>>7306889 An emotion of the most profound repugnance flickered for a moment in the young man's features. But soon he appeared to fall into a deep brooding, which might more correctly have been described as a king of oblivion.
Didn’t think anyone was in here, normally everyone keeps their door open when they’re in...
Alrighty! I’m headed outta here, you go do somethin’ with your Tuesday off.
He purses and squints, exponentially more now.
He liked it when he could shut the lights off in the church and work alone. He waited twenty minutes before walking into the open lobby, whose twin glasses panels separated the office hallway from the narthex, one quadrant of the cross. He did this every Monday afternoon. He thought it so...so unnatural, that members of the church staff would work so unprotected from the elements of the modern world. There was a jungle out there, and an empty church on a weekday was a camp without fire; though it had the same visual attraction of fire in the waning daylight, minus the threat of heat. He removed the keyring from his pocket and held it by the foam gorilla head, something his mother had given him before leaving home for good. It read ‘H.D. Zoo!’ He shut the lights off at the head of the church and locked the doors. The church was shadows, except for a lamp in the heart of the sanctuary and a reading lamp in his office.
He thought now of how slow that ladybug must be...to still be searching for some stimulus in the white disk on his desk. But his killing of it was a step forward, not for the ladybug, but for the Ladybug; Coccinellidae. His killing of it was a sharpening of the pool, a choice by nature to destroy itself for some greater dispensation, the body ridding itself of cells too unloved to prosper, as payment for a higher existence. And if he was God, this was his plan: redirecting—as everyone does without thought—the course of other natures, other insignificant non-cognates, species more blunt and primal than we could ever wish to be if we were to pursue such an epic collective summation, a single project of living and dying.
History repeats the old conceits The glib replies the same defeats Keep your finger on important issues With crocodile tears and a pocketful of tissues I'm just the oily slick On the windup world of the nervous tick In a very fashionable hovel
I hang around dying to be tortured You'll never be alone in the bone orchard This battle with the bottle is nothing so novel
So in this almost empty gin palace Through a two-way looking glass You see your Alice
You know she has no sense For all your jealousy In a sense she still smiles very sweetly
Charged with insults and flattery Her body moves with malice Do you have to be so cruel to be callous
And now you find you fit this identikit completely You say you have no secrets And then leave discreetly
I might make it California's fault Be locked in Geneva's deepest vault Just like the canals of Mars and the great barrier reef I come to you beyond belief
My hands were clammy and cunning She's been suitably stunning But I know there's not a hope in Hades All the laddies cat call and wolf whistle So-called gentlemen and ladies Dog fight like rose and thistle
I've got a feeling I'm going to get a lot of grief Once this seemed so appealing Now I am beyond belief
>>7306889 XIX Esa noche, la luz que entra por la ventana y a través de las cortinas, se filtra formando arañas de patas negras y alargadas. El reloj de madera simula cada paso dado por ellas, mientras un vientecillo se interna en la habitación por los vértices de la ventana, dando vida a las cortinas. Marco da vueltas en su cama. Él no puede dejar de pensar en el tiempo que les tomará salir de aquella situación. Mira sus manos, y nota que la luz de luna las hace ver pálidas. Al momento, le llega el olor de la muda palidez, de los secretos y las tragedias. A la distancia, los perros solitarios aúllan y se lamentan. Primero el tono es bajo, pero conforme el sonido se prolonga éste se eleva más y más, convocando nuevas fieras. Marco no sabe si es que escucha pasos, descalzos y un tanto lejanos, o si ese pequeño sonido empalagoso y rítmico, es el aleteo de la bolsa negra con la que ha oscurecido el espejo. De lo que sí está seguro, es que tal murmullo espectral viene del espejo a su derecha. Entonces, recordó la primera noche. El sueño se mostraba lejano y el miedo íntimo. Por el lateral de su mirada, sobre la faz de azogue del espejo, las sombras se agitaron y la marcha de un par de pies descalzos hizo eco en las tinieblas de la habitación. Antes de que pudiera pensar en lo que ocurría, él volteo y en el espejo, miró sin lugar a dudas, el cuerpo pálido de quien lo ha visitado cada noche, precedido por el triste aullar de varios perros. Primero volteó al lado contrario, sólo para encontrar que su recamara estaba vacía. Más una segunda mirada le dejó claro, profundo y aterrador en su pecho, que el visitante de umbrías regiones está dentro del espejo, con la mirada posada sobre él. Marco siguió recordando, y entre los detalles que se han ido grabando en su mente, resalta el haber notado que el visitante no respira, su nariz no susurra y la boca, de labios morados, no sopla. La bolsa negra acaso, o los pies descalzos, siguieron dando vapor al miedo de Marco. Él trató de controlar su respiración y fijar la mirada en el techo. Pero cada tanto, da vistazos al espejo enmascarado de negro. La noche siguió con su sinfonía funeral.
>>7307940 You're actually such a retard. What you just wrote was astronomically fucking stupid. I've actually just spent about eight minutes trying to write an explanation that would make you understand precisely why what you just wrote was honestly one of the top five most idiotic, myopic, childish fucking things I've ever read in my life, and why it made me literally cringe with second-hand embarrassment. But I reached about four paragraphs and decided you're one of those who are too stupid to learn, and are happy just produce shit their entire lives while sitting around feeling complacent and smug about the shit they've produced.
I'm 100% sure everything you have ever written or will ever write, be it pathetic, impotent attempts at fiction or otherwise, will be just as utterly devoid of meaning or value (in literally any way shape or form) as the two things you have contributed to this thread.
>>7307975 Basically, I echo the sentiment of the repetitions. They break the flow of the overall prose (which is not bad by any means). Still, good work so far
>>7307940 Too short for me to really have any impressions I also assume you meant to write "kind"
David was the single oddest person I had ever met. A somewhat older man of 57, David Wellan Merchant was what I would describe as a walking anecdote; every action of his seemed to me painstakingly rehearsed and refined for the very purpose of being vaguely explained and joked about in some hypothetical future dinner party, many years down the line. Every little movement was bold, but also inoffensive to the senses, in a way which irritated me far more than I could ever express. He would assert himself, but do so mildly. He would ramble and rave, always choosing his words with meticulous care. I often wished that he could simply be a reckless braggart or a simpering dotard, but his refusal to conform to either bothered me far more than any offense he could have possibly committed otherwise. Outside of his infuriating moderation, David had a few outstanding habits which defined him far more than any semblance of personality he might have possessed. For one, during the lunch hour, he would always separate all of the food on his plate, making sure no two different food items were touching each other in any way. Then, after he had annexed all of the meat and vegetables and seasonings into their little corners with surgical accuracy, he would violently smash all of the food together, systematically destroying the fruits of his efforts with an impassioned fervor. And those were only the most superficial of his idiosyncrasies; often, he would enter a room unprovoked, and then proceed to turn on all of the lights, televisions, and electronic devices within the room. Once he had finished turning the room into an orgy of light and sensation, he would promptly leave, never looking back to acknowledge the petite maelstrom of chaos he had left in his wake.
>>7308144 On the rare occasion that I spoke to David, my overall annoyance with him was always further aggravated, without fail. Usually, our time together passed in insincere soundbites of conversation, but once (if only out of an unprecedented mix of boredom and sheer chutzpah), I inquired about his mad aberrations of will (which I somewhat politely referred to as “special habits”). “David, I’m sorry to interrupt, but, er- I was wondering if I could ask you something, just for the record?” With a complacent (yet also somewhat startled) expression, he nodded his head, sagely allowing me to go on. “Alright, then… er- I’m sure you know this, but you have certain… special habits. I mean, not everyone turns on all the lights in a room and leaves, now do they?” I winced inwardly. What a bon mot, indeed! Fortunately, David seemed entirely aloof (oblivious as he was to the nuanced jabs and thrusts of mundane conversation), responding simply with, “I have as much right as anyone else to. Can’t see why it would be a problem.” Once he finished his sentence, his face returned back to its despicable resting position, a blank and neutral smile plastered onto an incoherent babble of flesh. Exhaling with a certain heaviness and ill humor, I still pressed forth, “Yes, but why? Do you have some sort of need or obligation, or is it all just for kicks?’ This time, no reservations. I was going to foray into the mind of the single most mediocre man on Earth if it killed me. Yet again, David looked directly at me, and simply, without a dollop of concern or consternation, he answered, “It’s all for the greater good. Never hurt anyone, did it?” Back to rest, like a diver on the board. What little hope I had slowly drifted off, and after bidding David a minute farewell, I floated back to my desk, frustrated but also somewhat content.
About two weeks later, David was gone. Nobody knew if he was fired or had left of his own accord, and frankly, no one gave enough of a damn to find out which one it was. The last time I heard about him was at dinner with a friend. Apparently he now lived in Miami and worked as an accountant for some respectable, medium sized firm. Apparently he was doing well for himself. Good for him.
>>7308144 A bit dragged but generally very nice. Although the dialogue seems inconsistent with the prose and hurts my generally positive impression. Or is it intended? Not very found of the brackets either but as I said, overall pretty good.
>or is it all just for kicks Is a great example how a tiny line can ruin the effort from couple paragraphs.
balloon giant undersea wizard the worms among us gaping Jupiter is the holy grail mountain worm man sharks approach the outer rung a euphoria encapsulates the moment an optupus sprays his jissom into the lonesome maidens long forgotten chasm she weeps with joy for she finally has been given the Gift a door bell rings outside of the cathedral holy man caruthers holds post at his stop light watching for any incoming deominic figures this time of day none come to him, he must wait for the night, some kind of walrus approaches them and says you must give yourself over to death to achieve transcendence
I don't think I can give you guys a 4500 word piece for you guys to critique, because, well, it's 4500 words. So I guess I'll give you the very first sentence of my short story.
"It was a bright cold day, the sunlight melting away the shimmering ice on the blades of flora from the night before; the grass a light shade of green, spreading out like a sea across the acres of land."
>>7308258 I just mean that it seems more grounded if it was like
"It was a bright cold day, the sunlight (was) melting away the shimmering ice on the blades of flora from the night before; the grass (was) a light shade of green, spreading out like a sea across the acres of land."
Nothing wrong with an homage if it's well placed. It's also a nice one-two-three combo beginning line
The figureless worlds And spirits roar, And Mondrian trees That soar Up high to space, Spreading branches On which planets are hanged As fruits.
The small amount of Verbal ability drained, As their roots dig deep Within my mind, Bowed in orgasmic tension. Beats of astral music Make my flesh vibrate. In flashes matter appear And then disappear And through the microseconds I break.
Another brush motion, In this everdynamic painting, As I ejaculate myself Into this undressed choas, A dying star, Unleashing my colors, To fertile all essence.
Many people say that life-or-death situations open your eyes in a way, that before them, it’s like you’re just an actor in a TV-show. As if all the events around you are somewhat distant, not really real. Then something terrible happens, and suddenly you’re thrown right smack into reality. Before, you were just watching television. Now, you’re knee deep in reality. Before, it was taken for granted. It wasn’t really all that important, but now you see the value of things. They’re wrong. After the trauma, everything becomes absurd. It becomes theater. Overblown and over-dramatic; ironic and insincere. You realize that everyone and everything around you is just part of some big fucking game show put on for the amusement of who-the-hell-knows. There is no sense to any of it. It just happens. Melodramatic scenes all unconnected and random. No rhyme or reason. No sincerity. No value. No nothing. Just sarcasm and absurdity for the sake of it. The only thing that maintains any kind of reality is the trauma itself. Everything else is this cozy furniture stage with Chesterfield sofas, old wooden tables and fancy, poncy chairs set up neatly, pretentiously, insincere. Up there walks the actors dressed in harlequin costumes and “will thou drinkest this cup of tea, mine lady?” says the one guy all ironically to some chick in a lady costume made out of ecological wool “yes, oh yes I will” she says. He recoils in sarcastic horror and sarcastically says “My, oh my, that won’t do at all I can’t have anyone else drink this lest it become mainstream”. And then just as they laugh all fakely this metallic screaming. This razor. This cold naked blade enters the stage, rips through the seaming, rips through the masks and the smiles, rips and rips and rips until it stands triumphant and nothing stands on stage but itself. That is trauma. That is trauma, yes. It lets us know that we’re on a cozy fake stage and now all we can do is mock and despair.
It took me some time to accept that he was back. Maybe the way he suddenly sat there, without any warning, caused my confusion. The way he occupied the chair, like he’d always done, was a familiar yet somehow uneasy sight. It was not that I wanted him to leave again, but his sudden appearance was the reason to question my own motives regarding life, and my vision on it. It wasn’t hard to get used to his presence, though. Everything just went back to what it was before, with the exception of him never leaving the house. I tried to ignore my consciousness of realising the oddness of the situation, which was easy to achieve by just thinking of his otherwise absence, which I most definitely disfavoured over his never-ending company. But, even though I brushed off any doubts immediately as I got them, I never really got used to the slightly anxious feeling that seemed to shadow me whenever I spoke to him, or even resided in his presence. I told myself that it might have been due to the fact that he acted differently than before the accident. I found it hard to keep a conversation going with him at first, his answers were superficial and short. As time passed by, however, I learned to focus on his own ideas and opinions, instead of projecting mine in his voice. That was the moment that he really came to life. From then on I finally convinced myself that he wasn’t just a memory anymore, but a real person. And maybe, some time, I will be able to throw away his picture, still occupying the dresser, and finally free my mind from the only sign that reality means nothing more than the flowers slowly withering on his grave, while I brainwash myself into thinking my little brother is this alive.
English isn't my native language, any corrections would be much appreciated
>>7308905 >Anywhere you wrote 'it' and 'trauma' needs some kind of Who Did What To Whom. Good point.
>What are you trying to say? The context of the excerpt is that the narrator - a young man - caused a car accident that left one dead. The novel is a mixture of his (pseudo-)philosophical musings and absurdist renditions of daily events. The trauma he's refering to, is, obviously, the accident.
As for the (narrator's) point: Trauma does not make you feel 'alive'. It exposes life as absurd. The only thing that still has some semblance of reality and nearness is the trauma in itself. Though I hope that your lack of understanding the point was due to the lack of context, and not my diction.
>>7307940 “I know you, I know you. You're the only serious person in the room, aren't you, the only one who understands, and you can prove it by the fact that you've never finished a single thing in your life. You're the only well-educated person, because you never went to college, and you resent education, you resent social ease, you resent good manners, you resent success, you resent any kind of success, you resent God, you resent Christ, you resent thousand-dollar bills, you resent Christmas, by God, you resent happiness, you resent happiness itself, because none of that's real. What is real, then? Nothing's real to you that isn't part of your own past, real life, a swamp of failures, of social, sexual, financial, personal...spiritual failure. Real life. You poor bastard. You don't know what real life is, you've never been near it. All you have is a thousand intellectualized ideas about life. But life? Have you ever measured yourself against anything but your own lousy past? Have you ever faced anything outside yourself? Life! You poor bastard.”
Clouds hang over brick buildings. Jamie's eyes follow their movement. Raindrops leave streaks of water on a giant window Jamie is leaning against. He looks into the eyes of his own reflection in the glass. Two transparent, pale brown dots. Jamie looks down and cars are beetles and people ants on wet streets down below. Jamie has vertigo. In the dizziness-induced darkness, he sees himself falling down 76 floors and splatter onto pavement among all sorts of cars and yellow cabs into a mass of flesh, bones, and intestines. Jamie imagines his skull cracking open and his brain splitting. His cerebral functions would stop and all the demons hiding in his mind would vanish too. The darkness dissipates. Although the sun is nowhere to be seen, clouds lit by daylight are bright enough to make Jamie's pupils contract. He walks backward to plunge into a sofa filled with silicon that surrounds him like a womb. His eyes are fixed upon the window in which the shining clouds and building rooftops are still visible.
He thinks of smashing the window with a hammer. Then he ponders on the difficulty of sneaking a hammer into his room and the hardness of fortified quadruple glass. He thinks fortified glass shatters into harmless, pebble-like pieces but in his mind the glass nevertheless shatters into a thousand pieces big and sharp enough to be lethal. Jamie sees the gravity-fueled glass raining down on unassuming pedestrians.
Jamie would not mind making his maternal parent pay astronomical amounts in compensations but he imagines the innocent pedestrians, their heads pierced by sharp glass, moaning and bleeding on the ground. Jamie sighs. He doesn't want to hurt them. People who wanted to get to their school, work, friends, lovers, family, etc. People who breathed freely, people who looked without fear.
Jamie would never want to hurt them, even though they are not like him.
Jamie looks up. Mr. Spiegelman is drawing maps and arrows on a green blackboard with liquid chalk. Jamie looks down. On a notebook is a half-finished pencil drawing of a building. Jamie picks up his pencil and draws on it. Thin layers of graphite cover the building's skeleton. Lines cross, forming windows and outer decorations. At the top of the building, a human figure is looking down, his hands on the parapet. Jamie does not know why he has drawn it. He erases the figure. A big chunk of the drawing around the figure is also erased. Jamie draws on its vestige.
A bell rings. Students leave the classroom. Jamie gathers his stuff and walks to the door at the front of the classroom.
As he gets out of the classroom, Mr. Spiegelman calls him. Jamie stands in the doorway. His eyes focus on nothing. Students pass in front of him, throwing him brief glances.
"Mr. Tiryaki?" The history teacher calls again.
Jamie turns back. Mr. Spiegelman is sitting on a desk, a shaded figure against the bright blue of September sky. Jamie can't make out his expression but he discerns the glitter on the gold rim of his glasses.
"Can I talk to you for a minute?"
As Jamie's eyes adjusts to the contrast in light, he sees the concerned look on Mr. Spiegelman's face. Jamie sees the man's eyes behind his gold-rimmed glasses which lock on Jamie's. Anxiety fills Jamie's mind. In less than a second, it overflows and floods the extire expanse of his conscious mind and permeates into the subconscious. Jamie's eyes desperately look for things to look at. They lock on the eraser next to Mr. Spiegelman's hand on the desk.
"Is there a problem? You look tense."
"I just wanted to talk about…"
"No. You may not talk to me."
Jamie turns around and stomps out of the classroom.
He passes students in the hallway. They are wearing uniform. Some are wearing vermilion cardigans on top of their shirts. Jamie feels their eyes on him. Jamie knows that he is self-conscious, that he is imagining it. But it's the truth he has to believe in nonetheless.
It took me some time to accept that he was back. Maybe the way he sat there, without any warning, caused my confusion. The way he occupied the chair, like he’d always done, was a familiar yet somehow uneasy sight. It was not that I wanted him to leave again, but his sudden appearance was unnerving. It wasn't hard to get used to his presence, though. Everything just went back to what it was before, except for him never leaving the house. I tried to ignore the oddness of the situation by remembering his absence. I preferred his never-ending company. I never got used to the anxious feeling that seemed to shadow me whenever I spoke to him, or even when I was in his presence. It might have been because he was different after the accident.
I found it hard to keep a conversation going with him at first; his answers were superficial and short. As time passed by, I learned to focus on his own ideas and opinions, instead of projecting mine in his voice. That was the moment that he came to life. From then on I finally convinced myself that he wasn't just a memory anymore, but a real person. And maybe, someday, I will be able to throw away his picture. The one still on my dresser. And I'll free myself from that signal. The signal that reality means nothing more than the withering flowers on my baby brother's grave.
>>7309698 It took me some time to accept that he was black. Maybe the way he sat there, no working, that erased my confusion. The way he occupied the chair, like he’d always done, was a familiar yet somehow uneasy sight. It was not that I wanted him to work again, but his sudden appearance was unnerving. It wasn't hard to get used to his presence, though. Everything just went back to what it was before, except for him never working. I tried to ignore the oddness of the situation by remembering slavery. I preferred his human rights. I never got used to the anxious feeling that seemed to shadow me whenever I spoke to him, or even when I was in his presence. It might have been because he was black.
I found it hard to keep a conversation going with him at first; his answers were superficial and mumbled. As time passed by, I learned to focus on his own ideas and opinions, instead of projecting mine in his voice. That was the moment that he came to life. From then on I finally convinced myself that he wasn't just a welfare leech anymore, but a real person. And maybe, someday, I will be able to throw away that picture. The one of Al Jolson. And I'll free myself from that signal. And there's something terribly sad and banal about that.
>>7306889 I'm trying to decide where to take the end of this story. The outline so far is:
>MC is an alcoholic who runs away from all of his problems >Gets wasted one night and tries to drown himself in a public park fountain >Mermaid 'rescues' him and tells him if he's going to drown himself, he should at least do it properly in the ocean >They become friends (sort of) and the mermaid starts taking him out to the ocean where they play a drowning game where she drowns, then resuscitates the MC >Meanwhile the MC's life starts to fall apart and he handles it poorly >Feels like the expectations of his friends and family are crushing him, cuts off all contact >Makes a serious mistake at work that results in him being demoted and humiliated in front of his coworkers, quits the job >Decides that the only way he'll get any peace is to move out into the country with the mermaid >Feels okay for a few weeks but realizes that the move, along with his life is meaningless >Becomes desperate for some escape or purpose in life that isn't suicide, trying to exhaust all avenues before then >Decides he has to become a merman to enjoy freedom >Starts eating parts of the mermaid to see if any of them will transform him, gets increasingly frustrated as nothing works >Mermaid admits it was never going to work, but she didn't mind him trying because she enjoys his company >???
I feel like everything so far is building up the guy giving up and surrendering himself to the ocean to become an hero, but I wanted external feedback on other potential routes. I don't know if him being able to find a purpose to live would be cheapening everything that precedes it, but it's not an option I have thrown away entirely.
>>7309732 Should probably clarify the second to last arrow. It should be: >[...] she didn't mind letting him try because she enjoys his company
That phrasing is more accurate to the situation. I meant to emphasize that she knew with absolute certainty at the beginning that it wasn't going to work. She did not have any hope herself that a transformation was possible, which I think was unintentionally implied with the previous wording.
I don't like the restaurant he's chosen. I like diners. Diners where the bathroom looks ratchet but it's charming regardless because it adds to the candid "everyman" atmosphere. I am well aware that chefs who open their own joints are entrepreneurs, and I admire them for that, but I dislike dining out solely to be seen. Like, *come on* Roland, I know you can find more reasons for existence other than to see and be seen. Meanwhile, I am tabbing through facebook and my mother's old friends want to add me. I debate with myself over this.
I sat in my small bedroom painted lavender on top my futon with a girl who knew what her value was. Fishnet leggings wrapped around a beautiful set of legs, a black dress with her flowing brunette hair down to her ample breasts sitting in between us a bottle of Bicardi Gold that was already half empty. I lit a cigarette, she didn't smoke, actually she ended up smoking cause of me, the incendiary enabler that I was, a part of my ego that I didn't realize because of my lack of experience. I did the math in my head, Me + her in my bedroom with liquor and her not minding my smoking while dressed all promiscuously, I was terrible at math, but none of it made sense. Do I make a move and have to deal with the rejection? I put on a cap of false confidence just because this was my shot. "Im actually not this reserved, I actually have a side of me that I only show to the lucky few" I say with a gut wrenching pain and a burning of cheap rum. "I don't believe you" she responds in a tone that burned deep into my skull. A tone of comfort, a tone of you were this fucking blind the entire time. I saw her in a split instance change from my friend to a girl that was actually in love with me. A girl who was patient for me to snap into sense. Like a layer of shit peeled out of my head. I replied automatically "Oh, yeah" I disarmed her reservedness that she kept every time she was with me, grabbed her by her soft hands and started kissing her. My lip intertwined with hers, after us playing the game for so long, her wanting me back, and me foolishly friendzoning her because of my lack of confidence. And what grew was her falsely believing that I was in love with her while having strong feelings of lust that I couldn't enact upon. We ended up not having sex that night. I saw her a few months later. She wanted to punish me for "lying" to her after all that time. It all didn't make sense since I was preoccupied by the Casino incident.
>>7306889 I am a happy, little, worker bee: It's just words, based repetition; it's a mantra, a code maybe, something you tell yourself over and over again until happy is another meaningless phoneticism--continuous sin waves performing the most boring dance ever seen/heard/felt. Xanax helps, so does compulsive masturbation, but then they both hurt instead, in a deep, helpless, internally agonizing kind of way, the way where you never thought you could feel so alone. I like to sleep. I like the warmth of waking up naturally, basking in the jaundiced stream of photons playing with my tired skin. I'm twenty-two, horny, and dripping with malaise. But I'm also happy. I am.
We have a man; let us call him Bryan. Bryan faces all that happens with the same unmoving calmness, and something inside him confuses this outward calmness with inwards calmness. Let the world mock Bryan for being a fool and a cold bastard. Deep inside, he knows that he is brilliant and tender. Say then, that one day Bryan was to show the world his brilliance; his tenderness; that he was to shout out the philosophical ideas that kept him awake at night; that he was to show the world his love of old country music; that he was to tell them of the things that scare him; that he was to tell them of his loneliness. Say then, that the world would still mock Bryan; still call him a fool. That they were to poke and prod and point out all the flaws in his solutions, now so terribly obvious to him. Say, that they were to mock his sentimentality; call him a hypocrite; tell him that nobody would ever love him; tell him that old country music is bad and sounds horrible. Say that they were to pick apart everything that had kept Bryan together; everything that made him so sure that he was not what they all accused him of being. In what ways can Bryan react? A. He is irrevocably broken. Nothing more to be said. B. He abandons his old ideas and ways; recognizing them as futile. He considers this wise, but a part of him recognizes it as cowardly. C. He considers it a lesson learned and seeks to refine his ideas and ways; rendering them resistant to mockery. Improvement is now possible, but doubt has set its poison roots. D. He is angered. “How dare they mock me?” He might say. Secure in his genius, Bryan never improves. E. He is unbent. Bryan reacts with the same calmness as he had before. “Now I have shown the world what I am” he might say, “Whatever they say cannot hurt me”. He is either a psychopath or a Sage.
It's your boy big k Kaito match maybe Mara Aand the funk In the punk in Drublic Might go Demarcus cousins in a fuckin Publix
It's your main boy Zachariah; look like Anthony fantano But the pig do not require
HAL O' MEME HAL O' MEME DESE SPOOPY SKARY HALLOW MEMES
DRUNK AND HIGH AND LIKE FOUR OTHER SUBSTANCES RUNNIN THROUGH 21st WITH MY BROWN-SKINNED REPUBLICANS
REFORM IS THE ENEMY OF REVOLUTION CONFORM IS THE ENEMY OF DESOLATION SOUNDS HELLA SKETCHY AND FRESHMAN-LIKE BUT YOU NEVA GOT THIS FRESHMAN high
Cancelled auto correct cause I'm the real person in this group yeah you won't bury me you asshole porscholes because He is your god you man your "check your privilege" go On boogers and fun I see the pieces of Every party I ever worked with and "Never get hgh on you own shit" Or am I feeling that other dudes shit
DONT VELIEVE ME NO ONE DOES I don't NEED THESE ASSPOLLADS THATS NOT RACIST/ SWEAR TO FOUR GODD THATS THE DOGG IN ALL OF US CHARGES chaRGES BARGES AND CARCINOGENS AND CARNAGE ALL AROUND THESE WHISKEYBLACKBARRELS FOUL AFOUL TO DRUNK AND HIGH nba owners (Not just any MBA owner) Daryl felt the fandom shifting yea-over Very important and very pretentious Wayyyyyyy over there yonder round the humbled rub-a-stub gun-a-lung sons of a Guuuuuuunnnnnnnnn mmmmnnnn Fun-a fun fun man nnNnnnnm
all the same man brown Arabic Turkish Vietnamese Hawaiian Ativan aruban more flows than Luda i lube her cause my dick 7 by 6 best believe
Poets and rohits And crazy steves Rockatansky Saul alinsky Real
There is no "the world". There is only other people. Thus it would be possible for Bryan to meet hundreds of people who all thought he was a great guy or hundreds of people who alternatively thought he sucked. Neither of those situatons would make "the world" do anything to him. So Bryan's reaction is to recognise that some people are against him and others aren't. And even if everyone else were against him, that majority wouldn't account for shit at least in a liberal society.
I don't like old country music though I am a big Taylor Swift fan. But it was a bit scary readin about a philosophical passive-aggressive Bryan when that's who I am.
>>7308147 Probably one of the more enjoyable pieces in this thread, however I must agree with >>7308178. You managed to ruin most of your good effort with a few poor lines. Also, I do not enjoy reading things in brackets. You'd probably be better off using dashes.
>>7310070 "The world" is an abstract concept used for a hypothetical situation. "Guy thinks he's hot shit until other he actually lets someone else see his stuff". It's not supposed to literally indicate the entire world.
It's like how people say "It's me against the world".
>>7306889 Before she was old, Kathy Merman liked to ensnare herself in mounds of blankets packed between cardboard and body pillows. She would lay back in the soft darkness and pretend to be drifting through space. Indeed, if she did it long enough she would reach a point where the world outside, even the squawking steam pipes of her basement, gave way to the imagination. Beads of light between woolly cracks became previews of vast starfields, and her mother's muffled mandates became the clunking of a comforting engine. Gravity became something to be relied on, a basing force that told her she hadn't left the planet, but only just. It was freeing to be confined.
>>7309939 I sat in my bedroom on my futon with a girl who knew what her value was. Fishnet stockings, a black dress, and brunette hair down to her breasts. And legs that I can only describe as serious. And there sitting between us was a bottle of Bicardi Gold already half empty. I lit a cigarette. She doesn't smoke, but ended up smoking because of me, the incendiary enabler that I was. I did the math in my head: Me + her + my bedroom + liquor + my smoking + her outfit. I am terrible at math and none of it made sense. Do I make a move and deal with the rejection? This was my shot.
"I'm not this reserved. I have a side of me that I only show to the lucky few." I say with as the rum burns on its way down.
"I don't believe you." she says in a tone that bore deep into my skull. A tone of comfort, a tone of you were this blind. I saw her in an instance change from my friend to a girl that was in love with me. A girl who was patient. Waiting for me to snap to.
"Oh, yeah." I said.
I disarmed her, grabbed her by her hands and kissed her. My lips with hers, after us playing the game for so long. Her wanting me back, and me with my lack of confidence.
She began to believe that I was in love with her.
We did not fuck that night. I saw her a few months later. She wanted to punish me for lying to her. What she thought was lying. Was being a pussy the same as lying? It didn't make sense. I had the Casino Incident to worry about.
>>7310122 There's nothing here that suggests to me this is a girl who loves you. In fact after the first paragraph I presumed it was a prostitute based on the description "who knew what her value was, fishnet stockings", and then someone who is bored by you being there "deal with the rejection, this was my shot" and then suddenly she loves you!
>>7310151 I think the whole scenario is unclear and its possibly because you are a psychopath. Can you run it through with me what exactly supposedly happened here?
If I were writing about a girl I was terrified to make a move on but who really loved me, I would look at the behaviour that made me doubt it in the first place. Ie. she looked bored to be here, why had she even come? That math segment is terrible and trying too hard.
>>7310095 Kathy Merman liked to ensnare herself in mounds of blankets. Blankets packed between cardboard and body pillows. She would lay back in the soft darkness and pretend to be drifting through space. If she did it long enough she would reach a point where the world gave way to the imagination. The squawking steam pipes of the basement became [—w/e—]. Beads of light between the cracks became previews of vast starfields. And her mother's muffled mandates became the clunking of an engine. Gravity became something relied on. It was the force that told her she hadn't left the planet. Being confined was freeing.
>>7310151 Here you go... I cut out all the "I'm a edgy thinker" shit and replaced it with clear cut action
We were sat in my room at the foot of my bed and between us was a half-empty bottle of Bacardi Gold. She was wearing a black dress and fishnet stockings. I lit a cigarette. She looked uncomfortable and I wondered why she had come here in the first place. None of it made sense but I presumed that rejection was a step away. “I’m not usually this reserved” I said as the rum burned my throat on the way down. “I don’t believe you.” she said. Were you this blind? her eyes seemed to ask. She was a good girl and she was patiently waiting for me, I realised. I held her wrists and moved in and kissed her. Our lips were locked after playing cat-and-mouse for so long. After such uncertainty I finally knew that she wanted me back. We didn’t go any further that night. I saw her a few months later and she seemed annoyed at me for leading her on.
>>7310182 I do have one thing to say, though. This narration is supposed to be from the viewpoint of a disgraced, possibly insane, academic writing an analysis of why he thinks a certain disastrous event happened. I know you read the opening of this idea a few days ago and liked it. I'm having trouble moving from a dry expository voice, to a dry narrative one. Any advice is welcome.
He is indistinguishable and featureless, like every man in the country have come to blend into one average stranger without a name. He has a morning shadow that isn’t really there when you look for it, and his hair is not much more. He has no imperfections. His strange lack is the imperfection itself, all uncanny and wrong, unsettling the stillness that might have been inside them before his grey eyes met theirs mid-exchange with his hand going from his wallet to the cashier’s and the crumpled dollar notes annihilating their notion as they slip out from his fingers and onto the counter. He squints sideways at them while the cashier holds out his change for him to take, so he takes it without looking, just watching them that way instead as if he’s feeling some sort of amusement impressed on his mind by the force of their dusty red unwashedness. He pockets the change and pockets the wallet and gives them a look before turning and leaving out the dingling flyscreen door. Kane and Attica realize they don’t remember what he looked like, and they look at each other. After a pause Attica clears his throat and starts to go towards the door because he’s starting to feel it again. He’ll go sit down somewhere outside to rest and hope it doesn’t happen. Kane knows and nods, and so he stays to pay for the items while Attica leaves out the door. The sun sears the sand to red with sad little islands of melancholy grey and green shrubs cracked and dying already, and arms of wood stick around in the ground all littered like twisted bones, rare and isolated from each other. A quick shadow flashes past his feet and he looks up to see maybe a wedge tailed eagle doing a lazy patrol of the sky. He’d be lethargic up there in that blue heat, too.
Hearing car doors close outside your apartment, but they're somewhere you can't see from the blinds. A single bullet is a backup plan. New neighbors and you think they might be selling meth and they seem to have a lot of people living there for a two-bedroom duplex but you don't want to assume anything. Yes, I've got a problem with this. No, I didn't see the Jurassic Park movie. No, I didn't go to his house that night. Yes, I will have the cotto salami. Yes, but could you bring us more breadsticks? Pepsi is fine but I'm not. Sorry? You could teach your kids to act right instead of giving them a screen to bother instead of you. The diagnosis was wrong and I'm still upset about it. Whenever I fall ill I immediately suspect AIDS even though I don't have AIDS. I'm not Dave Ghrol, and I don't think he's Dave Ghrol either, but we all put on airs sometimes. Yes, you can charge your phone here. I should have said no, but you already took my clothes off and I wasn't able to say anything. I'm sorry that I cried while you touched me. Sure, we can still be friends, but I'm not going to talk to you again. I regret having bought you that drink at Starbucks, and then giving you something that can't be bought.
>>7310400 Please can you help me out with my dialogue? This is something I've written tonight, my dialogue ain't like yours but I don't quite understand why.
Tom looked at his torn jumper and then back at his friend. ‘Nice one mate,’ he said. ‘You really helped us out there.’ ‘No worries.’ said Sam. ‘Nah, seriously, you’re a fucking hero mate. Wait ‘till they hear back at school about this I swear. You’ll be like Rambo.’ They both laughed and headed back to school.
They were greeted by their Head of Year, Miss Scott at the gates. ‘Thomas, Sam. Two-thirty is not the time that lunch finishes and you both know it.’ she said. She was a short, wide woman with spiked blonde hair and two tiny squinting blue eyes. ‘We can explain, Miss’, said Tom. Sam started up with him. ‘We got jumped by two men up near Swithens Drive.’ Tom showed the teacher his ripped up sleeve and scraped hands. Her face changed from scorn to sympathy. ‘Come in boys, I’ll have to take you to see the school nurse then.’ She said.
The school nurse gave them some antiseptic and a couple of plasters. They told Miss Scott that they had no idea who the boys were who attacked them, but that they must go to another school. More importantly they had an excuse for being late and they got to miss fourth period, and for the next two weeks at school Sam was the one who had fought off two year-Tens from another school at the gardens at the back of Swithens.
>>7310424 >>7310432 Didn't know my dialogue was that good... But okay, I'll assume I'm not being ebigly rused here, and help an anon out.
I don't really see anything wrong with your dialogue, though? The only part I could pick on is: >‘Come in boys, I’ll have to take you to see the school nurse then.’ She said. Considering the situation, that seems a little formal, or easy, for a teacher to say. If I saw that piece of dialogue by itself without context, it would make me think she's a kindergarten teacher taking a kid who scraped his knee to "see the school nurse then".
Actually, that's it; take each piece of dialogue, isolate it from its context, and see if the line, by itself, conveys the context alone. If it does, then it fits. I fit doesn't, make it convey the context. That way, if every single word and line conveys the context, you have strong dialogue. That's all I can think of I guess.
Also make dialogue fit the character's persona.
Yeah, basically just make dialogue convey as much as possible.
You're all pathetic scum whose overbearing, uninteresting insecurities are all you see in people and all of your writings are a pathetic attempt to pretend and act otherwise or an attempt to make your run-of-the-mill, angry retardation interesting and failing. Literally worse than useless. KYS.
I wrote it spontaneously and was pouring it out while trying to gather as many thoughts as I have while being sleep deprived while being swift to see how shit my prose is with no sleep . The narrator was suffering from PTSD from a conspiracy that happened to him. and now he's hanging out with a friend that he had a crush on, but never having the balls to do anything with her since the trauma robbed him of any real feelings of a sexual drive, leaving him numbly passive every waking moment in existence paranoid that only bad things happen to him. With him being receptive in only the bad, while forgetting about the good due to extreme paranoia.
Not schizophrenic, more like adopted behavior patterns after a string of bad luck and alcoholism. He still has empathy, but the shock of the situation that he went through nullified any sexual feelings of his. An Alpha Male eunech. Theres going to be a redemption period where he actually fixes himself up and makes amends with all the people he unintentionally hurt
Ye walk me boustrophedon through the wordpath w/verbs out in front like a storm lantern u.p. UP into my skull's wetworks. The change intervals of yr prose are beautiful → like assuming various ballet positions. But before ye know it, death's fingerprints will glow on everything ye do and suddenly: cultured people will surround you.
This is clearly the work of a writer & I wonder what yr attitude toward writing is.
No, you cant be sorry, for i am the one that is sorry for ill gracing the presence of you, the next Dostoyevsky. I'm sorry that I was living a little while you slaved away aimlessly trying to master the art of rhetoric. Oh heed so, I yield for the truest big dong master has arrived. The lord of all the rats. You the meister controlling everything with your profound gift of prose and syntax, what is a feeble insomniac such as myself doing wasting my time insulting you, on an image board owned by a Japanese money launderer?
>>7310899 I was born into a small midwestern family just outside of Chicago. My dad drives trains. My Mom didn't work till I was twenty, at which point she became an inventory auditor. I have one brother who's a chef. I studied creative writing at UIUC with Alex Shakar who taught me to write without worrying about grammar the first time around (hence the many missing articles in that second draft you read). I like Thomas Pynchon, Denis Johnson, Don Delillo, Virginia Woolf and George Saunders. I don't like William Vollmann and DFW but their influence is there. I'm a history major. My favorite technique to write is to stay up late and get real drugged up on caffeine and then write for three to five hours straight. Writing to me is paradoxically an expression of self, an exploration of others, and a method of finding yourself. This has not been edited, it is posted from a phone, and you've read one other thing by me and liked it.
English isn't yr first language, I'm guessing. Which is fine. Some of yr grammar was really weird. They weren't regular mistakes, they were translatey-like issues. I hope. So I got to the end after grammar editing 90% and I hate ye. Ye got me, ya motherfucker. You win.
Just in case yr some Brazilian kid: http://pastebin.com/4XEKdrY7 ← that's w/th' edits
>>7310899 I was born into a small east coast family just outside of NYC.
My Daddy drives. My Mommy drives. I have one brother who's a chief. I studied creative writing at Cornell with Harold Bloom who taught me to write only about Gnosticism and the Kabbalah (hence the many missing references to reality).
I like Stephen King, Dean Koontz, George Soros, Edward Albee and Georgia O'Keefe. I don't like Batman and Dr. Who but their influence is there. I'm a major work in progress. My favorite technique to write is to cut up my penis late at night and get real drugged up on a secret Xanax-???? cocktail and then write for three to five hours straight. Writing to me is paradoxically an expression of Satan, an exploration of eroticism, and a method of finding God. I do not exist in the 3rd dimension.
If you rate mine I'll rate yours (if you've posted something).
It was on that particularly blustery November day that I began my apprenticeship. I was in a new found servitude to a Merchant by the name of Richard Thomas, a name which will be familiar to some of you. The keeper of my parents estate, a Sir Macinall, had set up the preliminary meeting with Mr. Thomas in advance of my fifteenth birthday. Upon finding me a suitable candidate to be 'prenticed I was to enter his service the following autumn. The instructions which had been left in my parents will were quite clear. I was to be introduced to a profession over a period of at least three years before I would begin receiving the inheritance I had been left.
Silver spilling from the window in the later night had curled into streaks of early gold before the morning. Linda took a step to draw the curtain, peel the window from its casing and to tug it up before her, pitching throws of ice below the rafters from the narrow at the second floor. When Roderick heard the ice fall he was pooling sweat beneath him. Linda smelled like honey. Roderick doubled up and turned to fetch his sneakers on the floor beneath him, lacing them together quickly, naked, launching up and to his feet in full unhindered breeze, in cool enormity. His haunches felt like rusted iron. Linda watched him lunging in some tired ode to calisthenic programming, his following arrears in token syncopation. She gulped a gag and steeled herself, her vacant gaze effectively immune to what had grown into a kind of seismic urban bellydance through months of patient practice, nightly sweating... His shorts were blue and built for something running gracefully in African repose, and hence the haunches now there struggling with loose authentic primacy in images of pranced gazelle, a shimmering of ganglion, buttered strings of sinew, had lain waste the fibrous matrix of the kinesthete's impressive logos proper in the keeping up of Roderick and his daydream, Roderick and his sweating nights... 'I'm dying.' 'What?' 'I said I'm leaving.' 'Linda. Buttercup. My Lemon Pie.' 'I had cancer but it went away but it killed the baby but the baby didn't die right but it came out anyway but I had to kill it again and I had to bury it and I don't like you anymore and I never told you I any of this because I think you're ugly.' 'Linda. Beautiful in Spanish. My Royal Turkish Delight. My nutty central surprise. Can't you see I'm lunging?'
"Suddenly quite near him there was a rifle shot. He heard the crack and smack and whistling ricochet among the rocks behind him. He dropped his torch and began feebly to trot. He lost the path and stumbled from boulder to boulder until treading on something which seemed smooth and round and solid in the star light he found himself in the top of a tree which grew twenty feet below. Scattering Greek currency among the leaves, he subsided quite gently from branch to branch and when he reached ground continued to roll over and over, down and down, caressed and momentarily stayed by bushes until at length he came to rest as though borne there by a benevolent Zephyr of classical myth, in a soft, dark, sweet-smelling, empty place where the only sound was the music of falling water. And there for a time the descent ended. Out of sight, out of hearing, the crowded boats put out from the beach; the men-o' war sailed away and Fido slept "
The veil was pulled back. Behind it all, I saw Michael. Michaeling away, "working like a black", as a guy once told me in school. Anyway, Michael Michaeled as he was wont to do - keeping everything running smoothly, making sure causality still works as one would expect. Mike Michaels so much that
it's become second nature to him. There have, however, been a few occasions where he's slipped up and someone's unexpectedly poured soup out of a milk carton - Michael isn't God. He's Michael.
Not many people get a chance to meet him, he said. Nor does he get a chance to meet many people, he says to my by way of apology for giving me five when I extended my hand to shake his. He's incredibly awkward. He' was not what you'd expect for a man of his position, either. Short, salt-n-pepper hair ("It's from all the stress", he explained), a face dogged by scars and burns ("The Dark Ages were rough," as he rubbed a gash from his temple to his cheek mournfully).
He just Michaels all day, at his desk, typing away at his computer. Though how you see it depends on what age you live in, he tells me: "Up until recently people saw me as hacking away at a typewriter. Before that, a pen and a book. Way before that I was chiselling cuneiform into slabs of rock." Being in the same room as him begs a few questions, and he's heard it all. I asked him, like I don't know how many others, what's the point of it all? Why are we here?
Sighing and turning back to his desk for more Michaeling, Michael goes, "Your guess is as good as mine, mate. I'm just here for the paycheck." The veil was pulled around him again and our paths haven't crossed since. I know he's there though, Michaeling to make sure that when my hand goes in my pocket I feel my wallet and not a turd.
/ And so, all at once, the rocks left us. None of us noticed them depart, nor did we say a thing. We just watched, Sitting and twiddling the years of our lives away, Just as we always have. All as cobbled masses Of sleeping stone, and mortar, and tired shell Picked up their cracking homes and left for the seas
And with their absence came the dissipation of cliffs. And with no cliffs to block the torrents of wind The world was swept away in gusting, wheezing gales That wrought the paintings- The shoes- The limbs of the world- That wrought all these things into the sky, And then spun them away into the sea.
Upon hitting the waves, They sank to the scuttling floor of dancing weeds. And the rocks, the limbs, the paintings- They found each other, all in time beyond our sight. They said ‘hi’ to one another. They recalled old times. made vapid small talk, And soon began to twiddle their thumbs. And, in time, they left. They left, and they forgot each other.
Just as everything else in this lonely world does. Save, maybe, for the wind /
/ Lilacs and hues of pink, of red Canopy away into our eyes, Burrow in our little brains, And soon fall out of us. Like waves fall out Of The basin of the earth.
Lilacs and hues of pink, of red Fly into each other, In aching and beautiful rhythms. Like birds, Or planes, Or some immaculacy, some shrill and peircing light That could never be made to be seen By the tainted eyes Of a watery room Full of squalor and ribbons. / / This is how it happened, how it was always meant to, I think. But things can seem to fall forever Most of the time. So why would love, or joy, Or anything, Or anything at all about the lot of us Be any different?
This is the way it always was. The way my hands, our hands, The way they would once lay together. And now they lay apart. And now, we have lost touch. Now we all just float in and out, Going aimless into the rising of the sun and the pink of the clouds. But every single time of every vacant day, Ending up Next to each other.
Because they are all the same. The faces, And the voices that echo with loneliness, With hurt, With longing, They are the same Though the eyes and skin may change, They are the same. And I hope that we all may float- That we all may melt into A stillness of tranquility. That we may drift into a version of each other, But, I pray it is one with softer eyes, And gentler hands. /
>>7311320 every reply you'll get angrier and angrier and the opinion will magically get worse and worse. It's almost like you're a weak-minded fuccboi who can't keep an opinion on an unrelated text if he gets called out for his faggotry.
literally lmaoing at your mind right now.
Please tell me now how it's gotten even worse. ahahahahahah
It was the fourth year of school, but not the final fourth. Still, my friends had been through a lot in those four years; they had gone through change both physically and mentally. Their muscles had grown to endure the hard work of farming, their minds and senses had adapted the art of driving. They had learned how to communicate with the horses, the birds, the dogs, the foxes and the snakes-- well maybe not snakes, but at least they knew how to spot one slithering in the grass. They realized which trees they wanted to climb, which apples they want to pick, and the basic color too, and the parts of this vast garden they wanted to harvest. No doubt their plans would change a million times more, and that would be even more time spent forming their minds and eyes, making the crucial decisions that would shape their entire lives. But at least the wheels in their minds were turning like a car's, speeding down the main highways-- I do not know those highways.
I have been too busy fighting a war in my neck of the woods. No, not some silly wargame that most of the boys play with the old rats. Not the noble, brave, scary wars that the big old miners and farmers, like my father, have almost died fighting in the oceans-- wrestling with the strange fish of the far abysses.
My war takes place in the same indescribable path I've been walking most of my existence. I can't help feeling special knowing that my friends haven't explored this path, but then I remember I can't even see where it forks, or turns into a sunnier, breezier atmosphere. So many soldiers stand in the way. Sometimes they even block out the sun, and it's so scary because I don't even know much about the sun, except for the fact it's bright, and warm, and makes me want to dance in its presence. But when they block out the sun, I don't know if I want to see it or if I'm too comfortable cowering in their shadows; them pushing me back into my little hole on the side of the road, where it's even more comforting, and most of all, familiar, than the disposition of that great star.
But that hole is so cold, so very deep down into the earth, that upon entering it, climbing down the root-infested, frozen soil stairway, I forget the air and the trees and the flowers and the rain and the sun. All that I know is the numbness, the surrounding frigidity and solemn air void of sound and movement. My insides would freeze, slowly dropping to temperatures unendurable for my pulsing blood or racing heart. My mind and soul would fall into the beginning stages of a comforting slumber from it's brisk lullaby.
This part of me feels wrapped up, like in a soft, tight blanket; squeezing my lungs, but giving just enough air to my brain for processing the ominous song. Sometimes, as I lay resting on the frozen cave floor, I wonder if my vivacious flesh and organs are the only part of me that is living; if my mind and soul have already died.
>>7311161 Quite near our hero there was a rifle shot. He heard the squirt and smack and squish ricochet among the rocks behind him. He dropped his cock and began to trot, like a horsie. He lost the path and stumbled from boulder to boulder. He was treading on something which seemed smooth and round and solid. In the star light he found himself tonguefucking a large Greek man in the top of a tree. Scattering Greek currency among the leaves, he went from branch to branch, ropes of hot WOW leaping forth from his cock. When he reached ground he continued to roll over and over, down and down. Out of sight, out of hearing, the crowded boats put out from the beach. The men-o' war sailed away and Fido slept. You are a faggot and this shit is terrible.
There were many nights when Ethan would awake without warning to the strange, ominous sounds of his dreams. It would come first as a low drone, as if someone were humming to him from far away, and he would see the sound traveling across a flat, dark backdrop and it would fall through the large opening of his ear. It would then journey down the small passage of the canal and enter into the oval window of his unconscious. Ethan would lift his head gently from the pillow, raise his eyelids and peer down at the black and blurred form at the foot of the bed and see it shaking with life, with the sound of unearthly voices emanating from the walls. The voices sang and spoke in low frequencies, both unintelligible and alien to him. Too drowsy to determine whether it was a dream or reality, he simply fell back asleep and forgot about it. But the in morning, as he eat his breakfast and poured cream into his coffee, he would think back to that strange dream and those cryptic noises and silently wonder if he had he actually heard them.
Oh the cause of gauze, The Manuels have fondled many memories from my lap though each memory has its own lap and swimmers swim laps. Even swimmers have laps however and while in that condition many require a delicate gauze. I desire only this in my decripitude, that I will have one more opportunity to serve as a gauze to my fellow man and that in that state of gauze can somehow disturb the world less often with my prickly fingers
I'm always amazed at how terrible everyone in these threads are, from the quality of the writing to the critics themselves. It's hard always having to remind myself that most of you are still in High School.
>English isn't yr first language, I'm guessing. You're correct, it isn't. In this case, it's not that much of an issue. I'm trying to write in a very rushed style, and the MC's first language isn't english either.
>>7309036 >>7309404 >>7310322 hey lads what i posted was an excerpt from crime and punishment, by fyodor dostoyevsky. i wanted to prove that /lit/ knows nothing about what is good writing and what isn't. thanks for proving my point that most of you will take any chance you get to masturbate yourself when you think you know something. maybe use this opportunity as a chance to reflect on why you think some writing is bad. or maybe it just proves that for the most part this is not a good way to critique writing aside from really blatant stuff.
other budding writers in this thread can probably take this example as a boost of confidence. if these keks think dostoyevsky is bad what chance do you have to appease them.
Florence in a Building A sea of multicolored umbrellas dances around the piazza in the shade of Florence’s seven-hundred year old palace and political center, The Palazzo Vecchio. The visitors tread on the same ground that the ancient Romans, Michelangelo, Leonardo Da Vinci, and Machiavelli trod on. They might even step on a site where enemies of the state were tortured, hanged, and burned during the High Renaissance. Some of the neon poncho clad visitors are huddled around Neptune’s fountain, others admiring the replica of Firenze's iconic David, and many are just standing in the center of the piazza and appreciating the grand rusticated facade of the palace. In the rain and cloud induced darkness, the visitors’ faces glow with radiance. Their surroundings are both beautiful and terrifying at the same time. They see the huge stone battlements of the palace, artistic masterworks, and a grand clock to put all that they see into perspective. That great clock always turns and has seen many like you come and go, and it will probably see many more after you are gone. The towers and the stone battlements grow as you approach the arched entrance of the palace. You walk through the arch under the cold gazes of David and Hercules, the cross of our lord, and two gilded lions. This demonstration of power and opulence humbles the palace’s visitors. The ground floor of the palace opens up to an ornate courtyard with arches, a fountain, and painted lunettes of old Hapsburg cities. The paintings are slightly faded due to their age and their long exposure to the elements. After the courtyard, there is an open space with stairs to the upper levels, another arched entrance, a modern cafe, and a sleek and streamlined ticket offices. This area can be confusing for the palace’s visitors. The ticket office is stuck in the corner and the museum entrances can be difficult to find. There is also an archaeology museum under the palace that is easily missed. Since this building was designed as a fortified palace and not as a museum, the exhibitions don’t follow any linear paths, and many of the exhibits can be easily missed. Government offices are located after this area. This seven-hundred year old building still functions as the city hall of Florence. The palace is a museum, a conference hall, and the center of government for Florence. This weird hybrid of a building is representative of the entire city of Florence. It is a symbol of how past and present simultaneously clash and coexist with one another.
>>7312820 Up the stairs and into the simply gargantuan Salone dei Cinquecento, instances of Florentine victory and dominance over the province of Tuscany are recounted across the walls. One wall depicts the conquest of Siena, and the opposite wall tells of Florentine victories over Pisa. The Salone is an imposing one hundred and seventy feet long chamber that still functions as a meeting chamber and doubles as a museum. Within this expansive hall stands a satchel slung and selfie-stick clad East Asian tourist in an obnoxious t-shirt with the word “selfie” in huge lettering and a picture of a pug for some reason. He stands, arms akimbo, trying to take a photo of himself with the unbelievable gold embroidered ceiling of the Salone in the background. What a clashing of cultures! Here’s a man, probably of Chinese or Korean origin, wearing a ridiculous t-shirt, inspired by western popular culture, and standing in the presence of craftwork of skilled artisans. In what way does this display affect him? He could respond to this hall as an amazing feat representative of the ingenuity of humanity, he could view this hall as something different and exotic relative to his own culture, or he could be having an entirely different experience. I didn’t read much amazement in his gaze. His posture was snooty and his face looked pretentious. He seemed uninterested in the art that surrounded him, and he was treating his girlfriend/wife with contempt. He disgusted me. He was more interested in getting a picture of himself with the art than he was with the art itself. While the pug-shirted Asian tourist takes his selfies, a group of a few hundred Freemasons of Italy, dressed to the nines, are having a convention in this great hall. It’s only natural that a fraternal society founded by stone masons would hold a meeting in a building of such masterful masonry work. The Freemasons, a secretive society, are holding a large meeting in a fairly public place. The topics being addressed must not be all that secretive. If one is trying to hold the attention of a convention’s attendees, it isn’t clever to have the meeting in the Salone dei Cinquecento. In the shoes of the meeting attendees, I’d take the opportunity to look at the gold covered ceiling or the murals along the walls for an extended period of time instead of paying attention to the master mason speaking. The Freemasons holding a meeting here supports the claim that the Palazzo Vecchio is undefinable. It’s not a magistrate's residence, it’s not quite a museum, it’s not just a meeting hall, and it’s not just a city hall.
>>7312822 A few rooms over from the great hall on a balcony overlooking the city, a group of about ten or fifteen French tourists listen to their French speaking tour guide. This group dressed in sweater vests and leather jackets seemed to be paying close attention to their guide as she described the yellow skyline to them. A guide for this museum is quite helpful because the majority of the objects aren’t marked, and there is probably a significant amount of interesting history about the palace’s past residents that the guide would share. There are also several side doors that are easily missed without guidance. The museum’s nonlinear structure makes for a different kind of museum experience. Most things in the apartments were left as they were when they still served as residencies. Therefore there is very little contributed to the experience of the museum by the administrators of the museum. It is there job to simply maintain what was left to them by default. The museum experience isn’t some grand plan by a curator, but it is a look into the lifestyle of the wealthy during the Renaissance. Therefore this museum gives visitors a screenshot of a lifestyle rather than a chronological journey through history. Next door, in Pope Leo X’s apartments, an elderly couple that that spoke either Dutch or German, I couldn’t tell, stands by a placard under a wall sized painting of Catholic Cardinals engaged in a discussion. While the wife reads the placard, the white haired and wrinkled husband stands with this mouth agape while he stares at the mural. You see his weathered face next to the weathered painting. There is an old red robed Catholic Cardinal in the painting looking out back at the old man. His wife is trying to get a full understanding of the content and the background of the piece before she looks at it. These two are slow and meticulous in their passing through the palace. They are in no hurry because they have no obligations and they want to appreciate and get all that they can out of their time in this beautiful palace. One can see the purification occurring in the man’s face. He is temporarily forgetting about his aching back, or his deadbeat son, or his trivial regrets in his own life. He is taking a moment to acknowledge that he is apart of something larger than himself. He is apart of the human race.
>>7312826 The art in the Palazzo Vecchio hasn’t been taken out of its original habitat. Since it still resides in its original home, the art’s context is more easily understood. For example the palace holds several small chapels. These chapels are filled with Catholic art. The art in these chapels was created for an emotionally provoking religious purpose, and this purpose is more apparent since these paintings weren’t removed from the chapels. I found this placement of early Renaissance Catholic art much more interesting than the way the Catholic art was displayed in the Accademia Dell’Arte. In the Accademia, the art was displayed in chronological order and pulled out of its context. The art was “museumized”. The ambiance of a small candlelit chapel suits the madonnas and childs and the crucifictions better. I found it much more interesting to view the art where it was intended to be placed rather than in a museum. This is comparable to seeing the original Parthenon sculptures in London rather than on the face of the Parthenon itself. I’d much rather see the sculptures from the grand facade of the temple on the temple in Greece than see them in the British Museum. Even the Palazzo Vecchio itself is a museum piece rather than a museum. The palace would be a mausoleum, but it still functions as the city’s center of government and the great salone still functions as a convention hall. It’s a living breathing symbol of Florence. The Palazzo Vecchio gives a fuller and more comprehensive identity and history of the city of Florence than any conventional museum could. It’s a building that housed the rulers of the city for centuries. While it is partially a museum, it is still a building that functions as the political center of the city to this day. It is a symbol of the glory of the Florentine people, while at the same time it can emotionally move people of all nationalities through its beauty. It fully encapsulates the essence of Renaissance Florence and Florence today.
Here's the opening to a short piece of fiction that I'm currently working on. Be as ruthless as you must:
My view of autumn came from the middle of the number 15 bus, which sat at the central station waiting for permission to move. It was the grey, rainy day you see in scenes of redemption, heartbreak or mourning. Sheets of rain fell and splashed on the darkened pavement from funereal clouds that looked regretful for what they had done. The sun hadn’t even made the tiniest of cameos and by now it was due to set. Detached, I gazed out the window at the concrete ensemble of buildings that awkwardly danced around the station. They were utilitarian units, spiritless and filled with modern Britain’s standard retailers.
>>7313115 My view of autumn came from the number 15 bus, which sat at the central station waiting for permission to move. It was the gray, rainy day of redemption, heartbreak or mourning. Sheets of rain fell and splashed on the darkened pavement. The sun hadn’t even made the tiniest of cameos and by now it was due to set. I gazed out the window at the concrete buildings that danced around the station. They were utilitarian units, spiritless and filled with modern Britain’s standard retailers.
After the fated rise and fall of the antichrist, a silence fell in the lands below heaven. With all the beasts and sinners shut away in the pit, the only thing left to keep watch over the ashes of what was once Eden was a scorched and lonely sky.
A grey hand reached up through the ash of the wasteland to break the silence and the surface. As the long nails of the fingers dug in and took hold, the head of their owner began to emerge. Behold, the ruiner. Satan's brow rose and pressed through the soil, the smell of the pit rising with him. Another arm broke through, pulling the smoking body up to its waist. Granules of dirt tumbled between leathery wings to fall silent again. He kicked and writhed to be free. And there at the apex of the long climb out of hell, Satan sprawled and collapsed on his back. Lying in the ash and spent of all energy, the red sky bathing him in its eerie glow. He struggled to move. But his limbs, still oozing sulfur, would not obey. Surrounded by an atmosphere as raw as an open wound, even Satan marveled at the magnificence of the spiraling black clouds overhead. He breathed in the ash and cinders, the stench of burnt ozone permeating everything. As sickening as the mix may be, it was still preferable to where he’d come from. Unable to move further, he slumbered for days until the sea of clouds morphed into a collected mass and released a deluge upon him. He slept through all of this. When the sound of thunder approached in the night, his eye lids parted. As the rumbling in the clouds drew nearer, he knew what would follow, or more accurately, who would follow. The earth around him vibrated with an unseen energy as the tiny hairs on his wings stood on end. Lightning split the sky and fell upon him in a brilliant flash. In the face of such sound and light, Satan didn’t flinch when the visitor appeared. The glow around the being emanated from its silhouette, turning the darkness to daylight. It’s only shadow was cast by the outline of armor and a sword that burned almost as bright. It burned to look upon the light and Satan raised a hand to shield his eyes. But as soon as his arm moved a little, a sandal as heavy as a mountain pinned it back to the ground. The tip of the burning sword sang like a hymn as it cut through the air and stopped an inch from his nose. Few beings carry such an instrument, and the devil knew the instrument well. “Hello, Michael.”
We sent our brave and our bold, armed with light and sensor. We sent our sons and our daughters, husbands and wives, our young and old, to join our heroes among the stars and for mankind to all at once be remembered for the quality of our few rather than the violence of our many. And we watched with twinkling hope, and time and time again we were scorned with flame. If history has taught us anything, it is that human endeavours require sacrifice. The need for widows was never been greater than in times when mankind was at our most triumphant. When we marched up and over the walls of Jericho we marched with the dead underfoot. President Ronald Reagan, in the wake of the challenger disaster, once reminded a sullen nation that ‘The future doesn't belong to the fainthearted; it belongs to the brave.’
>>7313308 The heat from the flaming sword tanned Satan's cheeks as the tip wavered precariously close to his nose. "You sink to new depths even as you crawl out of them, Morningstar." The angel said. "Why must you continually test the length and breadth of His mercy?"
"Because it's there." The answer left a silence between them. Michael said nothing but held him in place with his foot and sword. The pause lingered until he spoke again. "Well? Which have you been sent to do? Escort me back to the pit or dispatch me forever?"
Michael didn't answer. He remained as motionless as a statue. Satan watched the look on his face. In the times when they'd spoken before, gods commands were already staring at him from behind the archangels eyes. But this time something was different. What was it? Michael's expression didn't have the same fire as the other times. The glare wasn't present this time.
"Which is it, Michael?" Again the angel didn't answer. A grin began to creep its way across Satan's lips. "He didn't send you. He doesn't know, does he?"
"You know he knows what you've done." "But he didn't send you, did he?" Michael straightened to stand at his tallest. "I sensed you were loose and came on my own." "Well, if He didn't send you, then get your sword out of my face." Michael reluctantly withdrew his blade and foot. Brushing away errant flecks of ash from his skin, Satan got to his feet. Face to face, the fallen one stood a full head and a half taller. Michael regarded the difference between them with a glance but didn't back away. "Well?" He asked "Well what?" "Shouldn't you be running along? Certainly that armor doesn’t shine itself." Michael’s hand flipped the burning sword about so that tip rose between them. "Don't…test my patience, morningstar." "It's not your patience that interests me, Michael. I’m more curious about the short leash you’re on. The chosen and the righteous are behind the gates in heaven. What possible reason could you have for being here? Who would you protect from my wickedness with that weapon of yours?” “You are out of the pit and free of your torment.” Michael glared. “That’s reason enough for me to be here.” “Yes, Michael. But you’re not listening to my words. Why am I out of the pit?” “You climbed out on your own.” “How is that possible if His will is for me to be in the pit?” The archangel looked unsure. “Let’s end the suspense. He loves you dearly, ask him yourself. Ask your master why this has come to pass.”
“Very well.” The angel turned away from him and looked to the brightest place in the sky. “What is your bidding?” Michael asked the charred sky. “What would you have me do with him?” But after the echoes of his words died, there came no reply. Satan gave Michael a curious look. “Well?” he asked. “He seldom talks to me. What did he tell you?” (Pic is the notes for the story.)
>>7313334 “He hasn’t answered.” “Give him a moment. He is getting old you know.” “Don’t you dare make insult towards him!” Michael shouted. “They always say the ears are the first thing to go. Perhaps you should try yelling louder.” “Ruiner…” Michael pointed the sword at him. “Watch your tongue or I will cut it from your head.” Satan crossed his arms. “Put that sword away. Until you’re given permission to use it, it’s only good for a torch.” Aggravated by his words, Michael took several paces from Satan before taking a knee to pray. “Great one, give me your guidance. Tell me what you wish.” Satan watched with interest as again there came no thunderous answer or decree. After a moment, the angel rose and returned to stand chest to chest with him. “His mercy is to be praised in the highest.” Michael breathed as he pressed the breastplate of his armor against him. “He offers you this one opportunity to return to the pit without tasting his wrath further.” Satan watched the angel’s eyes. The presence of divine message still wasn’t behind them. Of all the things that separated him from Michael, the ability to deliver false truths would have to be the biggest. “Michael,” he laughed. “You’re by far the worst liar in the history of all creation.” “Go.” Michael growled as he pressed his armor against him again. “Go now and you won’t feel my blade.” “How would I return?” Satan asked. “Slither down through the rock and dirt like water?” Michael backed away and drew a circle in the ash between them. The ground within the circle grew as black as pitch and the smell of sulfur began to leech its way into the air. Smoke rose from the middle like a furnace. “There.” He pointed. “A path to the heart of hell. Go quickly.”
>>7313349 “Go quickly back into the fire? I think not.” “You asked me what he said? He asks you to choose between the pit or the edge of my blade and then the pit, ruiner. That is his judgment.” “I tire of this game.” Satan said. Having confessed this, he fell to his knees and hung his head. “Bring your blade, Michael. Do what you will and drag me back to the pit, but I will not go willingly.” “WHY?!” Michael shrieked as he stepped around the smoking portal. It took only three strides for the angel to stand chest to chest. “Why do you insist on resisting the undeniable?!” “Be silent, Michael. Carry out his judgment or go away.” “Is this what you’ve become, Satan? You were once an angel of the highest order and now you won’t accept the infinite mercy that’s been doled to one who’s now so undeserving?” “I told you to swing your sword, Michael.” “You will not give me orders!” Michael shouted at him. With gritted teeth, he raised the sword to hold it over his head. If it fell, it wouldn’t kill the devil, but better to be dead than to feel the purifying sting of the sword of light. Satan waited, but nothing happened. “Apparently no one is giving orders today.” Unable to use the weapon, Michael stepped away. In a spasm of frustration, he swung the sword across his body in a wild arc. Heavenly fire leapt from the end of the blade setting everything around them on fire. Trees, earth, rocks. “Why won’t you do as you’re told?” He asked Satan. The fallen one picked himself up and stood once more. “Perhaps it’s not my purpose. Like you, I’m not certain what my purpose is right now. Since you can’t touch me with your blade or force me back into the pit without permission, you should leave.” The archangel looked discouraged and disgusted with him. With a wave of the sword, the gateway to hell shrunk in size until it vanished the last trail of black smoke drifted away and dissipated. “I will leave you, Satan.” Michael said as he began marching towards him. “And you’re correct that I can’t use my blade on you.” The angel raised his instrument high in the air. “But that doesn’t mean the rest of the sword is without purpose.” Satan rarely was caught surprised by anything. But now was one of those times when he found himself completely unaware. It was good to know that Michael wasn’t completely useless without divine orders to guide his hand. It was the hilt of his sword striking him between the eyes that made everything go black.
>>7313373 Well okay then. Sounds like you have a pretty good idea of what's going on. In my honest opinion it's not my genre or style, but if action/fantasy is what you like then I'm sure this is compelling stuff.
>>7313386 Religious "fan fiction"isn't my bag but I thought I'd take a stab at something new while I take a break from sci fi. The hardest part has been trying to get the language right. The words need to be plain and direct to denote timelessness
>>7313401 Well I tried something a bit like this when I went through a bit of a radical Satanic phase, but I did a long poem about a man wandering through an immortal land, meeting the major iconic creatures and figures of the Fall of Man and the Satanic mythos (Leviathan, Satan, Luciver, Belial) . I tried using older English (but not Elizabethan) and it worked pretty nicely, as well as being kind of anachronistic and therefore a little eerie
>>7313414 Leviathan has a huge role to play in this because he and Satan were total bros. it'll tell about the fall, leviathan being the one to help raise his army, and how Satan feels responsible for his final death because he was the one that let leviathan into the seas to start spawn camping shipping lanes. I did a bit of research on leviathan and the archangels before I started this. God got so pissed at leviathan for noob tubing fisherman that he came down himself and permab&'d him
>First time attempting to write properly, tips and criticism appreciated
She sits motionless at her windowsill. The night sky floods her room; the moon illuminates her iridescent eyes. Tendrils of smoke filter through the air – the source is an incomplete cigarette, staining her fingers with the stale scent of youthful debauchery. Cold grips her legs, the cold of humanity and its judgemental eyes. They sway outside the window, for all to see – vulnerable in her desire of fundamental joy. Her soul is oneiric adolescence, epitomised. By many it is perceived as rebellion, sadness, bravery, melancholy, nihilism, hedonism, purity, too loving, too careless. The truth – the essence – of it is none of that. It is not a mere characteristic thrown by the ignorant to label the misunderstood. Her nature is esoteric: she is beauty.
>>7313122 >>7312932 >>7310977 >>7310753 Hey simposter, you missed mine. >>7310400 >>7310343 All the replies are positive, but that feels wrong to me. Either they have rused me, or they have shit taste if they actually think my stuff is good. I value yr feedback more, because it tells me a lot more. Would you mind having a look?
>>7313612 Started off real generic, but I continued on anyway. As >>7313790 said, it's really teenagery, but whatever. If that's what you want to write, then write it. Just do it well. I'm seeing some real generic imagery here, like >the moon illuminates her iridescent eyes >tendrils of smoke (can't count the amount of times I've seen this one) >the source is a incomplete cigarette, staining her fingers with the stale scent of youthful debauchery (has potential, up to the words: youthful, and debauchery. Once again, so generic) >the cold of humanity and its judgemental eyes (oh boy, "no one understands me, wah, stop judging." This is all well and good, but find another way to say it) >They sway outside the window, for all to see – vulnerable in her desire of fundamental joy (getting better) >Her soul is oneiric adolescence, epitomised (better) >By many it is perceived as rebellion, sadness, bravery, melancholy, nihilism, hedonism, purity, too loving, too careless (I like to think I can see what you're trying to do here, but surely there has to be a less clunky, less lackluster way to do this. Try to be more inventive BUT ONLY WHEN you've learned the "rules") >The truth – the essence – of it is none of that (em dashes are reserved for academic writing. I'd even advice against it in that scenario. fucking hate em dashes, even though they can be useful) >Her nature is esoteric: she is beauty. >She is beauty >she is beauty that last part should stylistically pack the punch, but it didn't, really. Maybe because the subject topic is the oldest, most overdone one in all human history. You're in some tough business here, trying yo write well about love, when it's the oldest topic in history, and you're just starting "attempt to write properly."
It seems like you're starting to try and bend shit without knowing the rules first. Well the point is to know them like an astronaut knows not to pull his air tube, and break them anyway, ONLY once you've learned them.
Look. Write some more. A lot more, on your own, without posting it here to get grilled and returned to you smoldering so black that it smokes up and layers your motivation in greasy soot, yaknow? And once you've written enough, and you know every guideline, playing by them all, and start to feel bored with what you're writing; then is the time to strike, to break those rules. Sorry if that seems too coachy.
But seriously, good on you for trying. Now go try more, without posting here, then come back in a year with some hopefully killer shit.
I'm concurrently working on three things and I have a seed of an idea floating around for a memoir about events I've yet to live.
>A small unassuming less ambitious e-book maybe debut autobiographical work about institutions Complaint Form >700 pages: more ambitious, more stylistically bold novel that I won't be able to sell to a publisher until I have more to my name (all I have now are some poems in the works with magazines) Phuc Stephenson >I (like hella others) pick my own brain when I'm alone by talking to myself (talking linearizes an amorphous, kind of scary though cloud into something write-down-able) as if I'm being interviewed and it might be interesting from a writing point of view to record myself doing this and put it together. Either as an ebook or a listening album. (Interviews (I Like to Hear Myself Talk)) >memoir of events I've yet to live Resume-building in Antarctica
I'd also like to do a web series of fictionalized accounts of my wholly unremarkable life that form an amalgam of Lena Dunham's Girls and Judd Apatow's Freaks and Geeks.
Also this is more something hypothetical I could do when I'm old as a cash-grab talk show circuit type book but if I follow my preferred career path I might be into writing a self-help book called "How to Think Like an Engineer, an Attorney, and an Artist (by Someone Who's All 3)" but maybe that's more a blog series. I struggle to find a reason why my prose-based artistic ideas need to be novels or even books other than the fact that academic legitimacy is entrenched there. I'm not too comfortable trying to wedge myself as the Elon Musk of written arts, though.
It's the 'grand' in self-aggrandizement that always tripped me up when it came to what the word means but it's an age thing I guess if shyness is self-absorption
Collected tweet: poll of college underclassmen on whether or not the pope is secretly agnostic
and continuing the theme of behind closed dooredness (and its spooky ephemerality) why is making my influence trinity Tao, >dfw, and Shia so obvious compared to Robert Coover and Mark Leyner are there actually people who give a shit about danielewski (don't read his last book; I do parentheticals better) and where do the unabashed narcissists rather than the upvoting self-described autist awkwardists reside when the groupstudy library window is bulletproof w/r/t lining
you cant be a pluralist when it comes to yourself dont be the girl with 40% of the vote and call that resounding
and this is gonna be a nightly thing this near-frozen capillary crawl down the gradient
>>7314582 Please die. This shitpost has too much effort put into it for you to be a real person, so I can comfortably say please die and not be worried about my possible acceptance into the afterlife. So die.
>>7314656 It's not a shitposts its a poem. I wrote >>7310067 and maybe 90 other poems that have appeared on this board and some of them are on a free public blog and a few of them are in the editing phase for a magazine. I'm a real person and it's a weird kind of insulting that you'd think I'm not just because my stanzas are a little unruly and prosaic. Reevaluate yourself, kiddo.
>>7314717 >>7314582 Heya, Kolsti. Someone who doesn't really like your stuff but respects it reporting in. How's the publishing game going? School treating you well? Any opinions my stuff http://pastebin.com/Nizhm4bj? (it's mostly an unedited rewrite of an old idea, minor mistakes should be explained by that.)
BTW, I think the memoir has the most selling potential. It's got a blake butler type feel to it. Also, I'd look more into the blog thing, you just have to be certain you'll constantly work on it (content is king).
I cleaned up ~50%. Nothing srs, just run on sentences. I'd say work backwards from my changes towards what you want. I stopped cuz it's too long. Advice-wise, I'd say boil it down: think function. What are ye tryna get the reader to feel/think/realize. Otherwise it's fine. You've got the flat/plain style down, so ye can basically just do w/e the fuck ye want on top of it.
I found it boring despite the good style. I think flashbacks might help spice it up. Or not, idk, it's yr thing.
Anyway, here is a cleaned up-ish version: http://pastebin.com/NFJwiRip
>>7314773 Schools alright (ranked top 10 in parties and engineering), but finding a balance is where it's at. It's hard to find time for writing but I guess this is life.
To be clear, my post was a poem and not an actual list of my works in progress. All I'm writing are poems (like that one) and a novel. Publishing is okay. I haven't heard back from the Mexican one in a while so I'll probably end up going to the domestic one. Which is sad because I was looking forward to being able to say I'm internationally published when I apply to law school or wherever.
About your work: In these threads there's never enough context to know if mistakes are pomo commentaries or bad writing or some kind of "lol neither and both" metamodern conceit. So I'll treat this like a workshop and we're all following rules like "show, don't tell" and other things I tend to ignore in my own writing. The prose drags a bit. I'm gonna revise a few sentences.
>A sergeant screamed at him, and he felt the weight of his rifle. Gun fire still cracked from the south. Training took over, he turned and sprinted toward it–us or them in his head. A line of troops lay prone behind a wall of sand bags firing shots into the woods. On the far end, a maelstrom of red tracers shredded a hostile treeline into green viscera. Fear, and palpitations twitched his trigger finger, contributing to the storm of American mined led – earth to earth. Whistles arced from within the treeline.
A sergeant screamed at him and he got his rifle.Guns cracked from the south. He sprinted toward it–us or them. Troops lay behind sand bags firing into the woods. On the end, a maelstrom of red tracers shredded the treeline into viscera. Palpitations twitched his trigger finger, contributing to the (CDQ) torrent. Whistles and screams arced from the trees and John Kerry didn't see shit.
Not to give it the Hemingway treatment, but unnecessary turns of phrase give a cliche scenario a cliche aesthetic (but if that contributes to your theme then go with it). Changing "A Nosferatu hand" to "Nosferatu's hand" seems like a sound aesthetic choice. Your prose is on the nose but not with the kind of banana meme irony I like. I bet allusions are flying over my head. Most people have trouble writing action or dialogue or any scene that isn't an essay. Write it like a dissertation if you have to. Being so unsubtle with spell-it-outs like "Spillane's mother was concerned" make me think you're being ironic with this and you're using cheesy writing in a pastiche of cheesy pulp tropes and I guess that makes sense. It doesn't seem particularly original but then again maybe that's a meta-commentary. This kind of even/odd degree sincerity is pointless to examine. The real question is whether or not you're saying anything interesting and there's simply no way for me to know that from this. You have nice stuff, like the bit about plastics. But you could cut the length in half and lose nothing. Read some Mark Leyner.
>>7314773 For reference on how to whittle down prose in a pinch, I wrote this as my critique in a notes app document and then cut it down to fit into one post. I find that's a nice exercise for minimalism.
"Tell me, sir, of all your schemes. Of all your wild raping dreams!"
"First I stalk and lay in wait. I like to contemplate her fate. She goes to bed, she needs her rest. But I slap my Willy on her chest.
"WAKE UP, SLAG! I'M HERE FOR YOU! I'M GONNA VIOLATE YOUR POO!"
"Fascinating, please tell me more. What else do you do with those whores?"
"I like to beat them with my shoes. Their roastie cunts resemble wads of used up Big League Chew. I like to rape them with crowbars, I like to rape them with toy cars! So many holes for things to stick, but Reddit thinks my jokes are sick."
The bus smelt like the old korean woman standing behind me. Fucking dumplings. She clinged on to my dripping raincoat as the bus jolted from its stop. Fuck, I didn't want to smell like her. I can't blame the people that didn't give her their seat. I mean, the bus was about as packed as an indian poor people train, it would've been awkward to move around at all. I was in the most awkward spot too, right in the front of the aisle, next to the busdriver as if we were friends. As if. The bus halted for another stop and the old lady bounced against my back. She dropped her handbag. I held back a laugh. Serves you right you stinky old bitch.
The doors then swung open and a girl shuffled in. She was like 17. Looked like a european jew.
We sat in the diner still smelling like the cigars that still lay smoldering upon the mountain in the rubbish bin. As had become tradition we spoke as sincerely as we could muster averting ours eyes only for hurried sips of scalding coffee. Topics grew, died, and were reborn without rhythm. That was the beat itself. The intimacy was shattered when she sat down. Although she was no stranger to us, she was alien to the conversation. Attempting to save the essence of the moment we continued our discussion of post-ironic culture. She couldn’t tell if the conversation was serious or a joke. And though we all laughed, she laughed alone.
>>7316299 Korea Older women smell in the car behind me. Only two idiots Internet. He stuck a court order. The following, mostly, you do not want to. I can not blame the president, they will not be allowed. I hope that this is easy to move to any movement in India and poverty. We are good friends in front of the driver, the bus home. I jumped in the car. The old back foot, and a short distance away. He lost his wallet. I had fun. Hand, the existing prostitute.
Mix Open contact, woman. Therefore, to show the Jews of Europe 17.
>>7316521 School for four years, but it was in the previous quarter. But my friend for four years, a lot of physical and emotional changes. Apart from agriculture, the heart of another group, and adapt to the identification of the vessel. Horses, dogs, and birds you can find a way to learn to speak the fox snake snakes-- pasture. However, the main building and the type of call options, you have to climb a tree. The brain and the eyes to make other changes in their lives to be wondered million advance. However, as the hearts of auto tires, maybe highways-- I do not know, it seems.
The war in the jungle is engaged in the neck. No, I am silent mouse is a funny game. Accidentally former miners, farmers, as my father died fighting powerful fish oceans--.
My life would be a big fight. Refreshing You know how your friends feel, remember to bring the weight back, but I understand the environment. Some soldiers stood guard. Sometimes you can play with me, do not know the warm months, and it is, in other words, they are concerned about, even in the daytime. If you and I know that you are, or want to see me, take comfort in the results. We are not satisfied with the iris, the first of several major pharmaceutical company held by the players kicked.
Still, even in the frozen ground, I land, the sun and the rain, the trees, the flowers, the wind mixed with a deep, I think that's cool. I was an air strike on a quiet circle of coldness, I know all the songs. Blood, freezes, heat and heart can not be resolved, it was a picture of him. Hobeeya the origin of life, my heart and my soul lives sleeping.
The company is a part of me that is a very soft blanket is clear. Squeeze the lungs, but offers a lot more fear to sing in front. I lay in a little time, I believe the children are living below the stocking of ice, I think. My heart, my soul hit.
Silent library, hours past noon. The two were left alone, breathing heavily without muttering a word. The sounds outside, words of so many people from pleads to curses, lost themselves into white noise: voices, sirens and cries, became a faint murmur because of their mind's voice, so loud that their thoughts seemed to run as fast as they could, and yet stumbling at every step of the way. The main doors fell. They counted the running steps coming closer: down the main hall, up the stairs, then through the hallway and to the library doors locked from inside with a desk and a broom. They raised their guns, first to their temples, then to each other – the cold sweat made it hard to rest against their temples without sliding off, the shaking hands made it likely to miss if they didn't. The steps reached the library and the group shouted once and again, throwing themselves once and again against the wooden doors. “One!” both shout when the doors gave in with a thud. “Two!” when the group entered the room, running between the shelves, looking for anyone who may remain alive. “Three!” Two shots. Everyone stopped. Silence again. Nobody ran, no one said another word. Soon they found them where the windows, in the farthest corner, lying dead and proud on the ground.
Less than an hour from noon they arrived from the north-east, group of three with one missing to the lands of the school. Everyone else, students from juniors to seniors, were then in the back where the green fields extend, resting half-naked against each other, under the sun, letting the time fly by. They talked of whatever crossed their minds: “Oh, will you go to Taylor's party?” said one near the doors, “Have you heard?, hey, have you heard who was with Tommy last night?” could be heard nearby, and everywhere the small talk showed their worries and the scope of their sight. “Go! Go!” shouted a voice across the lawn, and everyone turning the head understood in the beat of a heart, the deeds of the two coming fast. Most of them knew them, and thus they knew to the point of the fact what they wanted to do. Some of them were fast, fast enough to reach the main building and find shelter and hide, in its darkest places, until the time of their death. Those not fast enough remained right where they were, on the grass covered by light, and half-naked with a head full of air. The inside building was easily locked, like with every window they found at the time. The inside hallways and classrooms where covered in black, with nothing to see besides two lighstreams that moved through the school, pointing at corners and unders, looking for lions turned to prey when left alone and far of the herd. Rache, the first one. Hidden then in the toilet, the cradle of her fame just one year ago. "Please no-, I'll-" before being silenced, with a single shoot through her head. Three shots more followed to her dead body for no reason at all, just blowing steam off over her wrecked twisted face - just a girl known for not more that blowing people at school, no much was lost there (maybe a waitress, maybe a prostitute). Eleven more followed: three in the classrooms, four where the staircase, then two in the hallway, then two kitchen below. Each one cowardly hidded and crying for help. Their end was like the end of a dream, which they waited with incredulous fear. Everyone's dead, hopes nevermind. It all ended, not even an hour since then.
The very same night all the noise faded. Everyone else was back at their homes, forgetting the fact of the events at midday, caring for dinner more than for what happened before. Some of the planted crosses as tombs, not knowing for whom, randomly at school. After the popular event new ones came by, and still do once in a while, that disappear as well in the blink of an eye.
What shall we do in the spring days that are now rapidly approaching? This morning the sky was grey, but if you go over to the window now, you'll be surprised, and rest your cheek against the window lock.
Down on the street you'll see the girl walking along and turning to look over her shoulder, and then you'll see the shadow oh the man rapidly coming up behind her.
Then the man has overtaken her, and the girl's face is quite dazzling.
>>7315683 Hospitals always have: hot nurses, horrible memories, intercom announcements usually in code, I've verified that with nurse friends btw, dead-eyed drunk doctors, drugs, shit, places to have sex, terrible lighting, death, disease, ER rooms with awful shit going on, and more hot nurses.
In a vision, I see fog over the city, obscuring the stars and moon. Witches dance on the edge of town, and the youth are lead to the centre so that they too may dance with the devil. Moment to moment, drunk to be drunk, celebrating their celebration, seduced by hidden elements, not knowing the power that leads them. Their hollow hearts blow hollow speech like smoke; they preach a joy they do not have, among each other. They can only guess the surface of things, they do not hold the spirit; they do not see that when a man gazes at a woman’s thigh, a family is broken and a child is left without its parent; when a boy throws an empty bottle into the road, a nation falls into anarchy and bloodshed; when a woman dis, a father’s daughter dies in her crib. This people cannot discern its right hand from its left.
In a vision, I see the leaders of the world in council, offering virgin sacrifices to a two-horned abomination. Only now do I understand the great distance between good and evil.
The meaning of the vision: in ancient times humanity became wise, and built great monuments to itself. It became exceedingly proud, and imagined that through science it would build the utopia, the new paradise. So they built Atlantis, a city of perfect mathematical proportions, to last forever, to house a new godlike humanity. When men reached the height of their pride, the sky opened and they saw their God weeping. So the city of Atlantis was drowned, and only one man and his family survived the deluge. Now does history repeat itself, then as tragedy, now as farce. Men become proud again and build the New Atlantis, a new empire to deify Man. The first time men forgot their Creator, He wept; the second time He merely laughs. Men will soon look to the sky with fear again, when Atlantis is baptised in water, and the New Atlantis is baptised in fire.
>>7316865 I was born just before the New Atlantis, on the twenty fourth day, of the third month after May, of the eight year before the millennium. I was told that the world was formed out of chaos, that man was a glorified beast, and that soon there would be world peace and harmony. I was told: Out of Chaos, Order. I was told humanity, that came from the dirt of the earth, would rise up in spaceships to populate the stars. I never believed. My soul became sick, and my friends looked at me as if I was a dead man. I climbed a hill to pray and to beg and to if there was a God, and went away disappointed. Then I recognised my own wretchedness. I saw how much death had entered into the life of man, how he can’t escape it. Then I asked: is there any hope? Is the suffering man to suffer alone, as the proud man lords himself over the whole earth? Is there no justice, does evil escape into the night, answering to no one? Then I knew I had to choose between faith and suicide, because I could no longer live without the hope of a redeemer. I could not worship Man, because I was less than a man. Other men may have worshipped Jupiter, Mars, or Mammon, but I was powerless, weak, and poor; what God, then, would communicate with such a wretch as me? I heard the voice of the Lamb, fell down, and worshipped. Then I was recognised, given new eyes, the second sight, to see things as they are, as He made them. I saw Adam in every man, Eve in every woman; I saw that all creatures were a parable for the wise, and all things a hymn to the glory of the Creator. I saw how far man had fallen, and how immortal was the hope of the saints in answer. Hope beyond hope. And all around me I saw men laying the foundations of the New Atlantis, and I laughed.
There is fog over the city, obscuring the stars and moon.
I see you the mysterious stranger, standing under the streetlight, waiting for the stumbling man.
This is a first draft, how is the style? I've never really written anything before. This excerpt is from the middle of a short story that I have been working on I say yes without a second thought, which looking back on, was probably the first time I had been impulsive like that in my life. Allison tells me that there is a really cool place nearby where we can watch the town and university, she tells me it makes everything look like an ant farm. We later find ourselves on the roof of the local public library. This new sense of verticality gives me a new level of appreciation for the town. Allison goes over to the ledge of the roof and sits down with her legs hanging off of the building. Just watching her sit there sends pangs of anxiety through my body. She asks me to join her, to which I timidly reply that I’m more comfortable standing. She calls me a baby, which offends me. I walk over to her and flop my legs over the ledge like she did. I feel a unique mixture of panic and freedom while sitting on the ledge. I look down and add some vertigo to the mix; it seems like the town itself might reach up and pull me off from the ledge and into the abyss. She begins to tell me about her, the way she divulges her experiences and history leads me to believe that she hasn’t told this to many people, which makes me feel lucky and confused. I find out she is a junior at the university and that she wants to teach English to kids in foreign countries when she graduates. I think this is noble and I tell her that I’m glad she has that direction in life. She asks about me but I don’t have much to say. I ask her why she is telling me these things. “You look like you can understand.” She tells me. I suppose she is right, but I’m no different than anyone else that was in the bar that regard; anyone can listen to other people’s problems.
House music is so obviously postmodern. Mash together lines from choruses with cacophonous sounds higher, lower, and always clashing on the tonal register; wrap everything up with a loosely-defined plot and leave yourself confused as to what the fuck just happened but glad you can say you might have enjoyed it. All this stuff makes me feel like a postmodern hero: aimless, blissfully aimless, pretentious, blissfully pretentious, and out of control, blissfully out of control. The best part is that people listening to me think that I say something worthwhile just because it plays into the current trends of philosophy, but really philosophy has been extinct for over a hundred years. Nihilism killed it all- the welcome sign of postmodernia- and now we're here, setting off firecrackers in the craters of the barren wasteland. I, for one, am a huge pyromaniac, and the only ones I might char are the other fuckheads out here shooting the shit.
>>7306889 When she woke the door was swinging and the car gone. It was that time of year again. The time when he left. The time when she was left alone to juggle sponge and ledger alike. She walked to the door. The carpet was soft and a little moist from the intruding morning hair, and a thick fog hung at the driveway's foot. Neighbors' lights burned hard holes through the morning murkiness revealing their knowledge that it had happened. She knew they would confront her that night over cooling cookies and herbal tea. Alcohol locked away in high cupboards. Their faces straining at expressions of sympathy— more than a few passing glances at the child's room, tinkling mobile chirping under the lugubrious proceedings.
>>7316679 >>7316739 What the fuck. Surely I am being rused or something. My writing is not that good.
>>7316844 >Hospitals always have: hot nurses ... drugs, shit ... ER rooms with awful shit going on This was going to be the plan for one of the characters. The problem is telling the story from the paralysed guy's point of view, who with no agency, relies on the other characters for action in the story. Thanks for the tips though, anon.
>>7316679 It might be called 'Crimson Fists', if you're being serious. It's about the vengeance complex and its cycle and how, to break it, you have to redirect the violence back at yourself. Sort of like breaking the law of conservation.
Dingle dangle tondy loo I licked her anus clean of poo It smelled of deviled eggs and meat Good golly it was such a treat Pellets bricks and Hersheys too Make my cock harder than bamboo Dingle dungle dondy loo A toilet slave you will be too
>>7317603 >This was going to be the plan for one of the characters. The problem is telling the story from the paralysed guy's point of view, who with no agency, relies on the other characters for action in the story. Thanks for the tips though, anon.
I'm starting to believe the hype. Ye seem like a smart dude. One way to get that shit done would be Stencilizing that stuff, or something similar. Stencil is one of the main characters in V. He basically tells other people's stories as if he were them. Of course, you couldn't do that exactly, but it's a way.
>>7318466 Hey, V. is on my reading list. I'll look into that.
>He basically tells other people's stories as if he were them. Of course, you couldn't do that exactly, but it's a way.
It's a way for now, I guess. The idea is that this paralysed character, A., will eventually gain some weak amounts of agency further on after long periods of rehab, but will still rely on his friend K. to do the strenuous stuff when they go indulging in their vengeance complexes (against the guys who assaulted A. in the first place). What your suggestion really works for, I think, is the weird hitchhiker guy in my earlier post >>7310343 . This hitchhiker is sort of like satan, I guess, meets them halfway through the story and sort of hangs around them like a bad smell making them do really questionable stuff. This 'Stencilizing' idea could be interesting for him. Thanks, anon.
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