/crit/ - Writing Critique General

Ending is niice. 'Dined on bayonets' is so effective. Maybe a little flat in brutality, but the ending makes up for it.

Wrote this today

The stillness
I hate to be pretentious
But even more
In this way I meant it
To explain to you with lines
This feeling of the stillness
The Sunday morning
And the coffee yet to hiss
ANd outside the rain pit-pats
A rain you won’t smell or feel
As it will make you sick
As I spat out into a fogged glass
The phlegm from an unbrushed night
ANd i felt the pain
In the back, the side, the neck
The hair on my head was dry
Dryer than the body I saw
Before me on a day like today
In Northern Indianapolis
On a day north of May
I felt, at once, the stillness
Like bonds opening
With the spiral and the black-gray
But without a girl
And without the blood stain
Rather you feel, feel, hear
The words on the page, from years ago
You smell and feel and taste
At once, the sense of stillness
Like a shot of something
Barelling through the back of my head
ANd i heard drones from one thousand funerals
And weddings, baptisms
Drinking in the bars and cafes
And my best friends, who each have gone a separate way
Lucky, lucky, lucy number three
That they have not felt this stillness
This, how to say
The stillness, the stillness
ANd commencements, convocations
Couples in the middle age
Standing with friends on the beach
To the drones from the city
And the drones from the sea
ANd the feeling of faux-pas
Creeping up the flat of your back
As I stared into the black and white
Each one with its’ own smell
And its own origin
The stillness, the stillness
For once I prayed that you and I
You and I and your mother
Do not have to feel
The stillness, stillness, stillness
The stillness of the sunday

There's something wrong with this.
Too brief, too quick, some off-putting statements. Like you romanticize it, as if you have no real understanding of the horrors of war.
But it isn't bad overall.

he had stood waiting for around 40 minutes the sweat on his body running making his uncared for flesh glisten in the violent and piercing bulb light that was also affecting his eyes like a icepick of pure light going in and out of his head the pain reverberating low in his head like there was giant waves in there made out of cheap metal bouncing against the wall of his cranium bit for bit chipping away at the bone he closed and opened his fist again and again focusing on his muscles moving he thought how weird it was that he could move his hand so fast and precise his thoughts of movement immediately manifesting in the physical world capable of affecting the environment the grand piles of stone that the city he was in and had been in forever he could remember he could push someone into the incoming subway car if he wanted but he didn’t want to do that but the important thing was that he could control his muscles moving the lines of bone doing that if he wanted to but that was also assuming that the subway would be here the thing he had stood here waiting for for 40 minutes and that which looked like would never arrive it was just him and two others far away looking like whole black ink dots smudged on his vision it was just he and those two standing on the gigantic platform the architecture looking like something out of an art deco nightmare where white marble geometric shapes had infested the otherwise stylish look looking like tumors like an infestation in the otherwise grand artistic vision, disgustingly white triangles coming out of the well carved facade it was like well polished kitchen knives in a blonde hollywood starlet murder victim. There was 6 robust pillars in the station their monolithic radiance made him feel uneasy if he looked into them deeply something ancient and forgotten would be reflected in the whiteness the snowy square of impressionistic experience he stood next to the third one but he averted his eyes looking into the dark tunnel spiraling into the earth a violent thought shot through his body like the high impact of car bomb, what if the tunnel was a mouth? what if the opening of the tunnel would expand towards him like a snake the void swallowing him whole? still waiting he is still waiting but now it annoyed him the annoyance was boiling up through the headache taking over it with bitterness one of the messy spots on the left field of his view started moving towards him, god. what time is it?

the man was in front of him now his dirty dragged out facial features perfectly symmetrical his eyes crescent the man was wearing a golden bathrobe over a white stained ripped shirt one of his military boots had a hole in the center revealing a brown red mucus inside the man raised his hand at him in a machine like motion pointed his fingers at him and said with a whispery but clear coarse voice “you have been shot, one of these days your head will explode, maybe later this day, or someday, your brain will swell up like a fungus, don’t tell me i didn’t tell ya when they ask” the man laughed and spat at the ground and left disappearing behind the last pillar to the left. he looked anxiously to the tunnel hoping to catch the sight of the subway finally arriving his hope was smashed by the hammer of confirmation by observing, there was no subway coming to take him away from this place. i have had it, he thought. god, what’s the time? he started walking his steps having the power of a man with focus he was not gonna wait here any longer his movement echoed louder and louder ringing against the hegemony of brown black and gold that was the colour of the tiled floor under the weight of him. he went the same way as the man in the bathrobe going from the station to the ticket line. it being a big hexagon shaped piece of concrete that had carvings of cherubs happily floating in the silver clouds above the ticketlord. the lord looked up from his subway destination program and asked what the matter was, he spoke about what the matter was. well, well, well, well, well…….well. the lord said. that train haven’t arrived at this station in years, you must have the wrong place. no, he said to the ticketlord. you may be a fourth generation lord of placement and travelling but i am sure of it. the subway train has always been here, i was here yesterday, it arrived in time and took me to my mother, she’s sick you see. i have to see her everyday. otherwise she may die. that’s what the doctor said, he said. something is wrong with her head, that’s what the doctor said. she not right, there is a dissonance inside her. no, i have to get there in time, she will worry. you don’t understand me, i have to get there now. it should have been here by now, i know it, i was here yesterday. it was in time, i don’t have enough time for this. i need to get there in time, my mother’s sick you know, that’s what the doctor said, he said she haven’t much time, you see, i have to spend my time with her and i don’t have time for the subway not to arrive in time, god, what’s the time? can you tell me?

the ticketlord stared in complete banal silence before answering, according to the protocol for dealing with crazed tunnel men i will call the off duty subway security here right now if you don’t get away from me. i don’t think that is a very nuanced thing to do he responded with vitriol in the words spitting out of his slithering tongue, i just want the subway car to arrive in time, is that to much to ask for? i am a citizen, i have things to do, important things, you expect me to put my life on hold because of your malfunctioning function as a service? i laugh at you, you pathetic snail. i could stomp you out, in my eyes you are a ticket peasant, not even worthy of the accolades of a farmer. a beggar, down on the street sucking the moisture from aristocrats feet. he screamed. what’s the time? before the ticketlord could answer he turned around and started throwing his feet like boules the impact of each step forcing his upper body to move in an eclectic way to keep connected with the rest of him as he entered the station again the dirty man in a shimmering gold bathrobe was leaning against the pillar closest to him he smiled the sickness radiating in his black hole of a mouth the soiled earth creeping out of the sides spilling out on his face like smoke distorting the already unnatural features, he paid the man no mind and continued forward to where he had stood before. It’s gotta arrive soon, he said to himself. i have already been here awhile. best i wait. 40 minutes, 4 hours, 4 days. what is it really, gotta arrive soon.

hentai

You used the word "like" ten times.

i like like

today, in the house
adam asked me
"what did you eat today, brother'
i had to think
'a slice of toast with peach jam
and green tea in the morning
i went to the kitchen
my mother brought pork roast
and vegetables
potatoes and carrots
i sprinkled the pork
ginger, pepper, ponzu sauce
then i ate that
two servings
jug of lemon water
coffee with cinnamon and milk
a little after'
he looked towards my cup
'very cool' and stood up to piss
i dont like him very much

There's no sauce brother, not here not ever in this thread. We are cursed with longing for a knowledge ungiven by those who hold it. Invisible ghosts that can't hear, we see their lips move with grace but cannot descipher the words, the knowledge is in our reach but it shall never be revealed.

blow my booty

That's my favorite part of the story as well, it just sounded so right to me, thank you for the feedback!

Your writing just makes me remember what it's like to be depressed. Just very much somber, thinking about people, everything feeling terribly still and numb and awful. Is there any particular reason the AN of and is always capitalized? Over all nice.

The part I personally dislike about it is the middle, On alert to the slayed their foe bit, when writing it, it was difficult to make it flow how I wanted, I definitely want to rework that.

I'm trying to keep it all very brief and very quick, would you recommend any way to make the pacing feel better? Maybe instead just describe the scene of them eating more than the killing of the rats?

And no, I don't recon I have an understanding of war. I don't want to make it sound glorious, I tried to portray how awful it could be, you know, eating rats ect. What could make it more authentic?

What are the off-putting statements?

Thanks for the feedback though, I really appreciate it!

I wrote a short story, but it is unstructured, sort of meaningless and probably sucks.

I forget that google docs autocapitalizes and i have a habit of doing stream of conciousness stuff when i have a sudden moment. so i start writing and writing and writing and i end up keeping my hand on the shift

It was more the choice of words, like "bonus boys" I have no idea what is meant by this, I assume untrained "reinforcement". And the word "squad" gives me ptsd from Chad calling his friends a squad. I think "troop" is even more proper historically. Little things like this.
And I misread drumming of artillery, but that's my fault, ofc you meant far away sound of artillery being fired.

Will you punish me for misspelling 'decipher'?

Everything highly regarded story from modernists is about nothing and pretty meaningless.
>I stopped reading To the Lighthouse cause it got fucking nowhere.

It's also unstructured, though, and might suck.

Why promise us incest when it isn't there?

Unstructed as in awful syntax or unstructed as in Joyce wrote it?

The syntax is fine, I think. It just isn't based on any structure found within other short stories.

pastebin.com/rZkvbXfY

pls i want to make sure my writing isnt shit before continuing

Before I read; I just wish to parlay the truth that, unless you're me, most people's writing will suck in the beginning there was Jack and Jack had a groove.

Anthony Ryan? Is that you?
Reads just like Blood Song that I'm currently reading, or maybe that's how you're supposed to write in first person.
It reads like a book that would get a best seller award, but 'I' would "never" read it.

Although the horse was tired, and tired it should be, for it spent the last ten years fighting a war it never knew, a war it never wanted, it carried on valiantly, and with a glimmer in its beady eyes, it FUCKED HER RIGHT IN THE PUSSY.

Pls rate my ‘I’ve just read bright light big city’-core short strory. I wrote the first draft today.

Boku to misaki-sensei

I personally like it.

How do I write? It's so difficult and scary to start. I am constantly judging everything and assuming it's all shit. How do you let go of all that self-doubt and just happily write and enjoy it?

Do I have to get drunk everytime I want to write?

Pretty sure most girls are fully grown by the end of high school

A thousand blessings upon thee.

Read more.
There's nothing new under the sun.

Flat, nothing happens. Just description.

clever but not honest!

Solid, so better than the majority of posts in the thread, but it kind of bores me personally. But I don’t really like any realistic stuff so you don’t need to worry.

Just write, write somewhere you don’t expect and won’t be stressed about (notepad, a comment box, on a piece of paper). Just write garbage as much as you can.

Once you get one dent in your car, you don't care about the rest. Whatever the next stupid word that pops up in your head happens to be, use it in the next thing you want to write. If you end up liking it, get rid of the word.

Hey guys!

melvins are cool but this detail makes the whole thing seem fanfic-ish and pandering, and i have no clue what this is/is about.

...

The first line doesn't read like a first line, I had to pause and go "oh, because he put milk in it". It'd be better to just say it in order.

Rather than "a pumpkin spiced bullshit drink," I would say "a drink of pumpkin spiced bullshit" to end on the punch.

The last two sentences of the first paragraph spiral out randomly I would be more concise and direct. For example, remove "would MAKE it to easy for you to remember" etc and just directly state "would to easily REMIND you of..." or something like that. Also, the commas in that last sentence are really fucked, and I don't like the non-referential "she" at the start.

I don't like the "a gulp of coffee" or the "she interrupts". The gulp has the right sort of feel to it, but doesn't seem well executed. It should be it's own sentence, and not a fragment.Saying "she interrupts" at the end of a line of text makes it would like that line of text was her interruption (like how following a quote with "she says" usually makes it sound like she was the one saying it). Make it the start of the next line and not the end of the one it's on.

The comma splice on the first line of the third paragraph is bad. Either make the last clause its own sentence, or conjoin them with "while" or a semicolon or something. You have more things like this throughout the paragraph.

I think "rowdy" should be changed to "rowdiness" with how you have that one sentence written at the moment. Though instead of changing the word, you could change everything that comes before it instead.

>photo's
come on man

"the thoughts" would be better as "your thoughts" in my opinion

"No thanks, but I'll take a beer if you have one?" isn't a question. End it in a period. Conditional statements aren't questions.

"I don't really..." "Well, there's some good news and some bad news..." could be broken up better. There's some weird capitalization/lack thereof.

"Just the boiler." is a good line.

>that awkward *blocks ur path*
>it's a gonna be a cuck story
have fun I guess

3/3

oh look a muji unlined a5 binder written in with a 0.4 erasable pen

If you just want to know if it's shit or not, it isn't shit. There are a couple of oddly chosen words here and there; the whole "juxtaposition" sentence felt jarring. I'm not telling you to cut it though.

I pimp Pilot pens

The past sifts through my mind, we're treadin' dark water
Our futures become a homicide with the present all locked up
Drifting through life so dumb, so blind
Fueling this need to build a higher wall.

pastebin.com/81pke34t

I have to write a ~8 page fiction piece for a 100 level creative writing course I'm in. I ended up writing two, and I'm not really sure which one I ought to pick over the other. According to my professor they're both independent enough to not really look like excerpts, but bear in mind that she only read an early version of the first chapter and the first two pages of the second. According to her, the first chapter isn't very compelling at the start in comparison to the second because the main character isn't really likeable. I ended up diving into world building in the second one though, which she'd warned against a couple days prior, but it's done meaningfully and I don't think she'd mind it too much.

What should I change? Is the character in the first part not """relateable""" enough? To be honest I can kindof see the problem with it, but I'm not really sure what to do. Feedback on the second part would be nice as well.

-and paste it into word if you want spaced between paragraphs/first line indents

It seems that every road leads back to this room. It is on the 11th floor, and sits with two windows, one door, and three arches. It seems, sometimes, that everyday lived will take me back to the apartment, the three rooms in the sky. One day ago, my dad told me that you can’t make any place a home. That you should take the space you have, the furnishes and the carpeting and make the best of what you have. But that I have to, one day, go big. I told him that the space was my own, that is is my own, that it should always be my own. The building stands on a side street above the green stink of the river, and there is a three floor garage underneath. The garage is half empty, and my spot is never taken, because my neighbors, faceless, have heard my music and know the consequences. Everything around my home is average, grayed and smoked. It reminds me of a painting I saw. A british painter, making only what he knows, rowhouses and fishmongers on a river like my own. I don’t remember its name or size, but it still stands. Vans and cars are strewn up and down the side streets, and once in a while, a greek man with gray mustache will make a path with a dog, off it’s leash. I see him on the street, usually once every sunday, and think of shouting down. I think of our broken conversation, while the dog stares ahead quizically. But I don’t think it’s right for him to tilt his head up, for me to aim down. He walks and walks, and I sit and sit and drink, and we stay the nighbors we are. We don’t have the picket fence or the golden lab, but that’s how it is. Faceless. I see him on the sundays, when everybody has come home from church and has smoked their last cigarette. I stand on the sevillan balcony, breathing in the biscuits and malt from the patios. A grill on an opposite deck lies half-lit and smoking. Or I sit inside, with the tv on the plastic dinner table. I’m watching a film about the serengeti and I think of the child, reading picture books. I remember infatuations with rice patties and alleyways and the moldovan on page 256, just so svelte and bronzed-obssessive. So much, too much, and I think of my woman now. But I sit at the plastic table, and breathe in the black, black tea and the sweet egg smell. The cat is on the other chair, the dog in front of the toilet. I drink and breathe in the tea and I think, think to stand up. Outside of the window, on the thin street below, among the cast-off cars and mopeds, the greek fella and his doggy. How far away. We didn’t want to be an astronaut, but maybe not this low? I let the mountains and women and rice paddies massage me, I let the pages and graphs turn over the leaves and seasons, let the bathwater go cold and speckled as the juvenile inspiration ebbed and flowed, and I end up stranded on the shit-stained river. 11 floors up, with my pets and books and the guitar and computer. The coffeemaker hisses low-down black, the dog whines at the sound of the tanker truck below, the barges across

Here's another one of my 100 word stories, most of them are darker in tone but I tried to write something a bit lighter to show my mom (lmao)

Pen Pals, two young lovers, separated by miles of land and sea. Between them was thousands of chirping birds and splashing fish, yet they were closer than any could imagine. They’d met only once, on a rocky beach along the Baltic coast. It was a stroke of good luck. Years of letters written along many miles traveled, they never stopped. Postcards and photographs, songs and poems, trinkets and gifts, all expressions of the love they felt for one another. They’d met again one day soon, a wonderful family they’d make. Happiness they’d found, in the pen and one another’s arms.

Thanks for any feedback!

You were in the last thread, I already responded once, but I'd still like the say the name of the town is hella comfy.

You can probably just write something, then throw it away, and it really wouldn't matter. Just keep writing everything you can and eventually something will come out

Maybe she got T H I C C?

Thanks for the feedback user! I'll try and work more action into it!

Pretty interesting concept, desu. I'd read a book about that. It reminds me of a book I read once about a nanny state dystonia, and the main character programmed a companion for himself like that, it was very interesting to read, I wish I remembered the name

Probably something a 'nam soldier would scribe into his M16, desu.

>Between them was thousands of chirping birds and splashing fish, yet they were closer than any could imagine.
that "was" should be a "were"

>Years of letters written along many miles traveled, they never stopped.
This isn't very clear at all. Are you saying the letters were written along many miles-which-had-been-traveled, or are you saying the letters, which had written along many miles, traveled? Also, "they never stopped" is independent. Connect those with a semicolon instead of a comma if you can.

>They’d met
meet, but you probably caught this yourself

>It seems that every road leads back to this room.

Good start. From there it loses the sense of confinement that the first line expresses.

I would use alliteration of "this room" to drive home that point, if that's what you're going for.

Mental block
a lot like the sound of n
in a long line, a thick wall
nnnnnnnnnnnnn
snatching at thoughts, few and vague
flitting by like silverfish, slipping through slow fingers
force a fist
drag them into focus--
they are fragments; they have crumbled in your palm
pull up your hoodie and clothe yourself in dull angst
90's apathy
it's armor for a thick mind
gray brick gray brick gray brick passes to your left
the silverfish dart behind
if you tore down the wall you'd find only concrete and dust

Taking a creative writing class. Teacher has a heavy emphasis on poetry, so I wanted to try and make something with akin to a narrative poem (Because I can't detach myself from more narrative writing.)

It's about some indigenous tribe back in god knows when, if even a real place.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There was so much screaming
A cornucopia of screams, deafening
A conjoined mess of voices raised for several reasons
There was so much screaming

Our screams were full of resistance, and contempt, and fear
But for him, as his hatchet cleaved through our skulls with a thumping crunch
As our blood and his own turned the dirt into a churning paste that squelched between his toes

His ears rang from the force of his own undying voice
And that day, we too came to know his voice
The voice of our new King, as he killed us

>Happiness they’d found, in the pen and one another’s arms.

Thanks user, that's really helpful, sometimes it's nice to have a second set of eyes proof-read, thank you. I'll clean up that statement as well, make it clearer.

pastebin.com/Rmq8Z0C0
Reposting from last thread because only 1 reply

It's pretty good, but be careful about proper sentence structure, eg.,
>Towards the end the air around him grew strange, like looking at him though a glass obscured.
>through a glass obscured
would be better written as
>through a fogged glass
or
>through a murky glass
Stuff like that

Might want to avoid
>fed on the flesh of the fallen.
just because of all the 'f's, but that's just me

I get that you're trying to go for disjointed mental illness, but at the end of the day it just feels like you wrote edgy shit and left all the periods at home. Try to have his thoughts dart back and forth between random things that aren't as bleak to lighten the mood and also make it feel more schizophrenic. Also you can instead go into more important details than the subway architecture, unless that's important

Interesting. If you could do something to foreshadow the punchline, that'd be choice

>but it was a[s] good a place as any
>Hell, unions make an entire industry out of whining and they barely get more benefits.
I'd go for something different here.
>and does it those [expletive/pronoun] do them any good.

All around good, but the last line feels a bit out of place. It's best to let Nash and Richard's talk air his past.

I like the HVAC guy, but he comes on too strong. I'd have a brief description about how he has no filter, and then let him mouth off, or if it's supposed to be out of nowhere, describe MC's disgust

Sounds like a teen novel, (whether that's good or bad is your decision), but I like the 'A god, a god' part. Really drives home the hubris of the group of girls who bought the book.

First story is much better as far as a single piece. Second part was better written, but read like the first chapter of something bigger.

>First story is much better as far as a single piece. Second part was better written, but read like the first chapter of something bigger.

Yeah, that's what I figured. The boy from the end of the first chapter is the antagonist in the main plot that picks up where the second chapter leaves off. Well, he's a bit more of a Char Aznable than a big bad.

>pastebin.com/Rmq8Z0C0
gimmie some minutes

>I want to seriously improve. I realized the other day just how stiff my writing feels, but I don't know how to fix it.
>Also, I tried to go for some inner-monologue and it all comes across as corny. It's aggravating knowing that I'm shit-tier.
>Also, not sure if italics work with the carrots, so I'm surrounding the cringe-worthy monologues with asterisks.

Light burned through the window frame, the rise of dawn. In his bed, writhing in a certain agony only the fettered mind can dispense Jorr wept his head. He could not hide his pain beneath the cover of the pillow nor blanket nor the dark of night and now the sun would declare another sleepless term for him.
He thought of his patrol he would do while sleep-starved; how late he would sleep again the next night; but these were mere distractions for he mostly thought of the sinking doom in his heart.

*Please, I beg the world and the powers that be! If there is a strength that could save me from the doom in my heart and let me free to love I shall be your slave forever afterwards for the chance!

I beseech any good god on the earth for mercy! Give me a lifetime, and cut my life in half, but let me be in love and be parted from the burdensome questioning and this sickening vertigo I feel from the moment I wake until my dreams come which I scorch with daily chore and practice to erase from memory!

I would give anything! Name it, and I will give it! Stop this dread in my heart! I would do anything! Please, let me love her.*

Yet, no power would answer. The world left him in the dark as his fit turned him out of his bed and unto the floor where he wept.

*Lenna, I would love you but if only I knew how.

Lenna, save yourself from me! Hear this omen in your dreams for the Jorr you see on this and every morrow is too frail a man to say! Oh forgive me, my love, and if I could love, there is only you to choose! For you I’ll make kingdoms dust, raze the sky in fire! Save me, Lenna, I am the enemy!*

Since you replied so quickly I figure I'll give you a few more things

First, if you were trying to make the space part of space western a bit of a suprise, I'd have gone more along the route of talking about the space elevator mystically. Have MC go towards it, first describing it as looking like a building that was as tall as the clouds, before getting close enough to visually confirm that it extends to infinity. Then the 'bam, it's a space elevator'.

Also if you're going for Char Aznable, he should be less of a pussy, unless this is Samsons 'Origin - 01'. If that's the case, then I'd look into at some point in the future going into his backstory, at least far enough to explain what it was that made him go from just being a rich kid, to a vengeance driven warrior.

Also I'm not quite following the meaning of 'bender'. I usually take it to mean getting too drunk, but it seems unlikely that MC would just forget that until it's mentioned to him, unless that's because he's out of it, in which case I'd have given a bit more detail into his mental state. Maybe a headache and some obvious concussion. If you mean something else by bender, then it'd probably be best to use some other wording to describe the coup. Something like 'I knew we had destroyed some humvees, but other than a few flashing memories of mortar fire, and a quick rifle butt to my face, I could only recall the feeling of pain, of defeat.'

1/2
>Saturday at noon was not their most popular time, and so I sat, alone, eating, and then drinking, and then drinking some more, for the better part of the afternoon.
not sure if the first and is worth it

>I had decided to sit at the bar instead of my usual spot close to the stage, because there are no live performances until six on a Saturday.
You could replace "are no" with "aren't any". Though if you think that breaks the narrator's character then don't.

>The Nightingale wasn't known for it's food, but after two full days of hospital food
The double "food" is a huge eyesore.

>During the mere seven minutes it took me to finish, the withdrawal symptoms completely vanished.
I would replace the last "the" with "my".

>I turned to see Veidtberg, standing over me, he had his hands clasped behind his back in a manner that only old rich and those pretending to be old rich ever do. He sat down on the barstool next to me.
"standing over me" should just end in a period. You could use a semicolon, but I don't think I would. The last sentance has sort of the same ugliness to it as the double food from earlier, but to a lesser degree.

>In spite all I knew about Veldtberg,
"In spite of"

>He put his index finger in front of my mouth. A magician never reveals his secrets, I guess.
>``How I know is unimportant. What is important is what I know, and how much my friends are willing to pay to know for it.''
The magician sentence takes up too much space, it makes me visualize him standing there with his finger over his mout for a long time, when he should put his finger on the speaker's mouth and then begin talking immediately. I'd either cut the magician line or move it after that quote.

>``You know something pertinent to my case don't you.''
"case, don't you?"

>I gave him double...
>He leaned in to talk to me.
>``Thanks. I heard a story from one of my sources...."
The "thanks" seems misplaced. I want to see him say "thanks," and then lean in; when I read the quote I rewound all the way back to "I gave him double".

>You never sit at the bar. Deep down you must know why you're there.
I think that should say "here".

>The Big Zero
This sounds like an insult and makes me think of Zero from Megaman to be completely honest.

>"But you're the best detective in the city. You catch criminals and villains all the time don't you?"
If you want this character to sound like more of a fan, you could write this as something more like
"-but you're the best detective in the city; you catch criminals and villains all the time, don't you?"
though I'm just being stylistic here, save for that last comma I threw in, which really ought to be there.

>``Why, do you think I'm a precious little angel that needs to be mollycoddled and protected from the harsh reality of the world?
Just make "Why?" a question; I know you put a comma there, but I ran right over it the first time I read that line and read the sentence as as "Why do you think I'm a...?"

2/2
>I can handle a little harsh reality.''
>And so a harsh reality was what she got.
I'd say "And so a little harsh reality was what she got."

>it was clear that nothing else would suffice to satiate her desire.
just remove "would suffice"

>They sat and waited with their electronic keyboards and synthesizers as the pianist and trumpeter played their heart out.
change "as" to "while"

>I recalled what Veldtberg had told me about the RDW model in the past. It contradicted what she said.
The last sentence here has somewhat confusing pronoun reference.

>"If they go with androids, then they're genetic dead ends, which is against Darwinism."
Unless you want your character to be not-quite right (which would be totally fine), it would be worth changing "Darwanism" to something like "fitness," or to say that it isn't biologically fit according to Darwinism maybe. "Against Darwinism" makes it sound like he's claiming it's a counterexample to Darwinism, but what he's actually doing is employing the theory to explain something.

>Clearly he was enjoying my suffering.
you mean "she," I think, unless "he" is supposed to refer to the laughing in the back of the man's head, which wasn't obvious to me

>Her animated eyes
S U G O I
I would consider working on the eye twinkling, but the last bit of dialogue was good and fitting for both the characters and the theme.

>She left for the car, and I payed for the meal, before joining her.
this reads really poorly; I can't imagine someone saying this out loud the way the commas suggest it ought to be read

>but I felt like prying might make her lose the silver lining expression that had illuminated her face.
maybe try "might make her lose the silver lining she seemed to have found"

>When she closed the door I turned the air conditioning to maximum and rested my head on the steering wheel until my sweat dried and my jitters subsided.
change the "and" to a "then", and use a comma beforehand maybe

Sorry for not having any plot-based criticism

>Sorry for not having any plot-based criticism
That's alright. I gave you a chapter from smack dab in the middle of my story. I really have to work on spellchecking, but I usually pound out an hour's worth of work well past my bedtime on weekends only.

Also, can you explain why you don't have any plot related criticism. Did you like it, or did you just not feel like you could properly criticize it, and if the latter, please explain further

I liked the rhyming, I don't know, I thought it was kinda cool to string the f words all together, like a little tongue twister.

Yeah man, if you like it then do it, but to me it was too short to be a really nice 'V for Vendetta'esque tongue twister, but too long to just pass by unnoticed.

I'll try and work on it, thank you for the input!

>First, if you were trying to make the space part of space western a bit of a suprise
I wasn't, but it ended up looking like that dispute my efforts. I wanted to start in the saloon, but that's making it look like just a western. I might just roll with it and do what you said with the cables.

>unless this is Samsons 'Origin - 01' If that's the case, then I'd look into at some point in the future going into his backstory, at least far enough to explain what it was that made him go from just being a rich kid, to a vengeance driven warrior.
That's more what I was going for, though it's more a matter of him coming to certain realizations in the prison rather than him being put through total hell. Though he is supposed to come off as far more serious by the third day, so I might work on that.

>Also I'm not quite following the meaning of 'bender'. I usually take it to mean getting too drunk, but it seems unlikely that MC would just forget that until it's mentioned to him, unless that's because he's out of it, in which case I'd have given a bit more detail into his mental state.
The point was supposed to be that he'd ditched his own forces preemptively and just drank himself to sleep prior to waking up in a prison cell. I should probably state that explicitly somewhere. Up until the third day, he avoids thinking of things in terms of loss/defeat.

Bartholomew is based off of someone I know who watched half of rick and morty, declared himself a nihilist, then read half of the myth of sysiphus and claimed he'd reversed his perspective entirely. I found it strange how he just seemed "wrong" in spite of trying both opposite "answers"; you'd think either P or not-P would be correct since it's a tautology and all. Samson is supposed to learn from Bartholomew's failures and sortof become the "complete" version of what Bartholomew was striving to be.

>Also, can you explain why you don't have any plot related criticism.
Because I have a hard idea figuring out how and when to judge plot. That's all it is really. I have a hard time discerning when a plot change would fundamentally alter the author's point as opposed to just "improve" the story.

Thanks for the criticism. I edited the chapter. Feel free to just copy and paste both into a diff website. I took most of your advice. If there was anything I didn't it was for a reason
pastebin.com/65bksfzA

>I wasn't, but it ended up looking like that dispute my efforts.
A quick explanation of where the saloon is would likely suffice.
>Under the heavy sky of [X] planet, in the shadow of the giant cable that ran to the heavens, a dainty saloon stood, in the middle of a nameless town, where nobodies and former somebodies idled their days away
Or something like that. Whatever fits.

>Though he is supposed to come off as far more serious by the third day, so I might work on that.
Write about him more then. Have a conversation. Even if it's only a small thing, it'll really give an impact. it felt out of place when he chased MC out into the snow.

>Bartholomew is based off of someone I know who watched half of rick and morty, declared himself a nihilist, then read half of the myth of sysiphus and claimed he'd reversed his perspective entirely. I found it strange how he just seemed "wrong" in spite of trying both opposite "answers"; you'd think either P or not-P would be correct since it's a tautology and all. Samson is supposed to learn from Bartholomew's failures and sortof become the "complete" version of what Bartholomew was striving to be.
That's some grade A shit to start with, but for THAT to work, you're going to need more than the tiny chapter you wrote. That's a whole story unto itself. To fit THAT into a chapter you'd probably have to give disjointed flashbacks in succession about what happened to Samson in prison, preferably from his POV

>Because I have a hard idea figuring out how and when to judge plot. That's all it is really. I have a hard time discerning when a plot change would fundamentally alter the author's point as opposed to just "improve" the story.
Try anyways. Worst case is I thank you for your time and ignore your inputs. Best case scenario, I get a new insight on the characters I wrote.

>A quick explanation of where the saloon is would likely suffice.
I'll probably do that.

>it felt out of place when he chased MC out into the snow
That felt out of place because that wasn't supposed to be exactly what happened. It was more a matter of the narrator having a panic attack, which I also didn't make as explicit as I ought to have. Samson yells because he knows it'll scare him outside to his death.

>but for THAT to work, you're going to need more than the tiny chapter you wrote
I might do that or make the days into separate chapters or something. More Samson definitely seems worth it.

>preferably from his POV
This I really don't want to do. It would definitely make my life a hell of a lot easier so I don't blame you for suggesting it, but "having" a POV goes against what the final Samson is to a degree. In a rough draft of a gunfight I have, he's described as moves as though he didn't have an inner monologue: automatic. What's supposed to be creepy about him is that he comes off as apethetic, chalking up poor turns of event to nothing more bad fortune, all while simultaneously being able to muster up enormous amounts of willpower seemingly out of nowhere for the most vain of pursuits (killing the family which replaced his) without having to ask himself "what's the point?". Though I might be biting off more than I can chew by deliberately making an unbelievable character.

I'll read what you posted later.

>he's described as moves as though he didn't have an inner monologue: automatic.
I meant to say "he's described as [someone] moves as though he didn't have an inner monologue: automatic."

>It was more a matter of the narrator having a panic attack, which I also didn't make as explicit as I ought to have. Samson yells because he knows it'll scare him outside to his death.
I got that impression, but his scream subsided my claims. If I may make a bold suggestion, instead of having Samson scream, do a bit where, as he takes Bartholomew's shit, he comments on his panic
>You look like a ghost, is it the grim reaper coming to take what's his, or did you think I was he?

>he didn't have an inner monologue
Write from third person limited then, and never mention his feelings, thoughts, or opinions on matters.

Since you guys were really helpful with those two stories, here is another!

Playing blissfully on the lake, nothing could touch them; they danced like angels along the bank. Frost this Sunday morning had brought pale ice, yet the water had flowed freely just yesterday. Altogether the attenuated ice under Tommy cracked and shattered and far from shore he plunged into the chilly abyss. Companion looking on, he struggled to swim, frigid water seizing his muscles still. It was as if lead weights were attached at his ankles. He could hear the church bells ringing as he sank below the surface, desperately gasping for a breath of air which he would never take.

I like this a lot. Your brevity is a breath of fresh air. You do well to keep it simple while painting the picture. I'd suggest toning down the weary repition of things like the tea though, i already know whats going on now where its going.

Now tell me where its going*

pastebin.com/7XbewyhZ

Short story I'm writing for class. As of now, unfinished, but I think for the time being its solid enough to show. tear my shit up.

Remove "It was as if' and "were" afterwards, then add something later on.
Maybe "His legs turned to lead, pulling him . . . Something something" maybe combine it into the previous sentence.

The sun was setting the wayward slopes behind the slits of the commercial scrapers, time ahead of me. There’s a very good reason many scroungers don’t scavenge the dead cities past dark, and all of them don’t come back to tell it.
A left turn along the main road brought me to an old cinema on Pinkton St; one of the few unmarked locations on my list, a risky venture, to say the least, for if fortune was a cruel mistress, and she often was to me, those things were probably lurking in there too.
My watch gave a beep. Seven pm looked at me like a pansy idiot. ‘Dude do you want to die today’? It was saying. ‘Getting eaten alive isn’t the fanciest way to go, ya’ know.’
‘I know, I know,’ I whispered and looked up ahead of me, the stained glass of the cinema entrance eyeing me down. A lick of sun painting only a few feet of the interior lobby. It was like the open closet of your bedroom at night, staring at you – in the stretching darkness of its interior you couldn’t see far enough to discern if someone was in there or not.
‘Well,’ I resolved. ‘Live now, die later.’ I crashed on through, Scattergun in hand. It ain’t reliable in a prolonged fight, bloody thing falls apart under too much heat, but hey – it knows how to scatter, claustrophobic enemies beware.
The theatre lobby opened up to me in a hail of dust. Sand Barnacle shells spread out like a sea of sores on the crumbling walls of faded concrete. And on the laden dashboards above the concessions were some tittles of the last known movies of the Old Age: The Lion Queen, Mash Fiction, Wood Gump, and The Shoreshank Absolution. They all seemed like brainless flicks, something you think for a week then regurgitate to the back of your head. Whatever Atom hit the unwashed masses here might’ve been doing all mankind a favour.
A crash. There was a sudden crash ahead of me. I pulled up the scattergun and pointed.
‘Come out with your hands up!’ I said. You never know, right? Those things out there would tear you to shreds before you muttered ‘live and let live,’ but some people have intelligence enough to be negotiated, at least, from the barrel of a gun. Credits, girls, guns: the holy trinity of the wasteland bargain bin. You got any of these; fifty percent you’ll live another day; fifty for you and fifty for the next guy that takes it from you.
I shuffled forward slowly, an itchy finger on my trigger. ‘Whoever you are, I can pay double what they told you!’
There seemed to be nothing else here; all dead since the day of the Great Fire. My watch gave another beep so I made a run for it inside. Whatever it was, it wasn’t interested in coming out to me; so maybe there’s some comfort in that. If all else fails, there’s always Option B...

(Part 1 I suppose.)

>Rather than "a pumpkin spiced bullshit drink," I would say "a drink of pumpkin spiced bullshit" to end on the punch.

terrible advice

He had not smoked in some time, as he strode he fiddled with the cigarette, occasionally raising it to take a puff of that sick stale smoke that brought such comfort, he had a feeling that these were not the breathing exercises his therapist had recommended he try.

Mostly he just held that cigarette, its presence reassured him, and lulled him into a sense of security, he could rely on that cigarette to still be there the next time he needed a puff, at least until it was gone.

A moment’s delay will get you a chomp and it only takes a few to turn you into one of them. I took my last roll of bandage and applied the red gash on my arm. It was a new jacket too, darn it...
After closing the wound, I shut myself inside and proceeded down the hallway avenue of theatre numbers, looking for a decent one with a secure roof and door. Caution clung to me like a tip-drunk hostess. Which reminds me – I still haven’t payed Diana for that last drink. You know, if there ever was a heaven to look forward to after a hard day’s scavenging, it was a Hostess Bar. Fine wine, blended whisky, air conditioning, and last but not least – girls, clean ones, with scented breaths, conditioned hair, and etiquette – or whatever it is those fancy shmuck places advertise. The fact was: they were infectious, full of bubble and shine; reminding you not every sorry sight of a woman in this foul world had to look like a gorilla out to rob you. Heck, they even wore dresses. I know, right? Bold, progressive stuff!
Which reminds me...
I don’t know what it is, but something feels like it wants to get to know me very soon… For awhile now I thought perhaps the noise was some crash of a fallen film reel or something, but obviously there’s a greater story being woven here – something moving. Little shuffles on the carpet – not mine, mind you, but something external. Waiting turns perhaps to see if it can blend amongst my own footsteps? Clever, but let’s be real here, it might just be me over-thinking my own presence in this desolate place. My own footsteps were echoing, after all.
Then I heard it – and this time I wasn’t moving.
‘Who goes there?’ I don’t say it; it would bring more trouble than its worth. If my presence was given up then there would no telling how many I’d be expecting to meet. Or from where. Most of these halls were binary and either went forward or back, and guess what? My gun can only point one way.
‘Um – excuse me?’ A touch on my shoulder – I screamed and found the floor, the scattergun went off on the ceiling. There was a squeal as debris and dust descended down upon me and whoever it was. I rolled, struggled to get a grip on the red carpet floor. The scattergun in sight, I hurried, shuffling, two forearms rowing at a time. I grabbed it. Turned around. Back on the floor. Stock on my shoulder. I pointed the scattergun square at the figure beyond the light of the gouged ceiling. ‘Okay, pal,’ I said. ‘I got you right where I want you! You make a move and I’ll blow you away quick!’
‘Blow me away quick?’ it said. ‘Do you wish to dry me?’
‘What? You stay right there and don’t you make a move!’ I steadily got up. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to be panicking from the heel-turn of the situation, that’s at least admirable. ‘Okay, pal,’ I said. ‘I got you right where I want you! You make a move and I’ll blow you away quick!’

(Part 2. More to come, maybe.)

he's right though

It started off as a day like any other. I sat in the locker room, ready for a good long day working the bags. I had just taken a moment to collect my thoughts, when suddenly, this Harry Kim looking motherfucker in a leatherman outfit decided he was going to come into MY gym. I let him know he wasn't welcome here dressing like that and he says "Fuck you" to me. To me!? I had to show this jabroni who the real boss of this gym was.

‘Blow me away quick?’ it said. ‘Do you wish to dry me?’
‘What? You stay right there and don’t you make a move!’ I steadily got up. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to be panicking from the heel-turn of the situation, that’s at least admirable. ‘Okay, crapstack, I’m going to count to three. You’re going into that little spot of light over there,’ I pointed with the gun, ‘and if I even so much as see a weapon on you I’m blasting you from here to kingdom come. You hear me?!’
The figured stood awhile, as if it was trying to process something, hands, or the silhouette of hands, resting on what looked like a puffy dress of sorts. Left to my imagination it kinda looked like one of the higher-class gals of the hostess club. The ones with big wigs and doodads like fat birthday cakes: a lot of unnecessary expenditure to look as grand as possible. ‘Under the Code of Ethics I was programmed with,’ it suddenly spoke, I could tell it was female, ‘I am to assist if it best serves the customer’s interest and social needs of this fine establishment.’
The talk itself caught me off-guard, I hadn’t heard that much babble meaning nothing in a long time, and I drink. But something about her tone felt – distant, oddly calm, composed; as if there wasn’t a gun between her and the hell thereafter (like the one now was any better), but simply between me and her. Was it creepy? Yes – but oddly refreshing to the coarse gargling of most women trying to sound tough. ‘Slowly then,’ I said, training my gun on the silhouette of her head, ‘and no sudden movements!’
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Though no need to raise your voice, sir, we will handle your complaints right away, I promise.’ Steps moved forward, odd shuffles on the carpet floor. Then I saw it – gold upon gold – it was the first thing I noticed as she walked into the light – her blond hair; sparkling like the top of the Kenucky Tower; the tallest, shiniest chrome scraper of this city; and the golden ray of the setting sun outside coming in like a holy pillar, a finger of God, reaching down from the hole of the ceiling; pointing his chosen, laying his mantle on this bright spot of tuft that was her golden hair.
She seemed benevolent, beatific, and oddly enough – honest in her appearance – without saying bloody a thing! And stranger still was her cleanliness, especially for a building this decrepit – so clean in fact she seemed kind of pale – like a porcelain doll in a way. Her skin had this sort of otherworldliness to it that felt divinely different yet still attractively down-to-earth, that at that moment I wondered if she was human at all...
But I guess that’s where the praise ends. For however pretty she may be – like any hostess girl with a suspiciously large bump in her throat – you may still want to check you didn’t fall into a trap.
‘Twirl,’ I said.
‘I’m sorry?’

(Part 3. More maybe.)

>Also you can instead go into more important details than the subway architecture, unless that's important

subway architecture is always important. also, there is no mental illness present here, it's just how it is.

THANK YOU FOR THE RESPONSE I WILL TAKE THE OTHER THINGS INTO THE CALCULATION MY FRIEND

i started reading yours but dropped it when it turned out that the guys name was zero.

smooth, but last line is a bit wobbly.

based

A little thing I wrote at /wfg/ (writefag general) over on /k/. I'm sick, haven't written anything in over a week, I never write in 1st person, but the muse hit me. What do you think? I wasn't planning to bring it here but I spotted this thread, so why not?

>Here it is, below...

All I can hear is breathing, but even that's muffled by the incessant ringing. Sweat drips down my brow as it turns cool from the wind pushed past my face as I run, and I run. The rifle is heavy, the action open; I'm empty. The bandolier, it feels lopsided, heavier on one side than the other; I don't have much ammo left. Keep running, just keep running, I can't tell if there's a fly keeping pace with me and assaulting my ears or if I'm being chased away with bullets. Just keep running, run home to Jenny, she's waiting, in a field of grass and flowers with a smile on her face. One spreads upon my own sweaty, scruffy face. It's been a few days since I last shaved, I hope she doesn't mind, as I reach out to touch her outstretched hand.

I feel light, there is nothing left but her smile, and my own. I reach, and I reach, wishing to feel her warm embrace. It's cold, and I feel the metal of the open action to my rifle, it feels cold as the skin that warm liquid pools around. I can't feel my legs, as I lie in a field, reaching out for my dropped rifle. I'd been hit, the tanks draw closer, and all I can think about is Jenny back home.

I tried to give it a read, but the whole "haven't seen food in days" bit quickly made me lose interest. HOT food may have been a rarity at times in the trenches, but soldiers were still fed. Even if they had to nibble on a piece of hardtack (aka ship's biscuits) then they'd do that, but that's basically worst case scenario. Yes, things were horrible in the trenches, but the soldiers wouldn't go days without food. As Napoleon Bonaparte said a century before WWI, "soldiers march on their stomachs"; you need to feed your troops if you expect them to fight hard.

I'm thinking of changing his name so that it's Ziero, or something that's pronounced the same as 'zero', but I'm not 100% sure. At any rate thanks for nothing

>pastebin.com/65bksfzA

>He had his hands clasped behind his back in a manner that only old rich and those pretending to be old rich ever do.
You mean "old rich people"? Why was the third word omitted in both cases?

>Truly only the information that never leave the mind are out of his reach.
I'dve probably phrased it as "Truly only the information which stayed in the mind was out of his reach." Using plural "the information" the way you have strikes me as really weird.

>He put his index finger in front of my mouth. He took it back and smiled radiantly.
This is a lot better but I'd connect these with a "mouth, then took it back" for fluidity. Or you could keep the emphasis.

>``How I know is unimportant. What is important is what I know, and how much my friends are willing to pay to know for it.''
could replace the first period with a semicolon here. I can't be arsed to go check if I'd already said that in the earlier posts or not.

>The fiend had beaten me.
I'm not entirely sure if this is within his character.

>Actually, can I bring my box set sometime and have you sign that.''
this should end with a question mark

>the pianist and trumpeter played their heart out.
should say "hearts," not sure how I missed this last time

>Darwinism thing
I'm partially tempted to tell you to cut that line and have Avanna deduce what he's thinking about after seeing him choke, and then immediately jump to her ``I don't mean that kind of relationship." line. Just providing another option.

>I could hear elated laughter from the voice in my head. Clearly he was enjoying my suffering.
If you're going to keep the "he", maybe change the first part to "I could hear a laughing man in the back of my head" so that the pronoun reference is more obvious.

>After grabbing and promptly discarding my receipt joining her.
this is a sentence fragment

>dropped it when it turned out that the guys name was zero
seriously? I hated the name too, but a hamfisted The Big O reference wasn't enough to downright kill my willingness to go through it a couple times.

>>After grabbing and promptly discarding my receipt joining her.
>this is a sentence fragment
Oh, you meant to say "after..., I joined her" I think

A child is born with no state of mind
Blind to the ways of mankind
God is smilin' on you but he's frownin' too
Because only God knows what you'll go through
You'll grow in the ghetto livin' second-rate
And your eyes will sing a song called deep hate
The places you play and where you stay
Looks like one great big alleyway
You'll admire all the number-book takers
Thugs, pimps and pushers and the big money-makers
Drivin' big cars, spendin' twenties and tens
And you'll wanna grow up to be just like them, huh
Smugglers, scramblers, burglars, gamblers
Pickpocket peddlers, even panhandlers
You say I'm cool, huh, I'm no fool
But then you wind up droppin' outta high school
Now you're unemployed, all non-void
Walkin' round like you're Pretty Boy Floyd
Turned stick-up kid, but look what you done did
Got sent up for a eight-year bid
Now your manhood is took and you're a Maytag
Spend the next two years as a undercover fag
Bein' used and abused to serve like hell
Til one day, you was found hung dead in the cell
It was plain to see that your life was lost
You was cold and your body swung back and forth
But now your eyes sing the sad, sad song
Of how you lived so fast and died so young so
Don't push me 'cause I'm close to the edge
I'm trying not to lose my head
It's like a jungle sometimes
It makes me wonder how I keep from goin' under
It's like a jungle sometimes
It makes me wonder how I keep from goin' under

she flicked her cigaret at my ear and said, you’re no romantic, i want big muscle arms around my neck the grip holding my essence together in a peaceful bond, i said, lady, i’m post-romantic y’know, tried the sweet stuff, didn’t like the taste, moved past. she said, that’s too bad, your face has the sign of something angelic, you look like a matured cherub, too bad the personality don’t match it. i said, lady, you have the lips of someone with a big plump ass but the only kind of ass you have is the lack of one, i don’t let my flame burn any sticks y’know, saving myself for a treestump. she said, you’re a private detective, but i don’t think you got the dick to handle my privates, little P.I. boy. i said, little PI? check this, bitch, 3.1415926535897932384626433832795028841971693993751058209749445923078164062862089986280348253421170679821480865132823066470938446095505822317253594081284811174502841027019385211055596446229489549303819644288109756659334461284756482337867831652712019091456485669234603486104543266482133936072602491412737245870066063155881748815209209628292540917153643678925903600113305305488204665213841469519415116094330572703657595919530921861173819326117931051185480744623799627495673518857527248912279381830119491298336733624406566430860213949463952247371907021798609437027705392171762931767523846748184676694051320005681271452635. and i could go on forever. she said, forever? i’ll give you a forewarning, this woman you are searching for, she gone to hell 3 years ago. i said, a while ago i saw her gone with a gong in ag ong the chinese street block now excuse me i gotta go so you begone. she screamed with animated fury, you will be GONE!