/Critique/

post more ppl so we can critique

Another impossibility -
Passion of pusillanimity -
Reverse the rapine rape
And slit this beast’s bare nape.
Veni – Vici, praise the lord,
Priestly preaching by the sword.
Reduce the savages down to Hell,
Then return to where good men dwell.
YEEEEEAAAHHH!
Malediction.
YEAAAAHHHHhH!
Superstition.
Dayhuedamunday [sick techno beat]
Sing
Swung
Swing
‘s Hung
My friends matt and ed have the same hair;
Matt-ed Hair.
An Abstract artist, knighted in fame,
Called Sbalorditivo Name - Absurd ser name.

bueno

>both containment units are labeled for Subject 02
cringe

Thought it would be fun to experiment with footnotes. Originally was gonna cite cases and parody law journals, but its kinda fun to just go on a small informational tangent.

Attached: footnotes.png (2222x1656, 314K)

Does anyone even read footnotes?

That's kinda the joke. Start it off with boring informative footnotes that then start getting more and more surreal. disturbing, or just a flat out lie. But by that point only some readers will actually have read them.

Cool idea on paper but complicated postmodernism experiments like that might be actually hard to pull off, well I wouldn't try it but a good writer might pull it off for sure.

So House of Leaves?

kill the ocr one, it's not interesting. probably don't mention ocr, just stick with scanned document. enjoyed the other four

whoops, forgot to see the "critique before posting" part. I'll critique desu

Anyway, the book gives me a few Blade Runner vibes at the beginning, especially when Vander (I think) arrests that woman with Five and they start to mention "Mods."

Kind of funky, but in a good way.

wattpad.com/story/188107323-eschaton-disguised-as-the-world's-worst-fanfiction
Here's my story that's gonna take me a while to finish. Basically Angelic Abominations + Polandball +in general sad hours.

Attached: book cover 2.png (396x576, 9K)

"I wake up, and reality is staring at me from the closet door. It's either three pills, or ceaseless bouts of paranoia. I choose the pills. One gulp and five minutes later, a familiar warmth encompasses me. My mind grinds to a halt, as the voices begin to fade. The medication buys me a few hours of silence, which I use to write. Then the paranoia sets in again.
I keep forgetting how bad it is to hear the voices. The gift of silence the pills gives me shouldn't be taken for granted, but it is, repeatedly. The voices get the better of me sometimes, they can only whisper occasionally when I take the medication. But without the medication, the voices terrify me.
I hear myself speaking, it's always varying pitches of the same voice. My own voice. I hate it. They tell me my past is catching up with me, my sins are at the door step, that everyone is out to get me and the police are going to bust down the door any minute. They taunt me, they try to convince me that what they say is the truth. Sometimes I believe them, I believe my parents hate me, I believe they're plotting against me.
It's cold, dark, and terrifying. The kind of cold that makes your joints ache. I hate being alone."
Jimmy stopped. He looked frail, brooding over himself, obviously afraid of continuing.
"That's enough for today, Jimmy. We're making progress. Remember, I'm here for you." Dr. Lockhart sat legs crossed, half at attention, more concerned if Jimmy posed a threat to himself than if Jimmy was feeling safe. These things always came first in the field of mental health. If the patient posed a threat in any way, an involuntary seventy two hour hold would be placed on them. That means Jimmy's worst fear would become reality, being alone, in the dark of a run down mental hospital. Hopefully, the doctor thought, they could avoid that.

Attached: 6FEA1416-38B7-4060-8517-874D012EFA8C.jpg (994x715, 270K)

Good idea. Thanks!
I haven’t read it. But I heard it’s good?
Well, I’m not a good writer, so we’ll see what happens.

pastebin.com/NaWNFKLb
There's a few italics that didn't carry over but I'm guessing you'll know 'em when you see them.

I think part of the problem is Camus' would keep things very short and to the point. Trimming out some of the fat might help capture the Camus angle you're going for.

Really well written science fiction, exactly the type of stuff I see self-published. There's nothing really wrong with it aside from some tiny nit-picks, well written, well narrated, and it has a good flow. Nice job user.

Take it easy with the ellipses in the narration, and the parentheses. Keep it limited to one and in a list.
The biggest problem I see is that the prose is very clunky. I would suggest you read aloud what you've written and anytime you pause, or have to read it twice, rewrite the sentence until it flows out perfectly.

Like House of leaves does your concept in a really interesting way by having multiple characters talk through the footnotes. Could be cool to have a separate character editing the story and putting in the footnotes to 'help' the reader while engaging in another plot line.

House of Leaves is extremely surreal and probably one of the best books put out last decade. I highly recommend it.

>He’d learned French when he was five and wrote poems for his teachers in the language of love.
He'd learned French by he was five and wrote poems for his teachers in it.

Anniversary

I let my arm fall
to the arm of the chair
because it’s beautiful today:

The empty lot
across the street
is full of grass again,

and again I’m reminded
how you would have been
eighty today.

bump

Thank you, user. Does my heart good. share or recommend, if you feel like it
honestly I like your use of prose, and grammar. It's original. Some of it can be jarring, like that "I stopped" "he stopped". But the thing is I actually feel like I don't understand it, to be honest. as much as I like the style, more clarity before style could go a long way

I made this in Grade 10 with my friend as a gigantic shitpost. I barely edited it now so enjoy To Kill a Predator
pastebin.com/pVv3g7QK
Very elegant but maybe change
>Beautiful day
to something more mournful.

>To Kill a Predator
good title

bump

bump 2

Here's something I've been working on for a while:
drive.google.com/file/d/1nDwX8fxOxRMMqMQ3o7n6p4l9pqLRctNl/view?usp=drivesdk

It's Chapter 2 btw

bump

Powerful first sentence.

Attached: 1558818260550.png (1571x963, 124K)

My bad. Stupid me, link sharing wasn't on.

I remember this one.
It's really well written user, congrats.
Now, where can I get a gf like Sydney?

Sydney sounds like an art slut

0bin.net/paste/iEOyTPEgBVjs0fkv#EdZNWubx50CNOK6q731n75mt8gVxzoDXyjEyMRBLchT

I wrote this a couple years ago, but never shared it with anyone. I'm not sure what it's supposed to be or what effect it's supposed to have, so I don't know how to begin fixing it lol

Bump

double bump

Triple bump

quadro bump

user's running out of numbers, where the fuck is everybody

Either work or sleeping

Too bad
I like threads like these
We post full works here for anons to see so they can actually critique other aspects of the book like pacing and structuring and general consistency instead of those cherry-picked snippets we custom-made and edited for 3 hours that don't really reflect one's overall skill level
Problem is it takes time and patience to read through entire chapters and threads die too fast
Anyways, I'll keep bumping till the old timers are off from wagecuck or wake up

Not really a writer but this is something I've been going at on and off. It's part of the ending for an anthology I'm working on.
pastebin.com/XkHHV9nz

forgot to add this is a pretty rough draft but it speaks for itself

Thanks user. I seem to lose the magic after that, or atleast I'm trying to keep peoples attention but I don't know how to be descriptive about what I feel.

I don’t think she once said my name, and she already seldom spoke. Of course, I hardly knew what she thought of herself, let alone what she thought of me. I was not her companion or her friend, much less her lover. She thought little of me: this was certain. Sometimes I wonder if she saw herself only as a meager collection of limbs and curves, muscles and folds and small black hairs, a simple instrument of sense and secretion. She seemed to think this much of me at least, if not less. Yes, less: Reader, if I was anything I was her napkin. And she did wipe herself with me.
I remember one summer evening she appeared at my apartment drenched with sweat and rain. She was dressed for exercise, fresh from the gym, wearing her hair up and tied in a knot by a yellow band. I asked if she wanted warm tea or a towel but, without saying a word, she stood in the doorway and began pulling down her tightly-fit biking shorts to her ankles, revealing a mound of curled and moistened pubic hairs that sharpened, V-shaped, as they descended her pelvis until they disappeared into her bare flesh. She motioned me down and I immediately began licking her abdomen. I traced about its firm, mountainous and round ridges, her raised goosebumps and silently-colored peach fuzz spread across her stomach. The tang of her sweat felt sharp upon my tongue. Its flavor sat in my mouth and throughout my throat. I soon whiffed the mixture of sweat and rain and fluid around her pubis before she grabbed my head and plunged me into her, smearing herself on my face with her pelvis in elliptical motions as though she were a dog scratching itself against a tree. My tongue shot out and lapped her up manically. With one hand she gripped my hair and with another groped her breast, sometimes pinching herself. She looked toward the ceiling and said the word God. I now was grabbing at her like an addict, caressing and groping at her limbs with violent pressure until she, rapidly, turned around and forced my face into her backside. Facing the mist of the rain-shower upon the porch and the city-dark of nighttime she screamed when I jabbed my fingers away at her cunt, and releasing herself onto my porch she promptly pushed me onto the ground, pulled up her shorts, leaving saying nothing.

This reads like a cheap erotica like you'd find in a stand at the dollar store for the 2 dozen cat grannies that come by each day except it's written for the male equivalent.
Very clunky sentences inconsistent style which is amazing in and off itself considering the sample size.

Some of it is okay but none of it feels erotic if that's what you're going for. It feels a bit like a juvenile rendition of what it should be if it were worded better.
I'd unironically recommend reading actual erotica online until you get a hang for what sounds right and what doesn't. Not everything that sounds good in your mind could properly translate to writing is what I'd say is your biggest failure and the premise itself isn't really that hot to begin.

Pretty good.

Chieftain Morre had the classic appearance of a man who had once been very fat and now was very thin. Heavy pallid jowls framed his face, with greying beard barely obscuring the folds of skin hung from his neck. Morre coughed into a handkerchief. The transformation had come at the same time of his conversion to the new faith, so as to ingratiate his new masters. It was a show. Being one of the Tyvu made business easier. One of the man's hands rose as the vote was called, his slightly too large robes hanging off him. Another series of coughs wracked him. This one shook him enough to send the small two pointed hat toppling from his hat to the table. And aid rushed to his side. Red pinpricks dotted his handkerchief.

I am dumb, please insult my writing.

He stopped within four yards of the light blue sweater woman on her knees and doing something that made him suddenly feel lightheaded as he only stared. Remembering the word vaguely...pray. Green Eyes watched her for a long time as she continued oblivious or not caring a goddamn bit of her company. He slowly looked around the Alders before unzipping his grey coat a little and unsnapping his .45. The woman's silver blond hair shimmered in the moonlight as he walked around her, keeping a small distance, to Marissa's empty grave. Her decayed body no where in sight. They finally took her away again and Green Eyes should of been ready for it but...

What was suppose to fucking finally be peace for her, was denied forever. If Green Eyes was going to slit his arms, tonight was it. He lost her again and now he was finally alone. His dead eyes looked at Silver Hair's own dark green eyes staring back at him from a blood spattered face, her hand inside her stained sweater sleeve. He saw a bite mark on her cheek, long claw streaks down her shoulder and arm through the sweater. She didn't do anything as he looked away and sat beside where Marissa once was and stared at the darkness in the earth.

Remembering the fights with her. Cussing and yelling at her and threatening to beat her to death twice; And that alone should of drove her far away with all her drawings and novels she talked of and that made her smile. She stayed through it all for who he once been before his parents had stopped by. His dad hours out of the state penitentiary. All those hours and days and weeks of therapy relapsed when he saw their twisted faces at the door. Marissa had called the police on the them as her husband had stormed back to them. She had to fight with him to get that goddamned gun away from the two monsters before he fucking actually used it.

At times in his darkness, he found Marissa sitting on their bed hunched over painfully as she cried and prayed for her lover and a part she said was her other half. He alienated her the rest of the day whenever he did find her praying. She stayed through all of this because eventually she found her husband again and pulled him far away from the darkness. He started to see his psychologist daily again but her husband was back and she was happy. Marissa had been happy again before only dropping off her papers at work that day and coming back with her own darkness. He only sat in silence with Silver Hair as the night faded away and the dawning red sky marked a new day in hell.

Not bad but I'd change some things around

>his slightly too large robes hanging off him.
>his robes hanging/hung/hanged off him slightly/a size too large (for his stature/a man of his size etc just feels awkward to end the sentence there).

>to send the small two pointed hat toppling from his hat to the table.
not sure if you meant a hat on top of a hat or you just meant to say head on the second hat

>This one shook him enough
>shook him hard enough

>the aid instead of just aid

>had dotted instead of just dotted

I tried. Not enough to insult but good job on what little you shared.

Only read up to "We were unwittingly milked of everything we knew, insignificant as it was."

I can see a couple very easy paths. The man is in love, but is uncomfortable with her choices. Ultimately, I would write a revelation of sorts, he becomes more military-like, she becomes more accepting of morality in war, and they both die in the ice nearing the first sunset in months. You can allow the man to be consumed by her savageness through her death and, again, allow the ice to consume him. You can have her transform to be like him, but she isn't the main character, so that's less powerful of a story, unless it's a means to allow him to become exactly like she appears in the beginning and be consumed with a savage rage that kills her in the heat of battle. There's no escaping the anarctic, you already made available the symbolism of sunset being so far away, it's just going to depend on you how you want the "it was all for nothing" resolution to scream the truth you want to see.

3 pills in one gulp? I hope they’re not big.

I remember that my time back then felt clouded and out of joint. I should have, if anything, felt liberated by the lack of schedules and the lack of work but, somehow, I felt busier than ever. Days shortened to hours, and weeks only the small collections of smaller moments that never added up to anything substantial, least of all that precious thing we call living. I would awake in the morning and leave in the evening, anxiously pacing around corners and down alleyways in a town that, once, felt like a home but now only the imprint of some obscure and forgotten fossil. After an evening of needlessly hurried wandering I would sit in a dark corner of the same cafe until late after dusk, reading the novels of a once world renown author who just as quickly fell into fatal obscurity.
One particular evening I met an older man who, without any prompting, told me that he had known this author many years ago, although precisely how many years was left to my imagination. The man was certainly old, and his age had settled comfortably into his face like a well worn and beloved coat. He wore his age with the same familiarity, nostalgia, and perhaps even shame. His hair was gray and thin and sparse in the back and along the top, but his sharp widow’s peak had remained miraculously intact in such a way that even I, in my youth, was envious. After asking him to sit with me—I was instantly curious about this fellow—the gentleman began to recount his history with the author.
To be perfectly frank, began the old gentleman, I did not know the man well. I’m not certain that anyone did, that anyone was ever close enough to him to properly call him “my friend,” or “my confidant,” or “my comrade.” We met by chance in the small town of Montrésor, when I was visiting family there on my way to Paris from Bordeaux. One morning, bored of my stuffy relatives, I had been walking absentmindedly across a small bridge that led to the ancient chateau and I saw a young and well dressed man, like a malevolent dandy, who leaned against the bridge walls and stared into the grey sky with an air of almost deathly boredom. I for some reason figured him a guard, and promptly turned around and went to the only cafe of the town. When I arrived, I noticed that the man was, somehow, already sitting at a table.

I was naturally curious, continued the old man, and in those days you could still strike up a conversation with a perfect stranger, so I asked to dine with him. I gave him my name and he gave me his, and for the first time I saw the face whose impression has never quite left my mind. His black, well-kept hair parted on the side, and I remember that it seemed to disintegrate the further it moved down his skull, he said, frayed about his ears and occasionally his forehead like those haphazard lines etched in old woodblock prints. Above his thin lips sat a pencil-thin mustache, and above that protruded a strong, aquiline nose that corresponded with his sharp cheekbones and even sharper battish ears. But what struck me the most were his sunken and nearly dead eyes. They did not invite, like those in the portrait of Mallarmé, that instantly reveal a man of kindness and good humor; Robert Desnos, perhaps, is the only person whose eyes come close to his: acerbic, disinterested, light blue. It was as though you were never really looking at him, but his photograph.
I noticed that he had with him a volume of Valery’s poems, and asked what he thought of them. Our author responded that Valery’s criticism was superior to his verse, and that he disliked Valery’s continual optimism in art. His own work, if he could ever find a way to finish it, he said, could never surpass a blank piece of paper, before which every writer sees his untapped potential and boundless impotence. When I asked what a man such as himself was doing in this town, he revealed to me that the overseer of the Chateau, an apparently close friend of his, had asked him to keep watch in his place, leaving our author virtually alone in a castle that had passed through the hands of Henry the second all the way to François Xavier Branicki. Our author told me that he slept in one of the towers, that once held archers but, by the end of Napoleon III’s rule, had been converted into a guest chamber.

Just an excerpt.

She is so terrible. She treats me tenderly, with care and respect. She is attentive towards me, asking me questions she wouldn't otherwise know to ask, appearing to be on an unwavering mission to truly probe my mind. Simply, she is interested in me. She has conversations with me that never leave me satisfied, like staving off hunger with sea water. She ebbs and flows, the rising tide and the sinking one. One moment, she seems to be made only for me, the next, she seems incompatible. She laughs, but I know not what for: my joke, my demeanor, or something else. She talks to me so intensively in intervals of weeks. The days without her seem to bloat and merge with each other, like acrylic paint with too much oil. When I speak to her, it's enough. Enough to keep that spark lit, enough to make me long it. I slept at her house once, unable to drive myself safely home, wherever that might be. Twice, thrice, then once more before falling asleep in her gentle arms. Her soft breath seems like a lullaby to me. "Is this the feeling when everything is alright?" I dared not budge lest the movement dragged me back to the seat of my car, cold and alone in some parking garage. "I love you," she whispers in a voice so silken and pure. I knew now I was not in a dream, but I began to question my sanity, my perception of reality. Surely no one could feel this way towards me. She stopped talking to me after this night. Once again my gentle mother was stripped from me. I don't realize why, but I never did. I probably never will. I rarely speak anymore. Cold dead conversations hum around my head, passions quickly faded to distant fever dreams, everything lost its light. She became like everyone else. The cruelest part of this great machination was losing the ideal of her long-lost perfection. My ideal, the ideal of my love, my lover, her character, of everything I ever held precious about her was drug through the dirt, stomped, besmirched, and humiliated every time she spoke. Can there not even be an idea of beauty and purity in this God-forsaken wretched abyss of a world? Must everything cherishable fall to ruination? Must everything beautiful die before my eyes? If you read this and nothing more, you will know that I have succeeded in killing myself.

Caroline’s skin was soft and cool to the touch, each white hair bending gently under Lyndra’s fingers. As Lyndra canvassed Caroline’s legs, she felt feedback, gentle nudging, as though Caroline were urging her to move upward. Soon enough she was at the cusp of her womanhood, moving gently, rotating smoothly. Caroline embraced her, a deep kiss, lips sandwiched between each other, tongues exchanging gentle taps in an erotic dance. Two women, ten years apart, made love in an old classroom that evening, and thus began the romance of broken sound.

I thought about having her die in the next scene and forcing the narrator to "take up" her cruelty in order to survive. But I was trying to emphasize his isolation, and I thought hating her while she's still alive would reinforce that. I'll see if I can incorporate that somehow though.

Either way, it doesn't really change the direction of the story. I think you'll be surprised where its headed desu :)

That seems weak desu, but that's just my view on it. Look into Ghost Walker by Ian Mackenzie Jeffers, it reminds me a lot of what you are trying to do in a way.

ITT we post covers we've made and other anons critique them.

Pic related, it's about a Belarusian man living in a space frigate for a year and a subsequent mutiny and other crazy shit.

Attached: rushnyk rendezvous.png (396x576, 9K)

Not exactly a cover since I haven't come up with a title yet

Attached: P_20190426_173259_vHDR_Auto_1.jpg (2936x3916, 2.23M)

I'm thinking about using a fractal cover too. I'm hoping to bait pseuds into buying :)

Attached: BookCover - Copy.jpg (1500x2000, 2.12M)

Tsun, dear, why can't he stay? He's came all this way after all.
And? He wasn't invited, and furthermore, I don't want him here.
But its not only what you want! I want him here.
Its not your house.
No, no, it isn't, but shouldn't you do this one thing for the guest you invited round.
No.
Oh for heaven's sake, why on earth not?
Because he wasn't invited.
And if he was invited?
Tsun paused, if she'd invited him then it would have been okay she presumed but she hadn't and that was final; plus she didn't like the look of the boy who skulked half way in the shadows, the harsh light from the hall glinting murderously in his eyes as he watched the conversation ensue.
Well?
I assume he would be allowed to stay.
But only if invited?
Only if invited.
Well, Daniel, I cordially invite you into Tsun's humble abode to spend an evening of watching terrible movies and eating worse food and, perhaps the most awful of all, gossiping.
No.
No what?
No, he is not coming in.
But he's been invited.
I didn't mean... No, when I said that I meant...
Daniel spoke softly as if the devil had taken over Tsun's soul and whispered in the space between her ears, But you didn't specify.
Yes, she didn't specify one bit.
But...
Look, its 2 v 1, one night won't kill you.
Tsun looked from Carrie to Daniel and back and deliberated on the fact that she may in fact die in one way or another with this boy in her house but she decided to concede and get back to the planned night, how much harm could a boy do? She nodded at Daniel and stood aside as he slinked over the threshold and headed straight for the kitchen.
Thanks.
Another nod. Tsun closed the door and followed the pair into the house.

a little bit of dialogue, wouldn't really use it but i wanted to get thoughts on how to improve some generic stuff i've written
also, pls tell me if lack of speech marks is disconcerting or it makes the piece better

Here's a book cover for my current novel, Eschaton. Basically countryballs, Evangelion abominations and weird pseudo-crossovers (i.e. they're crossovers with other things but those things are fundamentally different in some way).

Attached: book cover 4.png (396x576, 6K)

The one for it that I'm using right now.

Attached: book cover 3.png (396x576, 13K)

>Sydney chuckled lightly.
Get rid of lightly.
>He was suddenly envisioning Sydney dressed like Audrey Hepburn on the balcony of a hotel in Paris overlooking the setting
A mouthful, break it up in lines. Also I had to re-tread where the sentence began because it was such a giant word salad leap in the middle.
>ifffffffff
Autism. "If-" is fine, friendo.

Like it so far, user. Little to complain here. Sydney seems like a qt, the protag an autist, and so far I'm digging this bubbly thing going on between'em. Keep it up.

Attached: Screenshot (5).png (1920x1080, 216K)

Whoops just saw a mistake there in my own piece. Just pretend "Any one," in the last paragraph is "Anyone."

pastebin.com/HsSA1rH6

"At 10:29 AM, on July 18th, 2063, a massive monolithic structure appeared 4 kilometers southwest of San Fransisco, CA, USA. Analysis of the object from afar have shown that it is definitely not of a human origin, and have led speculation that it is an Angel Polyp. Due to this, all flights, shuttles and Q-Ports within 35 kilometers and having to move within 35 kilometers of the Monolith are now closed until further notice. This has caused outrage from the citizens of the San Fransisco Bay Area, who have attempted to protest against TUDF's (Trans-Universal Defense Force) random embargo on all long-distance transportation, effectively giving millions no better method of transportation to important meetings, and so on. TUDF has stated that Angel Polyps (and other Angel development stages) are extremely dangerous and should not under any circumstance be close enough to said Polyp, in fear of being destroyed."

* * *

Poland stood on the top of the balcony and stared at the monolith. Since he was about 22 kilometers away from it, he could barely see it from the intruding skyline of a bizarre San Fransisco; it was absolutely monstrous, however (about five kilometers high), so it still stuck out like a sore thumb, along with its pure black, smooth exterior.

Attached: the palatine angel.png (323x323, 3K)

cool concept
but isn't this just the first 20 minutes of the film Arrival?

>like 5 views on the paste
>0 critique
thanks guys

Also may I ask which program you used for your covers
They look really sleek

>Arrival
not that user but it's clearly NGE inspired
also arrival was a shit movie

is right sort of, Eschaton is heavily inspired by NGE, but also has a lot of pseudo-crossovers with other stuff, but with major differences (e.g. Pokemon but people don't really treat Pokemon like Pokemon and call them "animals," Kim Stanley Robinsons' 2112/Utopia stuff but it's even more communist and a lot less interpersonal individuality). The Earth that the monolith is on is Earth-Babel, based off of "Pradise" by Jon Buck. The books are basically everybody becoming animal people (for some reason), and many years later, technology is invented to transform them into any species (or sex) they want. The thing is that I've changed it so that Multiple Personality Disorder is extremely prevalent within Earth-Babel (at least in more liberal places like the USA and West Europe. East Europe, Africa and the Middle East took the chance to become human again immediately), so they're really shit at managing their own governments, because they'll change bodies and personalities for whatever reason, sometimes without warning.
MS Paint and a few minutes of my time.

interesting, 5/5

Continuing off of Another session gone meant another chance for Jimmy to visit his favorite person, Caroline. Caroline stood at six feet tall, somewhat lanky, and lacking any elegance as she rushed across the diner, bringing food to the packed tables. It was almost time for Jimmy to meet her, as he stood smoking in the twilight of a cool summer day. His goal was to always be the last customer, so he could have Caroline all to himself. But tonight, that goal would be unreachable, as a young man, appearing to be in his twenties refused to leave the diner. Red neon lights illuminated the outside as Jimmy stared angrily inside. Who the hell is he? Jimmy thought. What does he want? Who eats at ten in the evening? This is MY time, my time with HER. Stomping on an unfinished cigarette, Jimmy crossed the street and made his way to the counter. Caroline would have to be shared tonight.

Lithuania had decided to ditch the HQ building overlooking the city (which he was de jure supposed to stay in at all times) and look around the streets below to see if there was anything worth doing.

* * *

The "people" of Babel, with quotation marks, completely lacked any sort of overarching look, or face. Since the 2020s, they've been stripped of their human forms and stuffed in animal bodies, often not of the same sex as they would want. This torture persisted for an entire generation, until some scientists found out what Q-viruses were, even though Lithuania knew they just found segments of Raziel, messing with reality.
They ended up finding out how to manipulate the Q-viruses, and as such people could be restored to their human forms, of which they did in the majority of Central America, Asia, Eastern Europe and Sub-Saharan Africa. Their new assigned bodies were revolting, and it was better to ditch them as quickly as possible.
Still though, the majority of America and Western Europe accepted their curses with time, and as they bore children, also bearing the curse, the idea of a humanless humanity became entrenched. When quantum technology allowed them to now be able to change species, sex and any number of things when they wanted, any remain of a face that was held by these people were now gone.

Attached: is this space odyssey or something.png (323x323, 10K)

The Americans and others not only accepted the forces of Chaos, but embraced them, by creating a world where humanity has dissolved into nothing, a unifying genome or power being ripped to shreds.
However, this has also been a curse for them, too; each time a species would be switched, they would gain a sort of new "personality," from the alien hormones and genetics now stored within them. This meant that were quite terrible at remaining consistent, with subconsciouses often claiming the body for themselves at any given moment. Lithuania wondered why Raziel would be such a dick, since the last time they met he was quite kindly.

* * *

Lithuania, while hopping between people's feet as the walked across the streets of the Golden City, ended up finding a bar.
The reason he would risk going out in public to a populace which would still be very frightened of him (they had never considered such an odd form as him before) is because... he liked people.
He hated being with the same people for an extended period of time. People became predictable, and as he was a pessimist, their predictability often got on his nerves. Seeing new faces who he could talk to and resonate with was like honey for him.

Attached: mankind does not existe here.png (323x323, 10K)

Very interesting and engaging, and I would be interested to read more of this. You did a good job of creating a feeling of tension which is impressive given the fact that this is just an excerpt with no context. I like the use of short sentences for gravity, but I would reccomend using those a bit more sparingly. It works well in this short passage, but I could see it becoming annoying if its overused.

Not to be too rude, but this reads more like a comedic work than erotica, honestly. Is that what you were going for?

How do I learn to use this many words? Whenever I type somthing, only basic things like this post come out.

In this unwilling state I dwell,
denied, I grow uneasy.
My peers go at each other's throats,
blind in this artificial trap.

Something so simple and common,
my pride wont let me admit
having sex is what I need,
so be it, the incel life it is.

- by Anonsky Incelikov

Search your soul for something inspires or troubles you, then let it all out, man.

Sameguy here, also structure in a coherent narrative if you can. Might be better for some people to just let it out first beforehand.

This but unironically. I was thinking about how my meds affect me and wrote about it. I had to take a break because I was shaken up after. Jimmy is a bit of a self insert but he's going to be everything I'm afraid of being.

Continuation of this post:
“The usual please!” Jimmy was happy to see Caroline, despite the intrusion of a stranger across the diner.
“Excuse me?” Caroline retorted, shocked by Jimmy’s familariy.
“I said, the usual, Caroline.” Jimmy repeated softly. He was almost pleading, eyes piercing.
“I’m sorry sir-” he quickly cut her off.
“Black coffee, two slices of apple pie, and some whip cream. Come on Caroline. I’ve been coming here for the past year. You should know better.” Jimmy stared at her impatiently, with a slight scorn on his brow. Caroline quickly retreated to the kitchen, and returned with a large, burly chef.
“Jimmy, I’ve told you, keep this shit up and I’m keepin’ you out.” The Chef appeared exhausted, his thick arms and sausage fingers pointing at the door. “We’ve been over this Jim.” He repeated himself. Jimmy remained silent, drinking his coffee in methodic, slow gulps.
“I’m just kiddin’ around Gus! It’s just a joke, come on. You’ll end up as dull and quiet as that one over there.” He pointed to the corner of the diner where the young man was eating a hamburger and fries. “I mean, a burger and fries this late? What a wacko, am I right?”
“You been seein’ the doctor, right Jimbo?” Gus had a look of both anger and pity on his face. Despite his frequent altercations with Jimmy, he had a soft spot for him, because he reminded him of his little brother.
“Course, don’t worry Gus I’m takin’ care of myself.” Jimmy finished his apple pie and left a ten dollar bill on the counter. He almost forgot, it was time for his medication, even though he didn’t like to be slowed down. His mind was active, it was fast! It was capable of processing information quickly and easily. He liked being sharp, and Jimmy applied his sharpness wherever possible, piecing together random strings of information into elaborate puzzles for fun. But he remembered, the voices. The voices. He couldn’t ignore the voices if he didn’t take the medication. So he took it, begrudgingly.

Bump

:)

Ike! How is the glown spike ol water-blue plastic eer a pain on my eye. There have a wollen litter ladely wantined about the place, regardless the topic cradel. How is the red bloton splash against eery careless moton. Yes slowly a ladey ladely litters, wontining a wollen water-blue plastic, ike!

>Reads Joyce once

Definitely use quotation marks. No stylistic choice like that is worth sacrificing readability.
>Tsun looked from Carrie to Daniel and back and deliberated on the fact that she may in fact die in one way or another with this boy in her house but she decided to concede and get back to the planned night, how much harm could a boy do?
This passage comes across as rambling and runs on too long, making it a sort of microcosm of what's deficient in your writing style. Basically, you need to strive to make your prose less messy in order to give a clearer picture of what's actually going on. The dialogue could also use some work to sound less strained.

Also, I would consider changing the guy's name. Unless there's some sort of meaning behind the name, having two characters with normal names and a guy randomly named Tsun is kind of weird and out of place.

To add to that, I'm retarded and somehow missed the fact that Tsun is a woman.

In order to fix that passage, I would do something like
>Tsun looked from Carrie to Daniel, deliberating on the very real possibility that inviting this boy into her home would be inviting death to herself. Shifting her gaze back to Carrie's imploring face, she reluctantly decided to concede. Continuing to refuse would only offend Carrie and ruin the evening's plans. And, after all, how much harm could one boy really do?
Something like this is less rambling but simultaneously more descriptive. This is what I would encourage you to work on to improve your writing.

if it's vocabulary that's troubling you, john gardner's advice is helpful: pick up a dictionary (or any book) and take note of words that you know how to use, but never do. Then practice them.

Prompt: write about this image.

What's happening here? Who's involved? Why is it happening? What's going on as it happens, and what are the consequences?

Attached: pillar of fire.png (615x323, 12K)

R Kelly's first piss on a negro

hows this for a premise?
trying to come up with a decent succession crisis

-King has two sons and one brother, who is in jail
-Leaves on campaign with youngest son, eldest son stays with his pregnant wife and daughter
-Campaign isn't going well
-Eldest son joins them
-All three turn up dead after a battle, truce is signed
-The nobles are divided and have no idea who should inherit
-If the sons died first, then the titles go upwards to the king's brother
-Does being in jail disqualify someone from succession? No one knows
-If the king died first then the titles go downwards, but a woman has never inherited before. There are no laws against it but no laws for it either
-Plus she has already been promised to a noble, if she gets married then she will take his name and the dynasty will lose everything. The dowry had already been collected before the prince left with his troops
-What about the unborn child, can a fetus of undetermined gender inherit titles? No one knows
-While waiting for the prince's other child to be born, the nobles form a commission to locate eyewitnesses of the battle and try to determine who died first

Experts in jurisprudence are summoned to the capital for a succession trial. What weights more, the law as it is written, or the intentions of those who wrote it? How can those intentions be inferred? Can the customs of the land fill in the gaps in written law? Who gets to determine what is a custom and what isn't?
The protagonist runs errands for the commission interviewing prisoners while the heirs and their representatives present their case in front of the judges.

As the trial drags on, an interested party offers him a bribe to alter one of the testimonies

Extremely intriguing premise, but part of the setup bugs me. From my limited knowledge, assuming that you're going by the real-world succession law of primogeniture, wouldn't the daughter inherit regardless of who died first?
>The descendant (often the son) of a deceased elder sibling (typically elder brother) inherits before a living younger sibling by right of substitution for the deceased heir. In the absence of any children, brothers succeed, individually, to the inheritance by seniority of age (subject to substitution). Among siblings, sons usually inherit before daughters. In the absence of male descendants in the male-line, there are variations of primogeniture which allocate the inheritance to a daughter or a brother or, in the absence of either, to another collateral relative
The collateral relative in this case would be the king's brother. So, with everyone alive, I would think the real-world succession order would be: 1.Eldest Son 2. Eldest Son's Daughter 3-4. Younger Brother / Fetus (this has historical precedence through one of the kings of France, I believe) 5. King's Brother

Of course, if you're going by your own invented succession system, this might not matter. Honestly, most readers probably wouldn't care either, and I'm not sure how you would eliminate that quibble anyway while still keeping the whole intrigue about who died first. Just food for thought.

Also, why is the king's brother in jail in the first place? I feel like the circumstances of that would affect how realistic it would be for any of the nobility to support his claim.

>-All three turn up dead after a battle, truce is signed
Disregarding everything else you'd have to pull a real rabbit out of the hat to write yourself out of this one.
>king and all his immediate successors die
>somehow still sign truce
why would an enemy who's having such crushing victories sign any truce?
who would be the one putting the terms if you kill them all off before? why wouldn't the commanders simply surrender to the enemy if they were able to get to their king? this would be the central crisis if anything
There's lots of other questions but you get the point.
Maybe try another approach where perhaps one of the sons dies in battle, one gets captured by slavers and the king dies of old age after signing the truce in mourning. I'd also add a bastard or two that neighboring noblemen might groom to push their claims but that might be a bit boring and unoriginal.

nah, the premise would work but its extremely dependent on whether has an idea of who inherits otherwise it'll just be a convoluted shit show
i'd imagine the campaign not going well would have to mean a stalemate meaning the opposing nations leaders would have been killed too? otherwise morale would have been greatly affected causing a huge sweep from the enemy nation

Would be interesting to see the concept of giving the succession to a woman who is already promised to someone or an unborn child who has, as of yet, an unknown gender

what is the relation of the protag to everyone else though?

>the opposing nations leaders would have been killed too?
now you're just venturing into the wrong side of fantasy territory
even if you humor that idea they couldn't possibly have the same succession dilemma and that alone would be reason for them to take the opportunity and vassalize all their enemies (assuming their proximity/trade/culture etc is favorable). also stories about king succession are kind of unoriginal themselves.
a story about a minor vassal uncovering claims to higher nobility and rallying their peers would be a lot more exiting than some scholar or archivist going through primogeniture law for half the book until the lower vassals break the kingdom apart or one of them revolts
you're just building a tall house of cards with all these ifs

Can anyone actually SEE my writing, sorry? Super tiny.

“Do you have a reservation sir?”
He wasn’t sure, and at this moment he couldn’t remember chucks last name. What was it again? Paulson? Smith? Something strange. Irish sounding? O something. O’lire? O’Conner? O’Conner. That sounded right.
“I think so? Chuck O’Conner?” He started perspiring. Seconds started feeling like hours. He could feel the eyes of the ever-growing line behind him shooting daggers at the back of his head.
“I’m sorry sir I don’t see that name. How many will be dining with you tonight?”
“I think two others.”
“Great, a booth seat will be about a fifteen-minute wait. Is that okay?”
“Sure thing.” As he nodded, she handed him a small square with flashing lights and a large number sixteen on it. He stepped out of the way of the line and pulled out his phone. He wanted to send a strongly worded message to Chuck. In fact, he wanted to call and yell at him for breaking the rules of common dinner decency. But all he ended up doing was sending the message:

Here.

He looked around for a place to sit but couldn’t find one. Squeezing through the crowd he managed to get back out through the front entrance. The dim streetlights were a welcome shift to normalcy compared to the chaos happening inside. He found a spot on a bench next to a couple performing intimate nibbles and whispers. He clutched awkwardly onto his briefcase as if waiting at a doctor’s office, his hands full of technology meant to communicate to him, but both objects perpetuated radio silence. Turns out no one wanted to talk to him. His mind turned back to the case, otherwise he’d start contemplating why his Thursday evening was so full of others wasting his time while leaving him so cripplingly alone.

He had been alone for a while. His last girlfriend had left him early during law school. Once he graduated, he moved cities for the job. The months spent studying for the bar exam too were a perfect time to let the bridges of all his friendships rot and fade away. He celebrated passing the bar alone, with the exception of a four-minute phone call from his mother. She had been so proud. She talked about what his father would have said, and she chocked on tears as she said it. He ended the call by lying about having lunch with new friends he had made at his job. There were no new friends at his job. Only strangers he occasionally played video games with online with the rare chance he wasn’t working. Some of them never logged on again. He hoped it was because they forgot their password or got married, but he knew at least one was because he was fatally hit by a car. They had gone to high school together. Nearly a decade later it still didn’t feel real. Austin’s hands were shaking. It was the cube vibrating. His table was ready.

i'm not implying the same succession dilemma but naturally the death of rulers causes a strain on nations if they are primarily governed by them.

By
>Would be interesting to see the concept of giving the succession to a woman who is already promised to someone or an unborn child who has, as of yet, an unknown gender
i meant that it would be interesting to see the fighting but you're right, it probably would be uninteresting after a short while

also everyone sucks the underdogs dick so that idea would probably sell

Good points, the idea was that the enemy king also died in battle, plus the mercenaries and adventurers he hired mutinied because there was no money to pay them, the enemy nation has no way to exploit their victory for now.

I got the idea after an accountant in my town murdered his entire family at a family reunion and his lawyer was trying to persuade him to confess he shot them in a specific order to manipulate the succession. iirc he was trying to prevent his granddaughter from getting her share of the house. her own relatives tried to dispute this by claiming the order in which he shot them doesnt necessarily correspond to the order in which they died and brought in doctors to analyze the wounds to determine how long it took for each victim to die.
So I was wondering what would happen if they had been litigating over a kingdom instead of a house

docs.google.com/document/d/1KI39DtqdDP3cxqtgxSHda0JtIW9LviZRFrQFlQuv3rk/edit?usp=sharing

Curious what others think of this passage. Any suggestions or critiques would be appreciated.

Attached: _GarbageSubs__Kobayashi_san_Chi_no_Maid_Dragon___14_OVA__720p_.mkv_snapshot_14.54__2017.09.24_04.12. (1280x720, 113K)

Continuation of:
August. August meant long days and short nights, so Jimmy wouldn’t be too afraid to sleep, although he despised the heat. He gulped down the rest of his coffee, remembering that his doctor said to avoid caffeine, and said good night to Caroline. Caroline looked at him, concerned and afraid of what he would do next, and nodded gingerly. With a quick jump and half a skip, Jimmy made his way out the door, not at all worried about his earlier altercation with Gus. Instead, he focused his attention on work, and returning to his studio as soon as possible, because a new idea was forming in his head. When Jimmy felt the need to paint, it was just that: a need to paint, to express, to put paint to canvas, or in another medium express his current agitated emotional state. Whether it be from fear and pain or love and desire, Jimmy frequently found himself feeling the need, and from this need he found a vocation, artist. Although a greater power had called down to him from above, Jimmy felt a divine motivation to be the voice of a generation. It were as though he alone were among the most suited of sufferers to be an artistic martyr, carrying the burden of living in the modern world on his philanthropic shoulders.

someone pls critique me

Throw it all in a google doc? Will make it easier to read. Got an hour and a half at work to burn.

docs.google.com/document/d/1bZk184oP-ByZkp58rD2HOPN0jM9iuhGhMvVbwLRfeFU/edit?usp=sharing

Does Google docs record visitors? I'm on a phone my boss gave me and it's linked to my work email that's something like realname.realsurname@companyname

did you visit it while logged in to a google account? it only records you if you made an edit I think

Main complaint is that you're overusing commas when you could split things up into different sentences. This is a lot more apparent in the section after leaving the therapist and creates an odd pacing. For example:
>But tonight, that goal would be unreachable, as a young man, appearing to be in his twenties refused to leave the diner.
Is oddly structured. Try:
>But tonight, that would be impossible. There was a young man, maybe about twenty, who refused to leave the diner.

Might spruce up the explination that hes giving to the therapist as well. As stands, its a bit dry. A more graceful explination of Caroline wouldn't go amiss either. As is, you're just describing her to us instead of working her features into her actions. That's a pretty good piece of advice to carry into everything. Show, don't tell.

Dialogue is pretty good, like that part of it. Just gotta work on what I mentioned above and you'll be in a decent place.

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What said. If you leave a comment while signed in to your google account it will place a name along the comments.

Not sure if people can see your name if you post something with google docs though.

Thank you user really appreciate your time and advice.

Or better yet instead of saying Sydney chuckled lightly replace it with a direct word meaning chuckling lightly, like “giggled.”

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I don't want you to take this the wrong way but this is kinda cringey. First person isn't really meshing at all with this kind of fantasy for me and not with that pretentious style unless that's intentional but I doubt it. Just reeks of amateur high school writing class. I don't know man, just read a lot more before you put pen to paper again and you should be good I guess would be the best advice I could give you.
Also less is more. But that should become more apparent the more you read.

As I read the excerpt now it does seem pretty cringe on its own, I wanted to write a few paragraphs of purple prose to describe the mc tripping, but I see where you're coming from with the first person issue, it does make it seem quite amateur.

bump

I liked it user. Are you setting up a thriller where main guy, lawyer here is the loner. Would it delve deeper into his psyche or his breakdown? I personally don't describe the surroundings much unless it adds to the buildup and adds to the scene otherwise its just filler which breaks immersion.

Here's mine. I am writing a harry potter fan fic where Voldemort died the night he attacked baby harry. I am hoping to write a pol left vs right in this universe. I am also planning to write it only in poems.

godrics hollow, enveloped in deadly silence,
moonless night , even hope fled,
at the site of dark lord’s descent
his robe was dark, intent even darker
to crush the boy, defeat fate and light
with his prey in sight
world would be at his feet
dark lord marched to gather his crown
little did he know what lied beneath

James screamed,
“Run, save our son”,
he stood against death,
as dark lord expunged him and further shed,

Nothing is left,
a witch and her son,
last stand of our world,
Were to be Crushed
under the weight of his curse,

But the gods hadn’t left,
lily sacrificed herself to save her son,
a momentary deterrent, As dark lord collected his thoughts,
the little boy cried at the unholy strangeness and his parents trials,
No, the dark lord silenced his soul,
this is not a boy but an enemy to my goal,

”Avada kedavra “,
with authority and power darkness seeked its right,
but the curse rebounded,
darkness laid bare to justice and righteousness might,

Dark lord died,
Sobs of the boy pierced the eerie silence,
Godrics hollow stood witness to the end and the beginning,
to the rising sun and evading blight

Yeah, he gets trapped inside a 24/7 Mexican restaurant. The loner will be cripplingly alone surrounded by a foreign culture, forced to work and sleep there, forgetting his previous life, finally opening up to these strange apparitions or beings or maybe just normal people. Discovers the occult or some shit. His new reality he finally came to terms with is shattered. Only to finally be let out of the beast into his cripplingly lonely life once again.

I haven't read or seen harry potter since like book 4 came out, so I wouldn't be much help to you user. But I would suggest reading it out loud to yourself. There's one or two spots that feel like they are missing a syllable.

pastebin.com/NvVLUmwM

Give it to me straight lit. Will I get published or does it suck. About 50 pages in, done with the first act.

docs.google.com/document/d/1PpsUN6lamkTktfRGKZ2Qh1g3p0c7Jkm7tKa5dvxr7v8/edit?usp=sharing

^an excerpt from a story I've been working on. I posted a different excerpt in one of these threads a couple months ago and got some good feedback. Commenting is enabled on the google doc so respond there or ITT.

I think the transition to his ruminations on his loneliness is a bit clunky, and the life story doesn't fit in too well. There's some nice characterization in the first bit; I think you ought to work on integrating the characterization with the prose, rather than infodumping in a paragraph that doesn't mesh too well with the rest of what's going on. It breaks away from the scene, so when the thing buzzes it's like, oh yeah, this guy is getting dinner. Maybe tell us a little more about how he feels about Chuck, and his relationship with him? Why is he so annoyed? Are they close friends?

The previous 6 pages are all about him getting a new case and Chuck barging in on him and forcing him to go to dinner with a new client. I think youre right in that the transition should be a bit smoother. I like the idea of "oh right, he's going to dinner, I forgot" but I think the slow dissent into it could be better. I'll work on it. Thanks user!

How do you suppose I can write a novel with a them of psychological hedonism while also balancing it with a Dostoyevskian air of suffering and mental trauma?
The novel I'm writing in question has to do with several characters undergoing burdensome circumstances (having divine-level beings sharing their bodies, subsequent side effects and past experiences), and often being miserable, but still finding ways to enjoy life and try, despite the circumstances.
Does my premise already match what I ask for?

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Read lit from the Decadent and fantabulist/magical realist movements

Christ that's shit.
The more "vague" you get, the more shit it becomes. No flow, no lyricism, no musicality to it. No beauty. Just disjointed vaguerie, camouflaged as depth.
But then again, I dislike modern "art".

Just write it out without thinking much about the philosophy or psychology of it. The more you analyse it, the more robotic and overcooked it feels.
Themes form themselves. Ideas shape themselves, just like characters begin speaking for themselves after you spend enough time with them.
Don't focus on themes, focus on story and characters. Everything else comes by itself.

I was thinking that, too. The setting is what really created the idea, rather than vice versa.

thx user

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A man was sat at a table. He refused to bother with the few crumbs scattered on it, not paying attention that his sleeve was in a small puddle of spilt beer, or perhaps not caring. His eyes looked forward to stare into nothing. Maybe he could hear the voices of the other patrons, maybe not. If you were told he had been there his entire life you would believe it. It was a sight that would make you feel a sort of melancholy, the end of the world could come and he would still be sitting there.

So Pale Fire?

Thoughts?

Attached: eschaton excerpt 2.png (436x1188, 41K)

bad

Within cells interlinked.
Never read it, but I might get a copy on amazon after I finish reading House of Leaves that someone else in the thread recommended. All these rec's make me feel very aware about how others have used footnotes so well. its both inspiring but also makes that gap of how much better others are compared to me.

How long will the period of pain last?
Emptiness is just a time of the season, they say
but dry notes linger on like a drone in my theater
There is no light, only grey space
I have lost my sense of direction
Every touch of flesh is a flirt
My time is like the smattered grass of a mudtrack
I tell myself every rejection is just an obstacle
I have no inner game, women they invite me in to talk but won't lay down
I feel the hurt deep in my spine
All souls please sing for me in my time of need
You give a man a few dollars for bread
but you would never give him a blowjob
That's just too much of a good thing

>qtddtot
Is a signature writing style good or should the prose change to fit the topic? I wrote an excerpt a while ago and it was an obscurantist /pol/-topic rant describing the obvious influence media has over people, how the redpills didn't change the appearance of anything, yet everything seems so different. I wrote a dozen pages about muh anxious attachment recently to try and get over it as a therapy project and it's very YA fiction in tone.

I know its complete garbage, and wholly unfinished, but I certainly need some constructive criticism. Thanks in advance.

Into the dark void before him a strange, rectangular, form coalesced about itself, externally fluctuating, fluidly, between opaque and translucent colours of vacillating vibrance. Its centre was marked by a small circle, a vivacious blue in nature, about which his mind began to walk.

This ‘thing’, a self-detaching, incomprehensible, condition, appeared to contain within it a matter queerly comparable to Micheal’s own being - as if comprising of his own beliefs and ideals; his very element. “Well”, the man thusly thought; “if I, that is to say, my entity, am within both my physical persons and this quizzical shape, then, what must be myself; these internal feelings and experiences or a strange external frame - a thought-full soul or an abstract article.”

Yet, just prior to, and a great misfortune as a result of which, the substantive enlightenment to be attained from any such preponderance was ripped, disconcertingly, from Michaels comprehension. Awakened from his latent snoozing by an abrasive, aggravating, noise. “You’ve always been an arrogant cunt, haven’t you Mike”, ejected a vague shadow, lethargically leaning against the insincere, ochre stained, wall of the revulsive Motel hallway. “Here you are; wasted, nude and walking off over the philosophical question of being, God”. Vision slovenly returning to his sand-blasted eyeballs; allowing lucidity to present itself to the as of yet obscured, and rather presumptuous, figure imposing itself upon him, Michael began to perceive his harasser. It was, as assumed before, a rather perverted black by complexion, though textured with a fur comprised of matted clumps parsed intermittently across its animated character.

pastebin.com/CUsWH2AL

Attached: 1548371157340.jpg (1668x1500, 3.93M)

The first comma was an unnecessary pause. The whole sentence was fine without it.

Help, im convinced im unable to become a writer.
Every time i wrote work/stories at school:
>If i liked it and it was the purest interpretation of my thoughts
It would consistently get shot down and sometimes teachers would go out of their way to fail me (49% on a creative writing test where pass was 50%, pretty obvious).
>If i wrote like i was explaining things to a retard
Then would end up getting a insane grade (imagine a C in english student getting A++ and praise from a teacher) which i never could justify.
Anyone have ever experienced this ? At least second hand...

Attached: ifunny.org.jpg (770x887, 43K)

>You give a man a few dollars for bread
>but you would never give him a blowjob
>That's just too much of a good thing

aw

Attached: 1556042134470.png (2551x2576, 687K)

>>If i wrote like i was explaining things to a retard
>Then would end up getting a insane grade
What's the problem then? Write in the way your teachers liked. You were probably being more coherent at those times anyway.

He laughed as he sprayed rope after rope of hot cum onto her horrified face. Reveling in triumph as off white sperm mixed with tears to flow down her face in a river of shame.
"Bite it you kike!" He shouted as he rammed is pulsating rod into her tightly pressed lips. He wiped it across her nostrils and in her eyes. Her bound hands could do nothing to fend off the slimy weapon. Brownish clumps dribbled from the inflamed pee hole.
"I am your LORD!" he proclaimed, shoving her prone on the floor. The fiend positioned himself in such a way as to pin her shoulders to the floor under crushing knees as he lowered his stinking thick haired asshole onto her soppy gross face. She watched in horror as the scarred anus flexed before her and the raw aperture opened up. A soft hiss as rancid air escaped and quickly filled her sizeable nose. Immediately she felt a heave in her stomach as vomit filled her throat. Sputtering, she couldn't help but spray chunks which ran down the craterous landscape of his pimply ass.
and then the shit came.
Pouring from the festering sinkhole like raw Mcnugget meat. The turds quickly filled her mouth, replacing the taste of her puke with the gritty tang of his high protein dump. Plop after plop of wicked filth piled onto her face. Filling her nose and sealing her eyes. The man laughed wickedly as her face was entombed. When he was finally empty he took the revolver from the bed stand. Laughing to the end he blew his head all over the room.

His now limp body tumbled to the floor and the girl was released. Desperately she wiped the foul mess from her face and rose to her knees. She sputtered and coughed up shit and vomit all over her self. As she looked on the form of the bastard who had done this to her she had only one thought. I'm never going to Canada again.

lol

>I know its complete garbage, and wholly unfinished, but I certainly need some constructive criticism. Thanks in advance.

Why do people keep doing this? If you think its garbage and unfinished, why don't you finish it to the best of your ability first? Why would anyone want to give you constructive critique when you can't even be bothered to bring your A-game?

And if it really is your best work and you're trying to downplay that in an effort to soften the critique, that's even more flawed. In the first case you're lazy, in the second you're a coward.

Here's some constructive critique: your work is garbage and unfinished.

Oh, no. This one got blocked on Amazon: I couldn't self publish it through them.

Everyone’s shirts are wet under the armpits, which makes Nadine feel a little less self-conscious about her own stained shirt although not enough for her to remove her jacket or uncross her arms. The auditorium is easily over legal occupancy. Touching shoulders, jabbing elbows, everybody’s breath brushing the back of everybody else’s neck. It’s also dark, and late: 10:30 P.M. Nadine isn’t used to covering rallies, let alone what might turn into a primary victory party. Her circuit is bureaucracy. Policy implementation at the micro-level. The sort of nit and grit work that the government actually does, or is supposed to do, largely in nondescript concrete buildings around Washington filled with white-collars who commute every day from Arlington, Fairfax, Bethesda, many as far as Baltimore, Philadelphia, Gettysburg. She’s been glued to Robert from The Post the whole night hoping that he might rub off some confidence or insight since he’s covered about a hundred of these and seems to know everyone here on a first-name basis.
“I hardly even know the first thing about this guy,” says Nadine, “I’ve seen his ads, his tweet about the income tax or whatever.”
Robert has a piercing look in his eyes. He’s watching cooking video on his phone. This is way beyond my paygrade, he thinks. I don’t even know what the hell hummus is. Chickpeas?
“Him tossing a football. Eating state-appropriate food.”
Robert feels like he missed a step and rewinds. What a bad word, chicks. He says it in his head until the word loses its meaning and becomes alien sounding.
“A total bore. And now he’s the front-runner. I really don’t get it.”
Nadine’s journalism is normally the kind that’s neither glamourous nor, to most people, important. Her articles were read almost exclusively by professional policy analysts and the odd-enthusiast until she broke something fairly major about a loop-hole in the allocation of Labor Department funds, sparking an ongoing controversy around its head Secretary.
“You know that guy who you pass on the street about every day?” Robert says, “He just barely registers in the peripheral before he disappears again, until the next block. I mean he’s obviously not the same-exact guy but he might as well be. The literal every-man.”
Robert is wearing a black tee-shirt. Most people don’t actually dress up for rallies. The few that do are always important and garner a lot of attention from the casually dressed attendees. Robert keeps his press-pass in his other pocket and takes it out like a badge when he needs to prove himself. This makes Robert feel like a P.I.
“Of course,” Nadine says, “I hate that guy.”
“Well that’s the candidate. He’s that guy.”
The stench of people is palpable like a brick wall.

You use the word "but" alot and the repeated use is noticeable otherwise seems good to me. That being said I'm not an expert writer or anything and I make the same mistake of overusing words.
Here's mine:

when I first started writing it I intended for it to become erotic but I got too engrossed in writing the actual plot that I forgot all about that. Apologies in advance if it's completely rubbish.

pastebin.com/7HePs3EL

I very much enjoy the descriptiveness of your writing. I like the naming and world of your writing a lot from the first few read pages, its very quaint my friend.
Heres my current project, just the beginning chapter:
docs.google.com/document/d/1v4kbmKrARG9q01ZR6qtcwDCVHJpLC8AR-q-Y9hXs0uM/edit?usp=sharing

Attached: GOD1.jpg (519x480, 42K)

>You use the word "but" alot and the repeated use is noticeable otherwise seems good to me. That being said I'm not an expert writer or anything and I make the same mistake of overusing words.
Thanks for your feedback, never noticed I use the word but often. _But_ I guess it doesn't matter unless it does. Is it really that bad?

>Here's mine:

>pastebin.com/7HePs3EL

Read it. I think it's an ode to Christian visions!

>Ode to Christian visions

Is that a book? Not quite sure what you mean sorry. My inspiration came from all the different creepypastas I've been listening to over the past week or so while at work. (They help me focus).

>Is it really that bad?

Overusing any particular word can stick out. I have a bad habit of using "and" in every sentence so I often have to go back to reword everything. So long as you feel the sentences flow well it should be fine.

Heres a paragraph from a book ive been writing on the side as a hobby.

Back at Brody's office, the place looked like it was turned upside down. He was frantically searching for an oxy, but had no luck. The cracks in between the floor boards did not reveal any hidden treasure. The clock on the wall started to get louder and louder, as if it were taunting Brody. Sweat poured down his face as he took off his leather jacket and draped it over the couch. There had to be a place he hasn’t looked yet. The office wasn’t that big, but once you analyze every nook and cranny, the place became an ocean. The bookshelf, he thought to himself, the only place he hasn’t touched for years. Books flew through clouds of dust that once resided on the books themselves. A lonely white pill showed itself. It wasn’t much, but it would do for now. Brody threw the oxy in his mouth and a feeling of relief overcame him. Sitting on the wooden floor, he came to his senses, shame quickly replaced his comfort.

>>Ode to Christian visions
>Is that a book?
No, that was my positive review.
>I have a bad habit of using "and" in every sentence
Well, McCarthy and Hemingway both rely on polysyndeton. See nothing wrong there besides the word is mostly invisible anyways. Perhaps, as long as you overuse a conjunction (and, but) and not a noun (cat) or adjective (fluffy) then not all hope is lost, while of course it's possible to remove overused words during line edit if your overuse of any one word ticks you off. That reminds me, maybe you ought to look up how they use dialogue quotation marks in the English language to seem more advanced as readers normally expect this kinda dialogue: He said, "This is how I write dialogue, putting the period mark before the final quotation mark and a comma or colon before the first quotation mark." It really makes a world of difference, unless it's a stylistic choice on your part to leave those out of course none of my business dude.

Reads well to me. I'm intrigued what's the book about?

Ooooh I see what you mean now. Thanks for the positive comment. That does make sense what you said about overusing conjunctions. Honestly I will look up the quotation marks thing. I didn't know there was any other way to use them so it's good to know. Thanks.

Well the inspiration for the main character comes from Sherlock Holmes. Only the character in my book isnt intelligent and is a lousy private eye. He is also a bit of a scum bag too. The book has a comic book tone to it. Theres a mob boss called the Baltimore Mummy, due to him having a rare skin condition, whos part of a dying mafia. The main character finds himself doing his dirty work.

Sounds awesome. Keep us updated user. It sounds like something I'd like to read.

Here is the next chapter.

Attached: aef.png (653x857, 58K)

Attached: beautiful prose.png (635x595, 31K)

“Crowned King. Labelled after itself. Recognised after language acknowledges this. Linguistically in scripture. Effective without doing it. Yet… this is admittedly celebrating its effectiveness. Harboring an agenda. It completes my task. It can help, after all. This is quite a change of heart. You found passion. The dreams you dream. The reflection of your life. Superfluous for this life. It merges with a different one. Compiling an alternative base. That still is for their standardised dressing. It is going to cloak that.”

Self-published on my site already.

"Out across the city, the chorus of yellow taxicabs and turquoise trams roared against the concrete, yet in the Weston Café the only sound to be heard was the sweet, lightheaded humming of the bartender. Jerry was a brass-plated android, broad-shouldered and infatuated with the tunes of modern jazz. He said it was those “deep, carbonized notes that never came to a stop, giving my pistons a reason to push.” Every time I’d come in he’d be leaning against the fridge, eyes shut, singing to himself the latest single from Bluespace Blues. Journeying through space on a ship fueled by moonlight and wishes… yeah, Jerry desperately wanted to leave the Café. He hadn’t left in fifty years, bound to some corporate firm and forced to work until he couldn’t. But as long as he had his songs, Jerry was alright."

I've picked up writing as a hobby again and this is the opening paragraph I've worked on for a fair bit. Does it feel good to you?

I feel that the constant interruption of short sentences makes it feel more stunted rather than monumental. Otherwise, I think the prose is good.

>beautiful prose

i kek'd

I’ll review what I can if you do mine.

Attached: Grant's War.jpg (531x598, 127K)

Overall I really enjoyed the rhythm of the piece, but you need to work on less cliches and showing, not telling.

let me know yall

Galahad and the Tarasque.

Come near and let me tell you now
Of Galahad the just
A noble knight from Camelot
Who tamed the fierce Tarasque

One day there came a messenger,
From a far-off land.
He came to tell about the beast
Which they could not withstand

Galahad rode throughout the night,
To reach the hamlet fast.
Through bush and branch he rush’d
Without his help they would not last

The people greeted him with joy
and described the loathsome creature
a lion’s head, six short legs.
It’s tail a fearsome feature

The Tarasque lived upon the hill
High above the village.
Galahad strode up, determined
To stop the evil pillage

The ancient forest was its home
which it shared with others
fierce wolves and brigands, who took turns
robbing men and mothers

The fierce beast hurtled out the cave
And Galahad met it
Tooth and Nail against metal
And he beat it back bit by bit

But at the entrance of the cave
The creature held its ground
So, Galahad waited outside
Sat down and began to propound

Galahad spoke from moon to moon
About Jesus Christ his lord.
The Tarasque listened and was saved,
No more need for the sword.

“But what will I eat now it said?”
He told it of his plan
And led it down to the village.
No more would it hunt man

From then it kept the people safe
Serving penance for sin
So the village prospered
And the thankful people fed him

pretentious and obscure

should be analyzed.

remove he thought to himself

pastebin.com/d5rzHCXX

Attached: 1532222820516.jpg (1114x1757, 273K)

a-rod, the great Rog, the ancient and honest expression of their bodies in the great game of tennis will remain chronicled in our group-minds as long as we matter. The swiss, with stone grave countenance is a veteran showing bitters of old age. Yet when he strikes the ball, each cathartic, the white swan unfurls its wing, the white arms enough to embrace all the sorrows of the world. A-rod, American, with suburban innocence, swings with naive confidence. He understands his own exceptionality. Yet, although in the same profession, they are as far from him as the indivisible atom which although builds into something, are removed from each other from light year distances.

I just woke up from a nap. Holy fuck house of leaves is giving me weird dreams within dreams.

>He had been on a jog in his neighborhood. Had he? He saw signs of a famous internet celebrity claiming it was his street. A police officer in a golf cart drove past. He thought he saw the girl who hated him with her family, when he turned around they were gone. He kept walking. He texted a photo of the sign to a friend. He was tired. He saw two people sunbathing in front of a house. His classmates. They didn’t know each other. He laid in the grass to get to their level and said hello. He heard writing tips. The country boy looked drunk as always and the blond with bangs looked strangely different. Was it that she had no make up? No. It was more like when a soap opera replaced an actress. He was falling asleep. He told them he had to go. He walked to a house that looked familiar. His friends? Wasn’t there a party here? He walked in and found the couch. He laid down. His eyes were heavy. He heard two lesbians giggle and go into the bedroom. He heard writing tips. He had no paper and he felt his body pulsate with exhaustion. He fell asleep.

>He and his mother woke up in what looked to be an ornate hotel room, 1800s. He couldn’t remember the last thing he had been doing clearly. It had to do with studying. What’s he hungover? Had he been drinking? He hadn’t for a while so any effects were new. He heard echoes of writing advice and scripts. His pockets were full of guitar picks. He quickly got up the couch and attempted to put on his pants. They were ripped. No way to put the belt on without looking goofy. He found a large pair of sweat pants with a stain. Were these his? He felt like he had worn them before. He check his old pants pockets and found keys and his wallet. Was he at a friends home? It felt like one of his classmates, or maybe his professors. He quickly begged his mother to leave without coffee or the news. When they left the room they found a large business dock type driveway with suvs in rows. Where was his car. He clicked his buzzer. He found one that responded. But it was a Toyota. He drove a Volkswagen. It didn’t matter he made her put the bag in and he started the suv. He found his mother asking for other family’s to move their cars. A barn style miniature home was near them. He looked up. There was an awning attached to a towering building. Ornate Casseno signs littered the skyline. The view was astonishing. Where were they? He turned to his mother and asked if he had slept through a drive to Oklahoma. She said he had not.

Even tho the protagonist seems to be a self-aggrandizing bish it'd be nice if it had more spaces (empty lines) between paragraphs and generally shorter paragraphs in order to make the story easier to follow. Now it's like having to eat several heavy meals instead of light snacks (short paragraphs) between the next meal (next chapter). An exclamation mark (!) would be nice once in a while to boot - she is young after all. On the other hand, her stream of consciousness does sound like a woman's. Maybe delete 50% and spice it up with dialogue. Nice.

Wrote an 18+ LGBT flashfic

pastebin.com/dKMUgS1v

Critique?

>Rog
Fuck, that made me think of the Rog that I would see when I would browse r/worldbuilding like forever ago. Lino shit

Attached: pucci.png (272x326, 143K)

I enjoyed it! It was catchy.

How many times do you guys go back through what you've written and make changes? I've got ~15 pages written over the last month, but I've gone over it all what feels like dozens of times.

Attached: 1529034863840.png (256x238, 117K)

Editing more than thrice is bluepilled.

I've just finished the third or fourth edit on pic related, if you're the same kanna poster from before I took your advice and tried applying it.
Post some of your work user!
delete your post right now

Attached: Jimmy.jpg (1294x1692, 698K)

Don't edit when creating content. You'll be like that image of a drawn horse where half the horse is really well done and the other half is a stick figure. Finish. Writing. It. Then edit. Then edit a million times. Print it out. Use a red pen. Change the font and do it again.

What if you're a potato writer and make a half baked potato that's 75,000 words long?
Just write out the entire short story/novella first?

Editing is like plating and garnishing the baked potato. Without it, it could be eaten, but it would be very unbecoming of such a wonderful Jessabelle such as yourself. You must first finish cooking the thing before presenting it to your guests at your fancy dinner potato party

you're one cheeky fuck m8o but I love your quips so thank you user.

Of Course. Good luck on your writing, my beautiful little potato.

Upon walking across campus I was gradually struck by a strange feeling. A suspicious one. With the passings of a few people it became clear that I was being watched or observed. As I traveled I moved my eyes around skittishly between the pavement and eye level catching certain people glaring at me. There was no mistake about it, they were looking at me. Then I remembered how fast gossip tears through campus, and it all made sense. I was the kid that knocked Cody’s teeth out. And maybe even the kid that fainted and that walked out of class.

I got to class early and Proctor was already there. I sat down, rigid in my seat, and glanced up at Proctor who happened to be looking in my direction. We met eyes and he gave me a telling nod of acknowledgment, signaling a general understanding between the two of us, for which I was tremendously grateful. Having taken a few classes here at school I know that my condition would spell the end of my time in different classes being taught by different professors. Maybe they would deem it unfair that I don’t have to participate while other students do, and reject the idea of making an exception for someone who’s struggling among a vast world of struggling people, which is honestly valid, and people in general shouldn’t be forced to sympathize and accommodate for people to whom they owe nothing. But, and perhaps I’m biased, I think there’s something to be said about a person who does put themselves in another person’s shoes and who operates on a different and arguably deeper sense of fairness, and who can acknowledge that there are different dimensions to the experience of every person. The default motivating factor behind the actions of most people seems to be the idea that action is only warranted if it might result in personal gain, and inaction in most situations is far easier and carries less risk than going out of one’s way to help another person. Many people in high school have watched as teachers, who they’re expected to obey, sat idly by while a student gets bullied within their vicinity, and the cowardly trait of inaction seems to affect the majority of people. A harsh reality of getting older is learning through experience about the many flaws of grown adults who seem to differ from children only in intelligence and hair count.

>While walking across campus I was gradually struck by a suspicious feeling. I was surrounded by students, and it became clear that I was being observed. I started walking with intent, and my eyes darted around skittishly between the pavement and eye level, catching some in the crowed glaring in my direction. There was no mistake, they were looking at me. I remembered how gossip rips through campus faster than an STD. It all made sense. I was the one who knocked Cody’s teeth out. The one who fainted. The one who walked out of class.

Thanks mate. When I finish my manuscript can I expect a publisher (if I should be so lucky) to make such revisions for me?

The first thing I have ever written barring school essays. I had fun writing this little poem and it was very therapeutic for me. I hope it doesn't come off too much like something on a 14 year old girl's tumblr page.

There are fish swimming inside my head.
Bottom feeders on the river's bed.

A figure starving, peaked, and frail
as I cast my net to no avail.

Hands blistered and raw but mind resolute
I prepare myself to try again.

I peer into the water's murky depth,
with momentary stillness and abated breath.

The slightest ripple, a resounding splash.
Tangled and contorted as I claw and lash.

Sopping wet on the muddy banks.
I prepare myself to try again.

I don't know how publishing editors work, that's the kind of stuff you work on when you edit. Rephrasing and efficiency. Manipulating sentences. Editing isn't just grammar and punctuation. It's content too. Fluency.

Bump, don't leave me behind :(

Evening ma,

Tell me it ain't so, or, rather, tell me I am dreaming and I have run a fever so hot that the sun had to hide for half the day just to escape my light. If it true, I shall kill you, rape you, molest your beating body and cold corpse. I shall hurt you more than anyone else could possibly doing so without knowing you as intimately as I (for the love of a mother and her son, the true love, from life to re-insertion is more true, more perfect than that of dear Oedipus knows).

Love you ma

little thing i wrote, you're welcome for being blessed

June; he turned 21 on the base at Fort Bliss
"Just a day" he said down to the flask in his fist
Ain't been sober since maybe October of last year
Here in town, you can tell he's been down for a while
But, my god, it's so beautiful when the boy smiles
They all love him -- still, he has reason to doubt it

But you can't jump the track -- we're like cars on a cable
And life's like an hourglass glued to the table
No one can find the rewind button, child
So cradle your head in your hands
And breathe

2 AM; now she's calling, 'cause I'm still awake
"Can you help me unravel my latest mistake?
I don't love him."
Winter just wasn't my season
Now she walks through the doors -- so accusing, their eyes
Like they have any right at all to criticize
Hypocrites! You're all here for the very same reason

"There's a light at each end of this tunnel!" you shout
'Cause you're just as far in as you'll ever be out
With the things that you've done, and the places you've been
And the mistakes you've made, which you'll just make again
"Can anything turn it around?"

But you can't jump the track -- we're like cars on a cable
And life's like an hourglass glued to the table
No one can find the rewind button, child
So cradle your head in your hands
And breathe.

“White man. An outcome of there existing more than just the man. The thing the man will take over to take the thing’s control. With much approval from it. It hopes for an empowerment of the ones that are behaving in this approved way. It is the approvals granted to them. Several granters to them of these. Making another grant completely redundant. For that woman, it would be too much to know what to do with. If I was not her one for it. I still would have been the one to call for that one mission that she handed us. Had she not handed that to us because she wanted me. I would not be here, in amongst you’s. But out there I would be. Out there is the scene where you would be me.”

I've self published this on christianjaroschdialogues.com

Drown me in the arms of your love
Or then drown me beneath the water

Calm everlasting of unbeing
In the opening of an eye
Terror trial error (I have become)
And then of navel raveled reckonings
This same self errs to see itself
As that which is other than you

You have eyes my love, with which
The dissonance to harmonize
To know, cross-knowing and objectify
Light crossed light and word described
Solvent of my atoms ionized
Oceanic bliss of all subsumed
But what about the world assumes
Other than me, other you?

The problem was to part
And so in union has its answer
But riddles all beset in twain,
All which comes at last together
Has much in difference for to weather
Breaks as easily as on the grain
Unnamed

Arms wither, whither goes embrace
Unknown
The seeing that was seen was blown
A wind into eternal flame was thrown
Apart, unfair, afraid, alone

Smoke and pillars, it was all
The ground stood on the salt, dissolved

Distance bound to seek but none
Drown me in the arms of your frail love

an excerpt from something:

“I’ll tell it to you how I remember it that night.
I was nearing sleep, just reaching for my pillow when a flash outside startled me through and through. Lighting? I thought instantly. What strange lighting. I looked out the window– which I just happened to have opened– and saw it. It was the strangest, most otherworldly light I'd ever seen. The second I found it, it captivated me. It dumbfounded me. It was tiny, in the distance, and near the water. Everything else was dark, every other light became dull.

“A few seconds later it flashed again, or throbbed, or flickered, or something. My God, it was so strange. It went from bright to brilliant, I believed it was too brilliant to be made by human hands, I mean, it was blinding and came from such a small source. I thought it was like a lighthouse, the flash was unsteady and came and went like a blaze turning around and around inside a lighthouse tower. My God, it was so bright. I never believed it was a lighthouse though. There was no lighthouse in that corner of the river, which I saw out my window every day and night.

“And as I contemplated what in the world it could possibly be, it changed, it evolved. The throbbing was unsteady and unreliable, every time it dimmed I didn't know for sure I'd see it beam again. I so desperately wanted to see It beam again. Its color changed seamlessly from a warm tint to a cool one– blue almost. It sent strange shadows across my window, across everything. Everything was involved in the light. Something seemed to scream at me that it was a living thing, it seemed to me to breathe. It smiled and scowled and squinted like a face. I never cared so much for a light. I thought for a moment it could be a star exploding or a meteor touching the earth. Ridiculous. And all it’s enigma made the more enticing. That’s why I’ve pictured it in my head every day since I saw it. I had no idea what it was, though the logical part of me pulled me down to earth, insisting it was just an earthly, manufactured light of some kind. I almost believed it.”
*******
I like this, romantic but skillfully done. There are a lot of lines that had me feeling some type of way.
>Trial terror error
Fantastic
>(I have become)
I don’t think the parentheses work here.
That’s all I’d change.

Not bad desu. Do you ever consider pursuing a professional literary career?

With closed lips
your mouth curves to the sky.
Do you know how pretty your smile is?
It lifts your soft brown eyes

this is fucking genius

Yep, Im the same guy. Posted some of my stuff before, usually just passages Im unsure about. Bout to head out for a job or else Id read your edit. If the thread is still up when Im back this afternoon then Ill take a look.

I find it almost impossible to not at this point. Thankfully, the farther I get the less I find myself changing. Partly because Im finding my voice again after all these years and partly because of advice Ive gotten from this thread and /write/.

My biggest issue is that I get wrapped up in descriptive writing. I cut something like four pages from my original draft of my first chapter because, as much as I liked what I wrote, it was telling and not showing parts of the world on top of being overly written. Ive gotten better, but it still helps to go back through and cut for the time being.

Since people are sharing poems here's a very short one I wrote a while back.

Two hearts once entwined
Inevitably split asunder
For cold orthodoxy could never countenance their thunder.

what form is that?

oh did you say free verse, not a form sweetie

Ah well. Pic Related.

Attached: 440308_1.jpg (630x630, 63K)

the state of this gen "aw it doesnt matter if its shit because at least i tried :) "

A dark fantasy opening

*

The wagon was heading towards Favelia Castle, filled by who were deemed fit to stand trial before the Baron. Vrubel knew what that mean. The other prisoners around him probably knew as well, they sat silent, not complaining about the steel biting into their wrists and ankles. Just staring at the sky with blank faces and eyes that saw nothing.

Vrubel looked around at the everything they passed. The withered tree’s, the small villages which were filled with dirty children who’d rush out to stare at the wagon, most of all he looked at the hills. The huge boulders that filled the horizon and cast shadows over the ashen dust of the desert. How he hated the view, just beyond those ugly rocks he knew were the forests and lakes of home. Farser had hopefully made it back, if the blade in his leg hadn’t killed him he was hopefully home back in the village. That way at least his family would know he was to be tried. They could prepare a grave.

Only if the Baron decided to give the bones back, he reminded himself. Lately he’d taken to displaying them on the castle walls. A sign of the madness slowly rotting his brain, people said.

During the days he watched the desert, during the nights he imagined home, and how he’d get back there.

*

It was as ugly as he’d always imagined, he thought as they were marched into the castle. A ugly square building of sandstone with rusted gates and arrow slits for windows.

“Don’t worry, the courthouse is twice the size and a much nicer view”, one knight laughed as they passed.

Just because someone can brush off a failure doesn't mean they're not gonna try and improve in the future. It just means they're not gonna cry about it.

errant à dans l'aube de l'ennui et je m'arrête,
je regarde l'arc des feuilles qui orne
les portes de rêves solides. mais,
malheureusement, je ne peux pas entra,
parce que mon corps va fondre
dans le soleil éthéré.

When I was little I knew a neighborhood boy. He was pig-faced and snot-nosed, with green streaks of the stuff always on his face. The boy kept in his freezer ice cubes containing all of his pet fish that had died, crowding on the frozen vegetables and ice-cream bars. Once his older sister’s friend, no doubt just amusing herself, said that I was cute, and every time I returned to my friend’s I hoped that she would be there. She of course never was.
I stopped seeing him soon after realizing this.
Recently I heard that his father had suddenly died from one of those strange diseases one worries about late in the night after reading tabloids. Death has rarely made itself known to me: a privilege of knowing few people.

My melancholic friend and I were together on the first day of spring after the rain had finally stopped. I said that it was really about time for good weather.
"I for one can't stand the sun," my friend said.
"You feel anxious about spending the day doing one thing or another and inevitably come up short. The house suddenly feels suffocating and in the morning you immediately get up and leave in a worried state. The weather can't be wasted, you think. You go downtown and wander about until you realize that there's nothing to do. Everyone is lazily sitting outside cafes and bars reading or drinking, but when you yourself try to do the same you feel a bit like an imposter, and bored at that. When you call your friends you find that they've busied themselves with their own plans without you. Nice weather is always wasted."
"This is why I enjoy bad weather," my friend continued, "I can only be happy when I'm certain that everyone else is miserable."

What to do if I'm retarded

Finally home and showered. Im just going to write stuff down as I see it, hopefully its not too incoherent.
>overuse of commas seems to be gone, least in the first paragraph. Theres a couple sentences that I would restructure but its better.
>might add something like: "Walk me through your day." to the beginning. Helps give a bit of context as to why theres a big paragraph in quotations.
>fitting descriptions into the scene, thats good. Might work a bit on spicing them up some now. For example, this:
Jimmy stopped. He looked frail, dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie a size too big, brooding over himself obviously afraid of continuing.
>Is a bit run-on and could use some spice. Try something like:
Jimmy stopped, obviously afraid of continuing. The expression on his face, mixed with the baggy clothes too big for his frame, gave him a look of almost child-like frailty.
>More interesting to read while conveying the same points. Another one:
Dr. Lockhart put away his notes and appeared more tired than usual in his typical brown work suit.
>Try:
The tired wrinkles inlaid across Dr. Lockhart's face matched the ones pressed into his usual brown suit. As he put away his notes he motioned for Jimmy... Etc
>One more but only my change this time:
Caroline's somewhat lanky form lacked any elegance as she rushed across the diner, bringing food to the packed tables.
>height doesnt seem terribly important to me, if it is then I would mention it in relation to Jimmy's height instead of just stating it.
>do like the sentence after that that you added though, quite nice. Would change dotted to darted though. Would probably split the sentence that starts with 'For reasons other than beauty' into two sentences. Bit of a run-on.
>as before, the scene and dialogue after leaving the doctors is quite nice
>a few grammatical errors here and there, mostly run on sentences
>only big complaint is that the scene in the diner progresses almost unrealistically quickly
>within 6 lines of dialogue Jimmy finishes two pieces of apple pie, seemes pretty fast
>might have Caroline give him the pie and coffee before going to the kitchen and grabbing Gus, may also cut the pieces of pie he orders down to just one
>the 'August. August meant...' sentence seems a little out of place. You might cut that and start the paragraph with 'He gulped down the rest...'

Overall, its better. I like the stuff youve added since I last saw it and, other than some grammatical stuff, have no problem with it. Most of my problems are focused within the first page while talking with the therapist. It would probably help to add some breaks in the explination of his day. Could use the breaks to detail the look on his face or the doctors. Maybe he starts to nervously bounce his leg or maybe he puts his head in his hands. Maybe hes just trying to hide fear or sadness from showing on his face and not quite succeeding.

Anyway, good luck and have some best girl Tohru.

Attached: 76ab3dc.jpg (858x1200, 130K)

how do i stop writing so archaically? i want to sound hip and modern

i feel like she's looking up, and this is very pretty way to say so

>There are fish swimming inside my head.
>Bottom feeders on the river's bed.
neat little lines

Attached: fuck.png (828x394, 56K)

You don't write archaically.

oui

Yes he does

It reads fine. What's it about though, just a general look at Ray's anxiety?

First sentence is terrible "plain of this place" what place?

Thanks for being the first feedback I've ever gotten for the pastebin mate. So I was hoping people would be able to endure the first expository chapter of Ray explaining his panic disorder to the psychiatrist before they get to the good stuff. I'm 60 pages in.

Ray develops severe mental issues and gets prescribed meds. A week after talking to a psychiatrist he gets wasted with his friend and they get in a drunk boxing match where Ray ends up knocking his friends teeth out. He starts selling Xanax around campus to help pay for the surgery while also dealing with panic disorder. I don't want the book to be primarily about drug dealing though so now that I've written the part where he gets his teeth knocked out I don't know where to take the story.

not really archaically but he doesn't say anything, the dialogue, especially doesn't match the general tone beyond a haughty sense of self entitlement from the author and thus filtered into the first character introduced.
When writing, we shouldn't introduce the piece with
>the plain of this place
nor allow the sentence to
"spread to greet the horizon
while a natural occurrence, your descriptions are not nouvelle nor are they interesting. Skip the mundane introduction.
this may be more interesting as a screenplay or something more theatrical so you can play on the tones in a more direct way to the audience. I'm not gonna lie, I don't think it would sell in the current format but in either of the two i said it would have a chance (i'd prefer theatrical but screen play is more likely)

it's supposed to be a plain
like flat terrain

>beyond a haughty sense of self entitlement from the author
ahh what? how

Thank you for taking the time to do this for me user I really appreciate it, the spoonfeed is much needed.

Interestingly enough I was thinking about turning it into a screenplay instead but I'm in pretty deep and Ray is pretty much a self-insert so it feels good to write about my own problems.

>so you can play on the tones in a more direct way to the audience
can you explain what you mean by this?

How is this for dialogue? Does it atleast seem natural?

The two sat opposite each other, looking out the same window into the void. The silence punctuated only by the occasional clanging of the ship’s legs on the cracks in the rocks below. Eventually the silence was cut.
“Mark.”
“Ashley.” He replied, continuing to stare out the window.
“Whatcha doin?”
Mark glanced across the table, seeing her continue to gaze into the darkness.
“Just going with the flow”
“But is the flow going with you?”
“Are you high?”
Ashley chuckled.
“You would’ve noticed, we’ve been sitting together like this for god knows how long.”
Mark smiled. Ashley turned and looked right at him.
“Do you say the same thing to everyone or just me?” She asked as she started to lean on the table.
“What do you mean?”
“Whenever I ask you, why do you want to leave this place? You always answer with the same smartass thing. The conversations are too boring.”
“I say the same thing to everyone”
“That can’t really be why you want to leave.”
Mark now turned to Ashley, and looked her in the eyes.
“Like so many others down here I was taken from another life. Dropped in this void, this maze of darkness and confusion. No one has been able to leave, wouldn’t it be amazing to be the first?”
Ashley thought for a moment, constructing her next words carefully.
“...You just want to be the first?”
“Well that’s a small part of it. More so I want to see what’s on the other side. There’s plenty of cracks in the ceiling, where you can see some of the other world, and there’s places you can hear conversations from people on the other side. But I want to see it. I want to really see a full picture, not some fragment of a reality I can’t truly reach.”
Ashley sat there for a while, processing Mark’s words.
“Have you told anyone else that?”
“No.”
“Why me?”
“I guess I’m just really bored.”

i cringed really bad, please don't put this in anything

terrible where the fuck are your dialogue tags?

I was thinking that there's not much need for dialogue tags if there's only two people speaking. Then it's a back and forth and easy to follow

you are wrong.

he doesn't NEED dialogue tags however you need some sort of skill at writing to pull it off, and, y'know, not do so much in one huge fucking boring piece of writing

Am I supposed to put a tag after every single thing? How would I even do that? I don't want the same "He said, She said."

What do you mean doing too much? I thought even though it's a little long most of the lines are pretty short. Boring yeah I can see that though. I don't know how to make dialogue that isn't boring.

>>beyond a haughty sense of self entitlement from the author
I wouldn't call it that, more like self indulgent
try to practice some constraint in your writing so it doesn't sound so off and flows better

> I don't want the same "He said, She said."

it's invisible

pastebin.com/rDbuXC0V
Fantasy. My four main concerns are:

>Is the worldbuilding too much or just enough to set the stage and context?
>Does Poppy come across as generic or lacking involvement?
>Is Panache's verbal tic annoying?
>Do you consider the tone shift during the explanation of 'wrong warp' jarring/tonal whiplash-y?

Attached: 153443932366740.gif (749x578, 216K)

>pastebin.com/rDbuXC0V

literally dropped after the first sentance
>Poppy could scarcely believe his eyes, if only for a moment before he curtly narrowed them with great morose.

what kind of fucking prose is that, incredibly clunky

this completely. unfort can't write

you either have no talent or are trying too hard to be intellectual and writing at a level beyond your ability, try something simpler, too many adverbs, too many extra words where fewer would work better

>
“This is actually the most action we’ve gotten all week,” Grant sighed. “Maybe outies are just more inclined to enter through the front gate. Either way, it can get awfully boring when all you do is stand in the same place all day. Have you ever heard of an eagle as cooped up as that?”

> “This is actually the most action we’ve gotten all week,” said Grant “Maybe outies are just more inclined to enter through the front gate. Either way, standing the same place all do can get awfully boring.

also you need to use said more, number one hack writer thing is using different words, they stand out and should be used rarely

>Poppy repeated.

>Panache exclaimed

>answered Poppy.

>poppy blinked

> he explained

>an eagle inquired

>
If Poppy had a goal in his arduous crusade, he could not say. Others would often prompt him every now and then about his intentions, to which his only answer was that he had wisdom to spare and a world full of wisdom-less people to spare it upon. In spite of his claims, however, he refused to define what exactly these sagely pearls were, and why the people of Whimzy had lost them—if they even had them to begin with. A typical inquisition usually met its end at that point, but some pressed further, and usually left Poppy’s side with far more questions than answers. For those select unenlightened people, one thing was clear, and it was a conclusion they had all reached and subscribed to of their own individual accord—if it involved Poppy Cock, it was usually best for everyone involved to just accept it without question. It was proverbs such as this that kept them from harm’s way, as some way, somehow, Poppy always ran into a predicament one way or another, and if he did not run into something, something would run into him. The perpetual thread of unending discord and chaos left in the wake of Poppy’s escapades eventually carried him to the northern slice of the Ate Mile, where one of the most prosperous nations in the continent lied—Poppy’s next target.

too many words

Hey, I'll share two things I wrote that I don't like quite enough to put into anything I might try to publish. They're both supposed to be dialogue- think the preacher part in Portrait... wrote them both a few months ago, I think within days of each other, and imagine it might have been part of some debate thing I wanted to put into a project of mine. Anyway- I'll try to give my good bit of feedback to others and will reply to this post after I've done that for bumping wages.

--You know of me, but who knows me? Personalities are inferred by what: the inflexions of a person’s speech, the mannerisms that characterize them,--as in the waves of their hands, their gesticulations,--and how much less by their diction, the content of what they actually say and the meaning behind those utterances? Am I just an unknowable entity? I say again: he who knows me knows not me; he knows me only as I manifest to him, through the many projections his mind applies and through what the Buddhists call the aggregates--or some such psychological matrices, the psychic machines we are subject to but can never comprehend or speak of appropriately enough, for we lack a proper vocabulary or because one cannot exist. My values I can all say, but can I say why I value them such, really? How much of me is not me; as in, how much am I a product of what the psychologists call environment? And of genetics, is that me? Is there not a timeless me, one not bound by cause and effect, as Kant proposed--one outside of the physical world, without a beginning or end, purely spiritual, purely me? If there’s no freedom of will, there is nobody; and if there’s nobody, I am not. All of what I give to the world is borrowed from those I've met in my life: from the ill whose madness I entertained--the cute phrases they managed to communicate, surrounded by angry or humoured nonsense; from my mother whose true self I only ever saw come through in sarcastic idioms and not even then; from the television I’ve watched, the actors and actresses miming others yet before them. We’re all nothing but what we’ve seen. Personality is a tradition like any academic one, and we’re at the mercy of the influences before us in its timeline. It's all a plurality, never a singular person.

cont.

--Our imperative is to build so that we may fulfill our desire to be remembered. We craft our grandest thoughts into art and monuments for those younger souls who come after us to peer and awe at, so they may know us at our innermost; so that they may know us at our most vulnerable; so that they may know the flurries of our minds and the beauties they considered, imagined and made; so that they may know the immenseness in which we felt our pains and pleasures and learn that life orbits these moments of paramount; so that they may know and not forget us, and so our influence thereby does not cease with our bodies and we can establish happiness from our graves, from our place of timeless nonexistence, and in our isolation from all sense and sensibility still connect with others. So much does it ease our loneliness in the present to think of some other to whom we can today attach no labels or descriptions admiring the work we did in our lifetimes in theirs. We build so that we don't die and so we may be known. And let us be known, we say, for our greatness--for the greatness of the thoughts we immortalized in our passions and vocations and the greatness, too, that was our lives. But let us be known moreover as lighthouses which glowed long after being abandoned, warning of danger, advising those keener than us not to follow where our paths led to jagged rocks and disaster, for we sailed, as all do, often into it--like the tribesmen who ate wild berries, went through agony and perished, like the smoking uncle who developed a malignant cancer and turned his nieces away from that terrible plant, like the man who lived in arrogance and died alone: like them we are examples; like all we strive to be more.

I'm pretty sure I overdid it a bit. But I'm curious if there's anything redeeming in it. Any thoughts/opinions are appreciated. thanks homies

bad punctuation makes it hard to read, writing is complex for no reason

>you know of me, but who knows me? Personalities are inferred by what: the inflexions of a person’s speech, the mannerisms that characterize them --and how much less by their diction, the content of what they actually say and the meaning behind those utterances?

this could just be

you know of me, but who knows me? Personalties are inferred by their speech, their mannerisms, but less so what they actually say?

unironically pretentious

nice bait

>innermost
>paramount
>moreover
>random fucking -- punctuation
>vocations, why not just say jobs
>malignant cancer, why not just say caner.

you are trying too hard and aren't nearly as smart as you think you are

desu its ok to use anything you mentioned bu its obvious the writing isnt natural and that is waht makes it shit. If this was how the author spoke then it would appear like an actual muse opposed to a generic trying to copy the past in a terrible way

remember

MAKE IT NEW

ehh, I was experimenting- doesn't mean I always write like that.

most of what I do is somewhat parody, yes.

yeah it reads like someone googled those words in a thesaurus, completely unorganic

people always say
>im experimenting
when the feedback is unsavory kek you fell for the meme dude. Care for everything you write

why bother posting stuff you don't care about, sounds like a cope to protect your ego.

Ok it's a parody, so what? It's not saying anything interesting, what even is it parodying, it's terrible, parody or otherwise, try being sincere for once in your life and stop hiding behind "parody" and "well I wasn't even trying man"

:(

O.K. I'll post something sincere.

Yark! The snowbirds slowly swiftly swoop down the hillocked hill right into the face of a great big mill! Yark! But to no alas, for they swiftly slowly somehow dodge out of its way, and live to fly another day.
Somewhere in the distance children play in the open fields. A pervert watches some of the young girls from the trees.
Suddenly a shack shakes swiftly slowly, a bakerly baker bakes his bread but before long life lacks love for forty fit fellows. Yark! Forty men dead and eleven women. A giant golem fallen from the sky.
With a sparkle and a brink overflown tonight a nightmare came true. Contact! But the simple townsfolk don't know it yet. All they know is that a robotic Yeti landed lambasterdly in the town center, killing many.

Hey, it's alright. Just try writing something more honest and straightforward

in reading this again, it is even more unnatural than i first thought
>you know of me, but who knows me?
this just feels like it rambles
>Personalities are inferred by what
i get you are trying to keep the thought process on an idea but it genuinely feels like you are trying way too hard even at the start which is shown by the next few words
>the inflexions of a person's speech
inflection btw
also the change in tone changes again. Do you happen to be at university or high school? It certainly feels like you have just been introduced to Joyce, the modernist movement in general, and absurdism.
>as in the waves of their hands, their gesticulations
odd thing to have in reference to one another

by all means, post something you consider yourself proud of and we can jduge it however you should heed the advice given by myself and the other person and genuinely make every piece like it is the last thing you write, care for the thing and the reader will see that if its true to you

thanks user.

okay. i'll go look through my docs and grab something i think is decent. give me a sec.

for the record--and i am not trying to troll here--i'm going through manic/psychotic symptoms lately and it has affected how i write.

i think if i told you the context of what the dialogue was supposed to be in it wouldn't seem as bad, but i'm not actually as butthurt as i probably seem and it doesn't really matter, lol.

brb friend and do appreciate the feedback

docs.google.com/document/d/1vO7IxogaKvZbdOJxu4ffiWhOz3tURvAN7AFpwD7z930/edit?usp=sharing

>Isaac once reached the end of the rabbit hole and stayed in the land he found there for months more than weeks.

months more than weeks?

>Isaac, she

Isaac is a male name.

>and then it changes back to he

>It was the plane where one’s muscles stiffen and she goes sleepless; where she believes others conspire against, follow and monitor her, and she thinks of this obsessively; where she see connections, relationships between numbers and words and items and so on, and she sees them everywhere and in everything, and they have profound sense to her, and coincidences no longer seem coincidental; where she reads a passage out of a novel and finds it has hidden meaning, as though it was written in a secret language she’s able to interpret, perhaps speaking to her directly, sharing esoteric knowledge; where she thinks she’s receiving messages from a god or a dead person and looks for a way to write back; where life is a theatre that grows tense, and she expects a twist or revelation, but it never comes, and every moment is an anticlimax—a play on her anticipation; and where she feels greatly enlightened.

holy run on sentence

>he heard and considered and whom he looked to for guidance, his parents and siblings and friends and doctors, his professors, employers, leaders and peers, were not in truth ‘real’ or sentient but were rather hollow and unfeeling, did not think or craft opinions, and were simply complex inventions of his psyche, dolls more than people and fictions of themselves. And he despaired, for there was no one whom he could confess or weep to or hug or bring to laughter, for in everyone there was only himself,

"whose words he heard and considered and whom he looked to for guidance, his parents and siblings and friends and doctors, his professors, employers, leaders and peers, "

that entire bit should be cut out

"And he despaired, for there was no one whom he could confess or weep to or hug or bring to laughter"

too long, I know that's the point but this technique is nearly always cringe

yeah this is bad, took me halfway through the story before I realised it was a metaphorical rabbit hole and the MC was just some weedo. Also where the fuck are the paragraphs? I seriously suggest you write a basic short story with a simple plot. Too many words in this that are totally unneeded

I am standing in front of a mirror. I had no preconceived notions of my looks going into it, but here I am reassuring myself that I am indeed ugly. My nose is stubby. My eyes are sullen and slanted. My mouth is in a tragic recession with my chin, slack jawed in perpetual awe. I’d close it but I know that they will gradually open even before I leave my bathroom. My forehead is bulbous, capable of “big thought” my Korean mother says, sic. She insists on a buzz cut, I insist on minimizing my social ostracization in school, a small tuft of hair at the top will do. I’m going to pretend that I have a widow’s peak.

I have thin-rimmed circular glasses. It’s a way of accepting my dopey appearance, a ploy for the label of “adorkable”, a term I heard once or twice to describe media stars who were neither ugly nor poor. I have them regardless. That was a show of confidence in the LensCrafters, engendered by the placards of nerds, or just regular people with glasses. I hated them as soon as I got them, but she said they looked nice. This is why I’m here.

My name is Joe Schmo and I had my first remotely sexual experience last night. I was alone, on a phone call, with a trans-gendered but for my sake girl named Mary, I forgot her last name. I had the pleasure, which was all mine, of what I’d call “intermittent phone sex”. It was just a regular conversation about relationship platitudes and banalities, but whenever she sense that I was tired, or if I outright told her so, Mary would ask me an explicit question which caused a whole torrent of endlessly deviant thoughts to rush to my head. After a little while we’d both wise up and return to talking about how so alone we are and such.

At about 3:00 we decided to meet up to “see what happens next” and I realized that it would take an idiot (me) to botch what should naturally follow. I can’t tell if I’m gay. She passes well and I’ve climaxed to so many amoebic anthropomorphic cartoon images of dubious genders for so many years that I genuinely cannot tell what my my own sexuality is. She is what she calls assigned male and “pre-op”, so I should know what I’m getting into. I don’t really, and I have little idea of what I would even say when I see her in my walk from Social Studies to Gym. All I know is that I should wear briefs for when I do. Gym shorts are tricky.

thank you! just the first stanza to a cheesy/cringe love poem. Still trying to perfect it before I handwrite it

also it's based off me (5'2') admiring and looking up to my boyfriend (6'3)

not bad, not really a fan of le postmodern first person or first person in general though. Is this really what you WANT to write?

pastebin.com/JpSDZxYW

let me know what you think, points if you can spot the inspiration for Ezekial

I was told this is the place to post.
I haven't lurked so I don't know the culture here so please be constructive?
I don't mind if it's done aggressively, as long as you rip me apart correctly,

Attached: Story.png (1713x4717, 2.15M)

>waimate
>lovely town
no

Story reads like it's written by someone poorly read.

I fucking LOVE YOUUUUUU
I am fairly poorly read I'll be honest. But that's poor in comparison to everybody here.

Someone less up himself will come along and give you proper feedback.

Sure but it's actually good feedback regardless.
I've painted the place I live as happy and nice. If I want to make my story unsettling I should make the place seem more dingy and decrepit than it is.

Elaborate?

Not that user you're critiquing but what do you think of this? Too wordy?

On a sticky August evening two weeks before her due date, Ashima Ganguli stands in the kitchen of a Central Square apartment, combining Rice Krispies and Planters peanuts and chopped red onion in a bowl. She adds salt, lemon juice, thin slices of green chili pepper, wishing there were mustard oil to pour into the mix. Ashima has been consuming this concoction throughout her pregnancy, a humble approximation of the snack sold for pennies on Calcutta sidewalks and on railway platforms throughout India, spilling from newspaper cones. Even now that there is barely space inside her, it is the one thing she craves. … She wipes sweat from her face with the free end of her sari. Her swollen feet ache against speckled gray linoleum. Her pelvis aches from the baby’s weight. She opens a cupboard, the shelves lined with a grimy yellow-and-white-checkered paper she’s been meaning to replace, and reaches for another onion, frowning again as she pulls at its crisp magenta skin.

2 ache bad

pastebin.com/JpSDZxYW

pleasuu readu

Not sure I like the transitions in a couple of these sentences. Is it just me or does it bother any other anons?

>At the center of it all was my home. A second-story apartment barely better than a studio. The building that housed my home was seemingly always under maintenance. Each repair was a patch job of a patch job. Band-aids applied because of a lack of funds or, more likely, a lack of caring. Even the repairmen were patch jobs, coming in to fill the position of someone who just left before leaving themselves. This had been especially apparent lately as a menagerie of new faces worked on ‘fixing’ the railing along the walkway outside my apartment. All their work adding up to little more than a couple of screws and a new coat of paint.

>The pulsing of my car stopped as the keys left the ignition. A brief silence that was quickly filled with the sound of cicadas and families as I walked across the craterous parking lot. Drifting along the air was the smell of someone grilling. The tantalizing scent of seared meat made me acutely aware of how long it had been since my last meal.

Attached: kobayashiquestions.jpg (1301x1080, 466K)

I wrote some prose on a whim the other day, not sure if to make it into poetry or if the sweeping pace makes it too ramble-y.
Ache unwinds my flesh as though it peeled me, gripped between its thumb and forefinger, apart stroke, by stroke, by stroke.
Yet it is as gentle as to cradle my sobbing figure, lurched over the bathroom sink, as I mourn that of which I’ve never known- but oh, how I double over, for lovesickness is physical, in the flesh, aching. Its bittersweet cries against my eardrums, dribbling into poetry along the goose-pimpled flesh of my throat; little else seizes me with such rapture, such liminal melancholy, that I ache to contain. I will shut my eyes to the current; I will weep and I will scar over, until brambles leave me be.

it went like this
Henry B, nickname: pickaxe
6'4 200 lbs
took a fag from his mouth and spat on the pavement
few words: "you're fucked"
"my dear sir, i know life can be brutal
however i wish not to end up like 2pac"
for some maniac in alconarcoamok
would not listen, when they told him
it ain't worth it?
i am ready, we'll use our superpowers
i shall hit him in the fist with my nose
and your groin in his knee
and later, i'll break the record for half the mile
this whole escapology just makes no sense
my PhD
will be
in Beribazu
Arte Luta

Now that we're alone we can talk prince man to man
though you lie on the stairs and see no more than a dead ant
nothing but black sun with broken rays
I could never think of your hands without smiling
and now that they lie on the stone like fallen nests
they are as defenceless as before The end is exactly this
The hands lie apart The sword lies apart The head apart
and the knight's feet in soft slippers

You will have a soldier's funeral without having been a soldier
the only ritual I am acquainted with a little
There will be no candles no singing only cannon-fuses and bursts
crepe dragged on the pavement helmets boots artillery horses drums
drums I know nothing exquisite
those will be my manoeuvres before I start to rule
one has to take the city by the neck and shake it a bit

Anyhow you had to perish Hamlet you were not for life
you believed in crystal notions not in human clay
always twitching as if asleep you hunted chimeras
wolfishly you crunched the air only to vomit
you knew no human thing you did not know even how to breathe

Now you have peace Hamlet you accomplished what you had to
and you have peace The rest is not silence but belongs to me
you chose the easier part an elegant thrust
but what is heroic death compared with eternal watching
with a cold apple in one's hand on a narrow chair
with a view of the ant-hill and the clock's dial

Adieu prince I have tasks a sewer project
and a decree on prostitutes and beggars
I must also elaborate a better system of prisons
since as you justly said Denmark is a prison
I go to my affairs This night is born
a star named Hamlet We shall never meet
what I shall leave will not be worth a tragedy

It is not for us to greet each other or bid farewell we live on archipelagos
and that water these words what can they do what can they do prince
you think it can be published?

something i wrote last night, because i was having a hard time sleeping

Gravel ground loudly underneath the balding tires of the car. The SUV ran the red light at the intersection, swerving onto the highway. The sky was clear of clouds, the sun having burnt them away.

The hatchback of the cherry red car was full of worn cardboard boxes, labeled in chickenscratch and closed with silver duct tape. Minutes before, the gas tank had been topped off. The two of them would stop again in a few hours, a hundred or so miles later.

The driver, an older woman, had on a pair of face-framing sunglasses. Light reflected off their lenses, making them gleam. Her faded hair, bottle blonde with strands of gray, was gold in the rising sun

The two of them soared south down the interstate - passing over the state lines into Delaware, and then to Maryland.

Rock blared on the tinny radio from one of the classic stations. There was a repetitive rattle, as the car bounced from smooth asphalt to patchwork and vice versa. The ride was solemn - the hearse in a funeral procession. Later, with the sun setting below a wall of tall pines, they would drive into the driveway of a house that was now theirs - leaving their home behind.

"Mom?"

"Yeah?" Exhaustion tinged the mother's voice.

"...do you think we'll ever come back?"

not sure, I'm just re-entering my habits of reading and writing after years of doing fuck all so I'm just testing the waters

Anyone?

I really like it, makes me feel like I'm there. Although if I had to nitpick,
>Gravel ground loudly underneath the balding tires of the car.
Changed to
>Gravel churned under the worn out tires of the car.
as well as
>The SUV ran the red light at the intersection, swerving onto the highway
to
>The SUV blasted through the red light at the intersection and swerved onto the interstate.
Not that there's anything wrong with what you wrote, just I would do it differently

I mostly write science fiction short stories, but I thought I'd give something different a try.
PLEASE STROKE MY EGO

‘Remember that trip we took?’ I do. ‘twas good’. We took several trips but I don’t really care about which one he is thinking off. I agree though. ‘twas good. Good trips, good friends, better times. Matt leans over, whispers. ‘Remember the girls?’
I do remember the girls. He laughs harder than me tops of my drink. I want ice but I don’t have to ask for ice. Hannah goes ‘Dinner is served’ so Dan raises the volume on the record player and heads to the kitchen; the girls finish setting the table.
‘Where’s the bathroom’
Dan yells back from the kitchen ‘By the stairs, first door to the right.’
Nice place. Small, cozy. I find the bathroom, half bathroom, so they must have a full one upstairs. Bet its nice. I wash my hands and dry them on the towels we gave them as a housewarming gift. Do you think she put those out on purpose?
I get out, Maria is waiting. I point at the towels she smiles and nods. I start walking towards the kitchen but she tugs on my sleeve. ‘Did you ask him about-’ ‘No, I will after dinner’ ‘Good’ she says.

***

‘Is she a great cook or what?’
She is. ‘She is!’
Maria asks Hannah for her casserole recipe but I haven’t had a home cooked meal in a while. Maria says ‘Why don’t you boys go refresh your drinks while we clean this up’
‘Pie is almost ready too’ Such a great cook.
The record is over, so Dan puts another one in. Then he opens the bottle I brought and pours two, ice on mine.
‘I tell you, I’ve put on at least five pounds since we moved in.’ ‘I didn’t know how to tell you.’ He chuckles. ‘Nice kitchen you got there. Spacious.’ He gets his cigarettes from the bar and offers me one. ‘She loves it. Spends the day there.’ One won’t hurt.

He lights mine then his, then we talk. He tells me about his job most of which I know. Then he repeats some investing advice I’d given him before. Maybe he’d given them to me in the first place but I can’t place when, so I thank him anyways and tell him I’ll speak to my guy about it. I haven’t had ‘a guy’ in a while.
While we are on the subject of money- ‘Caught the game last night?’ he says. ‘Nope. Got home pretty late got some extra hours’ ‘That’s good.’
We reminisce about moments that neither of us is sure we actually shared, but they all seem familiar, we go back, we probably did right.
This time I top up our drinks.
‘You two going somewhere for the summer?’
Right. ‘No, we are trying to cut back a bit. Less hours at work and Maria is staying home with the baby…’
‘It gets expensive doesn’t it?’
‘Tell me about it.’
It takes him a bit. ‘Listen if you want out I can get you out. You won’t get much, but if you need the money I can get you out. I’ve got you.’
‘Might be for the best’
A half smile later he climbs up the stairs.
He comes back down with his checkbook and makes one for the eight hundred I gave him, plus two hundred, out to cash. He hands over the full thousand.
He won’t let me have it.
‘This is your money, alright? But I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t warn you. This is the ground floor. Seed money. Two hundred? That’s chump change.’ ‘How long until real money comes in.’ ‘As soon as we get the permit we’ll pay out’. Now he lets go, but I don’t pull it in.
‘It’s a sure thing.’
‘Sure thing?’
‘Sure thing.’
I look at Maria. She wants a guest bathroom and a nice kitchen too.
‘Sure thing.’
I throw the ripped up check into the fireplace.
Dan slaps my back. ‘That’s my guy!’ I spill some of my whisky. ‘Whoops’. He refreshes my drink.
We have pie, coffee and a night cap, but we should go pick up the baby from Maria’s parents.
We say our goodbyes and agree we should do this more often.
As we drive away Maria stares at me. ‘So, got it back?’
We’ll probably go to bed without saying good night, but I’m doing this for us.

I profess that I have been a liar. I conjure up dictionary mythos from the moth-eaten page; spin words like silk-strand gold pooling on the dungeon floor. I took meaning and strangled it. I bent and broke concepts to baser elements. Rancid bosons of apocryphal enigma that Aristotle would find distasteful. My work is emphatically basic-- it gluttonously feeds on ignorant truth. It takes preconception and disassembles it on a factory line, clogging up the meaning with oil and smog and the hoarse whisper of a storytellers black lung. I cannot help that. I was born to be a liar. I follow a man off a cliff and men follow me in turn. I just do so gladly. Don't judge me too harshly for it; every con artist needs to have a little fun.

A whimpering flame extinguishes
between my trembling hands
as my physche once more becomes
the breeding ground for
dark and wretched thoughts.

The beating of my scornèd heart
engulfs my mind
and soon those demons of despair
rear ther faceless crowns once mpre
to tear me from this fleeting sanctum.

I find myself falling
plunging ever deeper into the abyss of demented certainty
crying out in vain hope
for an answer to this
cruel and infinite jest.

Attached: 1559751119739.jpg (2300x1697, 834K)

no rhyme and a typo, 0/10

where's the typo?

nvm I've noticed it ffs

>a typo
>a
wow 0/10

>more
>their
in my defense I'm a spaz and didn't have these typos when I wrote it down on paper

you have to pay me one last (you) before I point it out to you
hint: it's a word you don't seem to know how to actually spell rather than a common grammatical error

fuck's sake fine. better be worth it or I want a refund

and it better not be psych cos I just realised it's spelt without an e

fucks sake it was right anyway nvm

just to give you your reply's worth, it is spelled with an e as psyche, psych is another word entirely and is mostly used informally
no refunds

Lovecraftian and kafkian just a bit lynchian.

third times the charm..

pastebin.com/JpSDZxYW

My in-law whom I was on decent but not close terms with died this last June. He was notorious among his friends and family for not being able to finish anything he started. He only half-read books, left meals half-eaten, and exited half-way through films, plays, and haircuts. I once asked him if his life of incompletion was any satisfying. Leaning on his cane with one arm, he motioned to his foster child with the other not to bother with closing the door. “Almost,” he said, half-joking.

Pretty fucking good.

Thanks. I was worried that it was too on-the-nose. For example, I kept going back and forth between "friends and family" and "acquaintances and co-workers."

When he (it? she? they?) woke up, his mind was so abhorrently damaged as to disallow any possible conscious thought for several seconds. During that moment in time, he was just in the air, floating, as if suspended in aspic. Unable to breathe.
Like a match held to a small fire, though, he started to think about things in little ounces and smidgens, and eventually he was able to perform conscious thought fully.
His first question was what he was in the first place. What WAS he? He tried to stare into his own mind to try and remember some detail, anything at all, but nothing. The last thing he remembered was waking up. It was a complete memory wipe, either that or dissociative fugue, which he didn't know about because everything in his mind was removed.
His next question was where he was. That was easy, he was surrounded by sticky, red, jelly-like fluid and what looked like a bag split in half. He was covered in the stuff, which also reeked.

pt 1, pic unrelated

Attached: body 050.png (1078x678, 49K)

I've been reading your posts and still couldn't decipher just what the fuck you were on about
Good, you caught my interest
You're on of those anons that are operating so 'out-there' that it feels like missing-out if I don't read your stuff
Polandball + some esoteric babber I'm all sold
Is that all there is to your work?
Can you make it into an epub or the sort, a pdf, so I can read your work on my kindle

my work btw, for those that are interested:
drive.google.com/file/d/1lHv5WZgORxmdLhM0ucXo1QiZVTLrofRD/view?usp=drivesdk

part 2, pic is still unrelated

For several minutes, his mind still ended up wandering. Now that he answered his most burning question, there was still a lot he had to answer, but didn't know the question to.
For one, he attempted to stand up, though the weakness of his muscles caused him to fall back into the jelly he was covered in. He was exhausted for whatever reason, and out of breath. He figured that whatever happened wasn't explainable, so he didn't bother to wonder what even happened before this moment.
Concerning that, he wasn't able to explore anything happening on right now, so he just decided to sit there and think. He didn't know what to think, though, so he lay in this blood-like jelly and let his mind drift. There wasn't much to drift in when you have basically nothing in your mind at the moment, however, so he just did nothing.
After not much time, his lack of energy caught up to him, so he just fell asleep.

Attached: body 355.png (1764x1000, 98K)

wattpad.com/story/188107323-eschaton-book-1 is where the book is at, tho I'm porting the chapters on a google doc to make a pdf

drive.google.com/open?id=1Q6Cd66AgPSHctP8tDpBAgZsVEB0NS8Py
Here's a PDF I made on Drive

I will be reading this out to my wife tomorrow. Try and stop me, faggots.

I’ve waited, and waited, and waited
For someone like you
I waited, and waited, and waited
But I never thought that you would come

I though that you were a dream
A creation of my imagination
Nothing but a construction
But you’re real, realer than anything

You’ve disproved all the doubts I had
You’ve proven what it means to be one
One with another human soul
Nobody can feel what I can fee

How could they know, when they don’t have you?
How could they, when they don’t know love?
How could they, when they don’t know life?
You’re the greatest, the greatest gift

You’ve made me know what it means
To be a man, in this cursed world
With you, I can overcome it all
The world is paradise with you at my side

>tfw you spend your time reading and giving advice and no one reads your stuff

Which one is it

Everything dies off in our autumn
The birds the trees, the old in one another’s arms
The only thing left will be our parking lots
And our plastic bags in the wind
Among juice bars and kombucha breweries there is
Some life left for us still
Be careful about how you feel towards this
We all know how easily tenderness can turn to pain
Listen to that last song
Before we become deaf blind or dumb
But what will be remembered in our sleep?

Thanks but if its not good enough to gather attention by itself, its not good enough. IT's in this thread tho.

pastebin.com/Rzr6Hs3D

crit? tis a little long sry

This is a general question and I dont ahve any specific work to be critique:
How do I stop being so creatively bankrupt and develop new ideas and styles?

This applies mostly to movies but I've also had the same problem with song writing and writing in general. I try to write from experience but all of my experiences are these ultra dark edgy self hating stories that no one wants to hear or have been told to death. Do I need to change my perspective on creativity or should I look for and try to have more diverse life experiences? Or alternatively should I just not bother with artistic expression because nobody wants to consume my work?

you should, as a rule, read far more than you write

I think this is part of the problem though, I'll like up a shot or write something down and just kind of realize that it's either a reference to or a direct copy of something ive seen before

Any feedback would be great.

The Knight turned the dirt around in his hands and smelt the ashes. They clogged his sinuses and his lungs would have hurt if they had not been hurting for years. He coughed but could not catch his breath. He looked up at the giant structure long dilapidated. The plants and wildlife had reclaimed a once holy place where many men in hoods, armor and steel came to kneel and pray. He dropped his steel and walked up the crumbling stairs. His knees cracked on every step and his feet were worn to the bone. His eyes a milky red color, tired. He did not know the time or date. He knew the battles he survived were countless, from duels of the heart to full-scale wars where he saw men reduced to warped flesh and bone. Birds sang among the stone and timber.

The sun was dimming and the sky was bleeding into its final minutes of red before the black and finally he made his way up the stairs and went inside the cathedral. Inside a man or ghost sat on a broken statue. The statue looked centuries old. He walked towards the man and smelt heavier ash and he thought he smelt rotting flesh. The stranger paid him no mind and he took a moment to examine the ruined structure. Nothing was here - just rocks, broken icons and the bones of rats and other small rodents. The ceiling had partly caved in and he could see thousands of stars and perhaps the past and future along with them in the abyss. The Knight suddenly felt ill and sat down. He looked up at the stranger who was wearing a long black cloak with a hood. He had pale skin and no facial hair or hair on his head. His eyes were milky, his teeth cracked and yellow. The Knight knew this because the stranger was smiling at him.

“Do you have any water?” said the Knight

“Don’t worry, boy, you won’t need water here.”

The Knight winced and walked closer to the hooded man who was now fixated on the stars peering through the night.

“You must be lost, boy, this isn’t a place many just stumble upon. After all, there’s war among your kind all around here. You’re behind enemy lines, better pick up your weapon.”

“I don’t believe I’ll need it here.”

“So, you understand this place, then? You know I can’t let you leave. You walked in knowing this?

“I do.”

“Ah. Well, lets talk.”

>The Knight turned the dirt around in his hands and smelt the ashes.
>smelt

thanks friend

Start a new threadddddd

Feels like store brand carver

The Wayward Sailor

On a large and bobbing barrel
In the middle of the sea,
Floats a wayward little sailor,
Drinking brackish tea.

Nevermore to hear the shouts
Of drunken men in tackless bouts.
Nor to hear his mates’ fierce yells,
But instead the soft sea swells.

He shall float on salty foam,
‘Till he finds an island home,
And lays across its golden shore
Where worries bother him no more.

And in his mental sanitation,
On his fair and lonely isle,
He’ll forget all men and deprivation,
And laugh a little while.

It's fine. Worry far more about how you write than your originality right now. It's literally okay to rip shit off for practice. Your aim is to learn how to convey ideas and objects and people with words.

>Don't post anything if you don't critique somebody else's first.

my >pastebin.com/JpSDZxYW
if grrm had written 1984. tour de force

>You’re the greatest, the greatest gift
You're the greatest, most beautiful gift