/crit/ - Writing Critique

Cop a squat and show us your stuff

Don't post anything about emotionally detached bohemians who smoke cigarettes

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The majority of the drive along I-80 East and up I-55 North met Ryan and Jolene with little issue. Ryan has made the trip himself into the city several times beforehand, making sure this visitation would be on a date and time which would arrive the two at Navy Pier with little crowding, and with little traffic resistance on the way. Some ten miles from the city, on a stretch of I-55 just outside South Lawndale, the great skyscrapers of Chicago's heart rise to sight as a '99 silver Chevy Tahoe creeps to the overpasses crest.

"See. There it is. I told you we'd make good time."

Jolene maintains her stare over Archer Heights, opposite the direction of the city.

"Could've gone Sunday."

A brief moment of silence lingers before Ryan hits the steering wheel to sound the horn.

"All the fucking cars ahead of you are still moving; why the fuck are you still stopped! Holy shit learn how to drive!"

"Calm down Ryan. They're starting to move."

"It's never like this--not now. You did check the app before we got onto fifty-five and saw it was clear, right?"

Jolene stares at the license plate of the car in front of them. She reads out loud:

"'Oh-six-nineteen'. That's John's sixth birthday in two years."

Ryan looks to Jolene a moment before again watching the traffic ahead of them.

"I'm sorry I yelled back there. Traffic isn't supposed to be like this."

He places his hand on her lap. When she doesn't respond he takes it back to the wheel, and, catching one of his favorite riffs, turns up the stereo volume.

"Please turn it down. I'm not in the mood."

"But this is one of our favorite songs."

"It's one of your favorite songs babe; please."

Ryan reluctantly quiets the music. He turns off the air conditioner, rolling down his window to feel the wind as thick Chicago air fills the car.

"It's hot."

"Really? Can I do no right here?"

"I'm sorry, I'm just hot. If we were moving faster I'd feel the wind. Point your side away."

"I am sorry I yelled Jo. I just wanted today to go smoothly--just wait til you try a Cheezeborger for the first time. Then we'll ride the Centennial Wheel at sunset, and walk the beach under the moonlight, maybe just end up staying last minute. I know a hostel the guys and I stayed at after Life in Color that let us get away with anything."

A large thunderhead empties over the suburbs on the horizon out Jolene's window as it and several other great clouds steadily drift northeast.

"I told you I'm not eating meat anymore. Don't you ever listen."

"Look I'm trying here. We both know what today is about, can you at least also try and go along with it? Help me out hon."

"I'm just saying I don't eat meat.. You didn't have to yell earlier."

"Alright babe. Would you at least look at the city? The smog makes the buildings look even more massive than they are; the only good thing to come of it I suppose. C'mon, it's part of the whole experience."

...

>...

Jolene's demeanor lightens. She finally looks over to the skyscrapers veiled by a greying haze which does in fact make them appear very massive and distant--as if growing toward her yet moving away at the same time. She thinks about the license plate again, looking from the buildings to the numbers on the back of the car before them.

"Imagine what the world would be like without cars driving everywhere polluting the air. The haze is beautiful in its own way but only because of the city behind it; otherwise it's just poison in the air."

Ryan digests the words.

"I mean, yeah, but everyone can't just stop driving their cars. There wouldn't be a city in the first place."

The traffic has come again to a complete stop. Ryan taps his fingers anxiously on the steering wheel. Jolene watches him.

"People would have less health problems, there'd be less sickness in the city. There wouldn't be car crashes. Nobody would die from them."

Ryan looks to her, and she holds his eyes in hers a moment before looking out her window.

"Accidents--there'd be no car accidents."

"And crashes."

Hot air again fills the car as Ryan rolls down both their windows. Jolene doesn't say anything. She turns up the air and points the vents directly over herself.

"That storm is moving for the city Ryan."

"What do you want me to say? I checked the weather. I checked the traffic. It's not my fault they can't make up their fucking mind."

Ryan has one arm hanging entirely out the window. His fingers tapping against the door fill the car with rapidly pulsing triplets.

"You checked today?"

"I checked soon enough for it to not change right away."

"You checked yesterday?"

Ryan doesn't respond.

"Maybe we should go back."

"No fucking way. We need this trip, I'm not going to let a little rain ruin everything. We can find something else to do. It's early enough, maybe we can go to a museum. How does that sound?"

Traffic continues to hold still.

"You should've checked yesterday. We're stuck in traffic and it's going to rain. We should go home."

"What about the theatre? Maybe the Aragon has a show tonight, or the House of Blues? I think you'd like the hostel if we stayed there--I can show you around. We'll still have fun I promise."

"What are the odds we crash on our way into the city?"

"None babe. Trust me. Tonight will be exactly what we needed. Forget I yelled and forget the haze, the rain and the plate. Look, the traffic is letting up."

Jolene watches as the hazy city begins to approach and overtake them, fully expecting to crash before arriving.

For fuck's sake, dude

The lightning that night seemed to freeze time, casting a net of ozone smell over the city. The haltering motion of the horse and carriage through the park punctuated the lover’s quarrel unfurling in its furs and quilts. This ride Calvin intended as a romantic gesture, but Sidney, an avowed consequentialist in matters of ethics, contemplated the disaster of the evening, a rift opened in his relationship with Calvin, and he balked before the gulf, awed by its overwhelming quality. Calvin experienced a feeling he imagined akin to being sucked down a drain:

“The doctor said it wasn’t a death sentence.”

“That doesn’t mean it won’t happen, so your discontent with my devil-may-care attitude rings a little hollow.”

“The Devil is in the details.”

“Which is what you hid from me at every opportunity.”

A stricken silence followed. Then, an owl sounded off in the near distance, trying to warn them of the dangers of invocation. Large drops spotted the pavement of the road through the park. Sid called to the driver to stop under the bridge, lit by retro-gas lamps, probably LED.

Work in progress for the latest in a series of constraint-based writing assignments my professors have been giving. The first paragraph can only use words starting with W and L, the second only T and P, and the third only S and TH. There has to be a coherent plot of sorts too. I'm really only posting it because I've sunk five fucking hours into obsessing over this so far and still have an entire paragraph left to go, and I'm going to lose my mind if I don't get some reassurance

Thanks fellas, feedback coming soon

It was half past three and he was slamming up the turnpike toward home, doing seventy. The day was clear and hard and bright, the temperature in the low thirties. Every day since Mary had left he went for a long ride on the turnpike—in a way, it had become his surrogate work. It soothed him. When the road was unrolling in front of him, its edges clearly marked by the low early winter snowbanks, on either side, he was without thought and at peace. Sometimes he sang along with the radio in a lusty, bellowing voice. Often on these trips he thought he should just keep going, letting way lead on to way, getting gas on the credit card. He would drive south and not stop until he ran out of roads or out of land. Could you drive all the way to the tip of South America? He didn’t know. But he always came back. He would get off the turnpike, eat hamburgers and French fries in some pickup restaurant, and then drive into the city, arriving at sunset or just past.

It's all line breaks from dialog and not that long, if it's really that inconvenient for you to look at or read then wtf are you doing in this thread

Fucking dreadful, dude. I'm sorry. In the first sentence alone you're clumsy with your tense, and this dialogue is just insufferable. We know from the very first few lines of dialogue that Jolene is a pouty bitch a Ryan is pseudo-oblivious and keeps accidentally pushing her buttons. We get it. We don't need to slog through this inane bullshit for so long. Nothing interesting, poignant, or mildly worthwhile happens. This is textbook "I'm smarter than the other twelfth graders" writing.
Also don't make such obnoxiously huge posts

Please note that the first sentence and paragraph sets the scene and therefor lacks tense. The rest is present.

This is a take on Hemingway and (obviously) isn't as good but it's been evaluated by a professor and is not as bad as you make it out to be. Based on your analysis of the characters it's clear you took no time to actually read it, and instead trudged through predisposed to disliking it because you were annoyed at its inconvenience.

Get off this fucking board. I don't post for real input, I post to help other posters realize that you should not get critiques here because the posters (such as yourself) are lazy, biased, and ignorant.

Picture related

ask yourself this: why does this need to be literature when it reads like a screenplay?

... I'm at a loss for words

say what you will, but i kinda got the same impression as the guy you responded to previously. the whole thing seems like a trite relationship drama that takes itself way more serious than it should. personally i would see nothing wrong with writing that sort of thing as long as there was some sense of awareness - but there isn't. it comes off as banal as the characters themselves and if that's what you're going for congrats i guess.

HAHAHAHAHAHA
I'VE TORN APART YOUR SHIT WRITING BEFORE AND YOU SPERGED OUT JUST LIKE THIS

That opening sentence could only make sense tense-wise if you said "The majority of thee drive HAD met Ryan and Jolene with little issue"

See, when you make wild assumptions like "you only don't like this because you didn't really read it and already decided to hate it!" it just makes you seem like even more of a fucking moron when you're wrong. I was in a good mood today and gave you story a fair shot. I read it all the way through. It soured my fucking mood. Your writing is annoying, your dialogue feels as though I've read it dozens of times in the past already, and you can't even take criticism from an anonymous stranger on a post-diluvian cobbling forum. You're a fucking joke
>b-b-but muh professors
My professors have praised absolute garbage I've handed in that I wrote in a hung-over stupor. That means nothing at all.
Give up now if you're going to be such a crybaby

it shows in your writing desu

Bullshit. You are a snowflake brat who can't take harsh words. This doesn't mean I think the way that other dude reviewed your piece was alright or even remotely okay, because other than telling you he didn't like it he did bubkis. I forgive him, though, because I am going to do the same. However, just because some fucking 'professor' told you you were a good boy and someone here didn't like your shit doesn't mean we're all wrong.

That being said, your dialogue is, in fact, boring. Please go on and tell us how this perception is false and it actually a piece of artistic grandeur which us morons just won't get.

If a professor doesn't tell you to rework your first drafts, that just means that they don't want to see more of your writing

i really hope this guy (or gal) responds after being so comprehensively btfo

Of course he won't. His ears are probably all red right now and he's probably getting some water to drink, trying to convince himself he wasn't phased by any of this

>This is a take on Hemingway

(for real, though: find your own voice and stop mimicking other people. You may find that you actually have some talent of your own buried under your pretentiousness.)

Impressive. Exhausting to read, I wouldn't choose to read it on my own time, but that comes with the prompt, I'd guess. Delete "semidiurnal" (crosses the line into thesaurus-core) and you've got a promising start.

>"semidiurnal" (crosses the line into thesaurus-core

Sometimes, although not all too often, it helps to look at a word real hard and try to understand. I'm sure you can get it.

Will do! I was feeling iffy about that word as well. Thanks for the reply, user

I also feel obligated to reassure you that this was not me

The test strip has turned quite a deep shade of blue.

If any of you can tell me the reason for the characters dispositions towards one another, I'll revoke my statement and I agree that my professor was a pseud. But you've got five minutes from this post to do so. I mean, you guys read it, so that should be plenty of time to give a quick analysis right? Or was it 'too boring' to pick up on the underlying story?

If you give a critique stating that a word is thesaurus core you're a fucking pseud.

Ignore that guy; seriously, take your work someplace else that actually matters. Don't waste your time here like I did.

Guy that actually wrote here
1. "thesaurus-core" is a fine comment if the word seems needlessly obscure, which it appears he thought "semidiurnal" was
2. isn't me, I'm not that obnoxious
3. I'm not a fucking crybaby like you are and I can actually handle the task of evaluating critiques and criticisms of my work without having a full melt-down

>Or was it 'too boring' to pick up on the underlying story?
Yes. It was. That's the whole point. Your potential readers (that affable prof of yours aside, of course) might have a look at your piece and think, "Oh boy, this is boring. I rather go and read something else". If that doesn't concern you and you like your stuff, go on.

>the word was too specific

You clearly write for attention, so you really should not be writing.

I'm the guy who wrote that "obnoxius" comment. And I'm not a native speaker. Yet I was able to figure out what semidiurnal meant without having a look at the dictionary. I didn't even mean to be condescending. I mean, it's really not that hard and I like reading words I didn't know before. So, I'd oppose the deletion.

Ryan is desperately trying to carry a relationship that Jolene is no longer putting any passion or work into. She isn't responding well to his kind gestures. She seems distracted by something, maybe the environment.

I refuse to read any deeper into your story. It has done nothing to earn a closer reading. I feel no potential for deeper meaning hidden underneath it.

This site is embarrassing. A thousand word short story with a quite clear underlying story cannot be picked up because of real character dialog and not perfect dialog. This is why you will critique posts on Veeky Forums and become nothing of a real writer.

I've been published, user; how about you?

There are no places that matter anymore.

Why is it so hard for you to accept that your shit might be boring.

Fucking stephenie meyer is published too, you sophomoric shit.

post a screen cap of your published work. you can leave out the name

Apologies if I misread your tone, I thought you were being condescending by saying "I'm sure you can get it."
I think most people who regularly read could figure "semidiurnal" out pretty quick, but the reason I was hesitant to use it in the first place was that I thought it sounded a little gratuitous. I set out writing that assignment trying my best to avoid letting the constraint ruin the prose, so I tried to cut down on needless adverbs and overly obscure words just for the sake of it.

There is no deeper meaning. This story is not a revelatory one, it's portraiture of two people's lives and nothing more. You got the obvious part down, but really if you can't tell what is between the two of them then your critiques can not be trusted.

Again, to potential posters looking for advice: do not get it here. Find your audience. If this place is your targeted audience then so be it. But if you take yourself even slightly serious, go away.

>cannot be picked up because of real character dialog and not perfect dialog
DUDE
THIS FUCKING MUMBLE-CORE SHIT IS WHAT EVERY OTHER 19-YEAR-OLD WHITE KID THINKS IS GOING TO BE HIS "SIGNATURE CALLING CARD" WHEN HE'S FANTASIZING ABOUT BEING THE NEXT BIG WUNDERKIND AUTHOR
YOU ARE NOT UNIQUE
YOU ARE NOT INTERESTING
YOUR WRITING DOES NOTHING TO ENCOURAGE DEEPER READING
I REFUSE TO READ INTO IT ANYMORE THAN THIS

That's the funny part, is that you think getting paid for your work means nothing if people on a slanteyed dog eating board don't like it.

Like I give even the slightest fuck if you believe me or not. It does not nullify my arguement. If you think that means you've bested me, then good for you champ

>"I'm sure you can get it."
This is preposterous.

>it's portraiture of two people's lives and nothing more

That's exactly why no one would care about it. The reader just doesn't give a shit about your characters.

Also, considering that this is so not-your-audience, you are trying pretty fucking hard to convince us that your writing is good.

Furthermore, the point of looking for critique is not changing the audience until you find some moron thick enough to like it.

If money is what you're after, go on with writing that vapid dross. I'm sure you'll find plenty buyers. This board however, if it slipped you, is called "Literature"

Give up, user. He's had multiple good points made to him and he's watched multiple other authors respond maturely and reasonably to criticism, and he still hasn't realized how much of a bitch he is. He never will. It isn't worth it.

It was a quick project that I got an A- on, and I literally only still have it because I save all my graded work. If it was deleted I wouldn't care any more or less than I do now. The stronger of our two reactions is funnily enough the one who is getting his critique critiqued. Sad
Also

>Like I give even the slightest fuck if you believe me or not. It does not nullify my arguement.


"Hey, fellow kindergarteners, I am very pleased with myself to announce to you, that I, in fact, have collected all of those fancy collectors' cards you all drool after."

"Show, lying shithead"

"Baaaw, I don't even give a fuck if you believe me or not"

>bro why are you so upset, don't you know that means I win
This is like talking to a minor one-off character from Curb Your Enthusiasm

come on suzy just post it

I never said it was anything better than only more so as to what it was claimed it to be here (hope that's not too confusing for you).
Why would I take your input over an established source? Because you say so? Who the fuck are you? You're word isn't law just because someone asked for advice, and you need to find out how to cope with that.

>my professor likes me
>I've been published
>everyone on this site which I visit fits a stereotype that I don't
Pull your face far enough back from your professor's cock to see straight you insufferable cunt. In the face of criticism of the work you refer instead to validation from a professor and publication? Erotica and YA and even lit's meme books can obtain external validation. If you didn't post to get criticism then I won't bother giving you one, but will point out that your "take on Hemingway" reads like any of thousands of mediocre short stories in the Iowa Review and its copycats. If you think MFA social realist stories are all literature can offer then congratulations I guess.
Have a (you), I sure fell for this bait.

>(hope that's not too confusing for you).
It actually is. Should I critique the sentence for you so you can become a better writer?

I'm simply letting this display unfold for potential posters to decide if they really want their work looked at here or not. I have a gut feeling the scale is not tipped in your favors. And I have this feeling because we are now this deep into the post chain and you're still overlooking the fact that I didn't want or need input. Yet you claim I'm retaliating? Retaliating what? I never cared for what you'd say in the first place. Stop embarrassing yourselves. Or not; I really believe it only helps my cause

I enjoy the (you) and my money. Enjoy... whatever it is you're getting out of writing.

I'm having way too much fun right now. Go ahead man, critique your heart away.

>I never said it was anything better than only more so as to what it was claimed it to be here

I read this thing a dozen times and still don't get what he is trying to say. Must be because of my thick-wittedness. Please, someone enlighten me.

Not a single person lurking this thread who is following this considers you to be the sympathetic character. This is a level of retardation and obliviousness bait can only ever hope to recreate
>I didn't want or need input
LOL
>I never cared for what you'd say in the first place.
LOL
>Stop embarrassing yourselves. Or not; I really believe it only helps my cause
LOL

>I didn't want or need input.
>I never cared
And yet you continue to post?

...

I'll stagnate it for you:
it not great but it's better than your claims

> doesn't need critique
> doesn't care
> posts in a Writing Critique thread

This guy gets it

This guys doesnt

Are you even so sure I'm the guy who originally posted it? How far down the rabbit hole do you wish to run user? My point will always be proved, will yours?

hi Vox Day

You realize both posters are mocking you. In fact almost everyone in the whole thread is mocking you (or the original poster, if you want to claim you are a different one of the 8 posters here) except for the poor guy who posted his story in a doomed thread.
We are here to laugh at you.

*tips

close one

>This guy gets it
You didn't get me, however.

It's weird that we all must be laughing then. I wonder if that's a testament to the advice given and general state of interaction within this board and site.. I wonder who's cause that fact helps more.. Fucking weird man

Well I mean I do have a lot of fun with my money and my writing, so... I guess you showed me man

>who's

>Are you even so sure I'm the guy who originally posted it


Faaar to late to dissociate yourself from that YA-writer level story.

Yes. The guy in the picture also had a lot of fun with his money. Other than that, however, he was an emotional wreck with a disgusting character, no friends and a lot of regret ahead of him.

Damn, you guys got me! I AM a pseud, and my writing IS trash. I'm going to tell my professor they should've failed me and return the money earned by my publication right now!

You don't want input and yet this is the second time you have tried to get input for this story?
warosu.org/lit/thread/9626538

HAHAHAHAHA

Wow, that's pretty deep man. I should tell all my friends and family to dislike me because I make money, and my fiance to leave me because I'm incapable of supporting her and our future family. Shit, this board really IS filled with geniuses. I'm going to get ALL my stories looked at here first from now; I was so BLIND

You are so full of yourself that you are going to detonate at any moment. Critique is not about failing anyone. We are trying to tell you how you could improve. That and how much of a son of a bitch you are.

You spent five hours on this?

Wow, you're right man. Kinda strange how it's one of the first posts there as well though, right? I guess once a story is written it cannot be used more than once without losing its intention. Glad you're hunting me down though, I'm really under your skin man

He doesn't want input from us. Don't forget he wants his professor to put in his big nice critique any time.

>implying my professor didn't already tell me how to improve the story
>implying the real point of quick projects like this aren't more for completion and practice then perfection
>implying I cared any more for this project than to get it graded than I did to rework it

I know my real works and I know my homework. Or wait.. do YOU actually know and I don't? Fuck man..

so are you gonna post more work or not

christ and gods army

I wish you would finally explain why we are going on and on and on about this issue and why on earth you are posting this story on at least two boards for critique if you are

- completey content with what your prof said about it
- the project holds no real value for you
- you don't give any shit

And don't give me that " I am trying to tell others not to post here" shit because you already said that, twice, and spent the rest of the whole discussion defending yourself.

I'm starting to think we've been trolled, guys

At this point, I would be glad. Imagine the dude is really like that.

Go nuts lmao:

As I lie here in my car, encased in night and pinned by streetlight, faces come to life in the nearby trees. Three branch-and-leaf-shadow puppets cackle out the dark in tune with the wind. Their facial segments seem as flimsy paper cutouts bouncing on rods held by people dressed in black to blend with the darkness behind them. The first face is that of an exaggerated jester. Three tufts of hair point up and out, and it's face is sharp with a bulbous nose and jutting jaw which juggles teeth in airy hysterics. The eyes are black, hollow and infinitely deep. They lull me into a trance which traps one within their hall-of-mirrors facade while entertaining with comforting absurdities as it gorges on my stare. Beside the fool sways face of a lion-like old man. Small, focused eyes like talons hook into retinas and pluck out one's eyes. They look beyond what one can see, peering at what is believed, and at what is known. Dark hollow cheeks accentuate the light reflected off its pointed ears, brow, and nose bridge. The head jerks lightly, as if sniffing the evening breeze. Underneath its nose a large bushy mustache and short goatee age the wise man, and hone the lion's senses as sensitive whiskers. Above each the two acts observes what appears as an ancient wooden mask with wide sunken eyes and mouth cut as a narrow rectangular opening. It's nose is petite, with fine slits for each nostril. And while each the previous faces felt alive with mockery or nobility, this one appears emotionless. Only occasionally does it mouth something tucked away within the folds of wind. It appears to neither judge, nor despise, but simply observe--its face closest to the light and body deepest in the shadow.

Just remember I'm doing whatever you believe I'm doing

Error: Comment too long (3748/3000).

pastebin.com/ts9dFpDK

The prompt was to write about a predetermined object (mine was "oscillo-grill") and instill a sense of the uncanny in it. I had fun with it, figured I might as well post it somewhere

1/2

2/2

I woke up, groaned for nearly a whole minute, then stumbled out of bed. I fall off the mattress too hard and catch myself, nearly crushing the cat. He runs across the room, then ends up still, staring at the door. PRetty funny in hindsight, the bastard has nowhere to go. No spare room or parlor to sunbathe in and catch spiders. Just him and me and the bed. This makes me laugh, and I laughed and laughed until it became a chuckle, and i sensed the tears of joy on my cheek. SO funny, to me, in hindsight, that the bastard had nowhere to go. Obviously, I love the bastard. Me and Domey and Marcus, my dog, asleep in front of the toilet and staring at the ceiling, who has nowhere to go. That made me a little sad, because i think i’m more of a dog guy than cat guy, ever since I was a kid. This made me sad, maybe bummed out a little bit. I had to feel bad, because the MArcus wants a nice field to run around in, and maybe a big pink ball, and Domey wants a big cat palace with venetian blinds so the heat is distributed evenly across his body. This made me think, think to reach under the bed for something to drink or maybe eat.

“Darling, your fake plastic diamonds glisten so pretty in the reflection of the diskoteque light storm, i want to put my arms around you and choke you like a cobra”

She threw her drink at my eyes and called me a scoundrel motherfucker and turned around stomping away into the dancing herd of with the times young ones. I swore, i swiped a napkin from the cocained out banker next to me and wiped the mysterious drink residue from my face. Oh, to have the speed in the tongue and body again! I shouted as a overdramatic theatre actor in my mind, gesticulating with my hands italianesque. All these beautiful tight women and no one could appreciate my subtle mockery of the absurdness of this whole situation, that we was in a prison cube listening to what amounted to a beat after a beat, the rest just a covering, the pitch of the slippery car salesman. To move around with your joints to the beat, to grind against fat meaty thighs. To release a small amount in your pants, feeling a prick of a warmth against your thigh. My meandering was broken up with the appearance of a fine brown girl in a gown around this town. I went up to her and smelled her neck, her pure black short hair making me immediately hard like a rock ready to be thrown into the face of a person, imploding their nose into a smudged red pulp, i was lightly licking my lips. “Hey baby brownie, i don’t know if it was the whole slavery thing but the thought of me tying you up and making your hands work my bodily field is a very invigorating idea” She called me a bleached bastard and slapped my face, her sweaty fingers touching my face and her breasts jiggling as she did it made the floodgates open in my nether region, i screamed. “AHHHHHAHHHH OHHH AHHH MOMMY, MOMMY OHHHHHHH” I sunk to the floor, a great statue being pulverized, knocked down by the barbarians. I was a god, these people didn’t even deserve my time, but yet, i was here. But at least i had cummed a good cum. By a females hand.

I dig it

Worship concluded here 50 years ago.
A woman's name owned his body.
Thinking about prayers, he knelt like one.
He had the ability to escape stolen from him at birth.
Warm temperature liquid was inside of him that should have been frozen.
As a consequence of travel he was almost naked, and almost empty.
Wind cut through him instead.
Undeniably, there were hallucinations of reality growing in the dream.
Everything can be seen past the distance.
Travelling today, he can reach history tomorrow.
A man buit taller than him was rare.
One wanderer with shorter body and longer orifices, longer hair approached him.
Some scars couldn't be cut in half and stayed on him, which interested the passer by about his safety.
I'd like your opinion on this prose style

Work on your prosody

>asks for feedback
>"no you're wrong"
Why are you here?

First attempt at writing fiction since I was a kid - please be gentle!

Here is mine, guys. Please be honest.
Bruce went to the store and bought cigarettes. The end.

Unless it's just me being a newfag to these critique threads, but this is so bad that it's almost a really good parody. If it's a serious attempt, then respond so and I'll tell you why it's so bad. Read more.

get rid of "seemed" in the first sentence. Only use "seem" if you know what you're doing, and in this case of painting a picture you certainly don't want to use "seem." There's nothing wrong with a long sentence (hell I'm prone to them and I think they're as beautiful as can be), but your third sentence falls apart with "a rift opened..." since this is an independent clause. Not only that, but the flow of this entire sentence is awful. It lacks the flow of prepositional phrases. This being said, if it wasn't for the "a rift opened" it wouldn't be the worst sentence in the world. The dialogue should have at least one or two identifying speakers here (i know this sometimes comes down to personal preference, but I don't know who's speaking and further I don't really care. "That doesn't mean it won't happen, so your discontent with my devil-may-care attitude rings a little hollow." This line rings a little hollow, and it's not just because the dialogue seems unnatural. Tolstoy has unnatural dialogue sometimes (translations), but it does not read like this. "A stricken silence followed." Eh. Especially immediately going before a "Then." Then there's "An owl 'sounded off'." Sounded off? Weak. "Trying to warn them of the dangers of invocation." ;laksdjf;laksdjfsaoipd;hfjoxchvinp;dsfgijhasdifjaoihvcaosicvjuoisdujfoidspfjuposdifj. "Probably LED." PDOSIFJUPOIS:Dfjhasopdi;nvoidxfuchnvbiodufxhgipasudzfhjosdifjo.

In all seriousness apologies for being harsh but it's the way I like to critique. Continue to write and please read more. Maybe I need a larger sample.

Because people like you can't read

High quality entertainment. Something tells me you'll never change. If you're some how so sensitive you can't take critique while also seeking it.

What program do you use? Otherwise it's a pretty solid story, you just need to work on the Telling part of Showing and Telling in prose (just look it up, it's fucking everywhere).

He frowned at the last part of the absurd pitch, but disregarded it, stamping his finger on the START square below the colorful lettering. A list of choices appeared detailing insecurities about a variety of topics that stretched for several pages—at least ten—in tiny, nearly inscrutable text. How the hell did they acquire these multitudes of information? He surfed through the ocean of options until he finally spotted a suitable one.
I’m insecure about how I look.
He selected it, and a black box appeared, with a white line stretching across its inkiness.
“So you’re insecure ‘bout how ya look, eh?” the sound wave—the white line assumptively was—quivered and shook as the voice talked.
The thick, masculine accent almost deterred him. This voice was going to be dictating his self image…what a surreal thought. Christopher shrugged and averted his gaze from the screen.
“Aw c’mon, you’re a handsome fella, you’ll find someone. I mean, lookitcha! You look straight outtuva, whadda they call ‘em—a noir movie! Like one o’ dem, uh, detectives, y’see?”
“This is making me…kind of uncomfortable.”
“Nah, really! Anybody could see that! You look just like an actor!”
He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coat and looked away shyly. His face was oblong but strong-jawed, eyes stained with an overcast shadow but his lips always seeming to have a smile not yet ready to be released. The only thing he really felt proud of was his caramel-colored hair, which he took after his parents.
The screen shut off, all the colors sinking down a black drain. Christopher’s eyes widened and the strange terrified nausea that had overtook him back at his office seized him once more. His eyes darted to his left and the row of Confidence Pads had also all shut off. Was the power going off again? Neon signs, left and right, began blinking off and on. The trampling of boots boomed from all around him.
His stomach sunk a mile. Men clad in white armor and helmets carrying large, sleek machine guns poured out from the crowd, pointing the muzzles of their glossy weapons at him. A bright circle of light covered him like an oversized flashlight from a stout white helicopter in the sky. His knees almost buckled and sweat poured down his face, lip trembling spastically and arms raised in the air.
“Please! Please—don’t shoot me! I didn’t do anything wrong! Please!”
They would shoot him anyway, right? That’s what they always showed on the television. Racists, toxically masculine white males, patronizing old men, all of them were arrested in the name of the non-discriminatory and equality-loving AmeriCore. Suddenly he was no longer content with being a statistic.

The man and the woman lit cigarettes in the winter cold. The trees were bare and the ground was hard and the factory loomed in the distance,. In the predawn light, they were black outlines and a crow cawed and was quiet.
The man blew smoke and kicked the dead ash of the firepit.
“Almost ready?” he asked.
“Since last night.”
“Okay,” he said. “If you’re sure.”
“I am.”
“Okay.”
They took their packs and walked through the trees to the cracked road that weaved down the hill and through the yellow wheat fields to the gates of the factory. The man had a rifle and carried it loosely in one hand. The woman’s backpack was bulkier and had a small bag hanging off of it. The sun was beginning to rise. Smoke was coming out of chimneys to the west.
The smokestacks of the factory were throwing up thick clouds of black smoke as they came quietly towards it. The man held up his hand and they stopped and crouched by the edge of the road. They both took up binoculars and watched the land through the lens.
“See anybody?” the woman asked.
“No.”
“Good.”
They moved on slowly, pausing to watch for sentries. The sun got higher and they came closer and they still saw nothing moving save the crows.

that's the windows quicknote thing

“She’s just nasty,” Callum said. “She’s got that weird stink, like old people. She smells like old people when their bodies are dying all around them. Maybe she uses old lady soap. No soap, is more likely.”

“Hold up,” Henry said as we came up to an alley. He turned into it and started to piss against a fence.

“Women are very dirty,” Callum said. “They don’t clean, they spray, they have all these products. You know back when women had that tall hair, the beehive? They used to leave that up, they’d keep that up, they don’t wash it- you can’t do anything, it’s very complicated, you touch it it’s fucked, so they just keep spraying it with the hairspray. And I heard this story, this hairdresser goes to cut this lady’s hair- snip, snip, cockroaches. Tens of cockroaches, dozens of cockroaches. Hair looks beautiful from outside, you cut it open, cockroaches. That’s women.”

“Is that a true story?” I asked.

“It could be true. Is it important?”

Henry was singing something to himself and swinging his hips from side to side all carefree. Piss was arcing all over and splashing on his shoes and he didn’t even care. I thought it was terrific. He zipped up and we walked to the dairy.

While he was inside, I fixed up Callum’s shoelaces. I always had to – he never got the loops just right, which is to say exactly (exactly) the same size but a little asymmetrical, one hanging straight to the side and the other resting down on the shoe. A 60-70 degree angle’s good for that one, but it’s not too important, it’ll move around as you walk anyway. They gave me stick sometimes for caring about details like that, but it never got to me, cause what’s wrong with being an orderly guy? And I like having a niche – you know how every organ does something different? I’m one of the cleaning ones, like the liver. Or maybe I’m one of those little birds that flies in crocodiles’ mouths and picks the shit out of their teeth.