/crit/ - Writing Critique

Title: Moral Poem 1

Life moves on. Do not worry about it
As a moral. Don’t fear the new works,
Nor wish light on each brittle shore,
Nor be dewed with a lack in your eyes –

For instance, surely this jellyfish knew
Its atmosphere – pleasure, and the sting
Upon this Earth. It’s placement in
A life lumped high in its purposes –

Then, the penguin. Don’t disappear
From a moral like this. Don’t be masked
In the black knit of its face. Surely there is
A way to speak of the moment at hand:

When the penguin devours the pulsing jet,
And a million hands can’t scurry back.

Title: Angst Poem 26

(The Blind Girl, John Everett Millais)

2012

How can Lez like Miley Cyrus, a whore
When Taylor Swift’s so much more pure...
I don’t understand it – I like Tay Tay more
And wish I could be like her. There,

She sings of rainbows. Miley waves ass
And woops-de-doo- for the crowd to see!
Somehow, it’s supposed to be ‘feminist’
But, it reeks of the patriarchy to me!

I don’t understand, but I ha-a-ave to watch
Miley... because we have to stay friends.
What a burden this bitch has wrought...

And all I wanted was a person who cared...
Yet, no one thinks like me! I know –
That I can see higher than the rainbow...

2014

Are you se-ri-ous... Tay-tay turned
Into that? How weird... but still
She’s been through some stuff –
And she has more troubles too, I bet –

And I’m with Tay-tay all the way!
Oh god... Lez wants to go – to
The concert with me. Fuck
That bitch! Can she understand

The world of hurt that Tay-tay feels?
Her genius in her lyrics – bites
No matter what genre she does...

I give up – she’ll never know
About deeper things than her head
Empty of all. There’s a bigger world!

>Low route's entryway and high route's exitway are like mirror images, with short ceilings and two equidistant spike sets followed immediately by breakable ground before some sort of vine - whether swinging or zipping.

Not sure about the dash. Maybe it should be a comma? Serious question and all but as an aside, posting this caused me to reflect on my life and I'm now experiencing an existential crisis.

If it's in a book like Moby Dick, it doesn't matter. There's no point in posting this without a lengthy context because the power of the words comes from the ultimate structure they are in.

I'm just wondering what mark I should use there. Sometimes I can't tell when to use what or the differences in between, if that makes sense.

pastebin.com/Jr4rRLGU

Heads up, it's web novel genre fiction.

>Do I write for myself or the five* people who might find it?

Are you a horror fan?

Describing the spooks appearance is the easiest way to kill any horror, it's the fear of the unknown that truly spooks people, suspense and the like.

I was listening to moms spaghetti while trying to read this and it's thrown me.
I enjoyed reading it but I'm shit at sonnets and poems.

>Cop a squat
it's POP

P O P

The poignant, pedantic pathos of my pallid, plebeian plenitude has petulantly presented me petrified of my personal profligacies.

I'm not in any position to properly critique poetry, but I am in a position to write some stupid things.
pastebin.com/DRhRHKxe

Pantheon

Sitting in the shade of a pillar, enticed
By the figures carved of marble stone –
A pantheon rose over, dimming bellows
From all the burrows of their mythy mind,
And I, forsaken from their rift
(Much of the temple denied in me)
Sparked flint from my mortal tongue,
Flamed with arid, lips of woe:

“I’ll admit it, I lost. Your skill
Far too great. Far too long
Have you laboured, till the next
Dawn, and to me you are circled
Above our revolutions, pitied sum
Of Man! Dirigible to your works
Am I! Swallow on your cloudy roam!”

And the pantheon, with all divinity
Gleamed with eyes of silent beams
Espousing themselves, their pull of space,
Criss-crossed in time, my mimicry
A stolen word from earliest flame!
They, done with their legendry,
Entranced the holy sanctified
While my hands bound their shadow
Clipped from it, to make my veil!

What have you to say to them?
O, their tongue is far beyond your dusk –
What have you to say, mired
In the verses that hardly span
Earth, the pit of hell, the stars?

“I’m nothing! I learned nothing!
For naught am I, clay to your idea,
Nor does my wisdom breach the spheres,
Designed in classical concord to the drift
Of aeons speaking their services!
My time is already at an end,
And story set in realm, rafted upon seas
That wash to shores compassed by your tide!
Fall in failure, regret and crawl,
As timpani of a thousand ants!
I weep, I am nothing – Pantheon,
To your form, golden in all your curves,
From embodied desire sparked in the sun!”

But they, always watching, stern
In their chatting, never silent though
Their lips lack movement. Speak they do
In symbols limned from centrifuges.
They spoke of first arc, rimmed in man’s
Eyes – first light we hardly see,
Scalded first brain with its plight,
And sent the seeker, naught of seen.

Then, the stench of man, divides
My heart from the shadow of the stand
Where the statues stood, ambient night
Of a thousand Gods – a sister smile
Took my arm, held in its sway,
And said: “I am the human verse within,
Coursed through veins, dissolved in ink,
And one step beyond your amplitude’s
Crest. I am the best of men – stirred
In empathy to your woe. I do not
Speak much anymore. But sing
Upon your raging musk, gardening
The eternals that do float. Seek,
Beyond the quaff of dream,
And find – your pantheon sang in me.”

Here is a section from some shit that I deleted. I already hate it/know that it's shit, but I want to know why. My writing is so affected and pretentious and I don't know how to develop/practice a sincere voice. This is what I am talking about:

Where can a man go to speak and be heard? Mobs and masses move about without an eager ear among them. A distrait public and compounding anxiety – this is the circumstance from which my grey utterances arise and fall, punctuated each by chiaroscuro eminence and the ever-besetting influence of doubt. I fear that my naked admissions to the discordant multitude have spoiled my will and dispirited my search for sympathy. It must be a common concern, I am sure, to feel shipwrecked along some abstract expanse of dispassionate wanderers and antipathetic reserve; in this case it can be said, with tended infirmity, that equivocal detachment may well be the sole resemblance between us.

Imagine you had to translate it into the vernacular. That is, imagine you had to explain the idea to a friend.

I have heard this before and I understand what you mean. My biggest struggle is finding a comfortable/attractive compromise between plain language and purple prose, but I guess if that was an easy thing to figure out then everybody in the world would be a great writer. I need to focus on finding that compromise.

Here is my attempt at translation, this is what I mean:
>I feel like I don't have anybody that I can meaningfully interface with, and that people are generally insincere and dismissive, but I'm sure that we all feel like that from time to time.

I am capable of literal expression or brash ostentation and nothing else. I probably just need to read more to be honest. Thanks for the guidance.

The goal is to say less than you mean, not more.

Compare the number of modifiers and random adjectives you have:

eager ear
distrait public
compounding anxiety
grey utterances
chiaroscuro eminence
ever-besetting influence of doubt.
naked admissions
discordant multitude
abstract expanse of dispassionate wanderers
antipathetic reserve;
tended infirmity,
equivocal detachment
sole resemblance

With those used by Melville at the start of Moby Dick:

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago- never mind how long precisely- having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off- then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

He writes in that same Romantic vein of the past, but has less dead-weight than you.

>Where can a man go to speak and be heard? Mobs and masses move about without an ear among them. A public, compounding anxiety – this is the circumstance from which my utterances arise and fall, punctuated each by the influence of doubt. My admissions to the multitude have dispirited my search for sympathy – a common concern? – to feel shipwrecked along some expanse, wanderers and the antipathetic, that detachment may well be the resemblance between us.

See how it basically says the same thing even with a ton of it stripped away? Faster too. Now, stop writing about lame anxiety shit that thousands of writers, and adolescents, have written about before, and use your vocab for greater purpose.

...

Do you really think people talk this way?

What do you think about this style? Will I ever make it?

I have no clue what you're going for here

this is bad.
also, it peeved me when you wrote "taunt" when you meant "taut."

not directed at you, but since I'm on the subject, seemingly nobody on Veeky Forums ever uses the word "jive" correctly. In every instance I've seen it on this site, it has been confused with "jibe."
>mfw

At work, will crit others and replies when I am home:

Before Harry had a chance to fasten his seatbelt the van was moving and the radio was blasting unfamiliar music. He understood every third mumbled word when it wasn't being drowned out by heavy bass and tortured guitar solos. Both men in front lit noxious cigarettes and the open windows caused the acrid smoke to be blown into Harry's face and into his nostrils and throat sending him into coughing fits each time they took a drag. By the end of the journey he was feeling nauseous, lightheaded and had completely forgotten where he was going.

quotev.com/imabittootired
all my writing's there. tell me about my style, if you do read em

I don't want crit so much as advice.
I'm writing this novel and reading other things in the downtime. Each thing I read has something good or bad that I take from it - genre fiction has a strong hook and driving narrative, literary fiction seems less interested in plot and is more about thoughts, feelings and ideas..
Reading things with heavy plots makes me want to create stronger hooks for my writing. Reading literary things makes me want to worry less about the plot and just create vivid passages that communicate powerful emotions or ideas.
Do I focus on one? The other? Attempt both? Or just write whatever feels right to me and worry about all that later, trusting my intuition?
I think I know what the answer is but I'd like to hear what you think.

>write whatever feels right to me and worry about all that later, trusting my intuition?
Do this.

>pastebin.com/Jr4rRLGU
>four lines in
jesus fucking christ is this a parody?

>mana.
>"Thank the seventh mother"
>"Meuwah." her devil cat mewed its agreement

Slow the fuck down my man. I'm also not a fan of the [Write computer things in brackets and stuff so that I don't have to actually try describing it by hand] thing.

I hope people of all ages can enjoy it, but the target demographic right now is children.

Here's the full story/Pastebin:
pastebin.com/YuH8w7WK

...

Shit I'm in a process of writing something I consider decent, and I want lit to rate it but unfortunately it is in my native language (serbo-croatian)..

there's a lot of mutually intelligible balkans around m8, i'd say post it.

Yeah! I knew that already, I wanted to check, now be honest how shit is this:

Ne volim da čekam, i prije nego što sasiječem red od barem deset osoba koje tu stoje vjerovatno više od pola sata, pokušavam se sjetiti nekog relevantnog razloga zašto to radim, iako me baš i ne interesuje kako će te osobe reagovati. Automatski krećem ka naprijed i pokušavam da improvizujem.
„Ja se zaista izvinjavam, ali moram ući na svega pet minuta da postavim profesoru jedno pitanje, nadam se da...“, i pokušavam da zvučim zabrinuto, ali kao što sam već rekao, tačno me zaboli šta ova stoka mu sebi. Probio sam se jako daleko bez ikakvih pogovora, i osjetio sam se sigurnim u sebe da ću uspjeti ući u amfiteatar prije nego što me neko od ove polusvjetine zaustavi.
„Žao je i meni prijatelju, ali neko već ima unutra.“, reče neugledni tip u dukserici koji stoji odmah uz vrata uz, moram primjetiti poprilično atraktivnu djevojku, i mislim da se zove Amila ako se dobro sjećam jedina dva puta kada sam došao na predavanja. Planirao sam da uzvratim sa nekom uvredom na račun njegovog fizičkog izgleda, ali se Amila ubacila prije nego što sam bilo šta rekao.
„Pa neka, možda je momku baš hitno.“
Amila ima malo hrapaviji glas od onog kojeg sam zamišljao, ali i dalje zvuči izuzetno ženstveno i prijatno. Iako je jako zgodna, i ima velike sise (vjerovatno joj ne bih ni zapamtio ime da nisam vidio da ima velike sise), to se ne primjećuje na njoj jer je obukla barem pet slojeva odjeće na sebe, odvratnih tirkiznih, rumenih i zemljanih nijansi. I maskara joj je razmazana oko očiju. Mislim o tome kako je jebem u grlo dok plače i dok joj maskara curi po cijelom licu.
„Da, ovaj...“, sjeti se, sjeti se, sjeti se.
„Moja nana je u bolnici, i moram je posjetiti.“, čak nisam ni slagao, barem za ovaj dio da je još u bolnici.
„Jao, pa moraš ga pustiti.“
„Strašno mi je žao čovječe, mogu li te pitati, šta je nani, kako joj je?“
„Tuberkuloza.“, sjetio sam se prve bolesti koja mi je pala na pamet, a da nije spolno prenosiva.

How do you guys come up with ideas for a story you'd actually want to write about?
I keep coming up with boring ideas and once I start writing I realize I'm not interested in the topic anymore.

So wait, is it all poems? I'm more of a fiction kind of guy, though I see the depth and use of poetry.

You gotta dig into the one that holds your passion. Figure out what the characters want, especially the antagonists. So long as the setting itself is adequate, you can listen to your characters and create a meaningful plot.

>pastebin.com/DRhRHKxe
I... am a fan. Your choice of language is so delightfully prim and proper and the characters themselves have unique voices.

The content is interesting, though is it a monstergirl fanfic? I like it, but I'd like to pick your brain on character voice for my own fiction. All of mine come across as educated, but with the same personality. It's a real problem I'd like to address.

No one is excited to die. That’s obscene.

from several years ago. Not sure how I feel about this or if I should return to it.

The Bitter Mercenary

Here comes the bitter mercenary,
who wades through the swamp of arms, legs,
and teeth. He stumbles often. He looks into the blank eyes of each one. We watched the fire burn in the distance. The flames engulfed desert sky. We hadn't seen the sun set since Keskese.

We wandered for years, crossing each dune thinking the next might be the last. The gaze of the sun taunted us. The emptiness of the white sand warned us about the end.
There is no philosophy of the octave, only math. He said one ounce of jasmine was enough for two prayers. We prayed twice for a gust of wind.

He told each of us not to beware of the men we can make out geometrically.

His life was his lute. His lute was his loot. His loot was his life. He is the bitter mercenary.

The equinox of the eastern light reminded us all of Narcissus. The story of a puma who douses himself in gasoline in protest is taken seriously.

We all push the shovel into the ground, we all wish to find gold, we never find it. Except for them. And them.

We found him lying in his own waste in the valley of Nowherenearhere. We all realized that summer that staring into the sun too long can change your mind.

That's what I was thinking. Thanks.

Nicholas stumbled through dense underbrush, thorns cutting his calves in ornate patterns. Fear gripped him; he lost sight of his own direction. He rushed upon a creek bank, tumbled down in a great clamor, and knocked himself unconscious. Dazed, he awoke on a water-soaked moss bed. His eyes adjusted and he was horrified to see the lumbering bear which had chased him into the ravine. Panicking, he lobbed a stone, striking the bear clean between the eyes. With a roar, the bear tumbled down as he had. Continuing to flee, he dared not check if the bear was still alive.

Very dense, had to read it twice to know what you were on about, which is a tad off putting, but that's just because I'm a lazy fuck. I get she is an orphan hitchhiker, but what is the overarching goal/narrative/point? What does "verything shall be known
When hands gentler than any lineage rises
Into the mechanisms of flesh" mean? Interesting.

What is the Solipsism? The Party? Good writing, seems anti-totalitarian.

I feel like this is meaningful, certainly a good message, if I understand it right. I'm not much of a poet, so I can't vouch for it being structurally sound, but it was interesting. Do penguins feed on jellyfish?

If this is the same author as the last two (as I suspect it is) I think this is much stranger, and not as good. I mean, it almost seems like b8, maybe it is. I love Tay-tay as much as the next guy, but I don't think it's good material for poetry, especially when presented like this, as it doesn't have too wide of an appeal. Just makes me think of /r9k/

Sounds like you fucked a thesaurus. Tone down your use of synonyms. I read a post that said you should replace common words with more interesting words, not difficult words.
Take the word run, for example.

You could say
>He Ran
or
>He bolted / He fled
put probably not
>He absconded

Because that's not interesting, it's simply annoying and archaic.
Making you writing inaccessible without a thesaurus only hurts you.
There are so many pointless phrases that are just laboring to read through.

These lines are okay, IMO:
>Where can a man go to speak and be heard?
>Mobs and masses move about without an eager ear among them.

The rest, not so much. it's just terribly convoluted

Are absolutely right, props to especially

Pretty okay!

Just write, and write, and your own style will come out. It's really whatever you feel is best for what you're trying to create. Basically Not bad at all, I read about halfway down before stopping, it seems well written!

>His life was his lute. His lute was his loot. His loot was his life. He is the bitter mercenary.
Like it all except this, this line was very odd and I feel unattractive. The rest is interesting.

A small tale I'll share but many i'll wear. We are all vessels here and there, voices that flare and moments we share. But some have for what others despair, and many care little about other's bad fare. Some will live to see you drop and yet others might find what you've left to rot. Who knows for certain where you will go and many have solutions to problems you know, but the one place I'm sure you will be is back to the earth where your seed will release. I have sung you a song as long as your fall, so remember your life could drop like a ball and always be ready for when death blows a gall.

The idea was mostly taken from exactly what I wrote there: death leading to a cartoonish anime-type dimension. That concept came from a friend who may or may not actually believe that that can happen, so I decided to write down an entirely plausible chain of events for if that actually would happen to various people that react in different ways to it.
Now I personally don't think I wrote all of them in a completely unique way but that most likely comes from the brevity of their appearances and as earlier mentioned how they view the situation they find themselves in. Turning that excerpt into a fully-fledged book would be difficult for example, since it was just something I wanted to throw together into a barely cohesive whole.

True, I am obscene. Whether that's brought me more good than bad is hard to say.

Thus. Its ten minutes past four in the morning. Everything was over. Town was occupied. Defenders defeated and war – ended. Someone told me that overwhelming triumph affects the men in destructive way. In case of excessive winning, following the laws of Newton, the surplus force must nevertheless end up somewhere and hence – it turns against yourself. While strenghtening the dignity, the prowess is being weakened. Only with me, devil knows why, happened quite the opposite. My skill was improved to the highest degree, but dignity, it descended lower than testicles. You see, man has to advance his abilities equally. It is not acceptable, that one singular part of you walks the path of weakness. Where is the ideal of renaissance?
Oh, The Vitruvian Man, show me the way! Where can I attain the mastery to this deplorable game? When keywords arrived on screen, world beyond window was already pale. Computer, wailing in cries of the last decade, slowly prepared the sacred texts for my consumption and adoration. My liver was already dried out. Everyone knows – everyone who has closed the vidya during the dawn, everyone knows what a heavy heart I carried to kitchen and what a weight I carried out of my room. Thousand frags lie on my conscience and even more liters of blood in my mouth. The taste, mixing with the sourness of early morning gastric juices. Drinking the coffee after such night is like trying to catch the wind. So we must arrange the storm. Coffeine has two functions – to release and to prepare. To release from constipation – instestinal as well as metaphorical. From everything that has accumulated during following day. And to prepare for being shot dead or atleast – overall torture. Truly, a ready-made sacrament! But I wasnt prepared for either one of these functions. At such wee hours noone can be prepared. That is the reason not to trust those, who in eager haste with hot feet jumps to suck on a coffee cup early in morning; all while looking at you with cheerful and lively gaze. Those are diligent but untrustful people. However those, who sucks on a coffee cup while looking as the gloomiest shit, while not being as hard working, they are more honest in their hearts than any early morning jogger or workplace optimist. They wont hesitate to christen you as an asshole if you managed to resemble one. Or atleast, thanks to politeness or blushing shyness, they will call you as such behind your back. Why shyness you may ask? Ill answer, my dear friends, that is because their souls are vast. Gentlemen, their spirits are just too large for their bodily cauldron. That is the reason why is it overflowing. Every unexpected shiver or shudder, caused by clear language, could be fatal.

You sound envious, among other things. Post a few lines you have written you are proud of.

if i were to write some real heroic couplets, at least it would be from some one who has read both chapman and keats.

Right, that's all well and good, but you actually need to do it now
Just saying you've read x and y doesn't do much, you see?
I've read some of Stephen Hawking's work, but I ain't no fucking Stephen Hawking.

>chapman and keats
waow ur so wellread will you fuck me in my female pussy now because i'm so impressed by the things you read

it's a joke about the metre, lads. learn the basics of english poetry.

here, thanks for the critque, man!

Honestly, If I had the free time and the motivation, I'd read a thick book of the stuff. The only part that even irked me in the slightest was Mr. Colbert calling Elvira "honey" but that's just because I think it's annoying to call people Hun or Darling, ect.
Your writing is clean and perfectly understandable, there are clear themes that youth can relate too like self-doubt, but it's not pandering, it seems genuine and believable.
Good job, user. I'm sure if you get this published it'll be some kids favorite book.

You wrote to them like a rotten pompous cunt in need fag(cigarette) juice draining. Are you not a writer yourself? Show a little more respect when offering your constructive criticism to an artist, critic.

>this butthurt over constructive criticism
imagine if i were base enough to just go for personal criticism :3

real good

"This is Water," the priest in the purple windbreaker said, and turned the bucket upside-down over the worshipper's head. The worshipper repeated the phrase as the water soaked through their ceremonial white bandanas; sometimes solemn, sometimes in rapture. She recognized the words from DFW's sermon at Kenyon College.

>this butthurt over constructive criticism
If only you knew how shitty the presentation of your advice made you seem. I was just criticizing the presentation of your criticism. The two people you responded to appear to be relatively above average at writing, you tried to demean and belittle them, and now it seems that you are not even a writer yourself, so to beat a dead horse, as immediately intuited, you are so envious of even a shred of talent and skill at a craft you have spent apparently a great deal of time and passion consuming of which you can not produce a shred of a shred worth of worthy substance. Good day to you, sir.

I'm tired
Tired of a life playing a part
Tired of these ridiculous pantomimes
Tired of being the skillful craftsman
Making delightful masks
Tired of the funny jester
Doing his dance
Making the court
Bursting with laugh
And whose public, perhaps,
Won't phantom the thought
That well beyond those great wall
Something lies out of sight
Something evil, and yet sad.

To be exiled from a place
I don't belong
Into a country
I'm not from.

To be judge
by the great law
For a lifetime
Without crime.

To knock, and knock
On the castle's door
To stay and wait.
The cold.

And yet I stand
Completely still
And full of fear.
Fear of losing faces
Fear of moving places
Fear of remembering
What might have been
And what shall become
After gone
And hoping for a lack
Of great beyond

Here I feel the great pains
Of loathsome tiredness
And see the great flies
seeking, the fouls state
Of unbearable paralysis

I can no longer stand
The regret and the anger
Nor can I accept beauty
And it's inherent sadness
For I´m just tired
Tired of life
And tired of it's pleasures

>so mad
>and yet nobody would suspect a samefag
>but you're totally chairman of the writers committee
you're not going to make it, precious.

well now I apologize to you for so harshly speaking to you, because you do know to degrees what you are talking about and you may have offered some good advice, but just the absolute certainty and pompousness, demeaning, belittling, cruel, as if a mean-girl cheerleader or some old demented wicked nun, your attitude may make people adverse to taking your advice, but we both know that is merely, well tragically, their loss. I did not write ether of those poems but here is the thing, I would be proud if I had even came up with 2 of the lines contained in there, multiply so considering many more. So it just naturally disturbed me to see someone (who I suspected there was even the possibility for the case to be a non writer them self) getting off by attempting to drag down and in any way make feel bad great writers

Eh, I felt "honey" is a realistic thing to say for the relationship and scene between them, but hey, my opinion.

Anyway thanks again user if you be the first critquer, this is a good sign I'm working on the right stuff for now! And I hope it'll be someone's favourite too someday!

Thanks again!

Alt-history story I'm working on for Veeky Forums and /k/, feel free to give your $0.02

A fearful voice weakly called out, begging and crying and pleading most piteously. Although the words were almost completely unintelligible, it was unmistakably a plea for mercy. Realizing the other occupant of the shed was not the enemy, he lowered his rifle and pushed the hammer back into the safe position. Watkins pulled himself up to the top and took a quick peek down to make sure he hadn’t been followed. Satisfied, he turned around and began approaching the shadowy figure, whispering his countersign, hoping it was a comrade. Either by understanding his words or noticing Watkins’ uniform was too filthy and ragged to be that of the other side, the apparition stopped crying. As Watkins began to approach the two tiny specks that shone like the eyes of a cat in the dark, the moonlight slowly drew back, revealing the unknown form. Watkins couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Was this a hallucination of the imagination? It was neither friend or foe he had stumbled upon, but a girl. Long and unkempt black or brown hair (the lack of light made it impossible to tell), blue eyes, no older than 16. Upon closer inspection, Watkins saw she was wearing a pink flower-patterned dress and barefoot. Her left breast was marked with a yellow six-sided star with the letters J, a pair of O’s, and D stenciled into the center. His attention then fell on her stomach...

It's swollen to the size of a basketball, at least eight months along. A smaller bump protruded where her naval should’ve been. At last, he comes face to face with her. No longer seeming to fear him, the girl stretched out her hand and offered Watkins to take it. Not knowing what else to do, he obliged and she quietly walked him past the corner to a hiding spot she's put together among the loose piles of hay. Taking a quick look around, Watkins noted that her only possessions were a small diary, fountain pen, pendant and a half-eaten carrot. He took off his knapsack, feeling relief as the weight left his shoulders, unclipped his M1840 from his belt, and put them both alongside his rifle in a nearby corner. The girl took a seat among the haystack, squirming and grunting from the discomfort of her stomach. “That must have been what I noticed” Watkins realized, “the poor gal can’t even find a comfortable way to sleep”. Watkins himself tried to sit down opposite of her but was immediately rewarded with a burning sensation in his back. Suddenly, he remembered he still had an inch-long piece of shrapnel still lodged in his back. It had been there the entire time but the rush and fear that pulsed through him for the past 12 hours had kept him from feeling it. Noticing his discomfort, the girl offered Watkins to sit next to her, where the hay would help cushion his back and prevent that damned twisted piece of steel from digging in any further. Gladly accepting, he moved and sat next to her, quietly whispering “thank you”. After a minute or two of dead silence, Watkins mustered up the courage to point to her and ask her name, hoping she’d understand him. Initially staring in confusion for several seconds, she suddenly had an epiphany and meekly replied
"Anne... Anne Frank”.

Anne Frank. Probably the first person he had met in this godforsaken country who had a name even remotely pronounceable. Seemingly summing up her own courage, Anne spoke in broken English "what you?" “Corporal Samuel Rush Watkins, 1st Tennessee Infantry, Company H", he was so used to introducing himself formerly to superiors he couldn’t help but include his unit, “nice to meet you”. “Co-pam-ee Ay-tch” Anne repeated, clearly, her proficiency with English was quite limited. “You can call me Sam.” After, a moment of wondering if he should ask, Waktins, hoping to break the tension and hide his own embarrassment, spoke up again in a joking manner "what’s a dear charmer like you doing here in the middle of the night?” Again, using his hands as a visual guide. Seeming to understand the question but not his sorry attempt at humor, Anne whispered "hiding from Duits”.

You are not Milton. Please stop. I was sick by the time I read the third line.

>uncultured swine
Dropped. Ironic cliches are still cliches. And people resort to cliches because they don't know what they wanna say or how to say it.

Ambrosia - Dom Fratto
Pure energy manifested in a glass, unrefined power, mixed into a sick yellow sludge. Every sip like sucking on a landline, feeling the electricity surge throughout my body.
Caressing and manipulating the world with my fingertips.
Shaping and forming reality with my thoughts.
Processing information at the speed of light.
Icarus they called me, soaring too close to the sun.
Wondering when I’ll ever come back down.
“Blasphemy” I shout from the heavens, more powerful than ever imagined.
A god walking amongst mere mortals.
But my wings they're clipped, my chalice empty and only utter darkness follows.
I no longer stride in the elysian fields but descend into the darkest corners of madness.
Falling from the heavens, clawing at the skies, dragging the mortals down with me.
Holding my head, bursting at its seams.
The stitches and patches gave way and out leaked my sanity.
Nights of endless insomnia, the image of a god burned into my retina.

Wrote this a long time ago but everyone seems to think it's the best thing I've written. Please tell me it's bad

Too chubby - swipe left - forehead dangerously close to a fivehead - swipe left - looks a bit like an alien - swipe left - looks like she could (and judging by that stern look, probably would) beat me up - swipe left - looks a bit too unhinged for my liking, nice taste in music though - swipe left. Just as I’m ready to give up on this stupid app, someone catches my eye: prominent cheekbones, sharp nose, feline blue eyes and what looks to be a decent rack - swipe right. My phone vibrates as a notification bombards my screen ‘You have matched with Amelia!’ Winner, winner chicken dinner.

This Amelia is at least a nine, not even Harry’s missus is a nine. The boys would be in bloody awe if I manage to land this bird. I do a quick skim through her bio and proceed to message her. ‘Hey’ is too boring, a pickup line would be trying too hard, ‘How are you?’ would make me sound like a square. I decide to go with the straightforward approach: ‘Doing anything tonight? Fancy going for a drink?’ I look back at the message and regret using the word ‘fancy’ - a tad too perky.

Now for the old waiting game. I put my phone down on the table and go back to tidying up this pig sty of a living room. I go to pick up the mop when the sweet sound of getting a notification attracts my attention. I manage to navigate the obstacle-course of shit in my living room and get to my phone.
‘Wow very forward. I like that.’
She likes that. Feeling a slight buzz, I continue with my cockiness,
‘7:30 at the Pine Inn work for you?’ A moment passes, then ding.
‘7:30 it is’. Well that was easy. I can see why Harry kept nagging me to get this Tinder thing now, I had always thought it was a load of crap but I guess not.

The time 6:45 and the Pine is about a fifteen minute drive. I’ve gotta look my best for this, because in all honesty, this Amelia girl is a bit out of my league. Can’t go wearing a suit though, after all it's the local pub I’m heading to, not the Hilton. I grab my pure white Ralph Lauren polo shirt, my new Calvin Klein jeans, my pristine Nike’s and then a Rip Curl beanie to balance it out - don’t want her thinking i’m a priss. After tidying up my beard and splashing my face with water I’m looking mighty fine. Amelia here I come.

The Path

Everybody wants it
Secretly
And to have it is to point a sword at your own neck

Everybody wants it
in their dreams
I had it and lost it forever

I had it and lost it forever

hmm this reads like its been written by somebody who has taken one creative course hosted by the local book shop... i.e. bad...

the humour doesnt carry it sorry

Elaine's on her laptop, online shopping now, always online shopping. Always with one tab open, an endless stream of clothes she never wears and no one ever sees. They’re nice clothes though, Mac thinks.

“Did you hear about the nuclear test?”

“Another? I think so.”

“Yes another. I think it could really mean war soon. They don’t stop, and they’re getting bigger, the tests.”

Mac just sits in silence, sucking at his Coke through a red straw, chewing the red straw.

“You know if it happens, it wont be you who gets sent over to fight. It’ll be me, or people like me, my friends, you know, young guys.”

“Doesn’t matter if they drop a nuke on us.”

“Why would they nuke us?”

“To send a message. I don’t know. We’re not strategic but we’re also not very well protected, plus there’s a lot of us here, the death toll would be massive.”

“I don’t think it’ll happen.”

Mac stands up. Elaine has four small cacti sitting on her windowsill, soaking in the modicum of light that parses through the blinds, and he tips a bit of his Coke into their black plastic pots. He watches the soil absorb the Coke, watches it darken slightly, the Coke run off and drip out of the bottom of the pots. Then he presses his hand against the spines of one of the cacti to see if they are sharp, and they are, but not sharp enough to break the skin of his thumb, and he presses harder, and harder, until he thinks if he pressed any harder it might actually break the skin, and this is where he stops. Then he turns his thumb around and inspects the little shallow dimple the spine has left. He can hear Elaine typing away on her laptop behind him.

Hating yourself is powerful
Like drinking from a cool well
You don’t know yet that the water is poisoned
But you soon will
I sit in the center of the burning house
And watch it char away
I’m protected from the flames that catch
But they burn me all the same

(Shit poetry after doing coke all night)

heh
i liked it user
though im drunk so maybe thats colouring my perception
its cheesy sure, but idk theres something about i just like
reminds me of Stevie Smith

>Winner, winner chicken dinner.
how old is this narrator fuck me
>Harry’s missus
>The boys would be in bloody awe if I manage to land this bird
Trying way too hard to sound like a British "lad"
>like a square
or an American greaser from the 50s?
>the old waiting game
I want to hit you
>pig sty of a living room. I go to pick up the mop
Don't living rooms typically have carpets?
>the sweet sound of getting a notification
Why would you ever phrase this like this
>I grab my pure white Ralph Lauren polo shirt, my new Calvin Klein jeans, my pristine Nike’s and then a Rip Curl beanie to balance it out - don’t want her thinking i’m a priss. After tidying up my beard and splashing my face with water I’m looking mighty fine.
More weirdly inaccurate caricature of a 'lad' who uses incongruous Americanisms.

i was heading towards the bathroom while the greatest blues guitarist drank himself to smithereens on a thankless friday night.
he drank himself below the bar and with a handful of diazapine, swallowed his way towards a eulogy on a thankless friday night.
i came back to the old bar stools where the lonely young men sit drinking alone together,
to find the greatest blues guitarist drunk to smitherines on a thankless friday night.
i paid his tip to the overgods, laying two slow silvers raw on his unkempt eyelids
salvete. salvete.
salvete, salud.
his fingers played me too.
they played crowded rooms full of strangers
at narcotic countertops asking "is this diderot?"
it is not.
it is the death rattle of the greatest blues guitarist.
who wore st. michael's mug down red-dummy clavicles,
above coke-bartered nasal wounds,
and a lip ring without salt,
who gave neck in the bathroom i had just walked out of
to find him at the bar in smithereens
on a thankless friday night.

the people at the bar hate the people at the tables
who come in groups of tight groups who come in shallow banks of bed and wall
but the greatest blues guitarist is a virgin.
as virgin as a saint
as virgin as god
he died.
he died to show us all that it was ok to die.
and now the people at the bar hold his head above the crowd and scream at the table people:
"fuck your heaven. and
fuck your désolé demons in all their private hells."
because the greatest blues guitarist survived on sandwich crusts and rust for 8 months straight and laid down cry-baby licks in his off time.
didn't you know?
they play his music on the jukebox now.
it's all been hemmed together by broken meat and the occasional condescension.
i light a candle every now and again
for the greatest blues guitarist
i light a candle every now and again
for no reason whatsoever

>is this parody

It is somewhat tongue in cheek, I do intend to play it straight though.

>slow down

Sorry bro.

I'll try to cut down on brackets but the implant is supposed to be its own character in a sense.

Thanks for the feedback.

>Pretty okay!

Needs work!

you're clearly just BPD and lonely, so nobody should listen to you on matters of taste or language. fuck off and whore in thread where people aren't working

Fuck you, I had a day where I wanted to write from the perspective of a scientist

Arcanology - The scientific study of the extra-scientific phenomena known as magic.

What we know so far:

We have gone through extensive effort to study the effect on the universe at large of the use of magic. What we have surmised is that magical phenomenon conjured into the physical universe by a magician or other magic user is the result of the transitive nature of magical energy. In layman's terms, a spell is the result of naturally flowing magical energy being manipulated in a specific manner. The same as energy in the physical universe cannot be 'used up', magical energy is simply taken advantage of as it flows, instead of being consumed. We surmise that it is simply easier to manipulate magical energy than it is to exploit physical matter or the energy that it is comprised of.

Complex Magic

Magic enjoys working in a complex framework. This is why ritual, arcane and especially curse magic are more powerful than others. When it is woven together to achieve a specific end, then magic is capable of much more. Complex frameworks are very difficult to weave and often require much from the caster. Godly beings or magic users whose minds can access larger amounts of their preferred medium can create them with relative ease and without incurring significant penalty. The average magician, however, must often give something of him or herself to provide the power necessary.

Most often this takes the form of a type of death magic, similar to necromancy. The caster must give up his or her own life force, shredding it to later weave together as needed. It is lamentable that sometimes, when under duress, one can also use a soul as a power source. No matter the aim of the spell, this magic is foul. One should never toy with their own, or another's, eternity no matter the circumstances. It may seem like an infinite well to draw upon, but it costs more than should ever be given.

Forming of a spell's framework can be done in a great many ways, depending upon the nature of the magic and the caster. Most often, as magicians most often use the arcane, it will be woven together through great effort and study over the course of many years. For those who use this method, choose carefully the nature of the spell. One will need to cast it a great many times, testing their frame bit by bit to remove all imperfections. Optimization of the frame can do wonders in making sure the spell isn't too costly. I once had a student who was able to draw upon a relatively small amount of power, but he had a gift with weaving together spells. He could create spells usually reserved for the strongest magicians, but would require little more power than an early student could access.

How do you practice writing? Are there any recommended books on learning the subject?

yeah this is terrible. there's absolutely no sense of subtlety in here

sorry user this is very bad...the inclusion of latin/ classical references doesn't magically make something good

pastebin.com/bGv3wArE

Any ideas where I should go from here?

I like it but it doesn't need breaks.

good stuff

dedicated paragraphs for impact is a bad idea

Find a better rhyming scheme next time

>winner winner chicken dinner
I laughed

Say what you will about King but On Writing is a great book on the craft

Wrote this when very drunk, fuck me up Veeky Forums
A girl grasps for her chosen's hand in a chaos of drunken instinct and human emotion. Eventually, their fingers meet, and they grab each other in an almost too human gesture of mutual longing, their enlarged pupils signaling their mutual longing for one another. Sexual or romantic in nature, the bond between them seemingly unshakeable despite the obfuscation of the alcohol running through both of their veins. For a second, they hold each other's hands, engrossed in their own lust. Quickly, oh so quickly, he pulls his Hand away from hers. He's too drunk to interpret signs for any definition of interpretation. She's too drunk to take his resignation as shyness, and assumes that he isn't into her. However, their alcohol addled minds forget their precious resignation and push them to hold hands again, which they end up doing. They're grasping for each other without looking at each other, holding individual pieces of wreckage as they float in the wreckage of he ship if their romance in the storm of their drunkenness. Eventually, their eyes meet, and they once again remember why their drink-addled mind had made them so attracted to one another. They fit, for now, like puzzle pieces that ALMOST fit together, with pictures that look similar but not of the same entity. These two aren't souls mates, but for now they are joined in something that is much stronger yet much less permanent than love. She draws her hand close to his, and he reacts by pulling h heir two hands into a ball up to his chin. He holds the entirety of their relationship there, whether he knows it or not. Their relationship, tenuous tho it may me, is contained, fully encapsulated, by that bringing of their conjoined hands up to his chin. The majesty of God's creation, of being and time and life and all those things he is too drunk to contemplate, are contained within that temporary display of lust and affection. He looks at her, and she looks back at him. They're too far gone to contemplate the future, and too drunk to regret the past. Their inebriation has led them completely to the present, to live within this present, this pregnant bubble that always seems just about to break into a million pieces with the slightest of provocations. They look into one another's eyes, sensing that lust and that naivety that their partner undoubtedly sees. They both know what is about to happen but tacitly, whether they know or not, agree to stay silent. The bus grinds to a halt, the lumbering behemoth being stopped in its tracks by what seems in the moment to be the sheer will of the bus driver. Neither know if this is actually their stop, but does it really matter? They both get off the bus, silently hoping that the other feels the same way about them as they feel about the other, the cold night welcoming them into its embrace.

Would read this novel. Only thing that bothered me was the wearing of a beanie.

sounds like a person at the table

Don't post shit without criticizing first and when you reply to something don't just say "i like it" or "I don't like it". Pattting someone on the back or saying you don't like it is moronic and helps no one except your sense of self importance. Criticize something like if you actually had a brain

half of this doesn't make sense and sounds like reddit-tier poetry. please try to emulate an actual poet. you're throwing around too many 21st century terms then sprinkling some milton-esque words on top of some /pol/-tier buzzwording.

Can I get some crits?

>Nicholas stumbled through dense underbrush, thorns cutting his calves in ornate patterns. Fear gripped him; he lost sight of his own direction. He rushed upon a creek bank, tumbled down in a great clamor, and knocked himself unconscious. Dazed, he awoke on a water-soaked moss bed. His eyes adjusted and he was horrified to see the lumbering bear which had chased him into the ravine. Panicking, he lobbed a stone, striking the bear clean between the eyes. With a roar, the bear tumbled down as he had. Continuing to flee, he dared not check if the bear was still alive.

The repetition of the short clauses, short sentences gets boring. Also you are relying too much on telling not showing. Don't tell me that fear gripped him, don't tell us he was horrified, don't tell us he was panicking - show us. Describe the way his breathing has changed, describe the way he's scrambling a bit more - maybe he grasps onto something only for it to give way and he falls further. This way you will make your reader feel as though THEY are running from a bear, rather than reading a wikipedia article about someone running from a bear - ya dig?

Yes alright, I see what you mean, you're right! Thank you!

For all we have and are,
For all our children's fate,
Stand up and take the war.
The Hun is at the gate.
Our world has passed away,
In wantonness o'erthrown.
There is nothing left to-day
But steel and fire and stone.
Though all we knew depart,
The old Commandments stand:
"In courage kept your heart,
In strength lift up your hand."

One day out on a lazy Sunday afternoon drive me and my family passed a dilapidated tennis court. The sprinklers were active and there were children playing in the park along side it. The tennis court itself was stained the colour of baked on boor water and there were weeds ground through cracks in the pavement. Right next door there was a bright blue tennis court, the old one long since being defunct and useless to play anything. It remained unused.

If that is the logic eventually we will get to the point at which they replace the old tennis courts to the extent that there will be eternal tennis courts, stretching out for millions of kilometers in each direction, all roads leading back to an epicenter of dead and dying birds. Tennis court ground zero.