/crit/ - Writing Critique

pastebin.com/uCTh1nUG
I critiqued a bunch of people in the previous thread, got no responses on this one.

Get more creative, writers jump at the change to describe pain and recovery because they can reach into the most basic forms of human emotion and draw out the most vivid and abstract feelings.

Dialogue is as said, some descriptions like the eyes as calculating orbs is bad, I like the cigarette bit.

I'd second the dude who criticized the verbosity of the dialog. It's in sharp contrast to my own, so it sticks out all the more. Also, easy on the adverb deployment. Overall, though, it's enjoyable and shows promise. I encourage you to continue on it.

Here's mine

Yeah I wasn't feeling this. Overwritten a bit. It's verbiage is swelled, I'd consider excising quite a bit and starting with what's left over. Throw in some dialogue/interaction and see where it goes from there.

>now critique mine
>it's an excerpt from a short story, don't worry about context

I wrote and would appreciate some more feedback. The story is going to center around the character being described leeching off starbucks wifi to download porn so I'm hoping the overdone prose will contrast nicely with the subject matter.

I like it quite a bit. My favorite line was the one about the various wednesdays. Some stray observations:
-"Deft" isnt really an adjective that tells me much about a facial expression. deft vs forgiving is not much of a contrast.
-"Allaying the irritation" - awkward.
-"like fate" - metaphor doesnt really fit for me - why would fate be tempting?
-"Blue light" to describe screens - a bit of a cliche, not strong enough an image to recur as many times as it does. You can do better.

Take care to vary your rhythm. You do a pretty good job of it already but don't be afraid to back off and include some short, simple sentences amongst the more elaborate ones. I need to remind myself to do this more too.

decent but i can't see a trucker getting a rat dog chihuahua

i agree that this is overwritten.

Stray observations:
You call company the "second necessity" but you never said that proper food was precisely a necessity.
Para 3: I'd like a bit of "show not tell" here. If theyre such an unlikely combination how did they become an "inseparable pair?" Were there any difficulties?
Para 10: Is that it? Does this encounter spur anything in the narrator? Is he so used to this sort of thing he forgets about it immediately?
Para 15: You need to work a bit more for the "comet" image. Put some more descriptive power into the end of para 11 and it will feel more earned.

I think the narrator's voice could be a bit more consistent. I feel like the type of person who avoids hot dogs and worries about getting "fat and depressed" is not the same kind of person who calls his SO "misses" and laughs about "lot lizards". If he's gonna be an atypical modern health conscious truck driver then commit all the way to that and drop some to all of anachronistic truckdriverisms.
Same person doing the critique as for karma's sake.

Read the whole thing. I enjoyed it, and I think it has potential but there are some things I would tighten up. The initial couple paragraphs could and should be cut. They provide a different tone to the rest of piece and it made me want to stop when the story left the matter-of-fact trucker checklist portion. I'm not sure if this is intentional or not either, but your character seems really disinterested in everything that happens and because of that I don't really give a shit either. You've got great moments here (especially the comet-cum-truck, great line by the way), but they feel blase and I by no means want to read more if the character reacts to these things so mundanely and doesn't muse or think about any of this. That being said, I believe this does of potential.

Ekphrastic piece on pic related. Don't know heaps about poetry so any and all critique is valued.

Down on his Luck

The paltry fire breathes smoke
that licks at the stumps of trees pencil-thin,
such as the cigarillos
sold by the tobacconist who models
the crestfallen

Swagman or prospector,
he sits in linen dyed the colour
of a lopsided horizon.

Removed of
self-pity, but jaded.
Swag an afterthought
to an idle stoking stick.
He knows there was no downed luck
accounting for empty sieve and sovereign,
no dice to throw.

The choices were his own.

please fuck me

The tiny party set a quick cabin on one thickest loin of ridge overlooking the stumbling eastland of green ahead, slept some hours together, and then awoke to set it back down and stretch themselves under the late stars like they always did, and then eat and share the quick lighting hours in silence and company, now quite familiar.
Urizel: 'This will be a campaign unlike any other yet in the story of man...'.
Illium: 'Hmm?', from over her service.
Urizel: 'Are they monsters?' Like a child, he was cracking his knuckles.
Illium only sipped.
Erloan locked his shins back, the last pieces of his slender regalia besides the face's plating.
Illium: 'I guess if anything is...'.
Urizel, with as unsure a nod, but sagely as his age might allow: 'Hm.'
Together they watched down at the forest, while Erloan clicked the whitemetal from his face and, trying not to appear to be observing them, drank the last of his own warm cup and unrolled it. With the warmth on his breath remaining, he offered unsurely: 'You really think we'll have a campaign?'
Urizel's glance in return seemed unusually sour.
'You don't think so?' said Illium, not meeting either's eyes.

I hate this, but I could see why someone might like this.

Kinda weird how you declare who is speaking as if it was a play. Besides that I like the prose, it fits the setting and is evocative
I really like the style and prose here. A great job of writing about contemporary technology saturated life. Reads like a confession from a schizotypal- in a good way.

I am an instrument to idea. Ideas which come from someplace I do not know and construct themselves into kingdoms I can not see in full, but can only examine a single pillar - a single window. Precisely when I feel myself to be the grand architect of this construction do I see myself in truth to be its janitor. And yet while construction is underway - I despair. I despair as I do not and cannot live within this kingdom, as one cannot live entirely inside of music. Still the only path forward is to write. But that path is dark inasmuch as the self is dark, as that is precisely where the path leads. That dark path to the self is entitled despair, but to walk that path is not to despair. The path remains, either it is walked upon or not - either the self is realized or it is not. Upon each difficulty I must not run away. To abandon this path is not to find an alternate, lighter path - but to abandon what lays in wait entirely. I write because I have to; I’ll be sick if I don’t - I am sick when I don’t. And in bouts of hating myself so too do I hate my writing, as to hate the distant object hidden among the horizon is to hate the path which leads to it. To not falter at the darkness is to not falter in sight of the self. Write damn you - what else are you good for? Self hatred and doubt will follow - what else are you good for?

I actually really like this. it paints a pretty vivid image and character without going into overly verbose or unrelatable territory.
There are some things I would change. The word tobacconist just bothers me becuase it breaks up the rhythm pretty harshly. i would perhaps focus on the symbolic or poetic possibilities of the cigarrillo, instead of deviating into the man who sold them.

Also the repetition of the word swag in such a short poem might upset some readers. I have no idea what a swagman is, so I would recommend finding a synonym. The last stanza is absolutely wonderful. Finally, I would simply say to make it livelier and longer. I feel the piece ends abruptly, though not inappropriately. Paint a fuller picture before you tell me his choices were his own.

happy revision user

pastebin.com/3Qudjvaq

Short story for my experimental fiction class. Not finished yet, but pretty advanced. Tear my ass up and thanks for reading.

And the truth is more frightening than faith has in store for you. For her and him is the capstone to the falling out of dreams in youth. She no longer dreams of anything but an end, which in dream is not unto death but an end to herself. A departure to someone else, to what she is not and what she will never be. Unto the bestowal of reminiscent tunes she danced to, yet all too aware that people watched. And watch we did a dance of conflict. A dance to be away from herself while all too aware of herself. I watched her dance strings of fervor and grace. I watched her dance. I sat drunk. I sat and I drank to understand her departure from self, and with each drink the blurred line became between the room and I. And the blurrier the line became the more I felt close to her. For her and him danced to the falling out of dreams in youth and I drank to end mine, drank to be something digestible. I stepped out onto the patio. Sporadic grouping of people smoking cigarettes filled the patio. Immediately I left for the curb, a girl with dyed blue hair knelt over the curb puking guttural sounds as if scattering her flowers unto a grave of innocence. The demeaned position of this pale girl was closer to me than the sporadic grouping of faux garbage despair littering the patio. I sat onto a wet wooden step (sat being too nice a word as the reality was closer to a slump, a stumble, a fall). Her knees and hands soaked with the nearly melted snow, faux garbage despair took no notice. I continued to watch her for some time, as she took some time before finally trying to stand up. In deciding whether to help her or not she managed to take stand, and looked around to see if those she came with were there. Her face exuded a desire for end, a desire to be picked up out of the position in reality she took and to be placed elsewhere: less drunk cold and alone. And just when I saw despair leaking from this girl’s existence is when I was disgusted by her too. Disgusted by her despair and disgusted by faux despair, worn as aesthetic. Surrounded by people and disgusted by all of them I was surrounded by people and disgusted, by all of them. And I was one of them. And I was too drunk. And I wondered what faith had in store for me and if faith would stop me from getting into these same positions. If faith could be what would pick me out of this position and place me elsewhere. If faith could make me not cold. Camille danced inside but I left. I left and what good would it have done for me to stay? For me to go back inside and melt into the couch miserable and drunk and disgusted by overwhelming presence and closeness of people. So I left. I left and that was all.

shoo shoo schizo poster

Well hello there Thomas Shitgotti

It's spelt "unselfconscious," I googled it, then I realized it was all a gag. Nice.

I noticed some of your sentences don't start with a capital for some reason, same with constant full stops at the wrong places. Is this all still part of the gag? Because if it is, I reckon there are better ways of doing it than this - it's all kinda distracting; makes me want to go back and say "huh?"

Also some paragraphs would be nice, it feels like I'm blazing through this guy's life story. Is this being written like he's autistic or something?

I feel like there is some kind of thing you're setting up here; like a toddler is speaking, hence the "Slurred and choppy" speech. Just as said, I can understand why someone else might like this sort of thing, authenticity for one (though I wouldn't know it enough to critque that). I, personally, find it rather distracting and think such quirky language can be accomplished without butchering the grammar.

Mine is pic related and a further pastebin if you want more. Some slight changes though to the pic related: pastebin.com/PGEx5y4A

The first half of this reads like a play, and the latter doesn't. I'm confused. Cut some of your adverbs, they do not read well. Also

> locked his shins back

what does this even mean?

...

>Elvira
Reminds me of Elvis, tbqh. I don't like the ellipses, only Pynchon pulls them off for me.
>Mr Colbert
Two scoops lol
>she said pointing wand
She said, pointing her wand?
Learn how to indent your paragraphs, go into paragraph settings and do "First Line". This is a little hard to read without indents. I can say it's not my kind of genre, but I think you write well enough.

Wrote this shitty poem yesterday while I was lying on bed tryna get over this mufuggin flu. I don't think I'll do anything out of it, but whatever.

Can I post something political here? It is mostly plagiarised. I'll go ahead and do it.

-

The text below is heavily influenced by that drafted by Bakunin before being accepted by a public meeting of the international alliance for socialist democracy. That being said, there are some changes. It can be said that this political philosophy is Anarcho-Collectivism with pagan characteristics. It is an agricultural society, not a techno-industrial one.

-

The Alliance declares itself Pagan; it seeks the resuscitation of historic religions and the substitution of an agricultural society for a techno-industrial society.

Above all it wants the abolition of economic castes and the economic leveling of individuals of both sexes, and to obtain this goal, it demands above all the abolition of the right of inheritance, so that in future all should enjoy their productivity equally. All forms of capital should become the collective property of society as a whole, and should be used only by agricultural associations.

It wants equal means of development for children of either sex, from birth and for life. This will result more and more in the greater natural equality of individuals.

Above all it rejects any political action that does not have as its immediate and direct objective the triumph of international socialism over capitalism.

It recognises that all states of every land should disappear in to a universal union of free agricultural associations.

A real and definite solution to the social question can be found only on the basis of an international solidarity of workers of every land.

In short, it seeks the abolition of a techno-industrial society, the abolition of economic castes, the replacement of private with collective property, educational equality, international socialism and a stateless society.

It's an empty manifesto, not even going to touch on the actual politics of it. It lacks rigorous definition of terms. What are "historic religions"? Even Scientology is historic.

Is eliminating inheritance the only thing you will do to promote total equality? What is society going to be? Collective agricultural associations? How will they organize?

What is the point of this writing overall? This type of political philosophy has already been exhaustively defined and described, like more than a hundred years ago, what are you bringing to the table? If I want a manifesto I'll read Marx, if I want anarcho texts I'll go straight to the source and read Bakunin. Also the irony of posting agriculturally, anti technology politics on an image board is real.

And I will critique the politics while I am here, contemporary thought has moved far past this shit. Read Hakim Bay/Peter Lamborn Wilson for some more realistic prospective on anarchism in our current state. Going primitive will kill billions of people and leave us with a mess that we would no longer have the tools to clean up. Going back to these ideas, especially by directly cribbing them is gay.

Here we are again
on an empty road,
on the blackest night,
with no one in sight.

The last time we met
it was an empty threat.
none of that this time.
the sound rings,
we are clipped by the metal
and we're dead.

Historic religions refer to pre-christian paganism, specifically. I thought that was made obvious by the alliance declaring itself pagan.

>Is eliminating inheritance the only thing you will do to promote total equality?
As I posted later, I wish to replace private with collective property, provide equality within education [this means all people attend the same institutions] and replace international right-Liberal capitalism with international socialism on Anarchist terms as defined by Bakunin, which my political philosophy is very similar to.

>What is society going to be?
It will consist of an international federation of communes whose boundaries are defined by their ability to practice autarky, run by agricultural associations of the proletariat.

>Collective agricultural associations?
>How will they organize?
The associations will be erected within the right-Liberal system, but external to the centralised parliamentary system. Once there is overwhelming support in each potential commune, the associations will organise the dissolution of the state and centralised parliamentary system and replace it with a stateless decentralised system of associations.

>What is the point of this writing overall?
To incorporate respect for pagan traditions and agricultural society in to the political philosophy of Anarcho-Collectivism. To destroy the techno-industrial dystopia.

>what are you bringing to the table?
The resuscitation of pagan traditions and the fight against the techno-industrial dystopia.

>If I want a manifesto I'll read Marx, if I want anarcho texts I'll go straight to the source and read Bakunin.
And yet neither of those have incorporated what I just mentioned.

>Also the irony of posting agriculturally, anti technology politics on an image board is real.
And Industrial Society and its Future also finds it largest audience from PDF readers.

Thanks for the tip, user. :)
Oh and two scoops, indeed, lol.

Only the last streaming dregs of blackstorm chuckled down the mega panes of the worn-dark pleasure dome, hardly audible to Eighteen above the ripping, steel silence she found herself ever more deeply embracing. The sirens throughout the district and its higher neighbors dimmed to their death, and the sound of an immature traffic at median and lower levels returning hummed the hall panels beneath her black soles, though she still let them make no noise as she stalked and stooped further intoward the dead structure's heart.

my newest poem, i need help w/ it,
docs.google.com/document/d/1oQpPZl1xTJoAit_uEy2bJ3cdNKByzDLfsimh-ude2pU/edit?usp=sharing
won't fit if i type it all out

Why so many line breaks?

What can i improve about my prose? I've never written anything non-academic previous to this.

Bearing in mind it's just practice, and that i doubt i'll develop it further.

I'm this guy. Forgot to comment on other peoples.

I really like this, would read.

I personally dont mind overwritten. I think you do it quite well, but im not sure how that claim would fare after 50+ pages of something like this.

Prose is alright, readable at least. Use paragraphs. Ditch the caps. That's the kind of thing that should be used sparingly, a sentence every couple dozen pages at most.

Though I will say, this is obviously written by someone who has never lived in the ghetto — no one would pop off shots because some bum fucked with their mail.

Damn you caught me out, i'm an upper middle class british kid. Thanks for the feedback though.

Thanks for the feedback, user. Much obliged. I might post a revised version in the next crit thread if I'm happy with my fiddling.

Rate my prose:

Bappy-go-gully and gaff for us all! And all his mortise calisenic, tripping a trepas, neniatwantyng: ulo Mulelo! HomoHumilo! Dauncy a deady O! ood dood dood! O Bawse! O Boese! O Muerther! O Mord! Mahmato! Moutmaro! O Smirtsch! O Smertz! Woh Hillill! Woe Hallall! Thou Thuoni! Thou Thaunaton! Umartir! Udamnor! Tschitt! Mergue! Eulumu! Huam Khuam! Malawinga! alawunga! Ser Oh Ser! See ah See! Hamovs! emoves! Mamor! Rockquiem eternuel give donal ye in dolmeny! Bat luck's perpepperpot loosen his eyis! (Psich!).

But there's leps of flam in Funnycoon's Wick. The keyn has passed. Lung lift the keying!

God save you king! Muster of the Hidden Life!

God serf yous kingly, adipose rex! I had four in
the morning and a couple of the lunch and three later on, but your saouls to the aoul, do ye. Finnk. Fime. Fudd?

No worries user. Glad to help. I'd appreciate it if you could review my story. It's way longer than what you wrote and it ain't done, but it'd be nice.

Here
Thanks

We are all racing birds;
we win to be back caged.
I don't know if you've heard,
but all the world's a stage.

***

I tread the rigid boards
and bend myself instead.
Another curtain call;
another ego fed.

The limelight comes and fades;
the sweat falls from my brow
now everybody cheers,
another perfect show.

****

You will never make it,
you know that this is true.
The flowers on this stage
will die along with you.

Death is making it, user.

Sure thing, I'll also admit that a few of the american geographical (and cultural I guess) references were lost on me.

That being said, this was very well written, (might be the best prose piece ITT) and your ability to create atmosphere was impressive. The second, third, and final paragraphs do this best and I enjoyed it thoroughly.

There were a few sentences that I found a bit clunky.

> Wonder if ratmen live under manholes armed with dry-ice blowers flooding the neighborhoods in smoke
>The fog and your clothes feel made of lead

Stuck out particularly. Feel free to disagree.

Also, a lot of your images seem to come and go, which was a shame. The idea of ratman blowing smoke from gutters stood out, in particular, and it was a shame that it was a one of. Similarly with the southern actress conjured up with a name. I'd like to see these kinds of things expanded upon, or even just given a second, later mention.

Also the mention of the body in the fourth paragraph and the way you play with its meaning seems integral to the piece, but kinda of came out of nowhere. It's a motif that's developed *really* well following this, but I think you need to lead into it a little better. Honestly, I can't offer you any suggestions, though.

Second person works fantastically, which is a feat I rarely see.

Not much else to say really. This was legitimately a great read. Thanks for sharing.

Will post shortly

I don't really get it. The speaker is a performer who feels empty after the limelight is off of him? And then proceeds to attack the reader? Or is he just unfulfilled?
Seems either incomplete or you're trying to make the syntax classically difficult which is useless. I've read it a few times and I'm not getting much more out of it. Feel free to explain it if I'm missing something.
Also what does it mean to be back caged?

This is a bad FW impression?

Agree with the other user, use paragraph breaks and ditch the caps. Use adjectives and description to create tension and drama and volume, not just caps.

don't care too much for a reply, just throwing shit out there.
how do you feel about sentence fragments as a component of style? (sentence fragment=only the independent clause)

Christmas Eve, and throes of snow hitting windows, the street: the world sinks in it. It was all being watched, as he watches everyone, under the tons and tons of weight, there and everywhere. Fog on the windows. Outside: animals curl up in themselves, a man hurries up the driveway to his home—heated, thankfully, by the crackling fireplace—trees stiffen. The down comforters and tacky knitted blankets curving up her shoulders; breaths are shallow, and there is no movement.

Brief excerpt from something I've been working on.
I don't love it but I wrote it recently so I'm curious what others think.

From a narrative perspective this was really dull. Your prose isn't strong enough to make up for the lack of any prominent plot setting.

hm i dunno whenever i read this in book i usually don't like it but it's fine i guess

Thanks user, I'm glad you liked it. I had not considered tying in Lilian Gish to the rest of it, but the piece isn't finished, so I think I could include that and tie it in in the part where the character is leaving, if I made her pretend like everything was fine until it wasn't.

I love those ratmen, will have to find a way to mention them again as well. I hadn't thought of the fourth paragraph coming out of nowhere but I will consider easing the reader in a bit.

Thanks a ton for your reading and suggestions. Happy editing my friend!

I was the last post in the previous thread. Could i get critique for my three-Act writing practice? And am i on the right track for being a script writer or should i actually be writing formal novels? Sorry for newfag question. Gonna do another writing exercise soon.

Wow. this sounds fucking nasty. But i feel like i know a girl like this, so i like the introduction. I'm kind of clueless what direction this story is going to go; like if its a life drama? Is it going to be Gish's feelings towards sex.

i was a bit interested in the context of the poem, but nothing else stood out. Maybe add a specific detail to focus on?

What could be improved prose-wise?

I see the barges floating on the bay
They are close, yet always far away.
On these boats to distant lands I would go
To oraries, cities, mountains capped with snow
Oh, the lives I'd live in such distant lands.

Yet here I am, standing in icy sand
The sun is setting, I must return home.
A cold gale blows, smells of sea salt and foam.
I look back at those barges on the bay
They are close, yet ever farther away.

>This is a bad FW impression?
It's an actual excerpt from FW

U still there bro? I can do it if you are.

>The girl's eyes widened, her fists were balled.
should be "the girl's eyes widened and she balled her fists" or it's just a comma splice.

Other guy gave good critiques. As an elitist faggit, the voice is kind of chafing me, but I don't really mind. You're tellin a story, that's cool... it's GOIN somewhere... RIGHT?

Anyway, make it go somewhere more, I'd probably read more. Theemz N' Shit

>first sentence is passive voice

That aside, whatever more I read was just lame unorganized mush with lots of disgusting shit thrown in. You're smart enough to know better (boom ended it with praise so you got the positive affect goin)

>It's verbiage is swelled
>

As for the work you posted... it's overwritten. I actually paid attention when you said "It all seemed so heavenly, so peculiar." That's a nice line, and it doesn't seem like an accident.

Unfortunately, I think you gotta do some more mining before you get to the core of yourself. Or maybe less? You might be compacting an expansive poetic impulse into short form due to laziness... or trying to speak when there's nothing there... I don't know what's up.

Ok. You need to be more clear. As if you were talking to an idiot--something most readers are, at least until you wrangle them in. I say move more vernacular. I don't know what this mess of a post is. This halloween shit is fuckin me up.

>thickest loin
wtf

Otherwise I reserve judgment due to personal bias against >fantashit

I hate to pull this knife on you. But this reads like something I'd find on reddit. You may fuck me up. Call me a liar. Say I'm a bad, bad man. But that's just what I feel.

You know what? I just realized it's fantasy. So go ahead, do whatever you want.

this is tight, "stink" is jarring and juvenile though, and the clipped line breaks are frustrating. I dunno what'd be lost if you let the lines roam...

I actually got a little attached to it. Prose is a bit rough some times, though. Missing "that"s that would make it scan, or whatever. Also, you gotta paragraphinate.

better than most, but needled down by little errors.

It's 18th Century France, the character is supposed to be a psoriatic Marat. Do you know who Voltaire is?

Hitting y'all with an aphorism

The utterly fascinating thing about conspiracy theories (Illuminati, New World Order etc.) is that it reveals the shadow side of modern society. Every cloud has a silver lining, every movie a happy ending... these platitudes no longer seem to be true in the slightest. It is now the opposite: Total Evil exists, and it is ruling. And what a blasting realisation this is, unlike any in documented history, akin to being kicked out of the Garden of Eden.

Tolling the Drums
Tolling the drums of
An abyssal song
Reverberating like small ants
Upon weathered bones


This is each stroke
Of the pen.


A low hum over the trees
With hazy-eyed shapes
Rising from tents
Cars
And beds
Orange light beaming throughout
Like shattered glass.


With dark yawns and cracked knuckles
Shaggy hair and river-morning songs.


These are the trials
Of play-pretend.


Each minute spent a phantom from
The desks and sanitary doors
Supine in the dirt
As a foreigner to the floors


Each sound reliant of silence
No noise a noise
Sitting still you're found
Pulled out from beneath industrial voice.


Toll the drums
Abyssal
Parts of you
abandoned in the
Underworld rivers


Escape the drone --
the thief of your soul --
Break and burn in the green
Unclothed to the April shivers.


Do you prefer these rhythms hard
With scheduled endings and beginnings?
Would you rather like to venture far
Is your life written as you're willing?


Stop here, look out there
A map unmarked for miles
Pathways uncharted upon the Earth
In our minds we are anywhere.


Yes, to be lost in a vile storm
Is to never be found by the past
But to remain moored from the calling sea
Is a peace that will never last.

Lacking soul

most of this I actually enjoyed, and had pretty good flow.

Something I wrote: I'm molding. Thin lairs of dust are filming over my retinas, my cataracts are like chunky milk and there is a sticky substance protruding out of my pours. Old placard of antiquity wraps around my waist and squeezes my bladder shut. My feet, tired, sinks in like soggy wood and my fingers rusted like used handrails. When I look around my spine twists and shrieks like cable car wire. Meals are continuously harder, teeth are jagged, broken glass, and my taste buds have been sanded down to sawdust, pink sawdust. I am almost ritualistically melted daily by the monstrous casino neon and soon I will become a thick paste and fill in the cracks of main street. The industrial resurrection.

Beholden to;
How uncordial is that tether
That suspends this form
Over lowest Cocytus

Through rain and snow the pioneer forged his path. Through mountains and forests, jungles and deserts, to the twilight sun that lay west. And under his weathered hood, for the first time in months, he noticed the silhouetted shape of a city on the horizon. He set out for it, the harsh trek down into the valley wearing at his feet, and as he got closer the sweet smell of pork brushed his nose, and he found himself driven by it, thrusting his staff forward with an increasing urgency at the prospect of food and shelter and warmth, that is, until he came to the city’s walls.

He found it difficult to move, his head felt light. For there, under the city’s great arched gate, carrion birds competed for a meal. Once he shooed off the birds, they left him to the sight of a blackened corpse. Fabric clung to it like they were once clothes, his helmet lay beside him, a bowl of red-black mush. And then the pioneer keeled and threw up his lunch over the dust.

He got up and resolved to keep going, to ignore whatever he might see ahead. And holding his cloak about him as to cover as much of his body as possible, he journeyed through a maze of ruined buildings and held his nose at the howling blasts of foul air that bounced through it.

The next site he saw was the body of a mother and child, she seemed to still cradle her baby, as if to protect it. And then he saw more and more bodies, until none seemed to stand out and they all were background to him. But then he noticed a store, and he crept towards it, opening its creaking door only by a crack, so as to not alert the source of the calamity.

He found boxes of rations and the occasional tin. Clothing too, he found aplenty, but he left it alone, taking only what he needed, and nothing else.

After a while of stumbling through the narrow streets he found they all pointed to a great square, and judging by the remnants of what he made to be stores, he thought it a marketplace. And after finding nothing useful in each of the stands, he found a fountain that still held its water. His waterskin was quite empty, and the water smelt suspiciously of rust, but he had no choice, he filled it, taking short sips so as not to overwhelm his parched tongue.

Adrift in sea a human boat
Myself to lift truth's vital veil
Propelled on airy love I float
To life anew I set my sail

The brackish water, thought impure
Dilution of a mind I fear
But with the water calm and clear
The sea itself becomes obscure

And fear abandoned, goal cast out
The sea returns to fill the whole
That life anew exists throughout
The ocean indistinct from soul

Just to be clear, I’m not a professional ‘quote maker’. I’m just an atheist teenager who greatly values his intelligence and scientific fact over any silly fiction book written 3,500 years ago. This being said, I am open to any and all criticism.

‘In this moment, I am euphoric. Not because of any phony god’s blessing. But because, I am enlightened by my intelligence.’"

Eh?

Stop posting without responding newfags

>please fuck me
*unsheathes dick*

>Learn how to indent your paragraphs, go into paragraph settings and do "First Line."

Like this senpai?

Oh shit I broke off right before there. Yes I do. Ok well disregard everything then.

that "Eh?"

the finishing touch that makes it perfect

please critique this

>: Veeky Forums creative writing is all about elevating your mundane, sexually-frustrated, NEET-adjacent life experience to either raw, gritty, nicotine-stained existentialist truth or comic overwritten modernist pastiche
So LARPING the 1950s?

Pathetic.

>Tips flatcap

Soon that bitch at the pharmacy is going to have to go. The way she says, “Next! Come on! Come on!” makes me want to get up, look her dead in the eye and fucking wrap my hands around her neck and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze.... right up until her windpipe is about to snap in half. Then I'll let go and let her gasp for air just for my amusement. When that wares itself out I'll finish her off with a 360 twist of her old cunty neck. The fluttering sensation I'll feel go down my spine once I see her eyes roll in the back of her head, whilst froffying white foam bubbles up in the corner of her mouth. If I'm lucky enough the whole thing might make me hard. What? What the fuck are you looking at? Oh I guess this is my fault? It always is, right? I'm sick right? Well I guess you better treat me. Perhaps it’s better if I just do it and get it over with. Probably have to blame it on the pills again when they throw my ass in prison. Fucking shit. Why am I at the god damn pharmacy all the fucking time? Maybe if my doctor didn’t give me 40 antidepressants I wouldn’t have to be here so often and contemplate strangling the shit at out of that cunt. I do my fucking part. I go out. I try to be social. None of it fucking works. Why should I have to control my inner impulses? I’ve done all I’ve could. Why don’t they do their fucking job? Give me something that works. Don’t just give me bullshit platitudes for me to complete and pump me full of god damn magic pills when your “advice” doesn’t work. Fuck it, I’ll probably just do my evening walks til she starts running then call it a night.

A familiar color brightened the scene that morning ; the ever comfortable vermilion, splattered across everything pale in the living room. This included her friend who was laid in the middle of the rug, much too still for her tastes. Much too still for who they were, to be honest, Poppy wasn't used to Eris being nothing so early. . . like, the other should've been in the kitchen struggling with the stove right then, twisting and untwisting the dials all while complaining about Poppy's refusal to 'just drive them to Waffle House'.

Yet, as she'd observed before, her pal had made a bed of the rug. Red smeared across their cheeks, sunk into the grooves of their palms, crusting away into a brown on their shirt, why? A tilt of her head and she sees red on the ceiling. A glance around the room and the stuff is on the walls, the couch . . .

"Literally what happened here?"

i'm struggling with this. how do i write action? i want to write a scene where she approaches her friend but i'm a bit fuzzy on how to do that :/

also, crits please.

Hektor, the fairly tall, pale skinned and black haired heir of House Sea, a family that works for the Navy in Greece, was in his chambers studying fencing in books in preparation for his tutor, Stense Fulgur, to train him once again in the ways of swordsmanship. Hektor needed whatever preparation he could get for his training with Stense, as Stense was one of the foremost masters of the sword in the entire known world, rumored to have traveled the world to perfect his style.

Hektor’s deep focus was broken by a banging on the door. Hektor roused from his studies and went to open the door, revealing the visage of a man rapidly approaching middle age wearing a dark blue coat over chainmail and a blue bandana. It was none other than Hektor’s teacher in the way of the sword, Stense Fulgur. Hektor was surprised by the sudden and unannounced visit directly to his room made by Stense.

“Get your weapon, I’m going to see if you’ve been practicing in my absence.” Stense ordered to Hektor. Stense was a sly, ill-tempered man who was often bereft of words.

“Nice to see you too, Stense.” Hektor said sardonically.

The two men made their way to the courtyard of the manor and drew their swords. Hektor used a longsword with long crossguards that he wielded in a two-handed grip, and Stense used a curved sword that he kept in its holster. The curved sword was alien to Europeans and the fact Stense kept it holstered instead of drawn was even more bizarre.

“Go on, Hektor, see if you can defeat an old man without a sword drawn” Stense goaded Hektor. Hektor brought his longsword down on Stense with vertical slashes, which Stense swiftly dodged with wily speed. With a flash of steel, Stense’s sword was drawn and was rapidly slashed inches away from Hektor’s body.

“Dead.” Stense said while sheathing his blade.

“You favor power over technique, useful when fighting fodder, but a master will cut you apart before you even strike.”

“I’ll take your words to heart, master Stense, but I’m afraid I must depart. The whole family is going on a sailing expedition to Rome. I don’t know when I’ll be seeing you next, but I’ll be a much better fighter by then.” Hektor said to Stense.

“You better keep that promise, Hektor, because there aren’t many fighters who can put up a challenge for me left in the world.” Stense said to Hektor.

haha show don't tell :))

Destroy me /crit/

what

needs more goofs and/or gags

If I was writing a comedy, yeah.

i only read your first "act 1" and it's borderline unintelligible. i could max out this post pulling apart all the errors you made in three sentences

how did everyone miss this? this is really good. a couple of things to tinker with (and the metaphysical stuff is a *tad* overcooked) but overall deserving of numerous scooby snacks. the best story I've ever seen posted in any of these threads, no lie.

utterly without merit. it is impossible to imagine more uninteresting and stilted writing. this could put me to sleep if I were on fire. 0/10.

Not enough pretentious figurative language?

I'm not a good writer, so take what I say with a grain of salt.

The two problems that stood out for me was too much exposition, and you keep repeating the same things.

Very good. Might want to make your font bigger or the indent smaller since the ratio is a bit much. Much easier to read now anyway.

No real need to start a new paragraph unless it's intended to show a break in plot or consciousness, or whatever. There's no rules with that though.

Well I don't really know how to avoid exposition when you're writing the first page of a story with original characters. And I guess I repeat the fact that he's going to be training a little bit. That can be fixed pretty easily though but thanks for pointing it out.

I'm not him, but allow me to interpret the responses to your work thus far:

This response is needlessly shitposty, but it is truthful. You put in dialogue what should be inferred or symbolized.

Your line, “You favor power over technique, useful when fighting fodder, but a master will cut you apart before you even strike,” has the master telling the student his skill, when it could be inferred from a description of the fight. Something like "Hektor swung to and fro, a hit mark could have moved mountains, but he did not hit his mark. Stense evaded, knowing he could have ended it at any time, but showed mercy to his student." Because you do not 'show' this, or anything else for that matter, your dialogue is boring 'telling' and your action has nothing to show.

This post tells you that it needs something from a genre for which you didn't right is an inadvertent way of saying that what you wrote doesn't do what it sets out to do, which is to establish a form for the characters, or give them life. You describe what happens and why, like a lawyer laying out a scene in the most objective way possible before the attorneys try to bend it. You're telling a story, give it LIFE.

This guy is saying you write like a bureaucrat:
Man of this description and history approaches this man of this description and history, "they say these exact words", this is exactly what happens, "they talk about what just happened."
You must keep in mind that, if someone tells you that what you wrote is without merit, it probably is. The first lesson in any teaching is humility, after all.

That being said, you're right in that it doesn't have enough pretentious figurative language. Like any tool, figurative language is defined by those who wield it. If you go overboard without substance and speak in symbols, it's going to be pretentious unless you're a literary god.
Don't say "Stense is a sly, ill-tempered man who was often bereft of words," show it. Have Hektor make a joke, be sarcastic or sardonic, and show Stense's reaction to it as such. Build a pattern over an interaction.
Don't say "Hektor brought his longsword down on Stense with vertical slashes, which Stense swiftly dodged with wily speed." Say "Hektor attacked with heft and force overhead, as Stense danced between flurries of steel."

Exposition is 'telling'.