Old thread: Just looking for some general critiques on the flow and timing. Feel free to post your own work, I'll try to critique as many as I can. Anyway, here's something I've been working on the last week:
Oh staunchéd rod of old, Why art thou now so limp and cold? Has desire fled from thee? Or art thou anxious to be free Of love's quick flame so Quickly quenched? Will you lift your head again? And if 'yes' please, rod, tell me when.
It's antiquated sure, but just doesn't get the joke. In light of that, good job OP. Here's my excerpt: New York by Amanda Eckhardt I have a comfortable life. I wake up every morning and refresh every page. I experience the same thing each morning. I brush my teeth and hear the serene bubble of the percolator in my coffee maker. I can sense the roar of crowds from my apartment window when the Accused is paraded around town on walks of shame. The Accused goes by a different name each week. Despite this, The Accused never ceases to be the share the same meaning as the previous Accused. The first week the kangaroo courts issued an edict denouncing the top 1% of wealthy New Yorkers. Public action was demanded immediately, and public action was answered immediately. Many fled to the Hamptons. Few were not so lucky. Before you ask, no executions occurred, but an execution of a different type was used. The Accused have to forfeit all private property and land holdings in order to gain the privilege of standing trial. There was no burden of proof. All that was required was an accuser, which the Social Justice Tribunal could produce at a moment’s notice with little or no hassle. Once The Accused has gone through the process of self-purification, their character is thoroughly assassinated, and then they are promptly sent to reeducation therapy at an undisclosed location in the great expanse of the American West. Week 1 after the great upheaval, the top 1% were rounded up and put on trial. During Week 2, due to petitions by the mayor, the edict was altered for the persecution of the top half of the top 1%, or the top 0.5%. The next bump in the road occurred on Week 3, when a distant relative of our Great Leader, was put on trial. A day after his character assassination, the charges were dropped, and the Social Justice Tribunal erased all records of his trial. Almost immediately after the erasure of his records, the Social Justice Tribunal issued an edict declaring immediate action against the top one-third of one-half of 1%. This didn’t work particularly well. People who persecuted the top one-third of one-half of 1% were already seen as absurd and unfashionable. The general consensus was that those “in the know” knew that prosecuting the top one-half of one-third of one-half of 1% was the authentic battle to wage.
Sebastian Wright
>never ceases to be the share the same I think you went back and edited this poorly. >Week 1, Week 2, etc. Just say "One week after," "second week," etc. >or the top 0.5% I don't know why you add these details, just makes it more nitpicky. >Great Leader My eyes rolled. I understand this is some communist revolution, but nearly no communist would call themselves this in English. Go for something like Secretary General, or something ironically 'humble'. No party leader is called "Great leader" or "dear leader," it only translates that way if you want to skew it. It's okay, not particularly interesting. I suggest you read about the September Massacres to see how popular violence actually occurred. Lots of this proletarian justice killing is poorly represented now, you don't need to make up some cringey shit to depict it.
>Here's my excerpt: It was a stormy afternoon when Karly Marxer looked outside the window. His school trunk brimmed with all his school things: a stolen toothbrush, an enchanted map of London, several cheques he’d inherited from his father-in-law, and a copy of Hegel’s The Phenomenology of Spirit and Wizardry, which he’d never read but had bent its spine. He had made sure to check his dreary London apartment, which was disgusting since he was a NEET, for any spare razors. Even though Karly was young, he had a large beard over his face that he’d forgotten to shave during the holidays. Professor Feuerbachonachall disliked his beard and would have him taken to the Head Dialectician, Professor Hegeldore, if they saw it. Approaching the mirror, rusty razor in hand, Karly nicked at his cheeks. It didn’t hurt since he was chanting the Vangardium Contradictosa spell, which pretty much meant that feelings didn’t matter in way of Science. When Karly Marxer approached the 1 ¾ International Platform, he heard . He was wearing his Lumpen clothes, so none of the dirty, counterrevolutionary Lumpen would suspect. They were never admitted into the revolutionary world since they couldn’t achieve class consciousness. Friedald Engelsly saw him and barked out.
Chase Gutierrez
>When Karly Marxer approached the 1 ¾ International Platform, he heard . What the fuck >since he was a NEET Even though this is satire, I feel a physical pain whenever I see internet memes included in people's writing. It just gushes with an adolescent lack of originality Also it's obvious you're a leftist. Not a committed sentimentalist, but one of those real "shit of the earth" types who share "dank communist memes" on Facebook and have no job. The first paragraph is fucking incredible. Especially this sentence > I brush my teeth and hear the serene bubble of the percolator in my coffee maker. You seem immensely talented at generating a mood, which is why the second paragraph suffers. The second paragraph is rough. I would suggest you put Amanda within the actual events of the situation rather than her skimming over a general outline of what happened. Here is my contribution: Coke exploded at the beginning of that pivotal year. I felt as though I had been riding the crest of some wave that had been slowly collecting momentum under my feet since that virginal and fateful street-corner sniff skyrocketed me into my current self. New Year’s fireworks had me fumbling in the bathroom for a box of baggies. I sold over $4000 worth that night at an unprecedented party fueled not by proteins or carbohydrates, but rather, the momentum that came with a kilo of coke. We were all aboard a weathered ship that night, looking for a great white whale, with me as captain.
Blake Johnson
I actually like it.
Brandon Adams
Why are there 2 crit threads at the same time?
Adrian Adams
It's nice, kinda reminds me of Blake's "The Sick Rose" + I always dig the old forms.
As for my piece:
“The Immolation”
So many thoughts swirling in the head. Squirming around, a shoal of eels. One could wish to simply go to bed. How could he, with all that he feels.
In the land of ebony darkness once appeared a glimmer of light. It cast aside all of the sadness, the will to live returned with might.
Much too soon dimmed was the spark, a faint silhouette of its previous state. Instead of great blaze it left but a mark, setting the world in a gloomy stalemate.
Still it is present, a silent watcher. A thorn in his eye, a perfect reminder, of memories he could not butcher. Harbinger of false hopes for a finder.
Will it burst again or will it fade away? No matter what, silent is his roar. In hope to recover he can only pray, for flesh to turn to stone once more.
So he can forget about the light and dawn, get back the life he knew since he was born.
Ayden Perry
What if I am an italian writer who writes in italian? Any ita/lit/anons here who want to read some of my stuff?
Cameron Torres
Coke isn't cool and it seems like you've never taken it.
Parker Walker
Not who you're replying to but, for the thread as a whole, how much experience do you need in things to be able to write about them? For example, as a male, I'd be hesitant to write a female protagonist because it feels like potential overreach.
Henry Baker
>glasses broke >went out to the library without them before classes >have to lean too close to the screen to actually read and write comfortably >decide to paste my book into a text reader >suddenly it feels like I have friends you need to actually read it out loud and feel your lungs while proofreading though
Wyatt Turner
Not bad. What did you mean by flesh turning to stone?
Dominic Clark
I think there's good examples of how to write characters who aren't like you. Even pleb-tier stuff like GRRM's ASOIAF needs to meet some kind of believable level with all their cripples, dwarfs and women. I think I remember GRRM saying he had to go to people in wheelchairs to see if Brandon was a believable consciousness of some cripple. But good examples of men writing for a female protagonist is Roxanne by Defoe and Foe by Coetzee (they're linked by the way). Just try to meet the demographic you're writing about
Drugs are harder. I can only write LSD-influenced prose when I'm actually on it. I just hated other user's thing because it was all this long, superfluous language about how he likes taking coke, which didn't fit it at all.
Lincoln Bell
Going back to the original state of indifference before the "light" appeared. So it's expressing the wish not to feel anymore.
Easton Long
Critique: >corpses of men, women, and children This may be an odd suggestion, and you can dismiss it if you wish, but I think this listing of "men, women, and children" is tiresome and I think you could make it more unsettling by 1) making it an unusual grouping of people, or 2) just not identifying their age or gender, as if they were indistinguishable. For 1), you could say: "corpses of only children and women who were not their mothers" or something like that. >It is acrid Really? I've never smelt that many bodies, but I don't imagine it to be bitter or anything. It's a bit of a cliche, again. >After much deliberation, I reluctantly choose to leave the area. There is no one alive here, and no doubt if I linger any longer I'll just increase the chances of me getting caught. After thinking of all of that... I think you repeat their thought process a bit too much, and it's not that interesting. You could explain this succinctly and tell me more about the scene, like: "I knew it was time to move... and xyz was going on around me..." >blood-curdling shrieks echoed It's just reading like a tired Lovecraft board game scenario or something. You're not a bad writer, just need to let go of the tropes. >Again, he reflects He seems a bit silly, always stopping and reflecting, brooding, when he is in mortal danger? It's okay, overall, I'd just like you to try be a bit fresher and stop with the basic horror tropes.
>a shoal of eels I like that, for some reason. >Ebony darkness Dark darkness? I think it's a bit unnecessary >Harbinger of false hopes for a finder Hm, I think this is mixing up the more relaxed tone of the poem with some very antiquated and possibly cliched antiquated language. I think I always tried to say "harbinger" in my super dark sonnets as a teen. Overall, needs a little work but you're doing fine.
William Ortiz
I have nothing against carrots, but I wish more than carrots for you. You should not merely be a "carrot-eater", you should also eat spinach.
Zachary Hernandez
Bugs...
Josiah Nguyen
At seventeen he is already resentful against women. He recognizes that he has no problem with less than very pretty girls. There is still time to do things properly, he thinks, but only one day at a time. He examines the intersex relations of his friends and of the people around him and is confused, he cannot establish causation between action and response. He works as a dishwasher, he works as a janitor. He doesn't know what's coming to him. To what collision course he is locked into. Every year he discovers that the girls around him, the girls he meets through the regular course of life are less beautiful and less intelligent than the ones from before. He thinks that all the very good ones have quit this place. He learns that he who used to be his very best friend is in the Marine Corps now. That the girl he was head over heels in love with for so many years is now a graduate of West Point. In seven years time both of them will come back in urns— body bags, as we call them. They will be survived by spouses and children. For in peacetime sons bury their fathers, but in wartime fathers bury their sons. He is surprised at his surprise on learning where his two best friends are now, because he remembers the many times the three of them together discussed such things at length. He suspects that people stare at him when he isn't looking, he suspects that those high school students over there are laughing about him. Now he is in a bus, he stares out the window at the rain. He is in a supermarket, he is in a garage. It is winter now, he doesn't leave the house much. And in that gray blur of days he starts dreaming of the most perfect things. An Arcadia of childhood memories. He dreams that he is happy, and wakes up crying. He walks out half naked to that slow and heavy snowfall and holds out his hand not unlike an Islamic prayer and he considers the events of his life and the circumstances of his upbringing— he asks out loud: What is to happen to me now?
Robert Walker
Jerk off less. Have platonic friendships with women. After you feel comfortable with said platonic friends go out and hunt pussy at a bar or a club. Or you could stay fat (and Jewish) and work your way to the top of the entertainment industry and force incredibly attractive women into terribly awkward sexual situations.
Sebastian Martin
lel this isn't my diary desu, it's fiction. though i thank god for not being socially autistic and having had normative experiences in life
Jaxson Cook
Word.
When you see someone writing about drugs in that manner there is a 99% chance that they haven't even tried drugs, let alone that the story is true.
Plus, 4k for kilo of coke is really cheap. Unless it's already cut but that is highly unlikely.
Jayden Hughes
This is a piece called Ode to my Yard about my yard :)
The disheveled yarn outside my window Solid folds outstretching, grazing this dark Pane adrift like easy, agile minnows Posy of the riverbed, ablaze lark Crisp on its bloom'd wire fancies the scene Sees the mane of chimneys tumble, return Dense to ample skies ungirdled wake, how Pungent souls replete leave Sailing into smoke; whence this hour burns, That I may soar across the clear and bow.
What etching finger cursèd me! Had sealed And stuffed me loafing inside flesh. O' blow Abandoned hither humming ghosts that weave The waving on your empty wicker rocks Please gather things untended and from plains Where sun flings endless spears arrange a faint Bouquet, that this Abbadon, litter might Enjoy the quiet grace I failed to grant- A drop so carefully descends The glass I ponder while its fall abides.
You drowse, I creep beneath the drapes, The intimate the tilting in your mass Of clammy conscience further gapes And verses lewd start curling on the grass; I wake, and briars thrice were coiled onto My bones I wake again and tied I've grown- My body fettered, hiccups drenched what is Left dying gagging to Me pain herself is numb and winnowed; Across this pane I’ve loved a strange pays.
This has a nice emotion and idea behind it, of pure poetic nature which is good and shows a true poet is writing it. But, I find the imagery lacks sting, because the subject is grimmer than it reads. Let your imgination loose!!!
Carter Murphy
that is retarded
Benjamin Evans
This is actually a good piece of satire. This part blew me away: >Van Neck, like most Dutchmen, was immensely fond of assplay. In a letter home, he writes:
>Jan. 17th, 1607 >Dearest Anneke, >O the streets here wander, I thirst for hands, pretty hands. The people here live on the savage streets, play chords on old instruments for bamboo sticks. O Anneke, my arse thirsts for you. The sunsets here are pure, the ocean is calm, but I see every day as more bitter than the last. My mind is split sour without a piercing thrust. My mind requires hands, you must understand. I still thirst for you, but I have met someone. I have met someone who points, stabs with a happy sunshine poke into my arse. I havent farted in days, Anneke. Her name is Pho Hueng. She, like all people here, has fingers like stalagmites. She pokes my colon with such a raw and beautiful animal ferocity. I hope you will wait for me there. I cannot. I am deeply sorry Anneke, but Pho Hueng has the hands of God, hands that I cannot deny. Deeply, Romantically, No longer yours, Jacob van Neck.
Eli Fisher
i pooped my pants today at work i was alone in the stall whilst urinating when an unsuspecting flatulence crept upon me bum as I allowed it passage thinking it merely spectral I began to question the nature of my allowance for the floodgates, once manumitted, caused an inexorable torrent of excrement to traverse liquescently down my pantaloons and now quivering stumps of ossein. Suddenly marooned in a dour quagmire of contrition and foul and fetid excrescence I resolved to liberate mineself from my mortal spoil by tossing my undergarments in the rubbish bin and hurrying home after telling my boss my cat was dying and needed emergency care.
Kevin Wood
From a purely aesthetic and technical position, I'd like to comment on your opening line. >So many thoughts swirling in the head "So many" is a common phrase that everyone uses and comes accross like you weren't sure how to say what you wanted, so you resorted to a cliche. Immediately you have wasted two words of your opening line on a tired phrase, which is not interesting or descriptive. Instead, use a stronger term, preferably a single word. It is better not to spend too much time on adjectives. >thoughts swirling in the head This is a strange limbo between passive and active tense, which only amplifies the vagueness of "in the head." Whose head? your head? My head? Some other person's head? It doesn't sound like you intend to be vague, so why waste space on weak terms? Use active tense: >many thoughts swirl in my head This isn't much better, but it's a more succinct and less fluffy. I'd recommend now venturing to let go of your initial concept and word choice. If you want to express a multitude of thoughts, it may be better not to explicitly talk about it. What are the thoughts about? Use that concept in place of "thoughts." Or at least augment "thoughts" with some a specifics. >Heavy thoughts swirl in my head >(Insert what the thought is about here) swirls in my head In general you should think more about the purpose every word serves, and what you mean to say, versus what you wrote.
Tyler Stewart
Welcome to the plantation of the innocent: flattery, the devil's mistress, flaunts her locks of auburn and clay. Waves crash coolly along the terraces strewn with grinning grandmothers who plunge head first to avoid the waves of decay. Love, a lavish feature of the soul, not a bug, nor atoll, it effervesces while placid, commending good spirit, though ask not for a frank physician, who'll inform you the poison's the dose. The magpies turn their noses, the children swing in laughing gas chambers (of commerce). The definitions of gestures: all the protean, for the finger is a wink away from a kiss. Quiet is never darkness for the blind, nor dark silence the deaf, mutely faded into noise this time, this untimely time of last breath— a tickling westward wind rippling the iron curtains, stirs up a cyclone of cracked pepper giving Bugs Bunny the sniffles. Fleetwood Mac Dre, jams till the jelly plan to play to show the shrewd crowd that sometimes waiting pays until waiting's the game we play.
Bentley Jones
im never enough says the one who's never enough says the one who says the one who's never enough and so on and so forth.
My teeth fall out nightly, my skin sweats all day, I can't believe this is happening, or that today is today.
Blah blah, no one cares, except you and me and he and she and everyone everywhere.
The existentialist's dilemma: cogently explained by bill's ham— let it be the Beatles reply and jam not knowing phony beatlemania has bitten the— upper crust misers milling about showering in angel's piss, ignoring the raffle.
Krazy Kat, please come back, hit me in the back with your baseball bat Oh Krazy Kat please come back and kill me gently with your baseball bat.
(Shark) Fin (soup is decimating Elasmobranchii populations.)
p.s. when you read between the lines, you'll discover what this poem is about.
Aiden Mitchell
im never enough says the one who's never enough says the one who says the one who's never enough and so on and so forth.
My teeth fall out nightly, my skin sweats all day, I can't believe this is happening, or that today is today.
Blah blah, no one cares, except you and me and he and she and everyone everywhere.
The existentialist's dilemma: cogently explained by bill's ham— let it be the Beatles reply and jam not knowing phony beatlemania has bitten the— upper crust misers milling about showering in angel's piss, ignoring the raffle.
Krazy Kat, oh please come back and hit me in the back with your barbwired baseball bat. Oh Krazy Kat please come back and kill me oh so gently with your baseballllllllllllll—bat.
(Shark) Fin (soup consumption is decimating Elasmobranchii populations.)
p.s. when you read between the lines, you'll discover what this poem is about.
Ryan Morgan
what's it about?
Hudson Young
alskhfeaweaf
the letters above (a relative term) signify the name of this piece of rarefied splendiferous writing (oh how good this writing reads!) and can conceivably be pronounced (such as the conspicuousness of cleavage assisted by certain torso tightening garbs) however you, the lit literate eyeball dancer, chooses to do so—for the letters are irrelevant (this is not an epistolary novel! we have sorrow not for young Werther! this is art! Art dammit! Spelled A-R-R-R-R-6-6-6-7-T!) and may be deleted or substituted or amended however you, let's call you Pal—no, Jeffery—from now on, desire (etymologically derived from Latin for "that thing everyone has for your mom, who totally puts out btw"). Now, for the first item on today's agenda: dismantle the patriarchy. (Committee member cites Atomic Blonde) Good, now that that's out of the way, how about a quick foray to the strip club (where gentleman gather to liberate rubberized wires from their balkanized prisons) so to discuss item number two: the re-admittance of Bigfoot into the International Foot Fetishist's Alliance. (Heads turn: a parliament of owls. Laugh and a hoot.) Action denied: the pigs have gone to the market. Item number three: the discovery or contrivance of even an iota of a reason to continue existing in our current animated states known as living. All those in favor? (the guy giving his keyboard fingerprint portraits blinks) All those opposed? (these parentheses comfort me to raise an arm) Good! Action denied. And so the guy pulled out a (potato) gun and shot himsel—ouch, nobody types exclamations in real time by themselves. But you're not by yourself, the truth is out there. *queue theme song*
Austin Bell
any german here? what do you think about my opening sentence, been working on it for days
Der letzte Tag, ein Samstag, brach um sieben Uhr fünfundreißig an, die Sonne fiel auf seinen Nacken, als N.M. klingelte.
Jeremiah Williams
translation: The last day, a Saturday, began at 7:35 am, the sun fell on his neck, as N.M. rang.
Jose Thompson
fuck it i might just as well post everything i have yet:
Der letzte Tag, ein Samstag, brach um sieben Uhr fünfunddreißig an, die Sonne fiel auf seinen Nacken, als N.M. klingelte. Sieben Uhr fünfunddreißig: Die Augen unseres Helden, D.F., bewegten sich rapide hinter seinen zugezogenen Lidern, Wasser mag doch jeder, das Klingeln dingdongdingdong dingdongdingdong dingdongdingdong vermochte ihn erst beim dritten - aber nicht letzten - Läuten zu wecken, dummer Hurensohn, dummer Bastard, und er verließ das Bett, (lechzte, lechzte, lechzte) noch im Gestern verfangen, das erst um vier Uhr vier erlosch, mit einer Bewegung, einer Rührung, die die allerletzte dieser Art bleiben sollte. Ein Mann wächst nur bis zu einem bestimmten Punkt, epäilemättä, das Namensschild an seiner Tür, der Türrahmen. Kleiner Hurensohn, nichtsnutzig, albern. Ein Blick aus dem Fenster, schlagartig wach, als hätte er noch nie geschlafen: Sein grauer VW Polo auf dem Parkplatz - ach was - der Zahnarztpraxis. Dort stand er zuerst im Sommer zweitausendsechzehn, zuletzt vor einem Jahr. Also, sieben Uhr sechsunddreißig, dingdongdingdongdingdongdingdong, kein Vogel war zu hören, öffnete D.F. seinen Schrank, derweil N.M. vor der Tür stand, warum, wusste nur er, allein, keiner, auch wenn D.F. es hätte wissen müssen; vor 15 Jahren schon, gottloses Stück Scheiße, hätte er es wissen müssen, kétségtelenül.
i urge you to read it carefully, aloud if you may; i've been writing on this for several hours every day since monday
Michael Howard
How sad, to see the victims on the screen. Hundreds died, more than any other hour of the day. Words flashed across the screen, a box tv on the spare room floor. Across the floor sat two girls, one brown and one white. One of them was very beautiful, having pinned her hair to the side of her head, the corners of her collar falling to the edge of her shoulders. The heat of the room got to her. She stood up, massaging the back of her head. “Where is that envelope?”. The other, very ugly, spoke without looking. “Which one? The brown or the white?”. “Which one do you think?”. Pretty sighed loudly and walked into the kitchen. Ugly laughed, then began digging around for an ashtray. “The bill will get paid. Seriously!”. She got out a mint can and a carton of cigarettes. Shit, she thought. The 30th had come and passed. She’s been paying all the bills for the past couple months. I didn’t sign any papers. She could throw me out. Pretty walked back into the room. The sky was turning blue and yellow. Smoke was filtering up from the window below. She dipped a knuckle in the cannister, and snuffed it up. Pretty’s voice stayed level, but her eyes were wider.
It's been half a year since we made this and to this day, we have received not a single criticism.
Like what the hell are we doing wrong? This is even worse than getting bad reviews. At least that one tells you where you are wrong. I am finding my way in the dark
Anyone who can give it a pity review at least? Call the author a retard or shit. I am frustrated for just a single feedback
What specifically, if I might ask? It's easy to hate, but it's hard to hate intelligently
Brody Kelly
Coital arrangements rarely proceed from meticulously drawn schemata nor do their fruits yielded in Winter, fruits we label laissez-faire as premies, dumpster baby, sweetheart, mistake #1, John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt the II, and so on (the third day of Christmas my– false love gave me anodyne kisses, smothering the birdbath tabled neatly in my gutty-wuts).
Walking by a black and white newsstand one day, past Stevie Wonder's Photobooth, and the museum museum, I overheard without eavesdropping a young senior say, "this whole thing was just one big understanding: life was a mistake, from amoeba to me to you!" How cute, I thought I'd thought, really just humming the tune to Claire de Lune in Morse, never really considering my own considerations— oh how droll, multitudinously he exclaims! But to pontificate: the constancy of flux amid synapses resembles the communicative frequencies of sociometric architecture as aided and abetted by leviathan networked systems designed to ultimately design their progeny, continually divining continued heterogeny— ipso facto I slipped in the bull pen on my own. Delightfully hagiographic anent my own reflections (you might need to look some of the above words up) I decided to then recount an additional clip of colloquy overheard in media res, res being the muted torture of all eccedentesiasts, those ecclesiastical undesirables, a spritely baldie share a secret with a book salesman, for I was browsing literature for my amusement, the formula of the secret transpired as follows, "There're two rules for success in life [to say nothing of posthumous accomplishments]. The firs rule is that you should never tell anyone everything you know." Then, the man halted his speech, awaiting a reply. The cashier simply laughed, presumably because he had recalled a humous moment, and I never found out what the second rule was; thus, success continues to elude me and I remain a loser, because that wiseman never finished his existential advice for a reason I'll never know, not ever.
David Walker
>anime HERE WE GO
>we is this why all of these sections look different?
>They came to this world like rain from the heavens. Give me more image on the opening line. All I see here is a space marine floating against a black background. If you want to use "they" and keep "them" vague, talk about the fire and smoke first so I have something to hide the "they" behind.
>the next couple lines The fire gives me something to look at but almost all of these lines sound like rewrites of the same fucking line. They all either do the same thing or less of something another line does.
>It was a war that men were never prepared to fight but they struggled. You need a comma after "fight"; without it, the "prepared" gets looped back into after the conjunction, causing the sentence to read like "It was a war that men were never prepared to fight but instead were prepared to...." and then crash into the "they struggled" really strangely.
> In the face of the beasts and a wall behind their backs, How the fuck can you stand in the face of something to you back? Put a comma after beasts then change that "and" to a "with". You need the comma or the wall will look like it's behind the beasts after you change the "and" to "with". You could also just add a "with" after the "and" instead.
>...ever valiant against the fate of a resistance doomed to fail. This is "their" resistance, right? Say it that way instead of making it "a" resistance.
>Before the final flicker of... BOOM, that's better; brings back the fire.
>fate make the repetition of this word look... more deliberate, I guess.
>...heroes took the waltz of the maddened and stole their fate right at the fangs of the feared... why "at" and not "from"?
>Small crystals no bigger than a pearl, it was... You're trying to shift from plural to singular in ways you really can't. You also need a colon after pearl. Do something like "each no bigger than a pearl: they were..." etc. It's like when you say "Red: the color of blood."
>From the basic senses, to reflex, and to instincts, everything that limited his capability shall be shattered like a false reality. In the context of this paragraph, that "shall" should be a "would," and you might want to add "upon accepting the crystal" at the end or something.
>But though it allowed the advance to be halted, to call it salvation is still a bad lie to speak >is still a bad lie to speak It sounds like you ran out of vocabulary my man. You also shouldn't be transitioning into "is" like that. Just say something like "would be disingenuous" or something like that. Maybe a stronger word, but still.
>about a dozen sentences and all I get is a random WH4k marine I pulled out of my ass, some cool fire with smoke and embers overtop the silhouettes some marching space marine boots, and some magic rocks. >AND NOW FOR CHAPTER 1 Jesus CHRIST my man, you gotta actually give me something. Paint a fucking picture. I'll make another post in a second about the rest.
Justin Lopez
(Me) so still on the subject of the prologue, you shouldn't worldbuild like that. You need accompanying things to keep the reader entertained; make your worldbuilding blocks double as something else. For example, in my work (I usually don't refer to my own work while giving crit) I have some blocks of WB that sort of double as a commentary on the world and indirectly the protagonist, present some figurative imagery, and work as a time-killer while the protagonist sits on a big space elevator. (I'll post it eventually)
Also, something I missed in the prologue: >They were unknown to the words of peace you mean that the words were unknown to them? I don't think words know things either way; I assume you mean to say something more than this.
>Chapter I >Down at the port was an event of a great celebration. That's like saying "an event of a great event"
>a worthy welcome for the fleet of ships that arrived one by one. would probably be better to say "ships as they" instead of "ships that" so that it's thought of as something-happening and not just a characteristic by which the ships are selected. Though you run the risk of having people mistakenly thinking that "they" is referring to the people and not the ships, so some bigger rewording might be in order.
>Blacked in smoke, puckered What the fuck? Pic related, I have no idea why you chose this word. I got the image of black, slightly-charred lips puckering.
>its... every boat you want "their" not "its"
>carried the mark of a battle that they won You want "they'd" since this is past from the perspective of the past you are looking at. There are more than three tenses user.
>All radio waves were focused on .... how humanity slowly made their advance with the context of the paragraph, you're gonna want to say "slowly had been making" or preferably "had been slowly making" instead of "made"
>The great-war remains unpredictable but Comma after unpredictable. Why "remains" and not "remained"? I'm really not even sure what tense you're committing to at this point.
>The great-war remains unpredictable but this victory secured one of their... don't use "the great war" as though it were a subject then hit me with a pronoun for something else immediately after the conjunction. At the very least add a "to them" after "unpredictable" to get me off of "the great war". Or just get rid of the "their" and give me something more specific.
> secured one of their most vital trading routes that eased the suffering of many and greatly increased their efficiency. when you say "that eased" like this, it's suggesting that you're talking about a trading route that, historically, eased their suffering etc, when what you mean to say is more like "which, in turn, eased the suffering etc". I'm not telling you to phrase it that way though; you could put a comma after "routes" and just say "easing the suffering of many and etc".
at least one more post is incoming
Bentley Howard
(Me) Back to the prologue again for a second, I noticed another thing: >From the basic senses, to reflex, and to instincts, everything that limited his capability shall be shattered like a false reality. I already pointed this sentance out in my first post for other reasons, but you also should get rid of the comma after "reflex". I'm also not sure why you used "his". Consider the following: >From the basic senses, to reflexes and to instincts, everything that limited [one's/the host's] capability [could/would] be shattered like a false reality. could also get rid of the "to" before "instincts"
More "chapter" I:
>So desperate were the people for such a victory a victory which they just-had, so you say they "had been" not "were"
>Amongst the soldiers who are waving back just say "Among" and remove "who are"
>Though she was draped in the same attire as any soldier, she was revered by I would prefer "Although" here >was revered OKAY, so, we're in "was," right? Well... >was revered by everyone as the hero who led their resistance... into the valiant force that they are now. They "are now," in past tense, so you don't want to say "who lead" since they already were lead to where they presently are in past tense; you want to say "who HAD lead". Again, there are more than three tenses.
>Her presence alone speaks of a spirit that will never falter and a victory that shall not be denied. "Speaks" and not "spoke," etc? If you want, you can move into that tense here if you really want, but think about it. I'd also change "not" to "never".
>last sentance just make it part of the previous paragraph
>A character's name, centered on the page. Alright, I skimmed through really quickly: is this supposed to be a subheading or something "within" the first chapter? When I first saw it I was under the impression that it marked the end of chapter 1 and started... something that wasn't a chapter, I guess.
I might try giving you more tomorrow or something.
Kayden Johnson
No one can critique a brother? I critiqued twice smdh tbqh. Please, brother anons.
Mason Brown
When he had anticipated writing this, Joseph had supposed this document would require much preliminary research, but he had now decided to simply write from the knowledge at his disposal. What he was now writing would be more than just deeply personal, it would serve as his means of surviving his own death. His thoughts on various matters and his deepest woes would be eternally remembered in this manifesto. And so they ought to be.
He drew away from the screen of his computer for a moment to suck on the cigarette idling in the ash tray before returning eagerly. At this point it should be relevant information to try and answer the question of just what action this manifesto would be an explanation for. You see, our young protagonist had vague notions about committing glorious acts of violence in settings he despised ever since he had been thrust into the high school eco-system-a system in which he did not fare well socially-at the ripe old age of 14...
Hunter Moore
To be totally honest with you I was bored the entire way through. But that said I like that you have your own style, I can hear your voice nicely, just this exchange didn't grip me at all.
The switch between active and passive tense is also very jarring (mainly the use of "had" in case you don't know).
>My plan had worked >I'd asked
and then you say
>I poured your cuppa tea >I saw your pupils
Can you answer why you used "had" in those sentences, and not in the others? If there's a reason it's not clear.
Ayden Green
first two are in the past while the latter two are in the present.
Evan Baker
>My plan works Why would I say this if the narrator's plan already resolved? As other user said, some things just happened will others were happening. Sad to hear it's boring, I'll try liven it up. Tense is just what they tell you in writing shops to always bee careful of NEVER changing. Read Pynchon and you'll stop caring.
Jonathan Hall
Fine, fuck, not like I needed sleep anyway. I don't mind but I probably shouldn't set a precedent of responding to beggars
>All unstuck from yourself this could be a good line if presented to me after I knew what the fuck was going on. You could maybe move it later in the sentence or something and say "all unstuck from itself" with "it" referring to "your being", but then you would sorta cut off the shag rug thing. You can probably figure out something better that what I'm thinking of.
>Floor not "the floor"?
>Animal from Muppets This sticks out, and for some reason I keep reading the whole thing as one title even though I know I shouldn't.
>By the time the kettle had boiled over, its dull underside blacked out... "had been blacked out"? right now it sounds like the underside of the kettle had blacked something else out by the time the kettle itself had boiled over.
>By the time the kettle had boiled over, its dull underside blacked out like [stuff], your eyes fell on me.
Oh, I think what you actually mean is "its dull underside now blacked out like [stuff]". I'm pretty sure using the word "now" is fair game here but ask someone else. You definitely at least need something stuck in there.
>"Tea?" I'd asked why "I'd" and not "I"? I'm not telling you to change it, but it seemed noteworthy and sorta "thrown out there".
comma after "favor" I think, though Spanish stays capitalized of course.
colon after myself
The progression from sentence to sentence is weird and forced right now; it feels like you had some details you needed to touch on, and you just sorta stretch from one checkpoint to the next unnaturally. The "So" seems unfounded, and the "My voice" sounds very out of the blue and the "My voice" sentence as a whole seems arbitrarily placed until you actually complete it and realize it's a precursor to a quotation. If you started like "With a posh voice..." or something, the "With" would imply that this is a setup etc.
>You had only those eyes so like, no arms and legs? Do yo uactually mean "only had"?
Period after "evocative".
>looked round yourself I'd say "around", or least change it to something like " 'round " if this is part of the speaker's dialect.
>the whites swishing and rolling back and forth as you surveyed Sounds kinda nice but... huh? I'm imagining the iris and pupil moving around on an eyeball, except like, the whites are clear, and the eyeball is full of swishing milk. Is this actually what you intended?
>it was hiding in, your semicolon in place of the comma
>"Oh, poppet... it wasn't immediately clear who was speaking here. In the previous paragraph it sounded like the other person was about to start talking.
>mountain peaks I didn't immediately get that this was supposed to be a smile. Making this line a little more idiotproof would probably be worth it.
>back to the fragments and the rug I thought these were figurative
>you stood as a whole man saw a woman until now
Oliver Campbell
the ending was phenomenal. one of the rare poems that actually gets better throughout
Julian Moore
Yeah, I didn't explain it very well, but the fragments are literal. The person is broken up into pieces and their eyes are staring at them from different parts of the room.
Anthony Brooks
the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the
Noah Parker
Thanks, man. I really, really, REALLY need this.
Jackson Jackson
*these
Jaxson Foster
Reposting my poem:
"Anniversary"
Your hair has mantled your head anew; supplely cups, like that mulish cowlick that still falls over my forehead, a scuttling fringe under lovely nails painted purple, pink and blue— your cheeks and chin in a November blush are cupped in a cast of hair, of apples and roses dipped in the sea, a silken halo flashing moonlight into the past. Our coifs, the colour of charcoal dust, are draped-on, mine spiralling, yours straight, caught in your lips, mine hooding my eyes. Our forms have been altered so in our mutual care; our faces are the same, and have so much more to wear.
Nathan Sullivan
Will anyone take the time read this short and comment a bit on it? I translated it quickly to english, so don't get too tangled up on the language
Christian Johnson
You can say "this" to refer to a single-group sometimes. "This army," vs "These army-men," etc. It depends on whether or not you're talking about the set or the set's contents.
Oh fuck, so the dude is actually in-fragments, which explains why you didn't use a gendered pronoun until late in the game. So yeah, making the fragments thing more explicitly literal would probably solve a couple of other issues in the process.
Matthew Evans
This is a drunken meterless ramble.
the charts burn in unknown water stethoscope sounds like an amplified ceiling fan I'm wearing out my chalk watching the days go by on a computer screen floating toward the sun I scratch my back and can't quite reach the itch I'll sit here in dog agony I'll play along a little longer just to get by if I really let myself go, I'd be the talk of this place perhaps all my hair should be green and my eyes yellow but they wont, I'll play along, accordingly, with a failing integrity up on my mountain where I'm left alone to my devices I'm bored of the formations before me I stare at them like they're air I'm a riddle I always have been No one listens, and for that I'm lucky The day an ear approaches I'll recoil in horror "Here's my soul" I'll try to say It wont matter I've always been ass-first on the Vlad spike falling into painful eternity that only intensifies when my mind forsees fresh air and mercy At least I'm not alone in this If I'm a person, then so are you Your own battles are yours to chew I see them in the distance and have all the answers for you but my own chains are tight and burdened I can't move and they certainly can't move I have so much to say to you It wont help me, but it could help you
Matthew Williams
A little repetitive, but your meter is superb! Maybe get rid of the "was now" in the second sentence since it sort of mirrors the "had now" in the previous one. The writing isn't awful, but I feel there is an inescapable edge factor to the subject. I would be glad to see more of it though.
Posting a poem I did last thread, but I changed most of the second stanza.
Curtained beneath the black sleeves of never-light Buttoned eyes fixated on white heavens above Praying to fly as would a dove in the night A field mouse sat in silent wonderment.
Perched on a tree branch, but miles away When come the day the moonship had sunk The field mouse had then been drunk soft On the running liquors of cosmic rivers aloft And dozed off in the embrace of gentle dew riders.
He tasted a dream of stardust kisses that morning.
Xavier Hill
THE poem of the year it's nice but i feel the use of words are too obvious feel you
I have posted parts of this in other crit threads but no one give me response :(
MARK IN THE SHOPPING MART And i was looking for a friend of mine. There in the maze of tin and aluminium i lost the sight of you, i caught grin from a sterilized semblance, i read the label stared at the pleased people and you were gone. The wares was to the roof, the roof was the sky, inefficient incandescent light bulbs instead of clouds. And i was seeking for a friend of mine, my walk down the path lit by the ablaze from above when i was under it was a spotlight upon me and my black dress shoes penetrated through the orb and i glowed if you would see from a distance in the heavens over the accumulation i would seem a classical hero with the power in his subsistence. My knife-edged steps echoed my suit was neat and clean and my fingers were making gun gestures in my pockets. Hours of calm walk until a blockade is upon me. A big round middle aged woman, her stomach fatness reaching the ground like a snail. I step on it and she makes wheezing sounds her gaudy gold necklace spins around her walrus neck. I ask “I am looking for a friend of mine, have you seen him”? She rasps in response her portly bovine cheeks inflamed a bright pink. I ask “Have you, my heavy fellow. Perhaps have had a companion run out on you? Are you here too, wandering, or in your case, waddling the halls in search for a friend of yours? I say this here building didn’t look as big as this on the outside, i wonder how it would be to be inside you too, big girl. Would all properties here in this zone of unconfirmable size be magnified on the inside? Impossible space made possible? Could i crawl into your mouth and live inside of you?” I am lost in my speech and forgot to loosen the grip on the fat woman’s throat, she releases a thunderous, roaring, last fart, an eulogy to the continuous visible downfall that was her body. The stink takes me back to the smothering clouds of death that reaped so many young men with fair bodies and clean muscles in the trenches. Still, i pay my respects and close her eyes gently with my left hand before continuing the walk, as i journey down the isles new paths open and others diverge but i keep my decided way of succession in my task of searching for a friend of mine, forward. Brands all around, their metal and plastic well sculpted shapes pointing at me from the enveloping shadows towers of convenience packaging.
David Rodriguez
It took hours before the next hindrance emerged from the increasing darkness around, lights were dying, flickering away like a flame candlesticks. I went from a hero lit from above to a creep, dagger in hand crouching in the dark, if one was to observe me now i looked more a killer than rescuer. I noticed that music had begun serenading from the speakers hanging somewhere out there in the void, Italian disco. Clap, clap, clap, Do you believe in Saudade? Before me now was a surpassingly overweight old woman, a crone if put in old terms. Her wideness made her into a wall. There was leaking some enigmatic fluid from up her skirt, down onto the shopping floor, each big drop leisurely, i dared not crawl under. Her eyes signalled “BEWARE!” and her mouth moved in the process of scrutinization, a hammer upon my head as she spoke the the riddle “A man truly weeps at two point in his life, and which ones are that?” I say “When he believes that love is real, and when the deceivement shows itself” she says “GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD” She separates into can trimmed shapes of tissue like pasta going through a colander, i hear a echoey scream going “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA” and her partitions becomes transparent and now there is nothing before me but the continuation of my trail. I walk. Weaved together girlish voices sing about dancing with hot oily men. The canisters become more vast, the flicker is the heartbeat of the building,all is obscured in a rag of shadow. My nose hits a concrete wall and it explodes. I cover the clipped bone with my hand and blood makes a glove. I see now that the canisters next to me holds giant fetuses, they are pickled. Bisected misshapen arms, bone thorn sticking out and harlequin heads with their mouths agape like a leviathan of the foggy depths of the sea. The warmth forms a running grip around my arm seeping down to the elbow as if it was the edge of a lance. My reflection was seen in the lucid glass square in the middle of the giant vessels of conservate, superimposed on the face of the friend i was searching for, his head was in there with the rest of the misshapes. I begin to cry and i reach out and put my red gloved hand on the glass. Your face, still so beautiful in there, i say to his lookless eyes. My gut sucks into itself like a steam train crashing with roaring mechanic noise. And i cover my head in red. From beyond this long aisle the beat still blasts.
Brayden Myers
not sure if this writing is supposed to be a joke but I'm not laughing. It's tiring to read and doesn't make sense to me.
Lucas Peterson
When he had anticipated writing this, Joseph had supposed this document would require much preliminary research, but he had now decided to simply write from the knowledge at his disposal. What he was now writing would be more than just deeply personal, it would serve as his means of surviving his own death. His thoughts on various matters and his deepest woes would be eternally remembered in this manifesto. And so they ought to be. He drew away from the screen of his computer for a moment to suck on the cigarette idling in the ashtray before returning eagerly. Just what exactly was this manifesto going to be in explanation for? You see, our young protagonist has, for many years now, had vague notions about committing glorious acts of mass violence in settings which he had distaste for; places in which he could never belong. Ever since he had been thrust into the high school eco-system--a domain in which he did not fare well socially--at the ripe old age of 14, these recurring fantasies had been the source of much entertainment, fanciful supposition, and finally, plotting for a real happening. While Joseph certainly wasn’t bullied, he was shy and desired companionship. He had always been too lonely for his own comfort.
He realized beforehand what kind of impression shooting up a school would and that became his first motive for writing this manifesto; to show the world that not only was he not an autistic faggot, but that he was quite normal except for these fantasies. Another perception that this action would warrant was that he had delusions of grandeur, narcissism, and other psychological problems. His defense of these charges was difficult since he probably did have all the aforementioned diseases of the mind and wasn’t sure if he cared to avoid their implication in his writing. He had debated to what degree his writing should impress this mental health profile on the readers. Would it be better to be viewed as deranged or a normal 17 year old. He preferred the latter but figured it impossible to completely avoid the former given the nature of his crime.
Preamble:
>>this is where I write some shit in his manifesto that is peppered through the story
Let me know what you guys think. The subject matter is supposed to be edgy but also kinda a satire. so if its not good it's satire
Jonathan Perez
The Song of the Heart Is an ethereal roar, Like a geyser bursting, From under Our feet, Reaching endlessly towards the sky, And proudly existing beneath all sound.
It was poured like wine, Into a sick longing cup, Streaming through the cracks of, My just broken shell. The song took me near and I flew Like a wand pulled through a lake by a string.
Impregnated with love, It is the song of my home, I was lead to the band And there I sat down. Beholding the voices soft and So humble, but louder than the rancour
Of that bold city -- Twirling and laughing we played I said "I thought I knew You all this time but I had not known that you always knew me"
This dual knowing has Broughton us so much closer. Now I lay in her lap As a shrub that is Gleefully adorned by the veils Of an eternal and forgiving love.
Carson Gonzalez
>literally no websites seem to let you have automatic first line indentation paste the text into word if you want it. Using docs because pastebin doesn't have italics.
The first chapter is pretty much fine from what I can tell. The second chapter has a small handful of things I want to change. The other two are the ones that are actually in need of crit if you want to save your breath.
Luis Walker
anyone?
Bentley Cook
my yard
Samuel Sullivan
Unlocked doors, short gates, dark lights give me a reason to crawl on the asphalt A pack of cigarettes, spare change, maybe your backpack Oh wait, it's empty, let's set it aside there's a nice set of speakers in this ride
It's a tough life, between you and me, People so paranoid they install more security It's not my fault you left your shit unhitched serves you right for being careless, bitch
It's no thrill for me, I just like getting even One small splinter won't sink the ship Don't expect to be shot or be beaten that's for the real criminals, unless you wanna get clipped?
Tell the police that your belongings are all gone, figure they've got better things to do than find your lost family pictures We're both on the short end of the stick Take it or not, we both gotta pay those corporate dicks
So appreciate my favor, I'm off for today I did good Several thousand dollars is way above my pay Let me just climb into my car Before you've checked outside, and walked across-shit he's fast Don't break the window, I'll open the door I meant to give this to you later Don't go for the face, it's mine okay?
Xavier Price
bad bad bad bad good bad
Parker Turner
>Fleetwood Mac Dre, >jams till the jelly plan to play >to show the shrewd crowd >that sometimes waiting pays >until waiting's the game we play.
bro. this is at least redeeming.
Lucas Parker
Is it weird that I feel more comfortable with the idea of submitting my writing to a publisher than I do with the idea of letting my mom see it?
It's not even sexual or disgusting or anything. It's just that the last time she saw it she insulted it and I was so shocked that even she hated it that I quit writing for six months
Joshua Thompson
>tfw mom wouldn't read or watch anything with violence in it under any circumstances with the exception of james bond films >tfw my dad is dyslexic and has only read about a dozen books in his entire life in spite of having a PhD and somehow being a pretty good technical writer >parents will never ever read my work unless it gets made into some watered down movie or television series at least it means I can write porn
Lincoln Gutierrez
Youre both shit at it
Evan Roberts
Here's one I'm going to make up, on the spot.
In the house next to mine, there lived a family. There was a mother, a father, two daughters, and two sons. One of the sons did not live there anymore, and so I guess we could call him normal then. He wore the clothes you would expect to see of that time, drove a car that was probably not too expensive, as far as cars go, but probably not too cheap either, and he behaved somewhat like an aggreaved construction worker, as if he was never going to make ends meet and someone was perpetually dissapointed in him.
In fact, I only saw him a few times, always solemnly walking up to the house of his family, lit cigarrette in his left hand, arm, swaying nonchalantly while his right hand remained firmly tucked into his trouser pocket, and his head hung down as if he did not really want to be there.
That's it for now
Adrian Wright
You lost my interest after your first question. You shouldn't ever answer your own questions. You want the reader to keep asking questions. You never really want to get to the point.
well i guess you can decide if it's poetic or not.
Oliver Cruz
Apollon peaked at him behind the shutters of the cuisine. Young Innocentius was chomping small bits of grapes while playing with his toys. With the left he held a brazen statue of a cavalier, which he moved threatingly close to a miniature wall made of eatern corn stacked on top of each other. Innocentius struck the corn with force and the cavalry came out victorious. His little teeth formed a delicate and adorable smile.
Apollon was proud of him and wondered if he could conquer the burder that would be placed ontop of him
Aaron Rogers
Daniil Kharms?
Owen Sanders
The kid seemed surprised at the sight of Apollon's small brown eyes gazing at him. Apollon went for the balcony door and as soon as he entered the chamber Innocentius hugged him. "Sir!' he exclaimed with obvious excitement. Apollon played with his dark blonde curls and reached for his pocket. "Oh. What is this?" he said. "A token of my respect towards you, my Prince" Apollon told him. Innocentius grabbed it and flailed it around. "Thank you! Thank you! You're the best, sir!" the young prince shouted.
"My Prince" said Apollon in a serious tone, trying to hide his smile. Innocentius sat on his lap. "Is it time for another story? About Knight Thomas and his grand charge against the pretender? Or maybe when Theodore the Bard seduced the Queen with his golden mouthed words?" the kid was fully of energy and it was hard to deny him.
Apollon laughed. "My Prince, the time of fairytales comes before bedtime. You just woke up!" he said and Innocentius nodded with disappointment. "I'm here to talk about your mother. As you are aware, she is very sick. I don't want to worry you nor talk ill about her, but the Empress may leave us soon. You do know what happens once she's gone, right?"
"I become the Emperor in her place, right?" he said and Apollon nodded. "Do you know how to rule?" he told him. "I don't think so.." said Innocentius while looking at the floor, giving a sad look. "But you will teach me to, correct? You've been with me since I was born!" the Prince continued.
Thomas Perry
Reads like a waft of shit carried in our November's hostile wind.
What an impressive provenance that would allow something like what you wrote to make it all the way to our lovely rehearsal dinner here—and here you present to us on a plastic cafeteria tray something that hot shame should have had you chuck in the garbage before it got out of yr hands, into the keys & into my eyes.
Zachary Brown
What an electric event between our souls—how can we express our gratitude for ENTRANCE into yr fractal interior? The soul transforming expression of a soul transformed—your terrible horned demon chained & tamed & bent to the crafting of mind piercing word-arrows→All I request is more.
Matthew Sanchez
An arabesque of unthinking, unthought laziness. Visionless. An imperceptible line between garbage and trash drawn. So thx 4 that.
Jonathan Rogers
>not unlike
Liam Bennett
>no crit I guess I'll just post some separate paragraphs I wasn't sure about
>[Protag, in a ruined building, just figured out where his target is; city is a red and black samurai jackesque sort of place] >Travis burst back out the front door. By now it was late enough for him to have enough legroom to run through the streets, so he did. There was never a big crowd near the docks anyway; most people didn’t move very much. But one of the men at the docks, he looked pretty fidgety. It seemed like he was trying to fix something on a ship which may or may not have been his. Travis was surprised at how exposed the man was; he was just standing there in his denim jacket with his oily hair, over a pile of around a dozen cigarettes and almost as many parts. As the man closed the hatch to what he was working on, Travis came up behind him, drew his most polished revolver, and made his presence known. Yen slowly put his hands up. I feel like this is a lazy transition; it looks like I'm cutting to the chase. I've also gotten some shit for using the word "legroom" this way; it makes me think of stretching my legs and gives me a birds-eye view of the character sprinting, but most people seem to see a guy sitting in a chair the instant they come across the word. I also started a sentance with "but," which is something I normally only do at the start of a paragraph if at all.
>[city has been described as well lit with empty streets] >...Travis turned back around and walked up into the city. >The hill was steep. As Travis hiked, he saw kids on bicycles starting to come around the corner. The shimmering spokes of their spinning rear wheels flicked the playing cards that had been fixed to their frame, producing a loud motorcycle-like noise as they flew past Travis and down the hill. He thought it was smart, but also disappointing in a way; it was an imitation. He turned back and saw one final boy on a bike struggling to get around the bend. The boy carried a large flag while repeatedly declaring himself the group’s “gang leader," but the banner proved too heavy for the child, causing him to wobble and flip right over his handlebars, splatting straight onto the road ahead of him. However, the boy was not discouraged; without hesitation, he climbed right back on his bike, hastily chasing after the children he’d claimed to be leading. >The walk sign dinged on. ... Is that clear? Do the details pop up in the right order? I didn't want to overexplain but I also wanted the mechanism on the bicycles to look ingenious in a childish sort of way.
Eli Watson
So you know it's the equivalent of explosive diarrhea—each word & sentence just justed out on the document—you want advice, stupid? Each word needs to be a gravestone, mined from under the flesh of the earth, sending its carved memory up towards that nearly black sky w/its light pollution obscuring the blank ink of space.
And you wonder why you ain't got our eyes.
Joshua Turner
I got nothing but thumbs ups when I posted porn shorts user; I'm smart enough to know its the document length thats scaring people off, you don't need to bait.
Easton Morgan
"Thumbs up" on yr porn shorts. Thumbs up from the dopes hoping for complimentary compliments—yeah, sorry, please get in line with the unrecognized geniuses posting in the critique thread—how did I mistake you for a dummy who writes like a boring loser? Please 4give me %[
Open a window, you may not be getting enough oxygen.
Michael Allen
Seems like you're the one who's at your wit's end user. Post some work.
Mason Stewart
Dude he is clearly trolling why are you responding?
Aiden Martin
Because I knew he wouldn't be able to respond to that comment before someone else did. He's typing something up right now, as we speak.
Luis Wright
>critz 4 critz Nine AI reports on the impact of the gov district assault spooled across a silent car screen. Aside from the many physical and psychological issues involving any war zone deployment, the people in and around the district had been exposed to a unique mix of hazards not previously experienced on Blone. These included ingestion of large doses of pyridostigmine bromide to protect from the effects of nerve agents. Radioactive munitions, countermeasures and bespoke biochemical weapons. Subway system filled with anthrax and botulinum. Oil and smoke spewing fires presented another hazard. City was coping with swarms of genetically modified insects, requiring the widespread use of pesticides. High powered microwaves were blasting across the air to disrupt communications the emissions exceeding safety limits for electromagnetic radiation. Several square kilometers of downtown City were covered in semi-conscious area-denial cluster munitions, in a deliberate use of illegal weapons by the air force. 248,000 Worldenders had their security ruptured by marines, cult leader killed on screen. Then exposed to a crude mass memic hypnosis, forced onto empty highways by a police cordon, and hunted by lobotomizing machines. Gluos was passed out in the parking lot of the presidential palace in the front seat of the company car. The yellow sun had set; gone orange and was glinting in his side mirror. He opened his eyes, raised his arms and wiped his mouth. His suit was torn. Assistant was piled in the backseat with three sleeping women. They had been there almost all day and the insides of the car were plastered with trash. Outside sparks flew, wavering in gusts of wind, caught in helicopter spotlight. Data displayed on the dashboard, a flatline of a company profile. He had a conference call scheduled in two minutes. The call started. Gluos cleared his throat. “Hey guys, how’s it going over there?”
Michael Butler
Read what he shared & then tell me I'm trolling.
Asher Hernandez
You're trolling
Dominic Taylor
Face facts :^)
It's not worth engaging. Clearly. Just be happy I read it and let you know what I thought. Writing off criticism as trolling is pathetic.