Critique thread?

>thank you.
i'll just add, that imo the only real rules in art of any kind are "whatever works" and "by hook or by crook". if you can make brooding melodrama "work" somehow then go for it.

Id like to see your writing then

When you write low effort-like journal, it can help to form a story about this actually being your journal (bunch of popular YA angst books are written like this).

The depression is oozing as it is quite negative laden and detached. That can still work, if one heavily wraps it in gallows humor. Naked depression comes off as annoying mostly because its banal and downer.

>gets defensive when told he isn't a genius for slobbering on a page feeling sorry for himself
get your head out of your ass

It is a problem I have. If I made it more neutral do you think it’d be better?

i think you need to clean your room

my thread's not getting bumps so I'm moving this here:

Where do I submit a short story? It's literary fiction and it's actually pretty good (I think). Where do I send it? I am probably going to send it to the New Yorker because that's the meme, but since it wont get accepted, any other suggestions would be worthwhile. I am not going to post the story for obvious reasons, but because I know the way this board works, I am including the opening of another story I am working on, you can critique me through this:

>Murry Hall wrote his will in the spring of ‘63 with a shaking hand and a fever of one hundred and two degrees, and when he went his way there was more than one among us who argued that it was a document ill-signed as he was not, as the solicitor put it, of sound body and mind; but the Judge put his gavel down on it and for whatever anyone may have still been thinking every one of them held their peace. The law is what the law says it is, besides, if a dead man’s wishes mean nothing then the things that mean something don’t mean much all.
>So it was that not forty-eight hours later the car pulled into town blacker than the hearse that came for Hall himself. The artist calls himself René Carret, and though he claims to have been fast friends with the dead man no one could say to have seen him visit him living let alone at his funeral passed. The slight man spoke to no one but the contractors he had hired at great expense to raise a fat white tent in the center of the town square (of which the will stipulated be paid for at an exorbitant rate) and inside that tent he slipped each day and out each night for two weeks, and for all the ungodly noises which that tent emitted we remained quiet.

I think you need to make it interesting, because it is booorrrrring. Sure it's only 3 paragraphs but I'm telling you right now I would have put the book back on the shelf halfway through the second one because I'm not reading lukewarm prose from "My diary desu". The whole "Woe is me I'm so uninterested in life" thing has been done to death. If that's the only thing you have to say then I'd rethink what you're writing entirely.

>uses the wrong to in the very first sentence
As for the rest you come across as a really boring person trying to sound smart and interesting. It's not even edgy, just not interesting.

Is it shit? Be honest.

Every dreadful night.
After the milky and hipnotizing whisper of the lady dark.
Sssssss leap, ssssss leap.
The dreamer navigates though his sand-
like river of subconscious.
Riding on the mighty ship of thought. Hunting whales of ego and windmills of delusion.
Goes Sinbad The Dreamer following the sun.

Whirlwinds full of honey and sand
Drowned the hopeless vessel;
Buried in island full of ocean, was our everlasting Captain.
Lonely, broken, with no treasure was the bandit of le mer.

Hiding hands, Australian pigeons
Felt the dreamer warming calm;
Took big pieces of the ocean making snowmen out of sand.
Sculping hazlenuts and peaches
Made the dreamer fantasize
Of a mundane evil creature blowing kisses to no one.

how am I trying to sound interesting?

>how do you convey sincere sorrow and melancholy, then?
Whoever finds the answer to this question will be the best writer of the 21st century. I've thought about this and imo the best way to convey sincere sorrow and melancholy would probably be to create completely exaggerated and hilarious settings, something grotesque and repulsive that, even though dark, can evoke a sense of comfort and truly make you laugh. This way you let the spectator somewhat incarnate the Honk Honkler meme and feel sincerely through the lens of hilarity.

Kafka has already done this and it's the main reason why those who understand him see his brilliance(but sometimes can't articulate it) and those who don't simply hate him. If only he knew how much more extreme the world has become

Houellebecq did that, I'm pretty sure. Dostoyevsky and Herman Hesse as well

I suppose the character is the author, he should
>start consuming 1lbs of protein per bw
>start doing compound exercises
>start getting more sleep

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It's interesting user. I do feel it need to suggest a bit more than tell, but i like the what you have going.

read the filename lmao

The character is not the author. I could use more sleep though

How's this

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Your roommates are too loud at the wrong times. The hi-hats rattle at absurd hours. You’re too busy. Your shoulders are not pulled back; instead hunched and scrunched like single use plastic bags. Things are just overwhelming, you’ve figured out. You managed to drop to only 12 units this semester, but still you find yourself totally incapacitated by the sheer quantity of things you feel obligated to do.
And then, the tasks are all completed. Waves of nostalgia immerse you at the slightest trigger. You start calling things your last. “Last night class ever,” “last hungover morning class ever,” “last group project ever,” “last uncomfortable pull-your-phone-out-of-pocket-to-avoid-eye-contact.” You’ll never see that one shaggy brown-haired boy you kissed that one time when you drank too much again, even though you hardly even drink like that. It totally was not even your scene, either. Those functions are too loud and cliché and just too banal, for you. But you’ll never see him again. The faux-humble, fake embarrassed, and poorly concealed brag about that time when he touched you that way, will totally lose its frame of reference. The framework, which brought the story intelligibility, is suddenly just gone.
Songs that you haven’t liked in years sound new. The snares are tinged with something you didn’t think you would ever feel, not at this age. You’re not even that emotional or ridiculous. “So much water on my neck I need a boat or sumn.” You don’t even own any diamonds, nor do you want to. You think rap music is totally problematic and needs serious revision. But the lyric still seems so completely and legitimately beautifully meaningful.
Pieces of the structure remain, here and there. Not all of your friends are going home, or have prestigious white collared jobs lined up. Some of their futures are just as muddy and obscure as yours. But the framework dies either way. The community dissolves with each passing minute, like sugar stirred in tea. These parts of you, the stories, the things you pretend to be embarrassed about but really give you a place and meaning, lose their effability without the scaffolding that supported their creation.
You’ll walk across the stage with your pals. The gown you wear will flow in the wind coming in off the coast. The hat won’t fit you the way it seems a hat should. You’ll scream when your best friend crosses the stage after you. You’ll smile and take pictures with your parents and friends and cousins. You should. It’s rare that death and rebirth are so clearly demarcated from the rest of quotidian life. The nostalgia is just an unavoidable part of the dissolution of your personal intelligibility. You’re not longing for the way things once were, you’re longing for how you once were.

plz gib feedback

vringe

Rule 1: don't write about your boring life. it's even more boring to other people

better than OP's, but doesn't feel like it's going anywhere, and that will turn a publisher off really fast

The unfortunate thing is that it's not even about me. I've never been really depressed, but I dont know what to right about. I do nothing a lot of the time, but I enjoy it. I'm only 20, so I guess I could reflect on when I was younger, but I thought that'd be even more boring.

It's literally an excerpt from Under the Volcano by Malcolm Lowry which has won numerous awards. I put that there to see how pretentious /lit was.

in that case, keep writing for the experience of it, and to get a better sense of tone, etc. But don't expect it to be interesting, unless you can think of some unique sci-fi ideas. most writers won't have enough life experience to write anything important until the age 35. that's usually the age that is given. but don't give up if you enjoy it

first sentence FUCK

social anxiety posing as a desperate scream into the abyss. you weren't in vietnam buddy. she just thinks youre kinda weird and ignored you.

so the answer is: not pretentious at all
I said it was better than OP's
I said it wouldn't get published in today's market
both statements are true
Yea Forums is too smart for your entrapment

youtube.com/watch?v=0fuz1rlLLFo

critique my attempt at funny

How's this?

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piqued my interest, curious to see where it goes. i guess you were going for something alliterative with "hooded hooting" but it sounds...bad. i would change that. over all, id say to short of a sample for me to really make a judgement on it. i like the writing fine, but how is the story telling? here's mine my personal opinion is that all this college/highschool type writing that gets posted in these threads is boring. i know that this is probably what your life experience is limited to at this juncture, and you want to write based on what you know, but use your imagination a little. take the things you know and extrapolate them into a different setting.

God damnit it's not supposed to be a glorifcation of patheticness. It's an criticism of effeminate men that have gone through nothing. It is not personal and not sincere. My life is boring, so there's literally nothing to say about me right now.

haaaaaa ha ha ha aaaaaaaa

great details, love the style, almost like DFW, keeps the reader interested in reading more

god, i feel like my writing is terrible. someone just tell me what they think

it reads like the start of an amateur erotica

It's better than OP's but hard to say without more context.

>It's better than OP's
not setting the bar very high, there. i need it to be publishable not better than op. but thanks for what i guess is a compliment
>hard to say without more context.
you saying you want the plot?

How old are you?

wh-why?

Because that will tell me how good it is.

explain your reasoning

I'm guessing you're 25?

i feel reluctant to say because i feel like you got some tricks up your sleeve

First time I ever write something please bully me.

Un señor, un señor en su submarino. Solo, cansado de navegar. Camina y obersva dentro de su navío los destrozos causados por su incompetencia, donde la falta de alimento llevó al navegante a matar a uno y cada uno de sus compatriotas. En su accionar no sintió pesar, sino indiferencia.
Qué desgracia sus acciones en vano, porque esa comida podrida está, y de ella solo obtiene imágenes que le reflejan quién es.
El navegante observa por el ventanal. Mira fijamente a los peces, cuyo único propósito es moverse en manada y alimentarse. Él quiere ser como ellos.
Los peces viven, indiferentes de adónde van o de dónde vienen. Existen, y viven esa existencia.
Lástima que sea tan tarde. Años de viaje heredados y ejercidos por inercia. Sueños escondidos trajeron frustración y montó el peso de su dolor en los demás. Ahora solo queda esperar.

Ahora, el navegante no sabe navegar.

Love writing 2 paragraphs at midnight, scratch my feet, rub my fingers against my prediabetic brittle nails. Listening to anime anthem, I laugh at what I can't write. its conversations i havent had in 3 years.

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I don't have any. I'm 21 and am OP. I want to see how far off I am.

Eh thanks for the feedback. I think you're off the mark. What I wrote must not be that good, which is fine. But I don't think it's because of the setting. Good writing is good regardless of setting, as least in my view. But anyway thanks for the feedback.

im 28

gimme something to write about

The beginning feels kind of off desu.
Señor doesn't sound good in the context you are using it.

a poor man goes out to the woods at night and prays to god

take it from there

anal sex

ok so just wrote this. pls be nice anons

Queen Anne watches shadows
Shining red and blue
City slickers all lined up in rows
Legs broken on the avenue
Go ahead now, try to run
She cries out for more
With her filthy slick romantic tongue
Cutting down the city sycamore
And oh my god—
It’s been a long time.

Your fever dream falls out my eyes
And slithers down the road
Documentaries on the paradise
That we will never know
Minutes flashing off the wall
Babe puts up a fuss
You hate it, yes, but all in all
It don’t mean that much to us
And oh my god—
It’s been a long time.

I feel you from across the room
Gallivanting with the Queenies
They’re all a bit too good for you
And, oh god, they can hear me
What a lovely waste, she says
And her fingers, turning grey
Put a gun against my head
And all the pain goes away
And oh my god—
It’s been a long time
Without you.

I do like the first stanza
Idk why feel the other 2 kind of off

Just say it's sshit or anything at all

Every dreadful night.
After the milky and hipnotizing whisper of the lady dark.
Sssssss leap, ssssss leap.
The dreamer navigates through his sand-
like river of subconscious.
Riding on the mighty ship of thought. Hunting whales of ego and windmills of delusion.
Goes Sinbad The Dreamer following the sun.

Whirlwinds full of honey and sand
Drowned the hopeless vessel;
Buried in an island full of ocean, was our everlasting Captain.
Lonely, broken, with no treasure was the bandit of le mer.

Hiding hands, Australian pigeons
Felt the dreamer warming calm;
Took big pieces of the ocean, making snowmen out of sand.
Sculping hazlenuts and peaches
Made the dreamer fantasize
Of a mundane evil creature, blowing kisses to no one.

Sleeplesss when sleeping, worked his dreamer heart
After every hide-and-seek game
Of the father and his sons
He made a little finger, he made a silky hand
Shadows dancing in the fireside
Restless dreamer and his sand.

Silhouette of a lover started to be seen
A greek pot was her body
And the dunes were on her lips

thanks user
not sure about the other 2

Despite her best efforts even Mrs Jefferies' skilled old hands could not remove the bloodstains from the café wall. Exactly why so much faith was placed in her special solution of vinegar, lemon juice and- so they said- cane sugar after the men with the pressure washer failed never seemed to be questioned. Mrs Jefferies was the last bulwark, and when those oak-wood hands finally dropped to her portly sides, she who had removed three decades worth of stains immeasurable in number, type and complexity plopped her rag in her bucket and shuffled back to her laundromat. The ragtag group who had stood around watching breathed a collective sigh. There was a great defeat in that shrug. It seemed to confirm at last the failure of the old ways, the peaceful village, the secret family recipes and elbow grease and the wisdom of age, fallen down against that murky intrusion on the wall none asked for and none could now be rid of.

Thanks user
If you could check out mine would be nice

I like it. Feels short though. Is there more to this?

Yeah it's a short story that I'm mmaking into a poem. So this the poem is halfway done. I just wanted to know how is it going so far

>a little too long to post in one go, so here's 1/2

"I don't really know what to say, man. I've never prayed. But of course you know that, if you're real. I've never believed in any heaven or hell or whatever the fuck all the other names are, but I figured I'd do this, just in case."

The man peered down at the revolver in his hands, almost sparkling under the moonlight. The baritone harmony of wind hushed through the trees, accompanied by the melody of insects steadily chirping. He took a drag off his cigarette, and continued.

"Of course there's a lot of shit I'd have like to've done. I'd've liked to not be so prone to leaving everything to chance, without even making an effort to be straight-forward in my decisions. I'd've overall liked to have some sense of purpose, too. A lasting love wouldn't've been too bad, either."

The man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a single bullet, and proceeded to load it into the gun. He spun the cylinder and raised it to his head.

"If you're real...give me a sign, man. Or whatever, just do your thing."

He pulled the trigger, and the sound echoed through the hills. Except it wasn't the gun. Close by there was a sound of peeling tires, immediately followed by a loud crash.

The chirping of insects disappeared. And for a moment, the man felt something. He snubbed out his smoke, and ran towards the source of the sound, and he knew deep down that this was his sign. There really was a god, he thought. Everything was going to be fine. Everything was going to make sense, and years away he was going to look back on this night and revel in how everything suddenly clicked, and how close he was to not knowing the true beauty of life and throwing it all away.

When he finally arrived to the source, there was only the sound of the radio playing some pop song he didn't recognize.

The car was crushed, wrapped around a tree.

He ran up to it, heart pounding. He clasped his hands to the side of his face as he pressed against the window, gazing in.

Dead.

It was probably a woman, when it was alive. Wet chunks of brain and innards were splayed and sprayed within the interior, with a symmetrical splatter stretching over the windows.

>2/2

Once again, the man felt empty. This was more than likely due to what he saw in the backseat.

"How the fuck does that...even happen..." he muttered to himself.

There must've been a small, dense object in the car that perfectly bounced around to hit it just right. Just right, right at the top of the head through the soft spot, pressing into the brain with such force that the eyes were popped out, with a trickle of blood running down from each lifeless socket.

The man wandered back to where he was before, solely kept company by the sound of wind that was noticeably colder now.

He looked up at the stars, and a vibration in his throat began an attempt to summon words, but he immediately stopped. Once again, he spun the cylinder of the revolver, and even the wind died down, leaving him alone in an absolute, serene silence.

He pulled the trigger, and the shot was louder than the crash.

As soon as the echo disappeared into the distance, the wind and insects once again began their song.

He didn't say the writing was bad. It's not. I enjoyed the prose itself, it's just fucking boring. Stop being such a defeatist and listen to what user said. The subject, or "setting", is boring. People have read the "high school angst," and the "college grad anxiety," story about half a million times. It gets tiresome, especially in these crit threads where it seems to be a solid half of the content posted. Push your boundaries and apply whatever experience you're trying to convey to something outside of what amounts to "my diary desu." You're better than that.

Like outside the 4 walls, everything too was coated with a fine layer of dust, collecting on rims and edges. Everything in stasis, dead yet so lively with signs of human habitation. I sat down on the chair and ran my finger across the dust-blotted screen, opening up a clear path of gleam like refreshing a sand drawing, warm, staticky, smelling of electrons. I tried the chunky buttons from left to right, each responding with clumsy, audible clicks.

‘click’

The screen fired up.

Fluorescents stabilized and backlight warmed as colors bled into empty silhouettes, filling them full into icons sturdy and firm, all standing orderly in columns, ready for their next command in a sea of copper rust, the teal of seal — lone misfit from the original 16 HTML, a color so bizarre yet so welcoming, waiting patiently, unchanged for my eventual return, my return to my childish wonders, in the personal library at gramps, surrounded by shelves and domed by skylight, wherein I swang in a vintage Poäng, a globe bar on my side that beckons occasional peeks inside the Mercator, on the table Army Men scattered cryogenized mid-action from their respective eras, booted up gramp’s desktop and sat entranced at the default background waiting for startup. Start menu with paper-fan-like collapsible directories unfolded countless wishes as I picked my pastime, to doodle in Paint, to minesweep in great strides with suicidal courage, to play Hearts without knowing the rules, where’s the bitch, how would I know if I dealt with probability?

I clicked and inspected each taskbar with no aim nor reason, denting them into concaves. Windows popped up and then minimized in my meanderings. Programs forgotten, unfamiliar. One caught my eye.

Dialog boxes, character sprites, generic backgrounds. I knew what I got myself into.
I’ve played one before.
We all did.

>I should probably become a Marxist, but I was too banal to read him.

Powerful. I've never heard banal used in this context, so this sentence offers a very unique experience.

>He made mediocre films soaked with piffle, and pretension.

The comma makes me think that something more is coming - that there will be some sort of climax. But there is none. Just 'and pretension'. This artfully mirrors how you felt about Paul Thomas Anderson movies. All of us, we the readers and you the author, expected more but went away with less.

Exceptional.

I had sex with my wife of thirteen years today and it wasn't a very pleasant experience. As she was taking off her clothes I asked if she would hate herself in the morning to which she replied, hiding away the tears, "No I hate myself now".

Our lovemaking was uncomfortable as my beloved had fixed her eyes on the ceiling as I plunged deep inside her. I finished in five minutes.

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newpages.com

The Wall

The wall surrounding them they never saw;
The angels, often. Angels were as common
As birds or butterflies, but looked more human.
As long as the wings were furled, they felt no awe.
Beasts, too, were friendly. They could find no flaw
In all of Eden: this was the first omen.
The second was the dream which woke the woman.
She dreamed she saw the lion sharpen his claw.
As for the fruit, it had no taste at all.
They had been warned of what was bound to happen.
They had been told of something called the world.
They had been told and told about the wall.
They saw it now; the gate was standing open.
As they advanced, the giant wings unfurled.

Your writing is shit, please dont ever write again.

What about it is bad?

ook

This is really good desu

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what font is this. im using it forever. its fuckin beautiful

I like it, but the dialogue you put in the mouth of the father is highly eccentric. Make sure the actual character of the father is fleshed out in such a way that would make it sound believable for him to say stuff like that. What's his background supposed to be? What does he do for a living? Actually, I really like your writing. Also make sure you make the mother's character believable and fitting to the husband. What kind of woman marries an eccentric like that? Why? These are questions you should settle.

Too ugly, too derivative, too awful, too skinny, too fat, too Bukowski.

How the fuck is it Bukowski

You've been waiting all day for my answer haven't you? What I mean is that your style is way too vulgar, quit it or don't write anymore.

How is it vulgar? Explain so I can improve

First Chapter of a novella I'm writing. I'd appreciate any and all critique, but I'd like to know if y'all think it's strong enough to serve as an opening. I'm on the fence about it but I've been known to sweat non-issues.

pastebin.com/uJYMnWZA

Howth finished off polishing his gun. A glock 17. He was proud of it. He polished it every day, oiled it, and kept it in pristine condition. The gun looked brand new, indistinguishable from one straight off the production line, apart from 2 small etches on the handle. The etches were intentional.

Howth motioned towards the first one. “This one got too cocky. I can normally stand a Muslim, but this one got too cocky, abusing our generous welfare system, and he paid the price”

He moved on to the next one.

“This one threatened me. He was drunk. I don’t drink, as it is a toxin and damages the mind. Varg teaches of the dangers of alcohol, and I seek to emulate the life of Varg in many ways.”

Howth took out a small sharp blade. At this point I noticed blood on his hands.

“As for this one, no real reason. I felt in a bad mood watching the assault on Europa from its enemies, and no black is safe from my wrath when I am enraged.” He dug hard into the gun, adding a third etch.

Also, I have posted several crits in this thread already but in the nature of maintaining neutrality I don't like to link them to my own request. Not that I'm implying that someone on Yea Forums would ever let personal emotions color response. That would never happen.

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If you want him to polish a gun it should probably be something that's not matte black. A good ol' Fuddy Five 1911, possibly nickel-plated, would be a solid choice, especially for some meme-tier villain. Wood grips would still allow for etches. Go with an old Kimber, from when the name used to mean something.

Wrote this today, fairly new writer but let me know what you think. this would be a intro to a novel about betray friendship/ youth and all that jazz.

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Somehow worse than Op's

yall still suck lmao

ROfl how so?, Tried to run with the edgy vibe

It's incoherent and feels very rushed

post yours, tripfag

Very true I wrote it for this thread to get a idea of my writing. If took my time and thought more before I wrote I probably would have a more genuine product.

no. since im being a cunt no one will treat like if i had posted it otherwise and also i dont trust this board to give critique

What in the hell did you type this on? It's basically unreadable.
Or you could just not be a pussy.

I'll give you a sincere critique if you give me one ("yall still suck lmao" is a pretty lackluster critique). This is mine

Take time out your pathetic day of shitposting and actually critique your own then you self absorbed mong

i suck too lmao also i posted this before

The fat, happy boy squealed at his father's return from work: in his hands was a bag from the toy store. This was not an uncommon occurence in the home of Amon Yates. With a brief hug the fat, happy boy seized the bag from his father. Inside was a model reproduction of a space shuttle alongside a model reproduction of the astronaut. The fat, happy boy rushed to his sandbox to open this present. All his energy had been devoted to whatever study of space travel he was capable of: this shuttle would fit comfortably alongside his lunar rover, several antiquated space ship models, and many astronauts. When he was angry he would break the arms of the astronauts his loving father had purchased to make his son happy. Then his father would try, usually in vain, to repair the broken gift he had gave. His son would assure him that it was alright, that he felt terribly, and return to amusing himself with the other gifts he had received. He had already seen the hurt in his father's eyes. His father would not let him play with the other boys his age; his mother agreed that they were a corrupting influence, and compensated by devoting herself to the keeping of him and her home. The fat, happy boy had developed a complex space program already by the time he was finished with elementary school. He once attempted bottle rockets, but did not find the effort to produce the total satisfaction that his space program brought him. The scientists and ground crew came and went unceasingly, while the space men would enter into rockets and watch over the night sky. His father would never cease to bring him more gifts until he entered high school. But the fat, happy boy was careless and would frequently break them, or else leave them to be broken, and look into his father's eyes for the recognition of betrayal and futility and rejection. By highschool the fat, happy boy had lost his desire to play with the others; he did not understand them, and they certainly could not understand him. He would have been sad, but fat, happy boys do not deserve the recompense of sorrow. At school he would flaunt the expensive clothing his parents could afford. A look of fleetingly satisfied insecurity could be seen when he exited and entered his mother's British sedan. All the teachers admired their fat, happy boy. The fat, happy boy eventually forgot his desire to play with the other boys, and his father no longer needed to be forgiven, for he had done what was best. The fat, happy boy was to follow in his steps and lead the company, though not until several lengthy discussions with his father persuaded him to enter business instead of astronomy. The fat, happy boy never realized that his space program had been a fantasy detached from any reality and that his understanding of rockets never surpassed what a preschooler was capable of.

goddamnit will at least one of you recalcitrant rapscallions stop for a sec and critique this prompt i responded to in this thread???

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It was in word i dont know what the fuck that is, but the other is notepad so ill copy pasta it and repost

The look of fatness, and happiness, was fixed permanently on the boy's face when he was shot dead during the first night of the uprising while admiring a model rocket in the encyclopedia his father had purchased for him.
way too many commas, boring plot. no one gives a shit about what gets your rocks off

Post poetry and i will rate

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Didn't even notice someone responded to my prompt. I like the direction you took with it, not what I was expecting. Over all, you show decent writing ability. Work on some of your descriptions. e.g.
>almost sparkling
how does someting *almost* sparkle? i don't even know what to picture here
>hushed
doesn't really go with baritone, something hushed is quiet but sort of sharp like a whisper.
>steadily chirping
steadily sounds awkward

I could keep going with such examples, but those are quibbles that further rereading and editing of your own stuff will find and fix. The whole suicidal russian roulette thing was pretty cliche, but you told the story well. Your pacing and tension is good.

fuck yeah, thanks man. i was the guy you responded to in the first place, i wrote it in one go, so you're totally right about taking the time to iron out the linguistic oddities and mishaps throughout the story. My grandpa tells me that the only way you can get better at shooting a gun is a pile of empty shells. That being said, I can only hope to get better as I continue to write.

Once there was a cat.
He lay quietly on his mat,
Waiting to see what would
Next make him do all he could
To keep warm and comfy.
And then there came a great big numpty.

Breaking through the window,
Smashing it with his elbow,
The intruder intended the cat surprise,
But the cat instead acted to the intruder's demise.
He jumped to the man's throat
And blood dressed him in a crimson coat.

So the cat ate the man
And all had gone to plan.
Now all was done
And so was the fun
Cat Sat on his mat.
Once again
He had slain.

Life lost,
Life sustained;
At what cost
Had he gained?

This is very, very raw. You need to start by going through each sentence and fixing your basic mistakes, then go back through and fix the narrative. Here's a rule of thumb: when you do raw, fly-from-your-fingertips writing, it should remain personal. It's your rough draft, your soul poured onto a screen. After you do that, take a break and then come back and get to work. You've poured out your passions, now crack your knuckles and tighten that baby up. Once you get it to a point where you can't see anything else that you want to change, then you have your first draft. That's what you post for critique. In the current state, your excerpt is pretty much impossible to critique.

Thanks that was insightful, I'll have to write more. What would you recommend starting off writing?
I've only really made short excerpts like that.

What about me? OP

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Write whatever man, it doesn't really matter. Take an idea you have, plot it out, then write it out. It'll be shit until it's not. Read a lot too.
Nothing that hasn't already been said. There's a lot of little issues that need to be fixed and that you'll pick up on after some revisions. It is boring. The prose is adequate, even good in some places, but it stutters here and there and honestly reads like ESL. If you want it to be a critique of the self-defeatist then it might be worth trying out 3rd person because right now it feels like a self-insert. I'll be honest with you, I'm personally worn completely out on reading about young men's angst; it's such a common theme. If we're supposed to see this person as a lame ass sad sack then it would help not to be inside their head. That's about all I can offer aside from a horse bump.

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Polite self-bump.

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Pulling you along we would cross the little bridge over the creek, rushing forcefully in the swell of three days' ceaseless drizzling. "Not much further!" I would say as we entered the damp cavern of the overpass, where the creek runs beneath and the lanes hold the sky away and everything smells damp and the gravel next to an abandoned piece of furniture is sifted by tires and holds a pleasant shape like scattered gemstones as they gleam in the light of a solitary street lamp unto the darkness of underneath, and the stream besides carries a light spray along, arterial, lymphatic vein of an earth awash in a secret life. How like a lung beneath the overpass will be! Nearly running we catch its breath and see the vapor it exhales in the torrented air of the lone sedan, foretold in the wet roll of its tires, has come to break apart the stillness of our solitude and flash headlights everywhere, a great theater and audience of driver, we run like rats to the safety of the sidewalk covered by a little layer of even mud spread like apple butter by a gentle flood.

The car will fade away, its radio music will return to the far off well spring exeunt. A brief pause, we look at one another in the repose of the time between times. Then we will hear the church bell ring far off, and I will say in haste that "we must go now!" for there is no time. The little winding footpath beyond will carry us past the guttered rocks of the inclined road beyond the trees panning thick and darker and darker until at last we see a bench, and sit quietly. And then I will point an outsretched finger upwards at a tree, and you will strain your eyes leaping from sillohuete to shapely shadowed branch, seeing owl like things. "Where?" you will ask. Calmly I "shhhh" and coaxing up the buttery still of the night prepare in diminuendo the words of Nature herself when at last she declares in the wise cracks of her viceroy:

Hoot-hoot.

I think my writing is alright, I just don't know if anyone would care about the character's (my) experience with chronic panic attacks.

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It's nicely written, but is an overplayed trope. The world is hard, he's depressed. Grow up. Try and channel those emotions through other characters and situations to help resolve your own problems or switch to third person.

You didn't spell a single word correctly, and some of your letters have weird squiggles above them. 2/10. Very disappointing.

Penguincel?

It's really like the part of a book you would like to read without paying attention.

Slaves to the flesh;
To the mundane figure of a faceless cut
Not more than merely pidgeons,
Following the baker
right into the stove.

Like grapping an apple
From the smallest tree,
Is the loving with no love
Summoned with no spell;
just making a wish.

THE WOMAN WITH A POEM ON HER BACK

SHE ASKS: WHY MUST I WHISPER?
WHY DOES MY POETRY
HAVE TO FLAY ME?

I CAN'T STRUT
FLAUNTING RILEY'S TWILIT CURTAINS:
I DON'T WRITE
WISPILY UNCAPITALISED AND
INFORMAL; MY WORDS SHOULD NOT BE
PAINTED ON MY FACE

MY TITLES WILL NOT LIVE IN PARENTHESIS.
THEY WILL NOT SIT COMFORTABLY
AND LET THEMSELVES BE COMFORTABLY GOBBLED.
MY POETRY DOES ELASTIC SPLITS BETWEEN CANONS
AND DIVES INTO THE CLAYEY QUARRIES
OF LARKIN AND HILL

In frame was a public bathroom outlined by neat straights and jagged slants. A row of urinals lined in parallel with toilet partitions, walls panelled with commercial white, floor in ceramic, a scene that’s stereotypical of any public bathroom. Lines of exposition marqueed then faded away, sputtering Japanese runes, the context I could grasp somehow by reading the Kanji, but I’m not a fan of delving into stories already started.

Endless text floated away while I stared dumbfoundedly at the background, at the delicately crafted pixels, every one hand-picked and mastered, colorful like mosaic, studded with digital tesserae. Our brief romance with primary colors in happenstance, sparked by compensation for unavailability, as auteurs racked their brains and scrambled to emulate the real, employing the most rudimentary, stringing together dots and dabs, by stint and by skint, vying for something closer by all means necessary, with devious ways to trick our flawed sensories, that relies on our predisposition to smooth and polish imperfections; imperfections coming to terms with its own fundamental flaws, offshooting into something genuine and sublime. It was the long lost era when we still came up ways to accommodate limitations of hardware, to make do with rough guerilla tactics, instead of us pursuing in the cold trails of their untrammeled advances, to recapture technological runaway, to curtail its unimpeded exponential growth, conceptualizing, reformatting techniques and logic forms that befits its evolution.

The public bathroom was illuminated through an open window, whence halftones circled outwards, every concentric layer measuring out different levels of shading, big dots begetting little ones, some overlaid, criss-crossing one another sprouting new patterns, the moiré effect, with several interlaid tones retouched, each tilted at a slightly different angle, slightly different color, intensifying and diminishing in consonance and dissonance, fabricating variation out of uniformity, assembling structure out of nothingness.

The scene shifted.

My perspective was then brought to an empty classroom, door sliding open and closed with stock sound effects. Character sprites like cookie cutouts appeared. There was dialog. A high school girl in seifuku, what else could I expect? Hairdo in gel-hardened pieces assembled like toupée, exaggerated eyes, a tick and a mark sad excuses for facial features. Actions confined to only a selected few as she gesticulated choppily, her expressions vacillating between a sad, gloomy look and a demure smile, programmed to alternate between the two, a twitching of eyebrows and an occasional blink the only exceptions.

I could tell from her voice that she spoke in a very courtly manner. Polite, yet timid, turned sad as the dialogue became more and more emotional, her voice cracking and her face contorted, brows furrowing.

Tears welled up in her eyes. She turned away from my face. Golden sunset cloaked both of us as she walked away in her steady gait, the screen documented her every step frame by frame, until she stopped at the windows and stood. She raised her hand and unlocked the windows, her movements jerky, onion-skinning in between frames. Wind bellowed and curtains billowed, untidying her hair, scraps of paper flew across the room. Placing both her hands on the window sill, she lifted her entire body, throwing one leg across, fraction by fraction. Straddling the sill, with a one last gaze towards me, she plunged.

PSG sound effects. Glitching farts.

Door slid open and closed.

Empty corridor.
—Zzzzppppuuuutttt—
—Zzzzppppuuuutttt—
—Zzzzppppuuuutttt—
Chiptune footsteps.

What exactly is this meant to be?

My focus was interrupted by a gentle knock on the door. That must’ve been her. Thus came my usual ordeal; my pulse sped up, my eyes widened ever slightly, my neck stiffened and I was more alert than comfortable. I stood up out of my chair, scraping it backwards against the ground, and made my way to the door before pulling it open. Standing there under the door frame was a small figure with delicate blue eyes sparkling out of a soft, pale face. Her light brown hair flowed down to her shoulders and rested upon her olive green jacket. Her radiance caught me off guard. “Are you Cody?” she asked through fresh white teeth. Heart beating even faster than before, body even stiffer now, I hesitated, struggling internally over simple conversation. “Yeah that’s me, you must be James’s friend?” I said. She stuck her hand out, smiling the whole time. “Yup Cassie, nice to meet you,” I took her cool hand and shook it firmly, hoping to somehow impress her with my casual strength.

meant to simulate Japanese visual novels from the 90s
how some of it feels much like a fever dream
also detailed descriptions of the allures of 90s pixel art, more coming up
is part 1 I forgot to label

I didn't like. It was crammed with too much stuff whilst simultaneously not having a point to it - if I am slogging through such cramped description, there should be some pace to it to spur me onward. It reads like just a piece of writing for writing's sake, which is fine for you but unenjoyable for an audience to read

I also wrote thisWhat do you think of it?
If it puts you off the same way there must be something wrong with my writing fundamentally

This is better, but again, what are you writing for? I don't get a sense of pace; if you're writing just to tool around and practice then that's understandable. But as a reader, it is difficult when there is no joy or urgency or point to the work. It's a problem with a lot of writing on here as it's difficult to achieve when just practising. Don't be too hard on yourself. Just think
>why am I writing this
>where is it going

Yes. I am a genius, I know.

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thank you user
first time writer, just testing the waters a bit and experimenting
so far the process is just mostly me pouring empty thoughts out of my head without any plot
I think of a topic and quickly hop on to another one
I'll keep practicing, again, thanks!

No problem! It makes sense if it was just you pouring out your thoughts - get a bit of direction in there and it will improve your writing to no end. Pick a setting you're passionate about and go with it.
Good luck!

Friendly protip to all the aspiring authors ITT: if you begin your story with a fucking landscape description, I drop your garbage right there.
Examples
I don't give a shit about sunniness of the Sun and skyness of the sky.

>triggered by a two sentence """landscape"""" description about some streetlamps

>Went out drinking last night. Saw a couple of broads stacked along the countertop, sent a couple of hellos their way. No interest, none coming my way at least. Finally a tall one approached me – as a prank, it turned out. Dejected, jaded from all the rudeness I felt as if in a slump. Wondered if my life held any course of action that can be charted out and followed through. Did I have a sense of humor or a shred of intelligence that could be sewn into a larger tapestry. Wield it like a banner and watch the titties sway forth. It all rang false except for the lack of agency made manifest. My thoughts went back, as they often do, towards Napoleon. Emperor, I love you. And I wished I could be you, turning the world arse up and making it a better place after all the heads on spikes stopped their ghastly chatter. I am not a righteous person, nor do I pretend to be one; mass burial of plebeians under the hooves of my horses would do nothing but cheer me up. Yet, I linger at the outskirts of this watering hole, impotent. Moderating a discussion I cannot participate in.

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I like this, it's very good. Where does it go?

It's just a rewrite of OP's first paragraph. Nowhere.

very good work. i would actually like to see the rest.

have some minor technical points i'd like to bring up

"also slightly haunted" breaks the tone, my suggestion is to remove the qualifiers.

"as a way to disguise" instead of "by way of disguising", and i'm not sure why he would need to disguise his complete lack of interest. i'd cross it out wholesale but at least cross out "complete," it's too much.

"was adept at finding ways to occupy myself in some wholly passionate direction" is clumsy and breaks tone (especially "occupy myself IN some WHOLLY passionate direction"). can't think of something better but something like "...I could always find ways to passionately apply myself, and took no regard as to whether my passion was rented or not," is my suggestion.

all in all, you have very successfully imitated an older style with only minor wobbles which dispel the illusion. you've also got an interesting idea, with the family and the father's philosophy. the sketch of this character i like very much as well.

Oh, oops. That'll teach me for always skipping the OP!

seriously though, does anyone know the font?

Lmfao, I like under the volcano too

i think it's just garamond (the font used for every book)

Biweekly catharsis gleaned from clean plates.
Outward homogeny is the commodity praised
By the dearest of currencies.
Despite the value of the straight
Many there can be no comedy without
The eccentricities of
One who values inward chaos.
He soothes himself, massages
In to comprehensive conformity.

Hope I'm not too late,

Irritably, Slouch mounted the foot of Byron’s bed, sustaining himself aloft arms spread eagle, pantomiming a dramatic balancing act dancing between Byron’s combative blanketed feet. “You” – pause between hops – “owe” – “me” - “money” – “Stop.” Byron then and now, “Slouch, fuck.” Finally, realizing the totality of that which opposed him – and the futility of resistance[c] – [CD1] Byron cast aside the blanket: apathetically he regarded Slouch, as if his feelings on the matter were still undecided, or at least confused: “Okay, I’m up” peering left – towards the window – and right – towards the clock – “The sun and clock’ll tell you the same thing” said Slouch. “Was never a boy scout” (he had decided upon irritability), gazing with antipathy at Slouch, and then past him, at his mantle of athletics trophies won when he was younger. Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair[d]! “I’m up” Byron growled, “I’m up” to which Slouch answered with a shrill, skeptical whistle, dismounting with gusto and departing.

Byron pulled the blanket back over his head. His right foot was colder than his left.

I like where you're going with this thematically (or at least I think I do) but I don't think the flow is very good.

Minor changes from previous crit. First of many to come

Envelope of darkness,
dry earth,
devoid of love,
bound his reign,
marked , with the bodies of the slain,

The dead, asleep at their graves,
Their stories, sewn at the very end,
as the dark lord consumed, the brave fell,
No one left to listen, nor anyone left to tell

It was the prophecy,
Which Arrested the wave,
Stood against the hail,
You know who will be conquered,
The professor exclaimed,

His words came true,
Winter ceased, spring began

Now we will grow,
Around the symbol of light,
The boy who lived,
The darkness which died

Is this about Harry Potter?

After rereading it: it is about Harry Potter. Bait better brah

This is really bad, a part of me hopes the experiences either get surreal or the misery becomes tastier. Also, don't get into the habit of mentioning authors or works in your writing, it says too much about you, the writer, and I'm not sure the readers can relate to these specifics.

Yes it is. It is not a bait. I am writing a right wing vs left wing in hp universe.

how do i translate my own pieces to make them sound smooth in English? last time i did i translated it nearly verbatim, with punctuation almost unchanged, and user pointed that out.

well don't do it verbatim :)

don't just translate words, translate sentences.

good, except for the startled poultry part

Based retard

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really stilted and full of grammatical errors. you should probably learn english properly before you write fiction in english.

your first 2 sentences are both multiple adjectives followed by a similie. its boring, trivial, monotonous, like a dry piece of cereal. terrible and dull, like a piece of wallpaper.
you take us from these absolutely braindead descriptions to the phrase 'inured completely to all climactic conditions through years of deliberate exposure and mastery' which is absurdly technical. Also, why is your first person narrator describing the breeze as 'bitingly cold' if they can't feel how cold it is?

delete it all and start again, and when you write it again try and actually think about who your first person narrator is and how they perceive their environment, your prose has absolutely no character to it at all at the minute. When you rewrite it, DONT put a fucking adjective before every noun and DONT keep repeating words and resorting to fucking similes. Please think when you write phrases like 'dark alley' —am i participating in a mind numbing cliche? will the phrase 'dark alley' even register in the reader's brain or will it be the mental equivalent of popcorn? does the reader already fucking know the alley is dark?

its nice. start is a bit jerky, but I assume its intentional.

reads like you read the opening of ulysses and then gave up on doing anything original

I don't see much similarities, but I appreciate the comparison

writing feels cringy af
how do i get over this?

You're a funny bastard. I love it.

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i wrote this the other day for st. george

Be assured, the dragon is not dead.
And perhaps one day soon
He'll raise his evil head.

Between moon and moon
He writes fierce poems of his past,
And stamps to mark the tune.

Who knows that certitude can't last,
It must fall away in time.
No gate is fast, no door is fast.

This was given to George as the end of something important.
That age-established brooks run dry:
For the dragon will not die.

kek
Great, 10/10. Keep it up, you'll be published soon.

Lmao he thinks you get over it

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your grammar is absolutely horrendous

be funny

From the top of the hill, it seemed as if the road below proceeded not to, but under the capitol, seeming almost like a holy site from this point, an iconic image of the city, an iconic neighborhood, and an iconic house. Icons, icons, icons. He was a living icon. Not in the sense of being well-known, but in a very literal sense of being simply a symbol, a living breathing creature of God™ who took on whatever meaning you or whoever wanted to attribute to him. In his entire life that he could remember, he'd never once told a full truth. Maybe a half truth here and there, but no one even knew his real name, despite the fact he'd lived here in City A for years now.
"Hey Diver, man, how's it goin?"
That was his nickname around here, Diver, because he once dove into the crowd at a show, at the exact wrong moment when everybody was rearranging to get closer to their loved ones or further away from people they had previously loved, which of course led to him falling directly onto the hardwood floor, the floor in turn collapsing, now a historic event. As far as nicknames go, especially for those who have abandoned any other name given to them, this one was deserved. The reminder today came from one Brando Mureley, a standard punk (as in, not too much crust, but not so little as to be unnoticeable) who Diver, he guesses, probably talks to more than most other people in the area.
"How'd your job interview go?"
"I'm headed out in just a few," he says, and then immediately leaves. Half truths. Half of one. Approaching zero. Cut the truth in half, again and again and again and again. Asymptotally the truth.
It was a strange time of day to conduct a job interview; like, 9:30 p.m. strange. He headed downtown by way of some driving service (oh you know the one) and stopped at the corner of yet another local punk venue, this one doubling also as a bar (what a brilliant idea, and you say it's not caught on...?). Looking at his GPS, Diver heads south towards the river through a secondary river, almost a mirror of the first, of people on dates, going to take pictures of their food at one of those places you go to take pictures of food (restaurant?), exploring bookstores, movie stores, movies-based-on-books stores (and the recently closed books-based-on-movies store, repurposed into a YouTube-series-based-on-the-Dead-Sea-Scrolls-store). He finally comes to the end, and notices that everyone has suddenly disappeared, as if forewarned by the local oracle about a meeting that carried too much significance for the faint of heart to handle. Nobody knows they're faint of heart until their heart faints, but it's really not something you should take too many risks about. At the end of the street, three identical buildings. No address readily visible. Mustering up as much psychic power as he could (which was none, but he did manage to get a nice flow of coincidence going), he enters the building to his right and goes up the elevator.

How's this?

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i want to convey feelings of embarrassment and general shitiness, but it just comes off as dude weed lmao. any suggestions?

it jumps around a lot and doesnt describe much. if the club and napoleon both appear earlier in your piece its all good but if not, definitely explain them.

curious to see where this goes, great description and an interesting premise

wattpad fanfiction

okay as far as prose go, but its just too short to convey any themes well. flesh it out more and be less direct with the themes.

give a hint of what the narrator sees down in the basement. is the father doing something that makes him have to move for some reason, or is he a fuckup who tells himself moving will be a new beginning?

teen angst/10

it reads like a popular science book with a plot

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>curious to see where this goes, great description and an interesting premise
Thank you, man. Believe me, it definitely doesn't go where you would expect. I got some big surprises up my sleeve with that story, but not the cheesy plot twist kind. I'll give the sample you posted a look tomorrow morning before work, and offer some critique. If you have any more input on what I can do to improve my writing I would appreciate it for sure.

I don't know if this is good or bad I have't written in forever and am trying to find my weaknesses.

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it's just a difficult dilemma about preserving your style vs making it sound better. guess i'll translate one of my notes now

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Oh lonely shopping cart
Out in these fields
Probably once quite full
Nownothing to yield

From burgiosie to bum
You begin your venture
From the sears parking lot
You forfeit your tenure

Don't blame yourself
Or your defective wheel
You'll be fixed by the homeless
They'll even polish your steel

Tis the woes of your life
But keep a happy heart
For those lonely wandering eyes
Oh lonely shopping cart

If pic related is your writing, I strongly advice you to go to the closest bridge and jump, not everybody can be a writer just because they have time, asshole.

english ain't your first language, right? Disgusting spic.

Damn, bro. That's a pretty harsh critique. I actually appreciate that. What would make the prose more interesting in your view? My first person narrator is supposed to be a very stiff, cold, proud, controlling, even ruthless sort of person so I feel like the prose suits him.

I couldn't get past "oh lonely shopping cart". What a HILARIOUS way to start a poem!

"For us, it happened at our wedding, we were celebrating I remember. Loud cheering crowd crowing like black death, though it felt like heaven singing at the time. But it was ominous, we just didn't realize. When we did, it was over. They had come, rather, they had showed. The guest of honor."

Critique

it's ok. I don't really have a problem with it. It's the same kind of feeling as the opening to Donna Tartt's the Secret History. You might want to have a look at that for inspiration.

Remove the first stanza entirely and the poem is significantly better.

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The time goes by.

My time and memory are broken and in a fragmented, pointed form. sometimes I get caught in a vague anxiety of them flying towards to me. I don't know when it started to be wrong but it's defined as a specific time position and gnawing my consciousness.

Painful memories will make me stronger. Some people drop those kind of insipid words weakly and walk away from myself. I tried hard to catch them but my unconsciousness flounders for survival and makes quiet noises.

I don't know will it be came true. but the only thing that I can say I know is, It's digging a fleeting pit ─ like a bird that can't fly is staring out of its cage.

The open pit is digged deep and wide and the soil for filling was washed away somewhere. now the remaining traces will slowly fill up with rain and fallen leaves and show to myself and others with emphasis.

I've been walking.

There's no destination. at this time of daybreak when even the elderly who come to drink mineral water are sleeping. wiping away something covering my whole face which I don't know it's sweat or tears with back of my hand. and I'm walking.

Neo-China reaches its newfound destination.
There was a screaming which came across the stratosphere, unlike anything past or present. From all the way down there, in that insufferable smog and dreary toil, the Middle Kingdom ascended above the clouds. It was the first country that floated: satellites whirled around, red lights flashed,
[NI HAO]
[[I AM YOUR HEGEL TUTOR]]
[YOU CAN CALL ME KP3T7]
[[[PLEASE OPEN YOUR PHENOMENOLOGY OF SPIRIT TO THE PREFACE]]]
[[[[SOME COMMENTARY FOR SECTION ONE: JACQUES DERRIDA, A FRENCH PHILOSOPHY FROM THE LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY, HAS SPOKEN ABOUT THE IMPOSSIBILITY OF HEGEL’S PREFACE. IN IT, THE GERMAN PHILOSOPHER TALKS OF THE IMPOSSIBILITY OF PREFACING A WORK OF PHILOSOPHY]]]]
…
[[[[SECTION TWO: CONSIDER THIS PASSAGE – “THE BUD DISAPPEARS IN THE BURSTING-FORTH OF THE BLOSSOM, AND ONE MIGHT SAY THAT THE FORMER IS REFUTED BY THE LATTER; SIMILARLY, WHEN THE FRUIT APPEARS, THE BLOSSOM IS SHOWN UP IN ITS TURN AS A FALSE MANIFESTATION OF THE PLANT, AND THE FRUIT NOW EMERGES AS THE TRUTH OF IT INSTEAD” …. ]]]]
[[[[WE COMMUNISTS KNOW ALREADY WHAT HEGEL IS SAYING HERE. FIRST, WE NEED FEUDALISM, WHICH BEGETS CAPITALIM, THEN THIS BRINGS ABOUT SOCIALISM, AND FROM THERE, COMMUNISM IS SPAWNED. IT IS IN THIS LINK THAT SEEMINGLY DISPARATE THINGS CREATE UNITY. THAT IS, A SAMENESS, OR BIOLOGICAL WHOLE.]]]]
….

it is, but the narrator is supposed to suck at Spanish so his lines of dialogue are simple and not always grammatically correct

A method by which one may make meaning and root meaning, a method by which one may make the Dasein become its own meaning.
The pagan shamanistic Dasein was bound up to the immanent world, he would live by the elements and be bound by them in worship and all his considerations.
The root of this nature is man being subject to nature, that man’s very being and meaning is rooted in the Immanent world and his relations to it. This is a partially correct and partially incorrect view.
This view produced its antithesis, which finds its fruition in Platonism and in the transcendent divinity of especially abrahamicism (this is western centric, the dialectic moved faster to the late stage in the east which produced both benefits and drawbacks.)

In this view it is the transcendent and abstract that gives meaning to life, it is far off laws of logic, hidden spaces and powers, geometries and sciences. This root in transcendent meaning is the historical Power of the West.

This view was partially correct and partially incorrect.

The dialectic of the immanent nature focus and of the Higher laws focus produced a synthesis which said “meaning and being does not root in either this world or a higher realm of being and forms, rather it has no meaning for its meaning is not found anywhere” this is the emptiness and nothingness nature of the east (which we find also in the great mystics of the west and the greatest philosophers but not the common man.)

And this pure emptiness, this root of Being in a ground of non-being, this root of meaning in the meaningless is the child of the modern western philosophies,sciences and arts which technology has enforced.
There exists however a deeper level to the mystics of the east and west, a deeper level to the greatest philosophers which the common man and culture have not yet adapted to.

The True product of the dialectic of the immanent and the transcendent is a synthesis within the self.

The Great men of the Void World have said there is no meaning except to liberate others to the Void meaning and to further make their own meaning to fill the emptiness.

Here is there great mistake. They perceive the void as Empty when the Void is A-priori full.

I propose a man who roots the Meaning of his being within the very transcendent ego, his very Consciousness and this is itself already the substance of all that he experiences and thus is the true bedrock of the “meaning” of his being.

This is the mystery of the grand father and grand son being one. Of Ra Birthing Osiris to birth Horus, of El birthing Baal to birth El, of the Father producing the Mother to birth his son who is the father.
The consciousness is rooted in Being, but the man who conquers all roots his being within his consciousness. This is the ouroboric ground of Dasein, the ouroboric ground of being.

This man who roots his meaning in consciousness itself seeks not a certain aesthetic but instead unites himself to the fullness of all aesthetic, he seeks not a particular sensation, seeks not beauty or sorrow or horror but the totality of experience. This man does not craft his own experience inorganically for the examination of his own Two heavens, his own egos in their relation, his own analysis and reductions are the root of meaning to He. This man takes the best of the epicurean desire to embrace life and unites it with the stoic love of Reason, for it is by the turning of the dagger of Reason upon consciousness that one may cut away their own personal comprehension of all things.
This is the adamantine Ouroboric Ground, this is the unshakable ground, this is the ground which extends beyond Man! Ask the animals and nature! Do they seek meaning from the natural world? No! Do they seek meaning from the pure world of their thought? No! Do they seek meaning in the very lack of meaning? No! They have unified all of this into a pure mighty and erect edifice of Pure meaning, they are themselves their own meaning! They do not make meaning, they are themselves meaning.

Ask the ideas and thinking! Do they seek meaning from the natural world? No! Do they seek meaning from the pure world of their ideas? No! Do they seek meaning in the very lack of meaning? No! They have unified all of this into a pure mighty and erect edifice of Pure meaning, they are themselves their own meaning! They do not make meaning, they are themselves meaning.

In this regard even the very lack of meaning is itself a Meaning within the consciousness, even emptiness is a very quality via its lack of quality.
The many and the one thing are unified within the subject, as far as the conscious observer is involved he is himself the very totality of the multiplicity of sense perceptions and the very unity of mind. He is himself this organic Unify of unity and multiplicity. Go therefore and turn the dagger of Reason upon the conscious awareness and the all-pervading Sky-like nature of the True ego and from it will you find your unbreakable ground of pure Meaning.

I see the crystal raindrops fall
And the beauty of it all
Is when the sun comes shining through
To make those rainbows in my mind
When I think of you sometime
And I wanna spend some time with you.

Just the two of us.
We can make it if we try.
Just the two of us (just the two of us).
Just the two of us.
Building castles in the sky,
Just the two of us.
You and I.

Here's some flash fiction framed as a fictional journal entry.

It's fine. Bar some slightly sloppy punctuation there's nothing much wrong with it. It doesn't really stand out, though, and it's not really strong enough to make a good opening.

Some really nice imagery in the first verse. I like the echoing of the words "just the two of us" in the second verse as a subtle way to reveal that he's carrying on affairs with multiple women, each of whom thinks that it's just the two of them.

Attached: flash.jpg (797x499, 69K)

Bump

I would change need not an answer to doesn't need an answer and raced through johns mind to john thought

Honestly for future threads we should have these rules
>no posting without critiquing
>no half hearted critiquing
>all works should be attached with image or link unless they're really short
>no critiquing those rulebreakers

rules are gay, fuck rules.

Please never publish a book in sans-serif ever. It is such an eyesore to read. If I open up your book and see sans it goes right back on the shelf.

Yea Forums is entirely sans serif so shouldn't you say the same to everyone who posted prose in this thread not as an image

Paper is different than electronic displays. Extended reading is different than a paragraph or two on 5camel

Total honesty: I'm into it. The voice is interesting and kinda so self-indulgent that it horseshoes into being bold. I'd keep reading.

well isn't OP's png digital?

Final polite bump. I dont need an in-depth edit, just general feelings and impressions. Or hell if it's too long to post in one of these threads, tell me that.

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two immediate things. one, you never need as many commas as you think you need. two, trust no sentence over fifteen words long. three, this novella's riddled with cliches.

a good exercise: rewrite the first paragraph using only one/two syllable words. give yourself one comma every twenty words. cut out every cliche

...

It's a bid melodramatic, though somewhat gothic I guess. My main issue is with the meter: 5 syllables, 17 syllables... it prevents it flowing. Worse is that I don't know what's going on, it's very vague and I'm not convinced the author himself knows what he's getting at beyond some abstract images.

Can you expand on what cliches if you dont mind?

I don’t come here much. Is this a meme?

Sweet thanks

This man was tough, man. He fought like a man. He fucked like a man. He kissed like a man. He sweated and he worked; he paid his way and he always paid what was owed. He also kissed like a man; tender--well yes, of course he kissed tender--but never too tender. He kissed a man. Yeah, he kissed a man. What of it? And he kissed a man and he kissed and he kissed some more moremoremoremore and he kissed kissed kissed a man, mano-a-mano, boca-a-boca, sometimes boca-a-ano. He assuredly would have gone ano-a-ano if his buttocks weren’t so hard and unyielding. Soon after, they were married under God.

His husband Gerald had what seemed like an infinite amount of love to give; sometimes it seemed to the man that his husband loved every living thing, even the things that nobody else ever thought were worth loving. It was only natural that Gerald soon wanted a baby to love, and so began to look into adoption through reputable agencies. But the tough man tore up every adoption brochure his querido set in front of him and in a few months was pregnant as hell. That autumn he strode down to his workshop and homebirthed some kind of mutant. After passing through the man’s thick birthing tube and after it had taken its first life-affirming breath of O2 he choked the life out of it and dashed its small body against his dark mahogany workbench. Perfectly squared, level and sturdy; every dado, every dovetail and mortise-and-tenon, tongue-and-groove hand sawn, meticulously filed and carefully joined; all surfaces were expertly planed by a traditional oak-handled hand plane that felt solid and heavy in the hand, honed and sharpened over generations on a thick cow-leather strop and handed down to him by his father and his father’s father before him. Tastefully ebonized and then hand oiled with tung and natural linseed the smooth hard surface was as exquisite as it was useful. He took hold of the floppy thing by its feet for leverage and whipped its ruined body against the stalwart bench again. Gerald cried softly late into the night.

Here are two of my metaphysical dialogues:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~ MAGIQUE ~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

- Can I have a glass of water?
- Of course, which one? I've got regular and midnight.
- Midnight?
- Midnight water.
- What might that be?
- It's a hard thing to explain.
- Explain anyway.
- Have you ever woken up in the middle of the night?
- Many times.
- And during some of them, I assume you were thirsty?
- Always.
- Yes, and you got a drink of water to quench the thirst?
- Of course.
- What did that water taste like?
- It tasted amazing.
- Yes, amazing, that is what midnight water is.
- Water that tastes amazing?
- Feels like water you drink in the middle of the night.
- I guess I'll have a cup of that then.
- Wise choice
--------------------------------------------------------

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~ BIG LINT ~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

- Why are you doing that?
- Doing what?
- The thing you are doing now.
- Cleaning the vacuum?
- No, why are you putting all the lint in that bag?
- I need it.
- You need lint? For what?
- I need to dye it pink.
- Why do you need to dye the vacuum lint pink?
- I'll only tell you if you promise not to tattle.
- I promise.
- Well, I dye it pink and then glue it onto little branches I find on the way
home. I then sell it to the retarded children at school for meth, which I sell
to the dozen or so junkies that loiter behind our building.
- You sell it to retarded children for meth?
- And then I sell the meth. I got two thousand bucks now.
- Yes, and tell me, please, why do you not just sell the lint to the retarded
children for money in the first place?
- because the meth dealer gets to them early in the morning, way before
me. They buy it all up.
- I see.

Learn more about poetic metre

Cringe and bluepilled
Based and redpilled

This was extremely hard to read, but it might be due to me not knowing German.

I like it, the style. Reminds me of something I used to write (or will write, who knows).
What are the weird parenthesized bits supposed to be?

lol im fucking dying just from the first paragraph

ok, this is unironically good. keep writing i want to read more

Thanks senor.

Wow this is actually good

These suck but I like them a lot

Gar nicht schlecht Bernd, defintitv das beste Geschreibsel in diesem Faden. Lese gerade Cows von Matthew Stokoe, vielleicht deshalb das Wohlwollen gegenüber extremer edge.
Hast du noch mehr /10

Would read.

What a fucking tacky thing it was to be here, with him, this wrong-headed fuckface down on the pond’s edge with flashcards and backpacks, notebooks with pink and blue highlighters. It was inconceivable. So stupid. So fucking stupid of me to think this situation would be anything other than what it was right now, in this moment, the only word being “cringe,” nothing else written on the lines of this moment’s flashcard definition. And the fact that I was still here, not getting up to the parking lot past the trailhead and driving off, but instead lingering waiting for some moment of significant clarity on the subjects written in ink on stacks of notecards wrapped in pink rubberbands double-wrapped around on themselves, and I was like those notecards, doubled around, stuck in a foggy loop of circular conversation rotating on the axis of long-dead desires, floating wisps of ash from a fire that had burned out long ago.

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Bump

Ra

Diamond star system sublimating,
Burning the embers of the creation,
The souls of the stars see all
And emote in light.
In the fractal hearts of eminence,
Dwell spirits of the ancestors
Of the cosmic flux,
Perpetual in light.

Following death comes the necessary task of cleaning away the things of the recently deceased; returning library books, sorting out possessions, throwing away stray papers - it is especially traumatizing for the family when the room belongs to a sort of person who is not so organised or so disorganized that it is possible to separate the deceased from the room they lived in. 'He' was one of those sorts of people. Books arranged in neat stacks in convenient places; folded clothes waiting to be put away; a certain smell; an association already built between the room and its recent occupant; these and the recentness of the event allow the family to briefly forget why they are there, and the pain crashes in waves as they remember the purpose behind their task. The most offending object found was a birth certificate being used to fill out some government form. Nothing worse can be imagined for a mother in that moment than to discover, already in the room which was in every way her child's, the most concise description of the day and manner in which her child was borne from her into the world.

too much information too quickly. I would rewrite this with the same number of words, only about the girl dancing as a joke, which is the most interesting part. make the reader think something is going to happen, and then the punchline is her friends laughing at him

rip it apart, gentlemen

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there's no concept here. it's just puppy love. I know it's powerful to feel it at your age. but people don't actually want to read it, at least not without a strong concept behind it

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thanks. I deleted it so others wouldn't have to read it. Also, I'm 54.

I want to hear more about Ophelia's friend Agape.

I have re-written this passage several times. This is the shortest iteration, although the others aren't much longer.
Its meant to function as the beginning of my novel, but its giving me a lot of trouble.

Attached: the thing.png (961x386, 39K)

?

Attached: 6DD6BF92-A94E-49EB-B1B9-9FF910AD93D2.jpg (750x339, 38K)

Maybe you meant the sentence was clunky?

Instead it should be "With Opehlia's mouth agape, she couldn't muster..." ?

Attached: what-an-idiot.jpg (375x234, 49K)

what made me an idiot?

I was gonna make it a short story but decided i wanted to try make it a poem.

Every dreadful night,
After the milky and hypnotic whisper
of the lady dark
(Sssssss leap, ssssss leap)
The dreamer navigates through his sand-like
river of subconscious
Riding on the mighty ship of thought, Hunting whales of ego and windmills of delusion
Goes Sinbad The Dreamer following the sun.

Whirlwinds, full of fear and sand,
Drowned the hopeless vessel;
Buried in an island full of ocean, was our everlasting Captain
Lonely, broken, with no treasure, was the bandit of le mer.

Hiding hands, Australian pigeons;
Felt the dreamer warming calm,
Took big pieces of the ocean, making snowmen out of sand
Sculping hazlenuts and peaches, made the dreamer fantasize;
Of a mundane evil creature blowing kisses to no one.

Sleeplesss when was sleeping, worked his dreamer heart;
After every hide-and-seek game, of the father and his sons;
He made a little finger, he made a silky hand;
Shadows dancing in the fireside, restless dreamer and his sand.

A silhouette of a lover started to be seen,
A greek pot was her body,
And the dunes were on her lips,
Golden snake with wooden feathers, colossal as the world;
Containing the darkest window,
The void in every soul.

Was his will of her existing,
Idea free of the not-being,
Summoned creature in his head;
Whispers, earthquakes after ten,
Flowers growing on the stone
And the dunes were crashing on the shore.

Hopefully it isnt hot garbage

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Fuck you but thank you

Hey, thanks for the comment. I'm . That was an excerpt from a short story im working on using Google docs. The parenthetical stuff are editing notes from the original doc I didn't bother to remove before posting here.

Really enjoyed your midnight water piece by the way!

dropped after first 3 sentences.

Thanks

why?

first one and a half pages of a t i m e t r a v e l story i am writing

that's pretty interesting actually

Attached: wtnwr.png (1156x809, 115K)

I like it. Looks fun. Few small notes

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Calling the moon "her" is too much for me. It would work in a poem but not in prose.
Also, the change from the present indefinite tense to the present continuous tense from the first to the second sentence is awkward.
Third sentence is just bad

Thank you, I will try to fix those issues, and improve the writing

Meditation sensation
Blown about on a storm
Buried 'neath the earth
Poison shakes through my form

Vast expanse - black yellow red white!
Drawing forward with speed
Triangle of bright spots of green
Sea sick on a ship with vertigo

Scintilating tiling lights all shining
Blue bubbles in a black sea
Pentagon - snowflake fractal turning!

Siezing up - lungs corrupt
Pastel blue - translucent flower
All itchy - bottom to top
Burning of muscles don't stop

How to deal with a head on fire?
Familiar anxiety
Allergies, a head cold, house mold

Looking all around
3d surround
Floaters in the eye
Sparkles in the sky

Red river crosses black sands blowing
Text carry with them all green and ghostly glowing

Weeping crying, fall - falling apart
four sperm returning on fire revolving
Onions-face SCREAM - my own face dreaming
Underfoot a wrathful god
Jaw falling down and off

Spongy squishy pulled and squeezed
Crosses crossing crosses crossing crosses crossing crosses
Tesellating tiled with green and red squares

You start too many clauses off withthe word I. Which isn't altogether awful, at least you're using active voice, which helps with profluence.

I'm 22. Do I have any hope?

What does that even mean?

To become a good writer.

Of course there is you're still a baby for christ's sake. Buckle down and work your ass off if it's something you really want. You're gonna make it, but only if you want to.

Just don't go it alone, read texts on creative writing and tons of short stories.

aimlessly he wanders misbegotten paths
blindly trodden flat as if his eyes were methodically tied shut by each lash
only granted permission to scantly envision time collapse
panicking; stranded with the sand that drips inside the glass
each grain is like his sanity abandoning him while they splash
hes just an anachronistic random glitch in its biomass

thoughts?

So I know this is really short, but if anyone could give me some input I'd be really grateful.
What do you think the passage means? What is it talking about or describing?
Is it total shit? Anything.

niggas we aint getting paid you got to contribute some critique of your own before you go asking for us to critique you

this thread is the /lit equivalent of /b rekt.

Make my new asshole nice and pretty Yea Forums

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critique it please

I actually did already, yesterday before I made my original post.
I just wanted to add an addendum to my original post. I thought maybe I hadn't been clear in exactly why I wanted some criticism. I also thought maybe it would increase the visibility of my first post.
Maybe I was impatient.

See

Why is my prose so plain? It's like I'm reading instructions or a cook book. I try to apply active sentences but everything comes out like:
> Mr. X swiped the pistol from the counter and replaced it with the painted toy gun. He started to walk backwards, keeping an eye on the men arguing in front oh him.
All sentences starts with the subject. I try to keep everything as objective as possible but there's nothing pretty about it, especially on faster scenes where it's always Subject did X. Subject did Y.

I'm not sure why, but:

"Quickly switching the pistol for the toy he backed away from the counter, never allowing the arguing men to leave his vision."

This. Just vary your sentence structures more.

save the "I hate myself now" until after you finish

How to do I properly describe flirtatious behavior and sexual tension?

>penis was grow'in side my pants n' it felt like crawling ants, in my veins of penis, the girl that caused this vas called Venus

Lol no it fucking isn't

The situation you describe could be really emotionally intense and raw but the way its done elicits more pity than interest in the characters. Given that's what you're trying to do, obviously, that's alright, but the hate myself part is too fucking direct and lacking nuance. At best it's a workable draft and at worse it's just melodramatic slosh.

Actual project, would appreciate all feedback and will give feedback to any (serious) submissions

pastebin.com/nmHWRxsv

If it's too long just ctrl+f "////" and read from there on, first part is just for context.

Attached: ded.png (675x600, 727K)

Depends on the situation. First person, 3rd person, omnipotent narrator, etc. Post what you've got and I can give feedback.

Terrible grammar and use of language. But storywise I'm very curious to see where you'll go with this. Just write it...differently. I know you can do better.

Could you perhaps bless me with a specific example? It's what I struggle with the most, I know.

Poetry's not my thing but unironically enjoyed. Good work mate

3rd person haven't gotten to that part of it yet. Wanted just general ways not to be to unnatural and autist about it before I attempted.

Midnight water is r*ddit as fuck, and by that I mean it's kitchy and smug and gay.
big lint could use a little clarification in terms of subjects. use less pronouns

He left the setting on that shows you the tiny paragraph and syntax notation. That's why there's a dot in between every word. He needs to press control-shift-8 to hide it.

REALLY useful to know about this so that you can see exactly what's fucking up your spacing.

Look up what body language and nonverbal cues people use. Anime is good for this. I personally have autistic focus on where limbs of people are and how they're situated in general, it might help to act out the scene from each person's end and see what would stand out.

I did that with some of the writing in my piece, I know the prose is shit but I'd like examples of how to improve that,
Me:

I decided to finally just start writing, and what came out was the "Realm of Death", a place that fleetingly exists and for no reason. It's really bad naming, but I explain it away by saying that the occupants of the realm are just terrible at naming things.

I actually enjoyed my writing process. I write down what's at the top of my mind, fill about half of a paragraph, then make the latter half of the paragraph by reacting to what came out and reconciling it everything else. I'm still awful with special punctuation, though.

Also I critiqued someone in the thread, so no bully about that.

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Is English your primary language? There's all sorts of issues with your writing, to the point where it's downright jarring.

>My right arm was grabbed from behind, with me managing to break the hold with a simple momentum snap towards myself, alerting me to a third agent.
This is two or three sentences, and the tenses are all fucked up. It took me 3 times to realize that the 3rd agent was the one who grabbed the protagonist, which is was "alerting" refers to. It's very unclear.
>A sudden grab at my right arm alerted me to the presence of a third Soviet agent. A simple twist and snap of momentum and I was free.

>A flick of my leg to my front-left to the man I'd flagged out as one agent sent him sprawling to the dirt, rolled sideways and tripping other members of the crowd in his underfoot position as the crowds continued to disperse.
This is a doozy. I'm not exactly sure what all is wrong with it, but its confusing as all hell and a massive run-in sentence. The action itself is a little cartoony as well.
>One of the agents I had made earlier appeared to my left. I took a quick step back and lashed out with a hard kick to his stomach. He doubled over with an audible "oof". I stepped in , took him by the collar and with a heave sent him sprawling to the ground. He rolled wildly and several members of the now dispersing crowd lurched as they tripped over him.

It's an interesting story but man you need to study study study, then practice practice practice. Also narrative wise go for tension rather than all out action. Why is this dude whipping wholesale ass in the middle of a crowd while the Soviets are deliberately restraining themselves from doing the same? You start throwing front kicks and throat punches in a crowd and you'll stick out quick as shit. As a recommendation I would suggest Dogs of War and Day of the Jackal by Fredrick Forsyth (I'm sure I've misspelled that). Aside from his autistic dedication to minutiae, he's a master of building tension in a military/conflict setting. I would also point you to the same advice I gave here . What you have here needs so much revision it's next to impossible for someone to truly critique without basically doing a rewrite, because that's basically what doing rough draft revisions is. It's definitely a story I'd like to read personally, but it's got a very long way to go before its presentable. Dont get discouraged though! Coming up with an intriguing and interesting idea to write about is honestly the hardest part, creatively at least, and you've already got that down. What remains is work. Get to it.

>run-in
Run-on. Run-on sentence.

Appreciate the detail greatly. Reading back some of this it should have been cleaned up a lot more than it was, I agree.
I followed the advice of 'focus on making a first draft' and you agreed with where it's going. Copied your posts and put them into my document itself for future reference.

English is my primary language but it's been a while since I wrote extensively. I let my style get carried away it seems.

Link me to yours if you want honest review.

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Im a non english speaker and injist wanna know what you guys think of my writings. do bully please

My shitty friends left me at the bar, and due to heavy drinking and the slurred negotiations I barely understood anything. The gist was that each of us would drone our way home intoxicated and hobbling on the city streets with arms stretched out hollering passing cabs. To which I failed to do so as I wasn't feeling the vibe of going back to my empty house.

And so with me alone on our booth, I felt the surge of euphoria and regret. The high from emptied bottles and the grand low for the following morning of pained muscles and endless vomiting; and in my drunken state I wobbled my way back to the mostly vacated bar of Vic, the bartender, who refused to give me anymore than a cup of hot coffee to bring me back to my senses.

I never really remembered anything about sitting beside some guy with a shoebox, but I did remember he was sitting beside me. In essence, I just lost any recollection of who was there first. Anywho, so this guy was nursing some top-shelf cognac and for some reason I gave him a pat. A whimsy pat really, then rubbed the small of his back to give him whatever sense of relief my hand could give as it had with me from time to time.
He gave me this weird stare that made me stop. A thought passed that this bar was some cruise spot for lonely bears to prowl upon and was briefly dismissed with his silent nod.

This was one of the best things here in Sanguine's bar and lounge. It's a cesspool of misery. Hospitals, universities and a church sits within five blocks from the place. I've seen flunked students wasting away with friends, widows and widowers who cried in silence and just by last June, a public proposal answered with a resounding no was held here.
As a religious patron to this establisment, the stark contrast of other people's grief made feel better as my torment here in our lovely world is overshadowed by my growing pity in the playing dioramas.

The show began with his chuckle to which I composed a slurred
"Whats funny?"
"Nothing, its just I felt like it"
"Cognac? You don't really look like you're celebrating" I said, noting his eyes raw from tears and the lack of party.
"You're mistaken, I'm celebrating"
"Sure is fun doing it alone"
"Am not really alone now am I"
"Touche"
"Rick, give me the whole damn bottle"
The bartender gave us a look and sighed
"And give me another glass" he said, placing a hand over my shoulder "For my dear company here"
"Half my liver is now on the grave mister" I said as he was filling my glass. "but I never learn"
"Well said"
A toast was shared and the sickening sound of retching echoed from the restroom.

>I barely understood anything
>I had barely understood anything
Former can refer to the present, latter makes it clear that what's barely understood is something from the recent past.

>hollering passing cabs
>hollering at passing cabs

>passing cabs. To which I failed to do so
>passing cabs -- to which I failed to do so

>I felt the surge
>I felt a surge

>I did remember he was sitting beside me
>I did remember that he was sitting beside me

>I gave him a pat. A whimsy pat really, then
>I gave him a pat -- a whimsy pat, really -- then

>a public proposal answered with a resounding no was held here
>a public proposal (answered with a resounding no) was held here

>other people's grief made feel better
>other people's grief was made to feel better

And I'm completely incompetent with formatting dialogue so whatever.

My favourite in the thread. You really painted a picture in my head, user.

feels like word salad, but it's tasty salad
i don't usually like free verse but you did a good job on this one

Dubs and a fucking great paragraph, that was really good man. Post more, I wanna see where it's going.

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Lately romantic poetry kind of stuck with me, so I took it upon myself to emulate or at least palely imitate Wordsworth and Coleridge's style and subjects to come up with original poems. I've been trying my hand at ballads, and this one I just wrote (though it's still incomplete) reminds me largely of The Rime of The Ancient Mariner. I'd like to know what sort of critique Yea Forums can offer me.

pastebin.com/FviDzWBc

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yooo hh

nice poem, are you still around? I did this, i hope you don't mind
vocaroo.com/i/s1qmIgJg0mBS

I

below the reeds, the wind in amble glide, the dragonfly in fists of shade,
and the trees like green antenna by the lake,
there is a prison emptying, a hand reaching for my sleeve
from out the water—

II

on this couch of martian lovers, absently in smoke we nod,
music brewing from a wand; our translucent tomb.
the hand rose as a mint leaf blown
carefully to my shoulder. incisor of the oyster
night from which our songs diffuse.
and though i swayed in emerald fields, bit
the harpy's tit, sat on a black beach and tossed
memories into the froth— the hand was still.
it sent me toward the water.

III

now sunk in this undine cloister, fat with mortuary bliss,
there is a silence so intimate, i feel
there is no one here but the yawn of reeds.

There was vodka in my shoe.
I do not recall when it had spilled, or how it had gotten into my shoe, but alas, there it was.
Atleast i believe this was vodka, that was the drink of my choice, but what i prefered or not did not really matter, as i have never been particularly picky about my drinks.
Good vodka, smells like water with a small hint of alcohol. My boot smelled like a stove, leaking gas into the house of the unsuspecting family, with the father lighting a cigarette, unknowingly killing his beloved.
Oh well, atleast the insurancy company will be glad.
I do not know why i am telling you this, as i do not remember you having listened to me, even once in this hollow head you call our home.
But i do not spite you, you know i wouldnt have answered me either.
A sad drunk, with his knees in the mud, the hollow head.
I dont know if this was a fitting place to pray at, but i recall walking these woods with my son once.
This place had always had a special place in my memory and heart, but on closer inspection, it was just as ghastly and gray as all the other places.
I lit that match, i dont recall praying before it happened.
But you know, or i hope you know i prayed after.

Jean woke up, rolled out of bed, and turned around to find his body still asleep, facing away from him. The first thing he noticed, or realized, was that he had never seen his own head from behind before. He was relieved to find that it looked pretty normal, relative to the many backs of other people’s heads he’d seen throughout life. The second thing he noticed was that, though he could feel his arms, legs, etc., he couldn’t see them when he looked down. Jean tried in vain to re-enter his body, eventually becoming somewhat aggressive, then worried that he might inadvertently cause some physical harm to himself, then finally realizing that all his efforts at reunion (head-first, feet-first, horizontally, trying to reverse his original roll out of bed, trying to fall into his body in the exact same position his body occupied, etc.) had no visible effect on his body at all. He didn’t know what to do, but he knew he had better figure it out soon, because if he didn’t, he would be late for work.

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John woke up early that morning. It was the first time he had done so in a while. What a refreshing night of sleep. Sleep, dreaming, not dreaming, barely conscious, and reverting to a dreamlike state. He was back asleep fast and woke up again several hours later. What was in store for the day? He didn’t know.

Starts off strong but loses the plot a little in the overly clunky bottom half. I think pulling off semi-philosophical crazy ramblings well can be difficult. It begins to come across as contrived rather than as an authentic dilemma. I'd make it more concise and simplify some of the phrasing. I do find the basic plot of this passage amusing though, and if I was reading this I would look forward to seeing the narrator "pick and choose" different memories.

Also some of your little coinages seem kinda stupid. I.E. 'dreamemories' and 'realimemories'. 'The City' is just overly dramatic. Other points of critique are noted.

>my memories of my former life in The City, my home, ..
You don't need to add "my home" after it, as it is implied by "my former life in". You only need one of these descriptions.

>At this conclusion I can only arrive to a secondary conclusion
I would use a different word rather than repeat conclusion twice. Sounds clunky. I believe the correct phrasing is "arrive at" not "arrive to" a conclusion, as well.

Actually, thinking about it again, "can only reach the secondary conclusion that.." would read even better and more concisely. So I'd use that.

Thank you, I appreciate your thoughts. While reading it again before posting, I also thought using “conclusion” twice was a bad idea. I didn’t think of the fact that “my home” was extraneous, though. “The City” is really just a placeholder until I come up with a decent fictional name for a city, but point noted all the same

Start of a envious day always likes to end well. To even breathe a moment in a place where you don't feel safe in your mind that's where underground always is. To feel a good way in a where no one can realize you feel drowsy, you might as well soft to feel feelings as you go down into depression, to realize one's truth is to compromise yourself in null but wherever that is your breathing system won't work anymore, when you actually start seeing and believing in differences that's when nothing happens in your life because, were just talking about null in different categories in which no one has found a way out yet. To see the series of blue is to see the series of orange in five different ways. And to reuse a a word is to. Promising a point where to read is becoming indifferent then doing something else, is a good way to keep on living. Season always start of with a rain forecast because it's not even there, to want to believe is to keep on counting down steps until you see no light. A lock on your head will always go away vut. Awhile later since where still on no topic of null we may. Just continue to keep on typing away to null even more, vur nel sel noling being. A key factor in nkthing, where nothing is nothing. To even get someone out of their mind is to breathe a little bit better. To write sololy a book while being in null is why I still write today. Bored without grandeur either way or less will never help you, just keep on trying.
The start of a depressing+ literature by o

based

All I could think while reading this was 'heh, nothing personal, kid'

Illiteration is good for college student level, good descriptive nouns and tenses are good. Tension ramps up in second paragraph nicely.

I found the sentence structure somewhat repetitive and simplistic (which I'm terrified of personally). I think some more detail could be given to surroundings. Not in the sense of 'describe the landscape' but whether it's deciduous or coniferous, rained recently or just stupid hot, etc.

Narrative intrigues me mildly as it sounds like man VS wild at this point with fictional fauna.

>Illiteration is good for college student level
Hey, that's pretty good for someone who graduated HS with a GPA of 1 lmao. But really, I appreciate the response. I was worried about the structure being repetitive (as for simple, someone else told me that my sentences were too long-winded, seems I haven't found the balance yet) while I was reading it, would you mind expanding on that? Does it boil down to [subject] does [action]?

Yeah pretty much how you described it in this post, changing it up slightly whilst keeping the narrative intelligible should be simple from here on.
My sentences are always long winded and run on so yes.

The U.S.A, 1985, a baby is born and placed in his mother’s arms. His heart is faulty, and through some foul luck this is discovered before it can kill him. They strap him to a table, confused and alone in a way a child this young should never be. He is bitten, a needle worming past skin and fat to a vein, succinylcholine, a paralytic agent. His screams begin shrilly; then quieter, quieter, and quieter, clenched hands waveringly falling flat as his face slackens. Terror holds him as his body stops listening. He wishes to stop listening in turn. The first incision, performed precisely and without hesitation, opens him from collar to gut. Grasping hands snap and crack, pulling wide, revealing the heart underneath. (~A second if you will, please imagine feeling cold air inside you, every move the surgeon makes, spilling whisps onto your exposed lungs and heart~). His eyes are not closed, they cannot focus; seeing only looming, malicious spectres. Practiced, cutting, relentless, babbling spectres with hands that bite and tear. He is born pure and clean, and then he is dirtied. Blood staining fresh white sheets. As a boy he is timid and fearful; the smell of disinfectant leaves him weeping, he is claustrophobic to the point that tight clothes render him a bawling mess, and feels pain so intensely a small cut may well be a man ripping him open, judging by the screams. He forgets and remembers, and forgets again, every day something new reminds him. One night, he awakens, and for just a second he cannot move, childhood sleep paralysis. He is left sobbing in the dark with no idea as to why.

what u think of this ?

>He is bitten, a needle worming past skin and fat to a vein, succinylcholine, a paralytic agent.
Assuming that succinylcholine is a chemical and hat you're describing it in the latter half of the sentence, it would be a lot better to use dashes. Otherwise it's confusing. The structure makes it seem like succinylcholine is an adjective describing the vein.

So I'd write it like:
>He is bitten, a needle worming past skin and fat to a vein -- Succinylcholine, a paralytic agent.