One of the thread standouts.

Clearly the work of an active mind within an individual

[Anonymous No.7091695]

>>7083621
>tfw no gf

[Anonymous No.7091699]

>>7083621
>actually believing that "The One" exists

>>>/hallmark/

[Anonymous No.7091701]

>>7091699
>thinking she doesn't
I pity you

[Anonymous No.7091703]

>>7091701
I think that there are a lot of "one"s.

But one is enough

[Anonymous No.7091705]

>>7091656
I never actually read Maccarthy... was thinking of picking up Blood Meridian though.

I'll take your comment as a compliment for now.

[Anonymous No.7091758]

>>7091680
What? No?

[Anonymous No.7091802]

She looked around and wondered when he'd be coming home.

"I'll warm some stew," she thought. "Even when he isn't hungry he kisses me.”

Much too frail to move, she sat on a frilled couch and stared aimlessly through the haze of dust falling in jacob's ladders. In the kitchen, a pot rattled away the last of its steam as her forgotten meal settled to the sides.

Around her, creaking furniture held pictures from older times. She saw long, sunny vacations to the lake, her favorite bench where the children would shout and play, and people smiling stiffly for family portraits. Looking, they swirled and dizzied her like leaves caught in an October wind. The television buzzed warmly, her portraits grew silently grey, and as the sun pillared down from those stiff, old curtains, she swallowed an impalpable pang in her chest and wondered when he'd be coming home.

[Anonymous No.7091817]

>>7091758
what do the first few words mean? either it's:

the old suburbs glows (wrong)

or 'glows a million windows' (wrong again, it would be 'glow a million windows')

it's wrong

[Anonymous No.7092208]

>>7091802
A little too much for me, but that doesn't necessarily mean it's bad. Though
>the haze of dust falling in jacob's ladders.
Is a really nice image, if not a little awkward to process at first.

Also I propose every critique thread from here on out have hot half-naked teens in the OP pic.

>>7091703
This.

[Anonymous No.7092344]

>>7091817
you're a fool, don't bother critiquing.

[Anonymous No.7092377]

>>7089726
this doesn't give me much, i'm sorry.
>>7089769
i liked it
>>7090082
Flows very nice, but seems kind of juvenile, which is fine i guess.
>>7090167
This is fine, the "quick, hide!" parts seemed weirdly repetitive to me, though.
>>7091802
a bit cliché, but i really like the images you're creating

[Anonymous No.7092776]

>>7091412
b-bump

[Anonymous No.7092835]

>>7083621
>a her/the her/the she x 10
>Mind
>Unconscious
>I am the force of Chaos
>Chaos
>shivering the swing that is the meter of the wind transporting the scent of pain
>the scent of pain
>the swing that is the meter
>My life is a metaphor
>I need the symbol of Hope
>Hope
>I praise the God of Destruction
>the vanity of my plead echoes throughout the mountains
goddamn this is something else.

[Anonymous No.7093179]

>>7092776
Who are your favorite poets

I especially liked:

"It seems only a week ‘fore a field of corn
reach my age,
but towering they are!
in rows, soldiers of the sun:
and the breeze guides
them east—swaying back, together, west—
and their skyscraping siblings, taller still
but to a fault, share palette with the sun,
heads held high until their necks
give way to weight—
bowing to another in unison."

&

"A young woman, though not often there,
lives in a small cottonwood home
(...)
and she smiles to the cobble and field,
and I, smiling back,
know not what to think."

It has a pleasant warm "voice" to it, like the sun

And I think you do well in writing about this environment. It reads very pleasant but I don't know what much to say of it. Sort of naive in terms of style, I mean, it has the faggy feel or first-impression of, well, "free verse", which will put off many readers, which are usual euclidean-oriented readers and prefer poems and stanzas that look like rectangles, but it does have value and a lot of good moments and genuineness too.

The sense of a warm "voice" speaking is lost in your second poem as you throw in more abstractions, but one can see in turn your choice of words, each a flower

"Damned do most feel
of tides she garnishes, swelling,
brandishing ivory waxed bone
amongst frigid opal shoulders;"

If the 1st one is shiny and clear, or the sun, the 2nd would be the moon

[Anonymous No.7093229]

>>7093179
Right now, I would say Larkin, O'Hara, and some Whitman and Neruda

Thank you for the feedback, I really appreciate it. I do agree, in regards to the naivety, and not really knowing what to think of it either. I've only been trying to write poetry for around 6-8 months now, and I still don't quite understand what I'm shooting for. I enjoy creating the scenes in these poems based off of something I see, or feel, but I feel like it's lacking in any sort of message or experience; it's just more just a scene and that's it.

In regards to free verse, I feel cliché writing anything other than free verse. I feel like a dumb cunt trying to count syllables and find words that rhyme and still fit what I'm trying to convey. Is this type of struggle a standard feeling for writing anything other than free verse?

>If the 1st one is shiny and clear, or the sun, the 2nd would be the moon
That's, more or less, what I was shooting for. Just the difference in seasons/time. Thank you, again, for the feedback.

[Anonymous No.7094157]

>>7091673
wat

[Anonymous No.7094294]

>>7083568
Cars roll in to the community square, close to the High School, driving past illuminated memorials and flowers and letters stretched along the sidewalk. Masses of people, all of them neighbors this night, pour toward a display. Children and the elderly, teenagers and adults, a couple still in bandages, they all clamber to the pictures of the 19 who died that day. They are nice pictures, a mixture of candid photos and yearbook selections, all perfect, frozen smiles.

A cameraman, the tools of his trade strapped around his body, slinks around the crowd outside of the street lamps’ glow, conducting his business in quiet.

The crowd continues to grow and expand. The only talking is done in murmurs and whispers, disbelief and heartbreak and speculation swirling together. A popular whisper is that no one had seen the Kahoes since the news broke and the cameras stormed their house. They had vanished like ghosts.

“Martha, she lives across their street, Martha says they packed their car and drove off the moment the news broke.”

“They didn’t even stay for their son?”

“I heard they were lodging a motel outside town. Separate rooms.”

The rumors feel normal, at least, like things were before all this madness were and couldn’t conceivably ever be again.

[Anonymous No.7094804]

>>7091802
There's some nice imagery and language here, but I think maybe we could use a bit more context. On its own, it seems a bit cliche, but it might work a little better knowing the full story surrounding it.

[Anonymous No.7095069]

Oh, Irony

I praise my world's new idle
a grand new-old ideal
an old friend turned sour,
now jesting new power.
Rusted quests gleaming, set for battle
using our old “friend” as saddle
for an ancient quest now turned comedy.
Oh, revolution of this tool turned for its own present deed,
oh deed of fun deaths, oh deed of dull liveliness, oh deed of deeds.

After the bombs and sickle fell
we now have our “comrade” in sale.
Oh how grand it is to sit on the Gaza boarder,
oh what fun it is for ISIS and Kurds to quarter.

Comrade I know your ways
How you fool the rich, and poor alike for days;
poor can't wait “gobble more”
rich lust for controlling outpours.

You have them in a vice loose unseen.
You would kill your hostess with no remorse,
knowing that death's better than this corpse.

Now I will traitor my warning on deck
and end this ode turned betrayal with a, kek.

[Anonymous No.7095634]

>>7087882
fam

[Anonymous No.7095638]

Aidan Wilson woke up one morning with a dreadful headache. The sun had yet to appear over the dusty desert, but Aidan did not feel the need to fall back into his restful slumber. He peered over his shoulder finding only his mother. “She must have come up stairs to my room to wake me up,” thought Aidan Wilson, but Aidan soon noticed that she had a worried look on her face that was quite unusual. He gave his mother a smile of compassion, however, his mother was not looking at his face, but the convoy of military-grade trucks outside of the window. “The sound of those trucks must’ve woken me up,” thought Aidan to himself. Suddenly a horrible thought occurred to Aidan, what if the figure before him was actually a spy sent by the Red Brigade! Aidan’s paranoia was too much for him to handle, so he slipped his hand under his pillow and grasped his shank; Aidan leaped from his bed and impaled his supposed mother’s eye. Her screams bellowed through the expansive apartment complex; the neighbor’s lights shining into Aiden’s bedroom created an almost artificial scene before him. Aidan’s mother fell back onto the wooden floor, her screams drowning out all other noises. Aidan removed the makeshift knife from her eye socket, with the eye coming with it. Aidan leaped backwards, unsure of his actions, however, he realized it was what needed to be done. Aidan grasped his bedsheets, and crafted a sturdy noose. Following this, he kicked the fragile window, which was destroyed with ease. Aidan tied the noose around the neck of the intruding woman, then connected one end of the bed sheets to the leg of the bed. Aidan grabbed his mother, and threw her out the window. She desperately tried to stop what was happening, but it was far too late. Aiden watched as the slack of the rope rapidly depleted as the intruder plummeted to the concrete below. Aiden ran to the window and watched as the rope fully extended, and his mother’s lifeless body bounced up and down like a human yoyo.

[Anonymous No.7095682]

>>7083568
Izzis a poetry thread too?

>He tries to remember how much hot water
>the landlord said he would send
>he stands in the shower and gathers his power
>and waits for the good times to end

from the recent full moon in Pisces:
>far outshining nearby stars
>and striking poets dreamless
>slightly less impressive
>on account of her extremeness

[Anonymous No.7095693]

>>7084448
Paul's character is clearly fleshed by his dialogue, as well as the company he keeps and the ways he spends his time.

[Anonymous No.7095707]

I appreciate all you people who slog through all this and actually post feedback.

[Anonymous No.7095883]

It's quite unfinished, but I think I have improved it since I last posted it thanks to helpful people responding to it.

http://pastebin.com/WQUGe3rT

[Anonymous No.7095987]

>>7086031
you've got the pitch down
>>7086062
interesting narrative
>>7086090
peculiar since I've had one of these moments myself.
>>7088499
i feel like people generate these kinds of thoughts to pass the time. its nice to hold on to something that makes you feel big and tough. Very napoleonic/10.

>>7088633
Was 'the Griffen' a spiked drink?

>>7089706
I like the character as you've rendered him but I hope to god it doesn't go the way of the seedy truck stop romance.

>>7089726
The outline of the story is actually the story. I like it.

>>7089856
Seriously reconsider your life.
(hilarious)

>>7090082
I could barely stand the complexity.

>>7090127
oooook Tom Clancy

>>7090167
Too almost comforting with its paternal overtones. Peculiar since you want the character to come off outrageous? Kind of confederacy of dunces like...?

>>7090735
i don't like it but you wrote it well.

>>7090931
intriguing

>>7091166
>thats right bitches
fucking jimmy.

>>7091391
sounds like what id want to read in a paper back novel.

>>7091625
boooooooring not even sure of the point

>>7091640
could benefit from more detail

>>7091802
its alright

>>7094294
what is this noodle soup for the teenage soul shit?

>>7095069
>with a kek

>>7095638
perturbing
>le Rabbit ran down the valley to find me, shouting to both me, and the spirits she sensed floating around me, shedding their own auras and corrupting my own. “Be gone, Kami of the West,” she shouted as she skated down a sandy hill, her shell and bead necklaces flapping in the wind. “Be gone, for The Astronaut summons.”

>al feast, different shoes, still sweating after a shower, cologne, t

[Anonymous No.7096002]

I had known it for years, but Christmas morning in 1993 cemented my presumptions: my parents were terrible liars. I believe I had spent the first few hours of the night in my bed, feigning sleep, but at least six or seven of them were spent on the toilet staring at my red digital watch, desperately trying to avoid suicide. By my late teens I had already stopped with the whole anticipation thing on Christmas eve, sleeping like a baby until my brother woke me up to come witness the tree. However, in my pre-teens and those first one or two years of actual and for-reals puberty, I really couldn’t catch a wink or a Z or anything that would help the time pass any faster. In December of 1990 I had been caught trying to sneak down the stairs for a peek at what turned out to be a fully functional Castle Grayskull. It could’ve been our loud stairs, the fact that I was 10 years old and as wise as a pair of pee-stained Underoos, or perhaps my mother was simply clairvoyant—either way, the woman was standing at the bottom of the steps with her hands on her hips, casting a dark and terrible figure into the night. With a voice like molten hate and murdered kings, she commanded for me to return to my bed, before she, “let the crows eat my eyes.” So, in 1993, unable to feign sleep, venture downstairs, or keep it together in the dark of my bedroom, I dropped trou and sat in the bathroom for seven hours, staring at my watch and sweating like I’d placed a bomb somewhere in my house.

So, the thing about my folks and their inability to pull a ruse on a pair of pubescent nutbars—my brother and I—yeah, that didn’t roll like they’d planned. I’ve written before about how we were as poor as an empty bucket, so while our folks made a great show with dozens of wrapped boxes under the tree, we had always experienced my mother’s bullshit sobbing preamble of, “Christmas is going to be slim this year.” Yet, each year, we awoke to find an unhinged Roman orgy of presents under the tree, each one a new mind blowing shimmer from Marcellus Wallace’s briefcase. They liked to have us unwrap the things in a particular order, too, and we were happy to oblige, slowly working to whatever grand finale they had planned—a new bicycle, a Red Ryder BB Gun, (yes, really), and for me, the best gifts possible: new video games.

[Anonymous No.7096010]

>>7096002
By Christmas of 1993, the Super Nintendo Entertainment System had been out and about for a couple of years, and in America, the thing cost roughly a bazillion dollars, which meant the sons of the blue collars had to wait until the thing came down from, “Haha, you’re poor,” prices to, “a sharp stick in the ribcage,” prices. We were roaring through our gifts, wading in a pool of brightly colored wrapping and tripping out on endorphins, when we were directed to unwrap two oddly shaped little packages. The gifts were games, Super Nintendo games, and the reason this was an attempted ruse was because we did not own a Super Nintendo Entertainment System.

My game was The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past, arguably the greatest Zelda game ever created, right up there next to Ocarina of Time. My brother’s game was Street Fighter II, a legend in its own right, and while my brother wasn’t terribly obsessed with video games, Street Fighter became a well beloved staple in our home. As soon as we witnessed the cartridges, my brother and I shot each other a knowing look. “Oh no,” muttered my mother, “are those not the right games?” The very second my brother and I unwrapped these video game cartridges, we knew there was a fully functional Super Nintendo set up somewhere in the house, plugged in and ready for molestation. Thankful for the bounty and in no mood to disappoint my mother, we nodded our heads. “It’s okay Mom,” we sheepishly replied, “but they’re Super Nintendo games. We have a regular Nintendo.” My mother frowned. “Well then,” she said, “just put them in the other room and I’ll exchange them later.” We moseyed into the other room, and there it was, in full halo and brimming with Japanese plastic, the Super Nintendo Entertainment System. This was the room I would live in for the next two months.

[Anonymous No.7096019]

>>7096010
While it was responsible for a vibrant and rare slice of joy in my childhood, the Super Nintendo and I did not immediately get along. The controller was riddled with new buttons, several of them, and it made me wonder what was inherently wrong with the square and indestructible two-button controller of the regular old Nintendo. This was a minor grievance to sate, however, as I wasn’t at the time aware just how magical of an experience A Link to the Past was to become. Still in my personal pantheon for soul-moving video game experiences, the game was (and still is) a masterpiece in gameplay and storytelling. While I had been previously semi-okay with a quick, “Congratulations,” or simply a slow roll of credits while Mega Man awkwardly ran through a green digital landscape for five minutes, A Link to the Past had depth, deep and detailed dungeons to explore, an actual soundtrack, and it played right into my own personal penchant with a time travel mechanic, a concept I was already head over heels in love with thanks to what I consider the “holy trilogy” in film making, the Back to the Future saga. The game’s sound effects have become canon for every Zelda game since, and now as adults, we keep the experience alive with t-shirts and ringtones. This game has since powered me creatively, and I can safely say it is the title by which, in some small way, every game I’ve played since has been measured.

It took all of two days before my folks enacted the dreaded time limits on my alone time with the Super Nintendo. My brother was given the same penalty, but it was only to balance things out, as I was the son who’d look to his mother with glazed and sunken eyes, strung out on holiday candy and promising her that, “I’m gonna stop momma, I’m gonna stop this all one day.” She’d snap the rubber hose from my arm, unplug the controller, and drag me screaming into a cold shower, keeping me there at knife-point while I sweat out the jones. Time limits on my video game play is one of those things my parents used to say I’d thank them for when I was older, and now that I’m older and my childhood memories didn’t just blank out one day in my twenties like they probably hoped they would, I can still affirm that this is bullshit. It’s not like they were paying me for a clock job I wasn’t punching properly. I didn’t have to feed the horses or remember to keep the equipment in the fucking steel mill all oiled up. I was thirteen years old and I was on winter break, my responsibilities included occasionally making my bed and punishing masturbation.

[Anonymous No.7096026]

>>7096019
Stealing away the computer or the video games was a tactic for behavior, and I get this, but if the assumption was that I was going to misbehave after saving up all summer to pay $60 for The Secret of Mana, you were kidding yourself. When it came to me and my time with the magical video game machine, I’d do whatever it took—stretch on the black gloves and strangle a political figure or give Super Mario tips in a Home Depot parking lot for ten cents per extra life location—I was going to have my time. Now, I’m a big person, an adult, someone with a home, a car, and sexual responsibilities. I always used to think to myself that when I was older, I’d be able to eat candy for dinner. As we all know, the rub is that when you actually are older, and not insane, you don’t want candy for dinner. I also used to think that when I was older, I’d be able to play video games whenever I wanted and for as long as I wanted. You know what? I damned well do.

[Anonymous No.7096032]

>>7086031
>weird anarchy metaphors i think
>something about teaching
>drift off into words without realizing that i'm no longer paying attention
>suddenly regain an eerily "lucid" state
>each word is passing mechanically under my eye one at a time
>each word is pronounced internally and explicitly understood in singular definition
>emerging slowly from a fog, i found i had written this post and solved the captcha

[Anonymous No.7096801]

>>7096002
>>7096010
>>7096019
>>7096026
What we are looking at here is a piece of humanity with the notes bending upward in beautiful glide written by a man who finally, after 18+ years of torment, became a Joycean King Midas of words and thought, a President of Print with a personal adeptness for picking those invisible locks of the soul, at least for me.

Thread after thread, post after post, is trash, an unlimited laxative laden dump, so how do I account for something good?

This is beyond my wildest dreams.

[Anonymous No.7097042]

>>7096801
That's the biggest compliment I've ever received. I don't know how else to respond. Anything you liked in particular?

[Anonymous No.7097139]

>>7097042
I'm not that guy, but I think your story is entertaining. The problem I see is that it reads like a good nostalgia piece rather than a regular story. I think your greatest success was that you appealed to the nostalgia of 4chan's biggest demographic.

[Anonymous No.7097387]

Deli Fresh, a deli and grill fast food joint smack dab in the liver of the college campus, stands like the Statue of Liberty on Ellis Island. It whispers, "Give me your drunk, your inebriated, your pot-smoking stoners," and the waves of immigrants answer its call. I stand in the cold air in front of the glass door of this establishment donning the fry cook uniform: a dark blue shirt speckled with stains of marinara sauce and a greasy ballcap. Outside, I am a student, but inside, I am a warrior of wheat bread, a slinger of sandwiches, and a quesadilla conquistador.

I inhale and hold my breath as I grip the metal bar handle, pushing the glass door open. I hear Katy Perry’s siren songs foam through the speakers as I enter. Around me, students are pushing against each other like salmon swimming upstream. Shift Supervisor Adam, a beer gut and goatee hiding a man with a Ph.D. in Sarcasm and Humiliation, stands at the register. He moves his hand, a dolphin flipper in the ocean, to signal he is happy to see reinforcements have arrived. To the left of him, blue shirted, greasy capped warriors move subs down a messy white countertop, their only protection a clear glass shield coated with fingerprints and frosted with cheap beer breath.

[Anonymous No.7098098]

>>7097387
well written

[Anonymous No.7098145]

>>7083568
Bathing in salt
Diving in faith
An ocean of rocks
Cold-blooded fake

It is on the table
Ready to take
Forever lost
No longer the same

[Anonymous No.7098151]

>>7098145
this some kind of riddle poem anon

[Anonymous No.7098176]

>>7098151
Yes. Yes it is.

[Anonymous No.7098301]

>>7098176
whats the answer?

[Anonymous No.7098326]

>>7098145
>>7098151
>>7098176
>>7098301

Is it a reference to people bathing in the Red Sea and going on a journey to discover who they are, what they're worth and what god is; but when they return they are even more empty inside and they sit there staring at what they once were only to realize they are a shell of their former self?

[Anonymous No.7098334]

>>7098326
Thought you were from Salt Lake City. But the Red Sea, the Salt Lake whichever.

[Anonymous No.7098410]

>>7098326
Not what i had in mind when i wrote it, but sure, why not. Honestly, i have not figured out the answer yet.

[Anonymous No.7100432]

Opening of a thing I've started:

He'd been christened Matthew, but Christ was a symbol of oppression to traditional European culture, so he'd renamed himself Auðbjǫrn. Auðbjǫrn didn't look into the meaning of the name (which loosely translated into something like FATE BEAR) meaning to the Nords his name was the equivalent of those shorts your uncle would bring back from Bali, which chucked together a few English words like HAMBURGER THANK to pass off as fluent in Tourist.

It was difficult to get anyone to actually call him that. His mum, having named him and all, struggled to break free from the routine she'd built up over his seventeen years of mostly National-Socialist free life. He didn't have the same issue in school, but they just called him "cunt" instead. Auðbjǫrn's goal for Year 12 was to unify the völkisch people and foster a return to the pure Aryan line.

Only issue was, he lived in Adelaide.

[Anonymous No.7100434]

>>7100432
*shirts, rather.

[Anonymous No.7100460]

>>7083621
ten out of ten

[Anonymous No.7100504]

When I was child we had turnip. Turnip was friend, turnip was life. Then bad day come, with bad man, and turnip no more. I said turdon't. He said he'll turdo what he wants. Turnip no more.

That's when gremlins came.

[Anonymous No.7100513]

>>7100504
Faulkner pls go

[1/3 No.7100516]

CASTING TERMITES
I heard her say it at least once, when she had reached across the table to touch his shoulder and give him one of those push-him-away-but-not-really shoves that a woman will give a man when he flatters her, or brings up an old memory that she pretends to be embarrassed by. He had the sort of name you had to get your lips around, something with a big B--it started crisp, and it finished wet, like a blood-red rhubarb: Belushi? Borscha?
And now he was into his story. I heard him say the word AFRICA, and he gave the emphasis of trumped-up importance that every Study-Abroad-Sophomore gives their target country: Spain (as if said while chewing a mouth full of rain and olives), France (as if God himself would have his cigarettes without fireproof rolling papers, [as it should be]), etc.
"We were melting ingots of tin into a make-shift forge that we'd set up on the deck of an old, one-ton flatbed," he said.
She held her head in her hands, her elbows resting on the table. I thought this assemblage of posture was something Akira Kurosawa himself might look at and say, That's a bit much; let's tone it down--yes, we’ll have you sink to the floor and allow your body to melt when to denote that you are sad, and we'll light a fire in the background to really drive this emotion home, but the head-held-in-your-hands level of attentiveness for a listener has been done so much already, let's think of something else. But there she was, her face expressionless an d steady, a good listener, one might say.
"Our guide--he had us call him Chappie--he tended the forge and was the one sweating over the cauldron. And Chappie had the worst of it."
He leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. It was a hot, dark little room, busy enough that someone would stand out by standing still. Everything moved. The table buskers seemed to lunge from the kitchen to the opposite wall in three steps, the white towels tucked at their waist bands flashing like orchids in wind in moonlight. The cars' headlights through the window behind the couple swept the room in beams of dull, yellow light.
"He was damned-near naked. I guess he had to be. He was sitting on a milk carton on the back of the flat-bed, one leg stretched-out on the wheel well, the other working the billows, the forge right at his crotch. I don't know how he could stand it."

[1/3 No.7100517]

>>7100516

The man stretched one of his legs out and placed his foot on the woman's chair, just next to her legs. He lifted the other leg up and pedalled at the air. His arms made a circle around and above the empty plates and half-finished carafes of red wine.
"He was using salad tongs to lift a trash can lid from the top of the pot. When he thought he was ready, he slipped another ingot in to let it melt."
A gaucho galloped up to their table and flourished a cinnamon-sugar-glazed pineapple on a spit. It shone like an wet, orange blister. He wore cotton bombachas, a red and beige poncho, complete with a faux leather whip. This particular gaucho looked like a short Sicilian to me, but what do I know? The man kept half-heartedly pedalling his leg in the air, and his shoe was brushing up against the gaucho's bombachas, ruffling its pleats.
"Pineapple," said the gaucho.
"And Getty, you know Getty," the man said. "She was hovering around poor Chappie trying to ask him about smoke." The man's voice broke into laughter--a wine-soaked chuckle.
The Gaucho stood still.
"She was asking him about smoke, how we were going to make smoke, and how we were going to pump it into the nest!"
At this, the woman laughed, too. It was terrible, the way they laughed. They threw back their heads and closed their eyes and put their hands to their chests and let loose. They filled the room with it. The gauchos with legs of lamb and the gauchos with bacon-wrapped blood sausage looked to their table. The old couple in the corner who hadn't wanted to add to all this noise looked, the old man turning all the way around in his chair to see them, their entire bodies taken by it, mouths agape, teeth flared. A sous chef clutched the door frame at the far end of the room and poked his head from around the corner, his whites miraculously lighted by the sheer, bright florescence of the kitchen.

[1/3 No.7100519]

>>7100517

"They aren't bees!" he screamed, and as if all the laws of the world had been suddenly reversed, the magnetism and the rivers and the skies all broken open, their laughter erupted again, louder, somehow, and the glass of the windows rattled in their sills, and the hardwood floors hummed alongside their new, impossible octave.
And like the death of a fire siren, and the ensuing wailing of the dogs of the neighborhood, their laughter wound slowly down. The skewered hunks of meat began again their orbiting around the room, from table to table the gauchos visited, sliced, plated, and moved onto the next.
"Pineapple," said the gaucho.
"No," said the man, as he flipped the plastic card at the edge of their table from green to red.

[1/3 No.7100522]

>>7100519

fin--

[Anonymous No.7100528]

A gritty face, a rough expression, the man ahead is chunk of carved stone. His face is cut like granite, sturdy, with a strong angle from his cheekbones to his chin like some classic hero. Armorless, the simple cloth covering his body gives the impression of his bulk, larger without armor than many even with a heavy set. A daily diligence is the only explanation for his form...

[Anonymous No.7100533]

>>7100528
sounds like a roman myth

[Anonymous No.7100557]

Brace your cunt.

[Anonymous No.7100574]

She was and she wasn’t. Inside scrounging alleyways and molding blackness to verdant teeth of an innocent lip bite to thine, and blushing pastures yellowed for cattle all felled in sickness and raillery to the farmer’s son in sorrow. Oh! The young thing was every daughter that the eclipsing luminary did half-shine, and Ms. Garcia-Alvarez could remember all dates from her birth to the now, null present in speech and merry tightened awakenings. Yes! With lagaña, she awoke but arisen she had already become, and thus a mercurial statement to take was granted to all who saw. Little miss Naron-Peredo, and divinely welcomed in her button face did an angel wrought in wrath, for no other petite girl had such a gift granted to thee. Yes wrath, for the Angel of Life sings loudly in canto but strict in circumstance, with little bells reproaching la schizophrene far out in Riverside to yonder, her being twas placed. The iridescent eyes that reflected such nascent forthcomings to the concrete gargoyle zoopolis were serene, being qua being in solemnity. O Beatriz hear thy comunidad cry! Your people need thou at once in a lighthouse shining bleakness lost. The drooping petal flowers have been watered.

[Anonymous No.7100576]

At once, for sheer delight, her neck was raised and tilted in absolute slightness, if any boy did see. Such delicate but unknowing movements were common platitudes for the fourteen year-old. An empty statement to those who desired her, like careless speech to a horrified lover in loss. The tense but blithe smile that followed was a welcome derivative to a senseless atmosphere of indifference. Beatriz would not care for the surrounding assemblage but did not truly understand her doings, for it was acquired behavior from her mother, the cheery or inexplicable Alma, a notary seraph in her own right. She was innocent. Both curious and pedantic like many an adolescent schoolgirl could appear. Who could know her true thought, that fierce locked núcleo of the self? Few could readily understand the other, let alone one such as the mystery of the petal herself. A flower in look, eyes wakened, watered in shine and a slow untarnished sweetness of tongue. It was allure. Could it be? Those that dream from afar may not apprehend a vision thus. But to be in her presence for an elongated time…Azure. A beige glint of surrounding sunlight spreads down and reacts to her mortality. Or perhaps this is just a subjective reality tunnel. Yes. Beatriz was an otherworldly mirage, but to spread her divine across the tapestries of perception was daft in becoming. To put it simply, there was an aura adjoining her being but what girl did not have one at such an age?

[Anonymous No.7100583]

>>7100557
Not bad.

[Anonymous No.7100585]

>>7100557
terrible

[Anonymous No.7100611]

>>7100557
brilliant, just brilliant

[Anonymous No.7100632]

>>7100557

[Anonymous No.7102250]

>>7095987
You think the author of the Tom Clancy one has any potential?

[Anonymous No.7102271]

>>7100557

I like this

[Anonymous No.7102288]

>>7102250
absolutely

[Anonymous No.7103215]

I'm not sure where I was going with this but I may continue with it for a little while

[Anonymous No.7103345]

>>7103215
A perfect example of raw yet contained intelligence. Three punctuation to the wind and kept a modern feel—ye have shown /lit/ how to write a damn worthwhile sentence. 2nd best post in the thread. Ye absolutely should continue w/it.

The rhythm, the grammar, all swinging like a pendulum, wrapping time around brass prose. My nigga!

[Anonymous No.7103613]

4,300 words long, urban mythology. I hope you like it /lit/, I don't think I would have finished this or any other story without your help

http://pastebin.com/WcRsPkau

[Anonymous No.7103632]

>>7083568
the girl on the right bothers me, she is way too masculine

[Anonymous No.7103645]

>>7103345
>ye

[Anonymous No.7103663]

>>7083742
Too many run on sentences. Be more liberal with your periods.

[Anonymous No.7103738]

>>7103663
yeah like a married woman

[Anonymous No.7103787]

>>7083568
The “Man” made everything better. Where before we were caught up in petty trifles, now we belong to the Machine. The Machine gives us purpose; it enframes our lives with the comforts of language, logic, and reason. Without the Machine, we are nothing. We spent centuries behaving like animals – we would eat and drink at irregular times; we had whole buildings dedicated to a useless enterprise they named “art”; we spent countless hours with nothing to do: free-time, they called it. Some even thought to try to live in accordance with nature, as if ‘we’ belonged to nature and not to the Machine. All this was hollow without the Machine. How, I ask them, would we human beings be able to talk if it weren’t for some inner-machineness – some sort of inclination toward language and reason. We are lucky to have been revealed the Machine.
I can see your astonishment. It’s almost as though all that enlightenment which the “Man” endowed unto us – everything he fixed – came about, as the ancients would say, by prophecy. But that, my Friend, we both know to be false. After all, everything hap-pens for a reason; everything has a cause, so sayeth the machine.

[Anonymous No.7103790]

The sound of a magnum cocking breaks through the darkness. Soon, the taste of metal floods my mouth. Its barrel is shaking slightly; he doesn't want to do this, but he will anyway. As the roar of the shot echoes throughout the room, one last thing entered my mind: the bullet.

Pls no hate, I have no idea how to use a colon

[Anonymous No.7104000]

She took the rubber disc from her clitoris in between finger and thumb and raised it to the mirror, where it connected with a soft puck.

With practiced vagueness she looked into the corner of the room, ignoring her exposed labia as it silently burst in a triangular frill.

He tried to envision her half-submerged body, the bones in her chest forming tidal channels, brine-coated pools developing in the slope under her shoulders.

Remembering the photographs he'd stolen from the base, he removed his wallet and unfolded them in his palm, turning to shed the sun's glare off their filmy surface.

A snapshot of the surface of Mars, a sand-sea trapped in an impact crater, it's shores forming a three-rayed fan.

The abandoned beach seemed to urge for this eroded future, and he quickly pocketed the image, afraid of materializing it before him, flooding the stone pillars arranged in a sigil to summon an inorganic world.

[Anonymous No.7104196]

I have nothing but good things to say about everybody ^^

[Anonymous No.7104237]

The Big Game. I am here to watch the Big Game. Nothing more than the Big Game. Run, Big Man, run for the Big Ball.Throw the Big Ball Big Man.The crowd cheers for the Big Man at the Big Game. All Big Men are sweaty. All Big Men are hot. Drink some water Big Men. This is life at the Big Game.

[Anonymous No.7104588]

>>7102250
IDK Tom Clancy. Its worth a damn - and it has no errors. It has action but I find it irritating that your character comes off asleep through what you've given me. You do the 'giving the reader enough knowledge to let him judge the plot for himself' well, so you've got me hooked (hypothetically), but you'd need to demonstrate ingenuity in your long term transitions or (since I'm an action fan now) I'd loose interest in a hurry. *id need to see several scenes strung together to judge and you've only shown me one*

[Anonymous No.7104603]

>>7091701
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=afuqiEaysIA

[Anonymous No.7104842]

>>7100557
(^;

[Anonymous No.7105933]

Time no longer has any meaning when you’re travelling at the speed of light. My circadian rhythm is as confused as I because there is no longer a big beacon of hope to scorch my eyelids telling me how it is not socially acceptabl to sleep past 3 o’clock on a weekday, although, I’d rather be woken up by radiation piercing through panes of glass to go the the translucient covers of flesh protecting my eyeballs than to hear the sound of atoms being ripped apart 10 kilometers away and the screaches of soldiers telling us to get out of our damned houses lest you want extra appendages, at 5 o’clock in the morning. My parents also took part in the yelling contest to get me out of bed. So there I was, hung over from the night before, shuffiling out of bed with the speed of a slug drenched in molasses on its way to a salt mine. I made it to the bathroom and looked in the mirror as I pulled down my pants and proceeded to piss bullets, A stranger in the mirror looked back, he had messy medium length wires of copper where his hair should be, under his eyes were black, as if he worked as a chimney sweep, but manual labour isn’t his thing. There was less fat on his body than there were humble babylonians. A 19 year old skeleton. After having a brief staring contest with him in the mirror I returned to my cave to get dressed, upon my desk were 3 books, a pair of boxers, a black sweater and black trousers. My mother made her way to my room, tears spewing out of her like Krakatoa telling me to hurry up so we can go.

[Anonymous No.7105989]

buffalo blasts

i took my wife to the cheesecake factory
the bastion of rich white people
we ate there and talked about a funny commercial i had seen for a bank
it was a great commercial, it made us smile
it made us wish we were copy writers too

[Anonymous No.7106034]

>>7083568

The magnetized chain held him in place before the council, experiencing slight discomfort the prisoner awaited for the obvious verdict. His mind simultaneously being processed for programization and corporeal termination. The floor of the chamber, glowing with moving trails of neon blue streams of energy. Every centimeter covered in programmed matter, processing clusters in the walls, on the floor, and on the ceiling of the chamber. Painlessly and not obvious to his senses, the biological substrate of his body was being replaced with diligent nanites which connected to and imitated his biological mass at the microscopic level. Soon the mind of this man would not be of man. The nanites serving a twofold purpose: making a short term non-biological copy and total digitalization after integrating with the chambers subsystems. At first the prospect of digital immortality did not sound daunting or like much of a punishment to the prisoner. However all things change. The process didn't become apparent until the skin was showing signs of degradation and pieces of it were painlessly disappearing like melting wax against a hot metal surface. Seeing the transformation the man held up his open palm up in the air turning it over in disbelief. Giving a half digitized yell of terror, the mans usual bold and brave demeanor quickly changed to that of total fear. As soon as the last nail of his hand fell out and his whole hand was a metallic copy of his old one, the programmization was finished. He felt dizzy and a high pitch sound filled what he believed were his ears. He felt half awake, everything assumed a different hue after his transformation until all of it went pitch black. He didn’t know it but shortly after his last sight, his new body, a microcosm containing billions of nanites was super-heated by a beam in the chamber, melted down and reabsorbed into the panel where he stood. The prisoner was no more, but his torment would not end here.

[Anonymous No.7106038]

>>7083568
more

[Anonymous No.7106047]

when we fuk she keep on vibratin- like an iphone -
then i touch her she feel soft, mice of men shit
i kno she like it rough, slap her face,
she still call me daddy

smoke a blunt while she still der,
piece on the table she kno i bad
she get dressed ask her where you goin
she say home, i say bitch we aint done

make her moan, watch the ass drop, call it dubstep
get phonecall, on my work phone,its my other bitch,
got so many bitches i call it my animal shelter,
my investors call bout dem millies, tell em later

[Anonymous No.7106056]

>>7105989
I killed bill
He was a shill
He took a pill
I killed bill

[Anonymous No.7106184]

Anyone able to feedback this? It's unfinished.
It was written as a prologue to what I guess will become a sci-fi story. I'll take critique on any aspect: is it lacking in descriptive writing, does it garner any interest for the story, is it cliched, is it shit, etc

In case the image is hard to read:
http://pastebin.com/t55UvsNX

[Anonymous No.7106187]

>>7106184
oh wow, that's not the image I wanted to post at all..

[Anonymous No.7106454]

>>7083568
The grill on the right is perfect.

[Anonymous No.7106474]

>>7106187
>is this your toys acting up again
>is this your toys

Eh. It's not good anon.

You need to spend more time reading and writing. I'd also suggest actively studying grammar.

Don't be completely disheartened because you can and will improve if you follow these simple instructions.

[Anonymous No.7106499]

>>7106474
Thank you for the feedback. But I must be missing something, what's wrong with that snippet? "are your toys acting up again" is better?

I don't suppose you could expand your feedback, comment on the rest of the writing? As it stands I'm being told "it's not good", but at most you've given me a single grammatical error (?) as the reason why.

[Anonymous No.7106508]

>>7083568
Deadly. A mushroom, I heard that mushrooms, mostly, aren’t poisonous. Some are though and, those that are, are. Most poisonous mushrooms, those mushrooms that are poisonous, are particularly poisonous (as in - if you eat one you will get ill).
Lots of mushrooms which cause illness, cause illness that will cause your body to stop functioning as your body was functioning and it begins to function differently.

Finally, she said, I am ready. She didn’t mean it but she liked to teach people a lesson, todays lesson was a simple one. The lesson which she was going to teach today was a simple one. Today they’d learn she wasn’t ready.
She went to the hospital, with her parents, in her parent’s car. She was too young to drive so her parents drove. Finally she got to the hospital. She died in the hospital.
When your body stops functioning as your body was functioning and begins functioning differently certain changes take place. Today her parents learnt the lesson that this particular functional change that had occurred within their daughter had left them without a daughter.
They buried her in an unmarked grave, then marked it with a grave stone. And a very grave stone it was indeed.

[Anonymous No.7106513]

>>7103215
Fuck off with your no commas, Cormac. Why the hell does every single fucking noun and every single fucking verb have to have an adverb you bloody nonce?

Also
>it's
nigga plz

[Anonymous No.7106516]

>>7100576
You can write.

Now, stop masturbating, and create something someone might actually want to read.

[JosephGoldblatt !!9xRwCywB/nJ No.7106557]

>>7083568
If you search for critique on 4chan, you might be interested in getting proofread for free:
>>7106457

[Anonymous No.7106585]

>>7106508
a pain in the ass to read. why write in such a convoluted style? all dat awkward repetition. would not read more.

[Anonymous No.7106595]

>>7106499
Yes. "Are your toys acting up again?" would be fine.

That particular error irked me most so I pointed it out. There are others.

Generally speaking it reads as though you are trying too hard. Why, for example, do you write:

>There's a multitude of reasons

Instead of

>lots of reasons?

Or:

>my involvement is improbable.

Rather than:

>my involvement is unlikely.

Secondly, why do you write:

>The sudden presence...the distant wailing of a siren.

As opposed to:

>The dining room fell silent at the sound of the siren.

Or something similarly to the point.

Look, you might read these brief criticisms and think, 'Well what does this guy know? What are his credentials? Why does he want me to suck Hemingways dick?'---which you're perfectly inclined to do---but, really, I am only trying to get you to _think_. To consider your word choice. You might argue that brevity is not necessarily better; but that's not really the point. The point is to be able to point to that word, or this sentence and be able to explain why you've written it in such a way, be that for clarity, for cadence, for emphasis, whatever---as long as there's a thought out and well-considered reason for its inclusion then you're on the right track. The reading and writing practice I suggested in my previous post? That's to help you understand what does and doesn't work, and, crucially, why.

[Anonymous No.7106622]

>>7106585
I dunno, i feel as if not challenging all memes is basically boring. like if you follow traditional schemes of writing your basically the same as john green, people might get something out of it but it isn't interesting, i reckon everything should have purpose, purpose you acknowledge. If your gonna right like john green do so on on purpose not just coz thats the way people write

[Anonymous No.7106627]

>>7106622
tfw I spelt write wrong

im going far in this business son

[Anonymous No.7106637]

>>7106595
Thank you, I do appreciate the feedback! I didn't question your "credentials" I'm sure you know how it is with online feedback

Funnily enough this was my attempt at not being so wordy and cutting back. I honestly don't know if it's just the way I write, I guess I was laboring slightly over each sentence. I don't want to come across as tryhard...

[Anonymous No.7106660]

>>7106637
Just keep at it anon, you'll get there. You write in a very similar manner to how I used to, so I understand how difficult it is.

[Anonymous No.7106717]

can someone please critique one of these two stories? I really would appreciate input:

>http://pastebin.com/WcRsPkau
>http://pastebin.com/vYsSEfRH

[Anonymous No.7106761]

>>7106660
In your opinion, when should longer sentences be used when shorter ones convey the message more effectively?

Ironically I had to rewrite the above message to make it less wordy. I have a problem.

[Anonymous No.7106779]

The latest chapter in my book is like 60% sex scene in virtual reality.

Wondering if anyone could tell me whether they consider it well written, well-handled or arousing.

[Anonymous No.7106783]

Forgot the link:

http://pastebin.com/Bvmrg2Kk

[Anonymous No.7106913]

He's repeatedly ridiculing things I do; he'll point out something I do in with a smile and a very condescending tone and talk about how it relates to a greater problem I have. When I try to defend myself he'll talk over me, ridiculing me for defending myself, telling me I need to learn to let shit go; all in a relatively fast and harsh pace.
I'll realize that he's actually being a hypocrite; that he actually does the thing himself, and has typically told me so before in a similar condescending manor
I'll mention this, and just as I do he'll mock me for trying to speak against him. Once I manage to get the point across - that he's guilty of this veru thing - he'll dismiss it in the most casual way and launch into how I do it wrong, typically with ad hominem non-points like saying it's sick how I do it.
He will never admit to actually insulting me. If I suggest he's insulted me he'll mock me and tell me to quit taking things so seriously - he'll go into further insults about me being insecure, telling me I need to be more like such and such and of course speaking over me the whole time.
In the end this is my fault; I love to argue because I'm insecure, and I love to try and hold a grudge against him and I have no sense of humor; I should be more like such and such

This is my best friend. He is like a living, breathing tribute to me and he's compelled to go against me at every turn.
He's attractive. He can intentionally be the quitest in a room and he has an air of sadism that ends up giving him this sex appeal that is unlike anyone I've seen before and he's only just started coming out after disappearing in his room for 5 years.

For a while he was the biggest threat to my psychological well being. Quietly, almost too low for me to hear, I had an intense hatred for him.
After my hiatus as a shutin I had no idea how to be a person anymore. I had to learn alone - from me being used to buy alcohol, to being adored by close friends - and I've picked up this cheerful, accommodating desperation that had a habit of causing me to be left out.

When Devon came back into the picture, my friends took to him and they were soon hanging out without me and my lonliness gained and undertone of hatred.

[Anonymous No.7106997]

His first impulse was to cry out for company. He could not articulate, remember, or understand the sensations bombarding him, but they were overwhelming nonetheless. He felt claustrophobic, nauseous, and panicked. Not long after this initial shock, he came into contact with a warm life preserver in the cold, tumultuous sea he had just been hurled into. After the alien comfort waned ever so slightly, he was shocked by a noise emanating from the life preserver. It told him to stop crying and to calm down. It's voice cloaked him in a woolen blanket that abruptly calmed the seas before him. He slowly creaked his eyes open, and saw many people. The seas seemed to have dried up like the puddles that dry up on highways as one approaches them. He began crying again because he sensed the violent struggle his mother was enduring to hold the cold waters of loneliness at bay. For the first time in his young life, he felt his body and its feebleness.

[Anonymous No.7107608]

Bump

[Anonymous No.7107658]

We shared more than a few drinks that night, and I mean shared. Not everything was copacetic obviously. Whatever my man here Felix had in his head wouldn't be torqued by any straight Tito's or the strongest anejo the bartender could muster. Feeling I had to try harder or maybe half-veering toward saying fuck it to the whole thing for the night, we found a hot dog shack and bought between us three coffees, myself tipping at least a dollar for each horrible one as if to say to this compatriot of mine, hey, man, look, I'm compassionate, you can tell me anything. If there's to be person who cares it's gonna be me, man. No dice of course.

In the following weeks I'd repeat this about every other night, which probably has shortened my lifespan just with the amount of asbestos probably seeped into the coffee at the run-down hotdoggery. Never did buy a hot dog, though on more than one occasion snuck my hand in the sauerkraut container with that drunken bravado I had thought would serve me for nobler things.

[Anonymous No.7107945]

Describing a location is honestly my weakest point, since I tend to have exceedingly poor pacing abilities; I either put it all upfront and the paragraph just drags on, or the descriptions are just too scarce. That said, this is me making an effort to fix that.

Even two hours before midnight on a night of the new moon, Maria could see the allure of this strangely-named asylum, Devil's End. The building itself was unremarkable, but the grounds held a certain undeniable beauty. Neatly placed evergreens decorated the freshly-cut grass, along with shrubs of a deep crimson. Flowers of every color lined the walkways, front gate, and parking lot. The untamed forest surrounding was a lively sea of green and brown, and the asylum grounds a tranquil island upon it. And though a great deal of vegetation would wither and die in the harsh winter, Maria felt the landscape would be no less picturesque after the transition.

>>7106913
I don't know what the context of this work is, but I dislike it immediately for two reasons. First, the voice is inconsistent; it's hard to tell whether this is meant to be something told to others or a journal entry. You're giving all this information, but what is it actually for? Secondly, you need to be more specific: how is he being condescending? Is it the casual sneer, the way he doesn't even look at you, the tone which reminds you of a teacher talking to a particularly slow student? What words were actually used? Is he a crude man, calling you bitch, cunt, etc., or does weave a net of eloquent words to entrap you? Omitting specific dialogue hurts your writing, I feel.

Consensus: lacks focus.

[Anonymous No.7108072]

It for a short story I just started, it's the second paragraph so it's just getting the ideas into the text so far.
Here it goes,

The reason I am lying on the soil is not to spectate fireworks, or to lull into a hymn that convinces bind of the eyes, but rather to yank weeds, therefore preventing it overwhelming the beds of soil as would the meatiness of light from a lone streetlamp encumbered entirely by darkness. I work on an organic urban farm and weeds, a type of pestilence to the farm, can grow throngs of verdure that constraint the life from crop. Removing the weeds from the crops are the farmers executing each and every necessity of the farm, from composting, to the transplanting, all the way to harvest, it is all done by the will of these adroit hands. Although, monotony and lethargy would inhibit each locomotion and a drowsiness would sulk and drown the eyes; efficient work was hindered. Rays from the sun were the prime cause of this state. The sun was my biggest enemy, although at one time it was only an acquaintance; a relationship solely based off the mere knowledge that it only existed to be warm and bright, to be an insignificant object. Due to this mindset, inefficiency was in my work, and until I broke that mindset and invited fear to my heart, my stubborn attitude impeded ardor and deserted me in the breath of the most magnanimous, powerful force of nature to burn.

[Anonymous No.7108223]

excerpt from a short story I'm working on:

We meet at a party I don’t want to be at. I’m drinking a dutch ale that tastes like oatmeal and poor life choices. She is in the quietest corner of the club of the room reading Ready Player One on her phone. I only saw her by the flash of a kilowatt strobe light that serves as the bugger-born lovechild of Bacchus and Prometheus, bringing humanity the guiding light it needs just to see who or what it’s grinding against. I figure that like me, she was dragged here by a friend who immediately disappeared into the sexually charged sardine tin of the dance floor. I really have no clue, do I?
She catches me looking and I immediately glance away, embarrassed. Score one for social anxiety. The story should end here, but it doesn’t. Later, I will wish it did. “Three hidden keys open three secret gates” And just like that she’s talking to me. For the record, I don’t have that effect on girls.
“Wherein the errant will be tested for worthy traits” I respond. I know the quote by heart. I don’t know how she knows I know it, but she does. I guess she smells the virgin on me. Oh how wrong I am.
“And those with the skill to survive these straits,”
“Will reach The End where the prize awaits.” There’s a pause, and then I realize she’s awaiting an introduction “Hi, I’m an Adam.” I have such a way with words.
“Oh, there are others? I’m Kate by the way, there used to be two of me but we got in a fight over which one was the real one and I killed them all. Pleasure to meet one of you Adam.”
“Um, pleasure’s all mine.” I offer her a sweaty palm, and after putting her drink down she responds with an icy one. We talk for a while. I’m surprised how long it lasts. Eventually, we leave together. A girl is inviting me home. Something is very, very wrong, but it feels so right.

“What would you say if I told you I was a vampire?”
I have to think for a moment. There’s no correct answer to a question like that so I just go with something vague and potentially funny. “I’d say that explains why you’re still talking to me.” Please don’t let her be crazy.
She smirks. It’s uncanny how perfectly she imitates a DreamWorks character. “Hold on a sec.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out a makeup mirror. She reels me in by the waist and I look into the mirror with her. My heart skips a beat. I’m alone.

>>7108072
I'm two sentences in and the problem is obvious. You're trying way too hard to be loquacious.say more with less and replace big words with interesting metaphors

[Anonymous No.7108229]

>>7107945
I mentioned it was the tone of condescension
Looking at it I should've rewrote the hypocrite part which doesn't flow evenly
>...after a few moments of silence(and this is virtually without fail) I'll realize he's being a hypocrite, both with 'letting shit go' and whatever he's ridiculing me on in the first place.
>As I start to bring this up he cuts me off saying that I'm so insecure that I want to pick at everything he does; effectively dismissing how the entire argument started.
>Once I establish that he's done whatever it is he's rallying against now - that he is a hypocrite - he'll immediately dismiss it, sometimes literally with a "So?", and proceed to talk over me spouting the same set of insults that I'll take anything I can get; that I'm sad; that I don't always have to be right.

The argument itself is irrelevant because it's a template of recurring arguments.
The main thing you're meant to take away is the underhanded, sadistic way he argues

This happened earlier today. I was going to go more in depth regarding how agressive his hypocrisy is (earlier he told me I'll say anything I can to win an argument), how his schizophrenic delusions are almost a caricature of the things I'd tell him when we were younger and ultimately how he's aware of everything he does and desperately wants me to fix him

[Anonymous No.7108241]

>>7108223
Thank you

[Anonymous No.7108253]

>>7108223
>We meet at a party I don’t want to be at. I’m drinking a dutch ale that tastes like oatmeal and poor life choices.

Stopped reading there. A little too twee with the description.

[Anonymous No.7108263]

>>7108253
> We meet at a party I don’t want to be at. I’m drinking a dutch ale that tastes like regurgitated oatmeal and poor life choices.

better, or worse?

[Anonymous No.7108270]

When I have breakdowns or get hopped up on painkillers I write about my depression. I'm not a writer but I think funelling my illness through something creative would do good for me. I have others but they're even worse. Eventually I'll piece together the dozens of ramblings I have into something but I'm not at that point yet.


Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. I'm going to slit my wrists and cry. I'm going to regret it the second I do it. Half heartedly call an ambulance. Apply pressure. Then weep and sit. Sit in my own despair. What could've been. Wasted potential. Blame being placed on anything that moves. My environment. A broken school system. Friends with bad influences. Drugs. Alcohol. But I will be sober. I will be alone. A final confession as even in the end I like to pretend there are things I care about. People. Love. One last desperate cry for help in a place where nobody can hear me scream. I love you. I don't love you. What's the difference. What's the point. In the end that's not what mattered to me. Not the reason to choose an end. Not the reason to deny myself one. Just a thought. A speck of dust in a raging storm. A way out, if only I'd actually bothered to want one. I've run out of pills to take and leaves to smoke. I've run out of distractions from irrational pain. I'm one of thousands who struggle with nothing and as one of thousands I will take the cowards route. I know this because I've already come close. I've already convinced myself that it wasn't the time. There'll never be a time. I'll overcome. As I slide closer to my own end I convince myself I'm getting better. I awake having forgotten all about the tears and crushing thoughts. I fall asleep realizing it's not possible to forget. Only to momentarily disregard. Distract from with work or friends. My pain is manufactured. I have nothing to complain about. My life is good. My existence is crushing. My suicide is inevitable.

[Anonymous No.7108294]

Im a bit drunk tbqh lads, tell me what you think.

-The landscape had long since disappeared. All that remained was the orangeish-yellow lights of the of the occasional rural street lamp and house window. Nothing else could seep into the synthetic environment of the train. Across from Mathew was a tall man reading a thick Swedish newspaper. The man sat with poise, legs crossed, the end of his shoe dangling only inches from his own knee. To his right, a short muslim women was drifting in and out of sleep; her head neatly nestled in a blue hijab.
The cars of the locomotive stilled swayed effortlessly along the tracks at a smooth steady speed, it was cutting through the outskirts of the city like fissure, through the backs of apartment complexes, over empty highways and alongside deserted industrial parking lots. As the train slowed the city became dense. The outside world began to come alive with lights and cars so did the people inside. Soft murmuring conversations gave way to loud robust exchanges. People began to pull their bags down from the luggage racks, the leather straps and plastic buckles of backpacks and briefcases thudded and clinked against the hard metal floors. Mathew joined in on the chorus and sat down once more with an overweight backpack on his lap. With the train now late by two minutes, the conductor began to speak into the intercom, first in danish, then swedish, and finally in broken but confident english, that they would be arriving at Copenhagen Central in only a few minutes.
As the train exited the last series of tunnels, the end of the platforms began to show themselves. He took this as a sign to leave the row of seats and gather with the other people standing expressionless around the car door, eager to leave stuffy train. turning down the isle he gave one last look to the blue headed muslim women still warmly entrenched in her seat, blissfully unaware that the train had arrived
He walked down a wide platform weaving through a mix of tired business men, immigrants, and bluntly unenthusiastic students. With hunger in his stomach he stopped for a small sandwich and a bottle of water. 61 Danish krones, roughly eleven US dollars. Outside was a stream of bicycles moving seamlessly in their own lanes. In the far off streets were Mercedes, taxis, and other sleek European cars weaving in and out of each other.
Arriving on a friday night one learns that the Danes have a certain keenness for alcohol. In cafes, bars and on street benches, young and old alike were drinking, stumbling around the streets wafting in a cloud of stagnant cigarette smoke. Groups of men, boys really, walked arm in arm chanting loudly in twisted nordic tongues, the women dragging behind them. It was early May but it felt like summer had already arrived. The night time air only nipped at you if you choose to stand still. It was nearly 11:30 but the sun still lingered in the nortn sky.
Copenhagen had welcomed him indifferently

[Anonymous No.7108312]

Simple really, you show the bitch a shortcut out of the building, which is really just an emergency exit that's had its alarm tripped already. Or take her to some obscure coffee shop no one would think of going into and order her something tame without telling her what, and it's sealed. She's in your room and hasn't thought to ask about your girlfriend, fiancee, wife, whatever. Those are my sister's clothes, she's in town right now, but she won't bother us. We have all evening.

This one smoked menthols, but I wasn't about to let vanity or prejudice get in the way again. Another good one is walking in the park, doesn't have to be a dog park or a kid's park, I mean just any park, it can be next to the cemetary even. But because it's outdoors and noontime or so, defenses stay low and you can sneak in physical contact like you're charming a snake. You've got something in your hair. Ha, hold on let me tell you this about Frank. Wait, we're going this way. Act like you lead, she'll want to follow.

Every once in a while, though you'll get a biter that you still can't land, pardon the crass fishing line. Same menthol girl, right. Something cultural this time, probably because one-offs aren't as usual in the homeland. I wasn't expecting, what with the smoking and all, for her to have such reservations about casual sex or even just "messing around" but she had bigger emotional turmoil, or something.

"You're going to forget me."

Watching too many movies is also how she got ideas about smoking, probably.

[Anonymous No.7108337]

If you like my input, I would appreciate your on: >>7108223

>>7108294
drunk or not this is easily the most readable thing I've ever seen on one of these threads. Your strength is definitely soothing a restless attention span.

>>7108312
I do hope the narrator is intended to be unsympathetic. That said, the tone and pulse is strong

[Anonymous No.7108465]

>>7108223
Poor life choices and oatmeal*

There's too much foreshadowing and self depreciating introspection where you could be making observations or having your character do something for no apparent reason>>7108223

[Anonymous No.7108470]

And in that dream a giant stood up to heaven, and in his greed he took the fire of the stars and threw it unto the earth; the giant's iron body could survive the heat, but all the animals and plants and even the mother soil were scorched beyond recognition. And then he looked down and said: "there is no shame in this for I am their child, and it is only through and in me that everything is; nay, that I am and have always been everything there was is the truth."

[Anonymous No.7108482]

>>7108465
thank you. that is actually really helpful advice. I didn't realize how much foreshadowing I was doing and it almost completely ruins the surprise

[Anonymous No.7108493]

First couple paragraphs, criticism welcome. Don't care whether it's generic or not.

The moon hung low, peaking over the jagged forest top, it's full pearly white aura creeping through the black wall of the woods that cradled the dreary small valley. A river bed ran through the basin, once flourishing and weaving through the grass land, now bare. A dozen cottages sat wearily, buckling under their own weight, time had withered their bones. Only a handful had signs of life within, the faint flickering of fire and lanterns could be made out. In the center of town was a chapel of stone, dry dead vines gripped it's structure, giving it support.

Rolling from a dark parting in the woods, atop a steep hill, was a bent and creaky cart, led by a steed strikingly pale, and an arched crooked man leading. Aside from the slight moan of a breeze, the valley was silent and still, but the white steed cut a path through the motionless atmosphere, the cart slowly building in sound, disturbing the sleeping valley.

The chapel doors heaved open, a priest in white robes and a long bent walking stick stood by the stone wall that surrounded the building. His beard was unkempt, unfurled and wild, his wrinkled brow slouched over his eyes, his eyebrows like whiskers bending in random directions.

[Anonymous No.7108498]

>>7108493
Flows well enough, methinks. The part about the moon is a bit tripe, but you've already addressed that.

[Anonymous No.7108509]

>>7108498
Cheers, not going for anything unique, just experimenting.

[Anonymous No.7108701]

>>7083924
this guy

[Anonymous No.7108725]

>>7100528
only thing i've liked. gj

[Anonymous No.7108731]

>>7100557
excellente

[Anonymous No.7109223]

This is just an experiment with formatting and tone of voice, but open fire anyway.

[Anonymous No.7109239]

>>7109223
how to make 3 collums

[Anonymous No.7109268]

>>7106516
thank you

[Anonymous No.7109272]

>>7109239
in any standard writing program see page settings for column option
but you can use tables either to emulate this behavior

[Anonymous No.7109274]

>>7083924
lmaoo
>

[Anonymous No.7109326]

>>7108294

[Anonymous No.7109358]

Would be cool if high school girls were only allowed to wear panties

[Anonymous No.7109720]

>>7084011
Your words are like a dagger

with a jagged edge, thatll stab you whether your a fag or lez,

[Anonymous No.7109896]

HE drifted towards the coffee shop, and as he entered, the sweet and mellow aroma of the roasting beans entered his head through his nose, exciting neurons to fire in that one part of his brain, and those firing neurons induced thoughts in his mind, and those thoughts in his mind then turned themselves into actions, and so, he ordered a coffee.

"Black, please."
"No, thank you. I do not want anything in it."
"No, I do not want room for cream."
"Yes, Black."

He leaned on the counter with his right hand flat on the cold surface as he waited for his order. The coffeeshop was dimly lit and music he had heard too many times before was playing a bit too loudly in the background. There were some people there. The details of their conversations were drowned out by the music. He only heard soft murmurs of friendly discussions, or, arguments.

A more pungent aroma refocused his attention and his drink was waiting for his hand on the cold counter. As he lifted his hand, the counter tugged on it, and he thought of all the other hands that had been in that very same position. He searched for a hand sanitizer dispenser, but there was none, and the bathroom was further from him than the open seat he had in mind.

He sat between a man on a laptop that was his age, and a woman writing in a book that was also his age. He sipped his coffee and burned his tongue.

He looked over on his right side, towards the man. The man was typing something but it was not interesting. He looked over to the other side and focused his eyes on the words in the book. The words in the book were also not interesting, but before he took his eyes from them he happened upon the title of the book. It implied a subject matter which he had no respect for, and a disgusting taste was aroused in his mouth. He took another sip of his coffee and burned more of his tongue.

He looked around again. Towards the baristas juggling their various duties. Towards the bathroom, which was still too far away. Towards his left, his right, and finally, out the window onto the streets. His companions were out there somewhere, perhaps looking for him, perhaps not. The thought of their activities at this very moment crossed his mind, and he felt bored. The thought of that woman’s book entered his mind again, as did the disgust, and he felt the gritty, painful burns on his tongue sweeten a bit. This woman and her book, he thought, what must they be doing here, or there? What is that goal of hers to carry around such knowledge that would certainly only lead to a dissonant neurosis once critical thought became part of her ethos? Does she know what she does? Does she see the world? He took another sip of his coffee. This time, he did not burn his tongue. He turned toward the woman.

[Anonymous No.7110223]

any opinions?

[Anonymous No.7110319]

http://pastebin.com/s0XBqk3v

This is cut out of the middle of a larger thing. Any critiques are appreciated.

[Anonymous No.7110787]

>>7083568
6 4 12 6 12 6 14 6 8 18 8 6 14 4 12 6 12 8 6 8 4 6 12 6 12 2

Clay Birds with, thoughts, unhinged,
Delude themselves;
Feigning for a less malleable existence.
for when time, sun, or night
colors their niche into darwinistic semblance.
They will seclude themselves,
trading affordable lives traded for constitutions
bought by mild cognizance,
wrought from a collusion's entrance.
Watching humans, unaware of their individually sculpted hells.
A criminally mundane sight,
Empathetic skin dwells,
stretched over their graying eyelids; extracting no insight.
Feeding off soils
No need to worry if the confinement's done right.
Or doubt the metaphors
thorny patches hold. Scales fall, capacity grows,
Discovering the Sublime, too,
are wrung to be polite.
The scales don't fall. The fever dream
Remains just a
prelude to empty shelves,
It stalls, and starts to fall apart at all the seams
But everyone's happy;
And that's one of the reasons they delude themselves,
it seems

I wrote it for my intro level creative writing class where we had to include some words: Time, night, sun, Clay, birds, ford,