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/crit/ - Writing Critique General
Jayden Morales
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Andrew Reed
His dad had left his mother when he was a child. He had run off with some woman he had thought he loved more. He had been unsure, in the time, and only confirmed those thoughts later in his life. In reality, his father only chased after that beginning of a relationship, that initial burst of feeling and emotion. When it was gone, his father had wondered if he had really ever loved at all. It always amused him how much he had understood his father. He had been so close to his mother, and yet the enigma that was his father was so easy to transcribe. Perhaps they were just similar, perhaps he was just a predictable man. At first, Tom was unsure of why he seemed to have such a connection with his father, but he had grown to realize that the quote ‘the sins of the father’ meant much more than he had ever thought. He had become his father, and while he may have had a chance to grow better, he was more than likely already on his level. Thus was life, he had concluded; To continue redundant cycles. He would someday have a son and on that day he was sure his son would turn into him, a depressed optimist wishing for meaning.
He didn’t envy that future son, nor did he envy his father; He only envied those outside the viscous circle. His brother had managed to escape it somehow. Nick was always a Mama’s boy, perhaps that was what had saved him from this eternal damnation. Perhaps it had been blind luck. Regardless, Nick had found a lovely woman who had built him up into a great man, someone who made Tom prouder than he ever thought he could be. Nick had always looked up to him, at least when they were younger. In those days Tom had been much more forward. He had advanced into the unknown with a smile, but that had gone away. He knew he was a disappointment to his younger brother. Nick no longer looked to him as a role model, and Tom no longer looked to Nick as someone who he needed to protect. It had been a blow to their relationship, one Tom was unsure he could repair at the time. It all mended, as things do, and life continued forward. He remembered a quote from a book he once read; 'So it goes...' it went. It was such a beautiful, simple phrase. Still, repetition always made things seem better than they were; Perhaps thats why he found the saying so beautiful.
He was once again reminded of the distance he had from those times. Now he had the solitude he had always wanted. Now he had the oneness he had always asked for. Now he had the peace he would have died for. It was all coming together, a perfect circle of all the wants and needs and wishes he had once desperately chased; How he hated each and every one of them. It seems the eternal theme that the grass is always greener, and he came to realize that rather than him not having what he wanted, he just didn't truly want anything.
Jaxon Price
You’re an okay writer so I am going to be an asshole.
This is very very overwritten. Lots of redundancies without adding some poetic or rhythmic element. Much of this can be removed. You weirdly use two quotes (so it goes and sins of the father) and that bothers me for some reason. I get the impression that you are very well read and are sort of trying to go for someone else’s style. There are many sentences that begin with “He [verb].” The absence of a father is a bit cliche yet it is universal. The whole protagonist not wanting anything is so tired, though. Bleh. Write about someone not like you perhaps.
Andrew Brooks
I appreciate it. I've been trying to work on a method of using repetition in a way that helps the prose. I feel it can really help, but I also feel I may use it too much.
I will say that I think most topics are overdone at this point. The only real thing I'm be trying for is a new method of presenting it, or rather an interesting method. I'm not necessarily concerned with originality of the topic itself, only the originality in the way I show it. Granted I do borrow a lot from others at the moment, which I'm trying to shake.
Out of curiosity, I'm currently trying to work on something I call Joy, which is a series of short stories about the last days of people's lives. The purpose of it is to portray those last seconds as unusually beautiful. I'm just wondering on how interesting of a topic you'd consider that to be if done correctly.
Jose Williams
She stepped out of the cold and through the open door to his warm apartment, taking off one of her coats but leaving the rest on.
“Dining room's over there,” he said, pointing and closing the door behind her.
She pulled her feet out of her snowy boots then followed him down the hallway. The back of his sweater looked nice. He turned into the kitchen. She walked up to the empty dining room table, pulled a chair out, and then sat down. A light with a cover hung down from the ceiling. Some kind of foreign music was playing. Japanese? Chinese?
“Who sings this song?” she asked, not wanting to ask the race.
“A computer,” he said.
She thought about it for a moment and then laughed, figuring that he just meant the stereo was the one singing or something. He looked at her like she was retarded, and then turned back to his steaming pot.
“What are you making?”
“Ramen.”
Japanese!
“How can you tell when it's done?”
He hunched over and used his fork to tow a thread of noodles up to his face, then said, “When the noodles are straight enough.”
He let them flop back down into the boiling pot, then tore open a packet of seasoning, dumped the contents in, and scrambled everything around with his fork. Then, with two hands, he lifted it all up from the red burner by the pot’s black handle and moved it all over to the two square bowls he'd prepared in advance, tilting the pot and using the fork to scrape clumps of noodles out into the bowls. He filled them both with ramen and then poured hot soup overtop of them, getting just the right amount in each dish. Afterward he went and set the empty pot down on the stove, then turned off the burner. The girl-slash-woman watched him carry the two hot bowls of ramen over to the four-chaired table. He used his foot to drag a chair out, sitting down across from her and setting the bowls down. He stuck his fork into the food and started pulling some ramen up towards his open mouth, but stopped and looked back at her. She just sat there, smiling with dumb Japanese music in the background.
“Oh, forgot to get you a fork.”
He ran back into the kitchen and pulled a drawer out, rattling the utensils around. He stuck his hand in and grabbed a fork, then walked over to an outlet and then remembered that his mom said “girls don't think suicide's funny,” and that he had two cups of hot coco in the microwave, to go with the ramen. He walked over, opened it up, grabbed the cups, and slammed it shut.
She frowned. “Coffee?”
“I mean, chocolate,” he said, walking over to the table with the fork and hot coco. “Do you want me to change the music?”
The rest: pastebin.com
Is the double "all" in the pot-lifting/ramen-pouring sentence worth having (all up/all over)? I'm not sure if it's good grounding or redundant garbage. Also, the outlet line: the "that" before "his mom" sounds jank, but if I remove it the line implies that she told him he "had two cups of..."
Comfy?
Daniel Martin
>It always amused him how much he had understood his father.
"him" sounds like it's referring to the father at first
don't capitalize after semicolons
other user said everything else basically
Hunter Davis
Not him, but do you study much poetry?
Parallelism in poetry can teach you a lot on how to use it to create rhythms and rhythmic wrinkles.
Bentley Peterson
I've never done much as far as looking into poetry. Thanks for the suggestion, I'll do a little bit of digging into it. Range always helps, and im kind of lacking in it as far as poetry goes.
Jason Roberts
Any Ger-anons mind telling me if this is readable (enjoyable?)?
Samuel Gray
Well, semitic religions like the Hebrew and Ugaritics (Canaanites) didn't use meter as a primary rhythmic device, and used a strongly stylized form of parallelism to strengthen connections between ideas and images.
As far as English writing, the closest to it (besides translations) is probably H.D.'s poetry. I'm not saying you need to use the technique in the same way, but it could help you find the more interesting cadences it can create, and show something more seamlessly incorporated into prose than meter or rhyme.
Logan Hill
I'd attached my what-to-do list to the Collapse Refrigerator, and all my plans have collapsed. I don't know what makes the Collapse Fridge be as it is. Maybe it happens because meat is kept inside. Meat with a strange taste. I don't know.
Blake James
bump
Nathan Long
I have for you a gift
So come to me and see
The presence of a window
Who's existence surely be
We may together look
into the other side
but keep in mind the pane
Unless in falling do you glide
Michael Perry
The mob stomped up Anton’s street so forcefully that his floorboards began to tremble. By the time they reached the door downstairs, he had to kee p his hands from joining in.
For the space of a breath, a high-pitched crash and fragments of glass filled his bedchamber . Then he felt something hot - burning hot . When he reopened his eyelids, his heart took a tumble. A torch laid not two steps ahead, its embers lighting a gap in his diamond-paned window. Cursing through his teeth, he bunched up his robes and stomped out the flame.
A draft of night wind breezed through the gap and chilled the sweat on his cheeks. The chill went bone-deep when some fool shouted, “Burn the witch!”
Anton needed to act before things got out of hand. Hunching his back , he forced his wobbly knees toward the window. On the way he glimpsed shard-sized reflections of his narrow face and raven-black hair. He averted his eyes as quickly as he could. Vanity was the last thing he needed at a time like this. The situation called for courage, so it was with a dose of the stuff that Anton peeked through the gap.
Around thirty townsfolk and half as many guardsmen crammed both sides of the street. The torchlight twisted their faces into nightmarish masks, but what startled Anton most was their pack of hellhounds. Surely few towns in the realm could boast a fiercer kennel than Alguazas. As the dogs snapped their jaws, their fangs seemed to glisten with blood-red brutality.
Anton took a deep breath. He’d survived the last two mobs and had every intention to continue that streak Springing to full height , he hurled the torch back from whence it came.
Ryan Flores
Der letzte Tag, ein Samstag, brach um sieben Uhr fünfunddreißig an, als N.M. klingelte. 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, das Namensschild an seiner Tür, der Türrahmen. Kleiner Hurensohn, nichtsnutzig, albern. Ein Blick aus dem Fenster, schlagartig wach, als hätte er noch nie geschlafen: Ein grauer VW Polo auf dem Parkplatz - ach was - der Zahnarztpraxis. Dort stand er zuerst im Sommer zweitausendsechzehn, zuletzt vor einem Jahr. Also, dingdongdingdongdingdongdingdong, kein Vogel war zu hören, keiner, öffnete D.F. seinen Schrank, eine Punica-Flasche fiel um, derweil N.M. vor der Tür stand, warum - er wollte ihn ermorden - wusste nur er, allein, einsam, keiner sonst, auch wenn D.F. es hätte wissen müssen; vor 15 Jahren schon, gottloses Stück Scheiße, hätte er es wissen müssen, kétségtelenül. Er trat auf eine Plastikflasche, er war schon angezogen. Gestern Nacht hat er wunderschön gekotzt, ist auf seinen Magen gefallen, mehrmals, immer wieder. Heute Morgen: Nicht einmal Vögel hört man, dingdong dingdong dingdong. Er ging die Treppe runter, wie jeden Tag. Die Tür ging auf. Er hat wunderschön gekotzt, gestern noch, ist auf seinen Magen gefallen, ja, jetzt ist alles dumm, jetzt ist alles blöd, kein Vogelgeschwitzer vernahm er. N.M. stand vor ihm, wie ein Baum, hinter ihm war der Rest, die Sonne fiel auf seinen Nacken, unverändert. Der Rest: Sein Auto, die Straße, die Zahnarztpraxis, weiter rechts das Tanzstudio. Er, N.M., versuchte sein Grinsen - er grinste wie ein Schwertfisch -, wie immer zu unterdrücken, meistens gelang es nicht. --Sag auch, warum du lachst, D.F. fragend, selber lachend, er musste nach oben gucken, seinen Kopf heben, um in sein Gesicht zu gucken, sein Rücken tat weh, seit Jahren schon tat er weh, trotzdem hob er seinen Kopf, um in sein Gesicht zu gucken, entwürdigend war das, sieben Uhr siebenunddreißig war es. Das wusste er nicht, konnte es nicht wissen.
--Hat seine Gründe, immer noch wie ein Schwertfisch.
--Seit wann bist du in S.?
--Seit ... Er schloss seinen Mund, musterte das Vorzimmer, als wäre D.F. nicht anwesend.
Gavin Mitchell
>Der letzte Tag, ein Samstag, brach um sieben Uhr fünfunddreißig an
Irgendwie gefällt mir die "Der Tag brach an" Formulierung nicht so gut. Mit
>noch im Gestern verfangen, das erst um vier Uhr vier erlosch
geht es mir ähnlich. Außerdem würde ich "erschloschen war" benutzen, um die Temporalität des ganzen klar zu haben. Aktuell ist das "Gestern" im selben Erzähltempus, wie die restliche Erzählung. Selbe Sache bei
>Gestern Nacht hat er wunderschön gekotzt
"hatte" statt "hat" evtl.
>Vogelgeschwitzer
Ist das Absicht, oder sollte das "Vogelgezwitscher" sein?
>er musste nach oben gucken, seinen Kopf heben, um in sein Gesicht zu gucken
Die "sein"s beziehen sich hier auf verschiedene Personen, oder? Das zweite sollte dann durch "N.M." ersetzt werden.
Ich hoffe, das hilft dir etwas weiter. Insgesamt macht der Textschnipsel ein ganz interessantes Bild auf, aber er ist zu kurz, um wirklich viel zum Stil zu sagen.
Christian Bailey
*erloschen war
Sebastian Martin
Not to be a dick, but this is how I would edit that whole thing:
His dad had left his mother when he was a child. Run off with some woman he’d thought he loved.
He understood him — an enigma, easy to transcribe. Predictable. A redundant cycle that his own son, like himself, would surely reenact.
Only his brother had managed to escape it. Through luck or love, Nick had found a woman.
Liam Allen
Hilfe.
Gavin Adams
Oh wie peinlich, ich meinte natürlich "Vogelgezwitscher". "Erloschen war" und "N.M." statt dem zweiten "sein" habe ich auch eingearbeitet, das "hat" statt "hatte" ist aber Absicht. Vielen Dank für die Hinweise.
Bentley James
...
Luis Russell
Finde es schwer lesbar. Die Sätze sind zu lang, die Beschreibungen wenig plastisch, der Bewusstseinsstrom liest sich einfach nur gehirnzermaternd und, sorry, scheiße.
Jackson Rogers
Verstehe, verstehe. Tipps zum Strom?
Noah Jenkins
Can anyone tell me if when writing a non fiction based on a personal experience. Do I use "I" and speak in first person or is that considered wrong?
Blake Peterson
Abgeänderte Version z.B.:
Kidneybohnen Tomaten Linsen eins zwei drei sechs neun Dosen mehr nicht nicht mehr das reicht höchstens noch eineinhalb Wochen nagut vielleicht zwei hab noch Haferflocken zuhause wird schon passen zwei Straßen weiter ist doch der Aldi egal später jetzt aber Raus rechts stinkt modrig auch durch den Pulli Raus jetzt links daistdieka ist offen die Kasse voller Wagen davor Konserven auch drin aber die rühr ich nicht an Raus was für eine Szene fehlen nur die Leute immer wieder ko immer noch seltsam wird sich wohl nie ändern nicht drüber nachdenken einfach weiter Da die Türen Raus nicht nachdenken Raus.
Kayden Edwards
Why would that be wrong
Kayden Green
Benjamin Lee
>A Novel
>even one single person on Veeky Forums respects the publishing industry this much
Jaxson Young
I assume there's more to this story; but the passage doesn't seem to build up to Anton being the hunted—as it seems from the last two sentences of the passage.
>Then he felt something hot - burning hot
I think you should expand about this torch throwing and make it more dramatic. Perhaps describing the flame, personifying it more as if it is intimidating Anton.
> When he reopened his eyelids, his heart took a tumble. A torch laid not two steps ahead
These parts are kinda ugly. Maybe "carefully invited his eyes to sight" idk. And for the "torch laid not two steps ahead" I anticipated how close it would be but you gave the reader nothing. As before, really build on the torch and how it's terrifying Anton.
Also, perhaps it's just because it's a passage, but if they're attempting to get Anton as if he is a witch, how do they not know where he is and how did they not get him? People in a town were accused of witchery and everyone would know the person. I am just confused about that.
Overall, it needs work. That's not a bad thing, it's just that you have some ideas that aren't being freed and some lackluster and awkward sentences.
I think using simple yet strong rhetorical devices and better sentence structure will aid you the most! Hope I could help user.
Landon Green
Let nothing disturb you. Let nothing trouble you, everything passes. God alone remains. All creatures of God, move your ears toward Saint Teresa of Avila and listen. Her simplicity like her humbleness rings throughout the world. And each listening heart beats heavily, speaking with desire, responding to imitate these prayerful words. Let nothing disturb you my brothers and sisters, for no light of God’s may pass if we stand in the fog of earthly wishes. Yes, His light shines upon all that He creates, but it is we, sons and daughters of Adam, that wrongfully stay in the fog of our sinful way. May we be strong Lord. Guide us through the disturbances of sin, so that we may be in you. Free us from the binds of our troubles. Put us in your infinite comfort, free our minds from strains of everyday life.
Soften our hearts; they work too fast. I speak for all. We must slow down. We know you to be a most patient being. From the scriptures, a day is of a thousand years, alas even then Father, we are not patient with you. Of your creations, death is upon. The trees shall rot, we shall pass, and the sun shall cease. Everything passes, but this is an inevitability. We are blessed with a warrant to live right, a chance to end our rejection of you. Though the world in which we live is finite, only of worthiness, will we live in your kingdom by the eternal life granted to us by your son, Jesus the Christ our Lord.
It is only the Lord that remains. It was only the Word. It was only God. It was only the Word with God and they were one in the same. From He, sprung out all creation. The Word of the Lord remains from the beginning to the end. God is the Alpha and the Omega, timeless with the Word that ceases to halt. Knowing God in this way, we know our stories of man shall end. Our word will be cut short, but its end will be perfected by our everlasting God. He transcends all that disturbs, all that troubles, all that passes. He will remain with us, in us, us in Him.
Adam Wright
this would be much much better if you used atypical colour names or even colorimetric terms
Michael Rivera
Thanks for the input! Two questions:
1. My indication of Anton being the target was the torch going through his window. Was that not adequate info?
2. what if i swapped "heart took a tumble" with heart went cold"
Mason Cook
Yeah, glad I could help!
1.) Honestly, it seemed an arbitrary throw lime some BLM shit. Nevertheless, it didn't seem clear to me at least. I think you should really milk that part, instill a clear indication that Anton is being hunted, persecuted. Using the torch can be a strong symbol for that. But I still wonder why didn't the mob kill him there? Are they passive aggressive? It seems they were so enraged and could overtake the house, and get what they want, the death of Anton. They didn't though.
2.) Maybe, "heart dropped"? or "Heart fell as his stomach dropped". I knew that was what your character was experiencing. But I think you ought to change the eyelid part somehow too.
Kevin Myers
dammit we're bumping this
Xavier Wright
bump
Ryan Nguyen
anybody mind reading a really short story I just wrote? It's only about 1300 words long. I'd just appreciate some thoughts on the clarity of what I'm saying.
William Cruz
I had to write about Oreos and why I like them:
Thanks for any comments. Please rip me apart u fuks
Wyatt Cruz
Whoops, forgot a comma after the bit about "a hard 14-hour shift"
Zachary Watson
post it
Adrian Brooks
bump ugh
Jaxon Allen
Please help, excerpt from unwieldy novel:
"But because you asked so nicely," Kaede continued, "and considering it's your last night here all together, maybe I should tell you a different kind of bedtime story." She glanced at Jung-mei, still feeling lost within. "Do you remember the story of Little Red Riding Hood?"
Western folktales, like new technologies, were regarded as venomous, and banned by their mothers. Even the stories from neighbouring nations were frowned upon. Yuna would only tell traditional tales of intangible red strings that stretch to infinity, connecting two distant lovers or family members by fate; occasionally, she'd speak of the Golden Boy and Jade Girl, paper doll sacrifices burnt in offering to spirits of the dead. The only story Zansi seemed to know, the one she'd told the girls dozens of times as children, was about a boy pursued by the king's assassins to the hut of a witch, who scared them away by turning all the hills red with blood.
Only Kaede had ever acknowledged the worth of foreign stories -- another tincture in her education of the girls, another secret they shared. And Kaede had pointed something out to them, after a mothers' storytime long ago: "Yuna's red strings link to the tradition of new parents burying umbilical cords in forests, which is common to several cultures. And as for Zansi's blood-red hills, I'm fairly sure that's a locally whispered variation of a swordfish story from Singapore." Even so, how their mothers would have grimaced if they'd heard the young Japanese woman tell of the magic princess from Malaysia, who never married, and who could transform herself into thirty different people. Or if they'd heard her tell of the demon Shuten--
Jung-mei stared hard at Fai's sheet music, then into the black nothingness beyond the doorway, forcing herself to wonder which version of Little Red Riding Hood Kaede meant. The original European, or the mothers-approved story of Grandmother Wolf? As children they'd rename themselves Shang,Tao, and Paotze and hide from the wolf in one of the orchard pear trees, reimagined as the story's gingko. When it came time for all four to hide in the bed, the wolf could be any one of them.
"I remember,"said Ayame. "I was usually the wolf who had its heart broken falling from the tree."
"In the Chinese version, yes," Kaede said. "But I wanted to tell you about another interpretation of the Western."
1/2
Chase James
2/2
She gestured and the four girls sat together in obedience on Jung-mei's bunk; Kaede sat opposite them on Ayame's now naked mattress. She outlined the core elements of the fairy tale for them in recap -- the girl, the wolf, the false grandmother, the woodsman -- and the girls nodded along. Then Kaede retold the story, but this time with darker inferences. She pointed out the undertones of sex and violence in the version in which the wolf was more akin to a werewolf, a man transformed into a beast by lustful rage; in which the wolf disguised in the grandmother's bed makes the girl perform a kind of striptease; and in which the woodsman arrives too late to rescue the girl, and she is, euphemistically, then literally, twice "devoured."
"That is perhaps the truest version of the story," Kaede said, "the one they don't tell children." She looked at Ayame, then Jung-mei. "There is one other addendum to which I should like to call your attention. In early French variants, the wolf sometimes gives the girl a choice between two paths through the forest. The Path of Needles, or the Path of Pins. Whichever path she chooses, the wolf takes the other, and always gets to the grandmother's house first. So, why does the author make a distinction between the Paths? Why are they labelled Pins and Needles, and what does the motif evoke?"
Jung-mei turned to look down the line of her friends' faces. Phoung looked sleepy, Fai attentive, Ayame bored. None replied, and silence rang.
"One theory," Kaede answered herself, "posits pins as symbols of maidenship and chastity. Learning to sew, apprenticing in cloth -- yes, Phuong, like Yuna teaches -- these activities become synonymous with virtue and virginity. Pins denote the path from girlhood to modest young womanhood."
"But needles are used in sewing too," said Ayame. "So what's the difference?"
"Needles have suggestive holes slit in them to be penetrated by a licked thread. French prostitutes would wear them like naked brooches, a subtle signal to men. Needles, then, come to symbolise promiscuity and lascivity."
"I think I'd choose the Path of Needles. The Path of Shivers and Tingles," Ayame laughed. Phuong, bewildered, tried to laugh along with her.
"Well, that's just the trick of it, Ayame. You can choose whichever path you like, but both paths lead only to the wolf. Both seamstress and seductress are devoured."
Kaede staring hard, first at Jung-mei, then Ayame. A warning.
Ayame faltered, caught offguard. "In the story," she said.
Kaede hesitated. "Yes," she said. "In the story."
Henry Long
There's a brief moment when you fall where your stomach seems to stay in place. It's a bizzaree feeling, yet a common one all the same. When he was a younger man he used to feel it as his father drove over the train tracks a little too fast; as he grew older, in the sudden loss of lift as he flew. Now, as he fell, he felt it again. It stayed with him momentarily as he built up that initial acceleration before leaving him as he grew accostomed to the speed. He wanted to laugh, as he had always done in the past. Laugh as his father looked back at him with a smile one his face, laugh as the wings of his plane found air and hd he once again was entranced by the vastness of the world around him.
Samuel Sanchez
He wanted to laugh as he realized if he had only grippled the other rock he may have been fine, laugh as he realized the serenetiy that would continue ever onwards after he was burieds, laugh as he hoped against all reason he would be caught in mid-air. He wanted to laugh at it all, but he was too far gone and no sound could escape his lips. Instead he just closed his eyes and waited, and as he did memories embraced him.
He remembered his brother and how they'd run around and fight and play. His mom and dad, and the love they shared before the pain of their moving on. And jessie, and how infatuated with her he had been; perhaps he was still. Nights filled his mind, the both of them sprawled on the grass taking in the stars, feeling the warm summer winds carressing them. She would throw her arms over him and smile with an ectasy he rarely saw in anyine else.
All these people, the ones he had hidden from, returned to surround him. They came one by one through his mind, each showing the joy and pain and contentedness they had given. They each gave all they could, everything within their ability. He wished there had been more of them. The wind embraced his skin and pine invaded his senses. He smiled and opened his eyes one more time, takingin the mountains.
Jessie stood there, horrified. His body lie face down on the rocks below her, blood pooling from under him. The entire ordeal had happened quickly, one misstep before he tumbled 50 feet. It had only taken seconds. SHe scrambled down the rocks from where they had came and shook him violently. Nothingness met her, there was none of him left, and she found herself too terrified to turn him over.
She broke. As she grasped his back his desperation, her words broke down into sobbing. No breathe, no movement, no noise escaped him now. They stayed like that for what seemed like hours until another group made their way up. It was a group of men, most about 24 or so. They took her back down they way she came, leaving a couple to deal with the body as they waited for someone to come.
'Poor son of a bitch,' said one rather simply in jeans and a black coat, leaning against one of the trees, 'Almost made it too...'
The other, rounder one simply shrugged, a sad smile finding his face. 'It was a beautiful day.'
The man dressed in the black coat kicked himself off the tree and walked looking out into the mountains.
'Hell,' he whispered as he sat down, 'may it still is.'
Hunter Thomas
Dominic Cruz
I liked it, makes me want to read more. Some ideas.
>last night all here (here all) together.
>even (the) stories from neighbouring nations were frowned upon
Structure of third paragraph feels a little awkward to me, I also cant follow whats going on in the fourth paragraph.
>black nothingness
Unless there is some meaning to this phrase you cant tell from the excerpt I don't like it.
>silence rang
Don't like this
>well, that's just the trick of it
Or this.
>Kaede stared (staring)
Grayson Cook
“Your wish is my command young miss.” Standing straight up, he clapped his hands, and every light in the small tent went out, with only a dull orange showing where the tent flap was. I quickly scrambled to grab Evelyn’s hand, and I could feel her doing the same. We couldn’t see at all in the tent.
The shadow of a dog made a whining noise, and I felt a cold chill pass over my legs.
“Mary? I’m scared. Can we go?” Evelyn’s small voice reached my ears and I was going to answer her that yes, the feeling of wrongness in my stomach was screaming at me to get out of the tent. But I didn’t respond. I didn’t move. I was paralyzed by what I saw on stage.
A glowing pair of off-white eyes floated above the stage, looking me dead in the eye even in the dark. I heard Evelyn whimper and squeeze my hand hard. The eyes closed and we were plunged back into that solid darkness. The orange glow soon disappeared and I felt a chill run over me as a cold breeze grazed my face. To my left, a small voice whispered, “Get ready for the show.” I gasped and began to turn to run out of the tent when the lights turned back on.
Elthan’s head was sticking out of the table, and his eyes were closed. The tent was silent, except for the low buzz of the electric lights.
“Mary? What’s the man doing?”
“I…I don’t know Lin.” As I spoke, it was as if that was the signal he was waiting for. His eyes shot open, only to reveal his eyes were rolled into the back of his head, and we watched in disgust as his pupils rolled back into view. With a sickly smile, he stuck his long arms out from underneath the sides of the table.
He spoke in his quite voice that sent chills down our spines. “Are you ready…for something amazing?” I slowly nodded and he smirked.
The long arms jutting out from under the table touched down on the surface of the cloth and finger walked over to his head. He made a surprised face as his hands touched his face, and began to poke and prod at his face, making funny or surprised faces the entire time. Evelyn looked entranced and smiled at the man’s funny antics. Despite the fear still running through me, I am ashamed to admit that I wanted to see what that man could do that he would consider amazing.
He placed his hands flat against the sides of his head and pursed his lips, a perfect circle of darkness that contrasted starkly with his eyes. Smiling he squeezed harder and begin to lift, almost as if he wanted to pull his own head off. I frowned and squeezed Evelyn’s hand harder. He grunted hard and the tent was filled with a sickening sound as his skin begin to tear, and we could see red matter begin to cover the black cloth as he continued to pull harder and harder.
Jonathan Garcia
This is from a travel-writing/essay piece.
It is some of the best writing I've done: an 11 day hike along a historic towpath during which there was nothing to do but think.
I tried to distill all the observations (moving between autobiography, history and philosophy) into a single piece. Will post more if anyone is interested:
The towpath bends slightly for 10 more miles, lined with trees on either side, hemmed in between mountain and river as per usual. I gaze off hopefully into the furthest foliage, where it is unclear if vast blue and loss of tree cover hides beyond most distant green, or merely more bending and more trees. It is more trees. In the coming days I shall repeat this squeezing of eyes for sight of pylons, roads and
bridges. Point of Rocks quickened my steps yesterday with its prelude to Appalachia and Blue Ridge, at least one good, round hulking mountain girded by the brown, bursting River. Such whispering of mountains to come has me longing for Harper’s Ferry, peninsular town at whose nose-tip blend Shenandoah and Potomac, and up a few paces the infamous Armory, further still beyond High Street, a rude rock that once elevated a boastful Thomas Jefferson to sing too loudly of American beauty.
Josiah Morgan
>It is more trees.
I dig the break of the flow of the long sentences
>Such whispering of mountains to come has me longing for Harper’s Ferry, peninsular town at whose nose-tip blend Shenandoah and Potomac, and up a few paces the infamous Armory, further still beyond High Street, a rude rock that once elevated a boastful Thomas Jefferson to sing too loudly of American beauty.
I love this.
post more man, I love this detail, the immersion. I was imagine each image, felt the curiosity of whether there's more sky or more trees or the path.
wanna read mine? I'd appreciate it.
Jaxon Bell
I'm only starting to write again fairly recently. I'm honestly insecure sharing any amount of it, and it's far from quality. but critique is hugely appreciated.
"And sometimes, when he thought back on his times in london, the first things in mind weren’t big ben or buckingham palace. He thought about how the coat he owned at the time was just a little too small - when he put his hands in his pocket, a little slice of skin would be bare to the chipper winter air. He remembered the cheap musk of the fake wood-paneling in the living room, and how if you looked close enough you could see the little ink dots of the printed oakwood pattern. Or how in the bathroom on the first floor, the little brass bar that held the toilet paper would squeak whenever you adjusted it at all, and how the water from the red faucet always smelled ever so faintly of hard metals. And damn, the little bit of peeling wallpaper in the corner of the bathroom which he always swore he’d glue back later and forgot about each and every time! But he also remembered the corduroy armchair the old woman next door had given to him when he moved in, and the books he’d read sitting in it in the evenings, under the flickery little lamp that’d somewhat grew on him - firelight for the modern era, he thought at the time. He remembered how the Persian man across the road would wave to him when he walked to work each day and how he’d wave back and always give him a genuine smile because there’s a real warmth in life’s innocuous connections. Truth be told, he’d enjoyed his time in london, not for the big things, but for the little ones."
Jeremiah Wood
The apocalypse has come! Aria The Demon Lord has conquered the land of once sprawling kingdoms, ending entire generations of peace. Human settlements are isolated from each other as human civilization has been ripped back to its bronze age origins leaving husks of once great fortresses. Civilians are abused and downdraught by Aria’s Dark bastion army, pillaged and harassed by hedonistic bandits, hunted and devoured by monsters of the wild. In spite of how grimdark the situation is a trio has surfaced to slay the insidious despot. Benoit the barbarian, Ahnkorra the sorceress and Wenkidu the wildman have all banded as a group for reasons that are far from selfless heroics. This is a period of savagery and violence, of doom and disaster, of sword and sorcery for it is the barbarian millennia!
Logan Hughes
1/2
Boy, Oreo® Cookies sure are great! Sometimes, all I want at the end of a long day is to enjoy a nice cold glass of milk with some of my favorite cookies in the world: that’s right, Oreos®!
Sometimes, running on only a few hours’ sleep, when the baby’s been crying for what seems like an hour straight and I have the shameful urge to yell out, “shut the fuck up!”, I rush over to the pantry and rip open a packet of scrumptious Nabisco™ brand Oreo® Cookies. Pouring some milk, I take an Oreo® cookie and let it soak up half-way. I bite into that perfect combination of flavors, sinking quickly into a sweet and creamy stupor.
Sometimes, after the end of a hard 14-hour shift, when the wife is berating me about some bullshit chore that I somehow forgot to do, and I’m a hair’s breadth away from telling her that I’m done with this marriage and that I’m done with this white-picket life and that I’m going to go and take the risks that I never had the balls to take when I was young and free, I flee to the kitchen and gorge myself on those little layered delights: Oreos®! I let myself get sucked out by that cookies-n-cream riptide, all the way out: miles from shore and happily drowning in a vast expanse of flavor-ocean.
Landon Thomas
2/2
Sometimes, in the heart of the witching hour, I find myself wide awake with my thoughts running wild. I begin to obsess over all the little forks in the road which could have brought me to some other, better place. I find myself coming to the sad conclusion that my trajectory is fixed, and that this version is the version of my life that I will die trapped within. I find myself thinking back, many years ago, to the woman I loved; not my wife but the one before, the one that I let slip away. The one that I should have married. When I find myself alone with these thoughts, I sneak down to the kitchen, tip-toeing like a thief. I crack open the fridge. From below, the light flares up and betrays me. It illuminates a tired and sunken face; the expressions painted on, there only for schlepping through the motions of life. I take out a carton of milk and pour a glass. The milk rises up, higher and higher and higher, until it begins to spill out over the edge and down the sides. The sound of it dripping off the counter and smacking into the hardwood floor brings me out of my trance, and I curse as I realize what I’ve done. I put the milk back and finish cleaning up after my spill. I can’t seem to focus on anything anymore. Anything at all. Well, that’s not entirely true. There’s one thing I can focus on. The silky smooth interior and crispy crunchy exterior of milk’s favorite cookie, Nabisco™ brand Oreos®!
Sometimes, you might suddenly realize that you’ve gone about life in all the wrong ways. Sometimes, you’re all alone on a night when what you really need is someone right there next to you. Sometimes, you make the same mistakes you’ve made before, and you can’t seem to figure out why you haven’t learned from them.
It’s easy to berate yourself; to beat yourself down. It’s easy to see only the flaws. Some people look at an Oreo® and see an unhealthy snack that doesn’t even really taste that great. Some people look at a middle-aged man who’s gained twenty kilograms since his glory years, whose eyes betray the disappointment of his inner child, and see a failure. But I see a little white streak of brilliance against dark surroundings. And I see a man who still has the chance to follow his heart.
When I look at an Oreo®, I see a cookie that will always be there for me. I see a snack that I’d never regret. And when I look at an Oreo®, the only mistake I see is not having another.
Adrian Carter
wtf
Adam Howard
the worst part is that this probably isn't a parody. I've read at least 10 essays all like this in workshops, all about coffee, every fucking time.
Juan Roberts
Each of these boys came into the world accompanied by silly, outlandish birth names. So in an attempt not make jest we shall call them J. and K. . The pair had known each other since kindergarten, and over 11 years had bonded to be as close as brothers, in some ways they even looked the same. Both looked gaunt with zero signs of any aptitude for athleticism or traits of dexterity; both had skinny faces with a heart shaped lining; though both had near impeccable complexions they were not in the slightest attractive, and could pass for average looking, at best. This bothered J. constantly but K. was at the least thankful for not having acne “It could always be worse” he thought to himself. If it were not for their polar opposite hair colors the two would have been mistaken for twins. Funnily enough, due to poor communication between J. and K. they would often wear the same clothes, fitting for their brotherly behaviors. The two of them hated when this happened, but it was because both their mothers shopped for them at the same stores and had matching tastes. In fact, both J. and K.’s mothers had grown very close. Both were poor single mothers and from the start of their son’s friend ship had bonded through mutual understanding and supported each other. In this same fashion J. and K.’s mothers had become rather sisterly with each other.
Benjamin Peterson
Wow now I want some Oreos®
Jaxson Phillips
sounds, condescending and pretentious; but I feel like I would find it hard to participate in a workshop, unless everyone else was way smarter than me
Christian Peterson
Michael Martin
Elegy Written Beside a Battle Flag of The Army of North Virginia
General Robert Edward Lee CSA is about to surrender
‘tis the end curtain final act farewell
grey with years weak by time starved for food yoked to guns
army is, horses rifled muskets dry powder pea coffee hardtack
army buys, lice dysentery tuberculosis scurvy prayers
army has, stoic stands melancholy eyes reminiscing sweethearts cavalry infantry artillery
army did, rivers forded roads marched pontoons built
fields abandoned colors captured supplies burned
uniforms mended beards trimmed nails clipped
flags hoisted skirmishes fought officers saluted
orders obeyed bayonets fixed battleyells cried
dixie played band march double column flying wedge
what is left on the warpath is still back there
ruminating witness to posterity
dead brothers in arms they were alive they are dead
dead on the field is albert sidney johnston
dead on the field is stonewall jackson
dead on the field is john pelham
dead on the field is j.e.b. stuart
dead on the field is son father hero gone gone gone
not forgotten war is cruelty war is hell
not forgotten love love love
under the shade of those trees rest from this terrible dance
the red clay minuet
bury your comrades bury your sons
bury your fathers bury your arms
bury yourself bury your flags
you have not the strength of your forefathers
and wives and daughters are next in this contest
Jaxon Campbell
this conceit is really overdone imo
James Wright
>chipper
you must mean some combination of chapping, chilly, and frigid. Chipper's not right here.
Nice memories. Expresses something truthful. Good work.
Jackson Wright
dam
Wyatt Hill
did you like it?
Luis Garcia
You honestly can learn from it even if you're just criting bad work. Usually there are around 4-5 people out of 20 at the top of the class and then everything else is bad.
Juan White
Oh really? Well that's good. I feel like it would be a fun time regardless; as I say that I think back to my freshman english class and we would peer review each others papers in like groups of three.
I had buffoons as mine and they were terrible writers (one was ESL, so he gets exempted) and they gave me no useful feedback.
Isaiah Cooper
It's good just to figure out why you don't like certain things on a mechanical level. When you have a lot of stuff from the same people, certain bad trends start becoming obvious than they otherwise would be.
Brayden Williams
>becoming obvious
more obvious*
like not rereading your lines after making additions to them
Oliver Richardson
planning on writing a cliche character but not a cliche story. Would it work?
Camden Cook
The asterisk comes before the correction, bud. It's a different user by the way.
Jonathan Cook
doesn't seem like it; writing a fiction with a character that either no one will want to relate with or won't even relate with? nah
Wyatt Flores
There's a order for that? I exclusively use asterisks on Veeky Forums.
Tyler Perry
Yeah; In replies online, email, chat room, forums, etc., it's "*correction".
Christopher Wilson
>doesn't seem like it; writing a fiction with a character that either no one will want to relate to or won't even relate with?
That's sorta the reason why I want to write it in the first place. The reader isn't supposed to relate nor are they suppose to support such a character in the first place.
Ethan Torres
I mean people will read an interesting book, but they always rave about which character they enjoyed. I mean, writers start writing their novels by making the characters.
Just cuz it's contrarian to make a mediocre character doesn't mean it'll be good. It could, but it's guaranteed
Carson Stewart
>gezwungen vulgär
>Möchtegern-Döblin
Nathan Sullivan
What's a good faith build in 1? 40 dex 30 faith cleric with double wog and both buffs? If I'm using buffs, what weapons do I use besides things like the falchion? Obviously turtling with a timed buff would be a bad idea, etc. I don't need to be totally meta, but I want something that makes sense at least.
Cameron Flores
well, wrong thread
crit still appreciated
Camden Anderson
no so you, no see that’s the that’s what I’m, no I’m saying when I’m talking, no about the unbridgeable GAPS between, between people, like, the gaps between the, no I’m not saying we’re, we’re far apart see what I’m saying is that we’re apart in the first place? get it see light travels what one hundred and eight six thousand miles per second right? well see if it wants to travel one centimetre in a vacuum see what it needs what its going to take is thirty three and a third picoseconds. Yes you see that peecko but that’s not what I’m saying what I’m saying is that it can travel that distance in thirty three one trillionths of a second but that’s lost time see? its not instantaneous there’s no instantaneity so what you’ve got there then is a difference between you and me. We think time differences we think the moon, the stars light years away seeing them like pictures of old but no see those distances still exist on our own scale. We think here we’re in simultaneous time see but we aren’t, there’s nothing, there’s nothing holding us synchronal or coincident. so see this notion of an event, lets say a localized space where calculable, where measurable things occur, so substantive to our, our everyday understanding see its not, see it can’t occur in the present see because its already the past, thats what im, thats what im saying that its already gone, that there’s no present
Lucas Mitchell
At the Promenade, there was an explosion. Relatives of the late Sir Evan had detonated a small bomb beneath a parade float. This surprised very few people, mostly those on the afflicted float. Their final bemused thoughts contained no sadness, only annoyance; they could not help but to compare their deaths to those of other victims of other explosions at Promenades past, and if their names would be added to a wall somewhere.
The new President, Sir Lawrence Virilla, dedicated the Promenade to the victims. His daughter had been one of those slain, and so his ceremony was punctuated by grieved pauses, which the people liked very much. It was agreed that Virilla’s coronation would be remembered favorably, and that Sir Evan's relatives would surely lose Protection.
It was only a week later that Virilla made his first proclamation.
Nathan Smith
This was written by me a few months ago, or a month ago. I had a girl look it over and she said that the dialogue for the girl didn't seem to work. It would seem she warmed up to him too fast or something.
Let me give you the context for this, so it makes a tiny bit of sense.
1. They are both ex-slaves
2. The setting is medieval, not earth
3. He bought her
4. She earlier thought he wanted her to strip and he flipped out on her, then apologized, then told her to never do that again.
5. After that, she walked in on him to bring him something and they talked a bit about trauma, something he for some reason understands. He also offered her a special drink he knows how to make.
6. He has no education, and can't read.
That's it.
The door was held open by a little piece of wood, which she was grateful for, because her hands were full. A small bronze plate, like a little shield almost, which had some barley bread, cooked carrots, and lightly peppered chicken. The others ate off slabs of wood that were very smooth and clean, washed with grease and then heavily rinsed. She saw the cleaning process, one of the men did it as their chores. The door slid open easily enough and she stepped inside the room, which like before was only lit by the fire that billowed up through the hole in the roof.
"So is your name trouble?" Samuel asked her, sitting there with his legs crossed and his body faced toward a wall.
She looked down at the flat, brown bread, biting her lip. Huffing out, she shook her head and replied out to him softly.
"It's the name my parents gave me; Mas….Ak…. The trader liked using it and I got to keep my name." Loki explained, before huffing out.
Moving over to him slowly, she then carefully knelt and set the tray upon the floor. Looking up at him, she saw that he was bent forward, his hands on the ground.
"I'm sorry I wasn't able to find you sooner."
Samuel lamented, a fair amount of sincerity in his voice, enough that they each moved their faces further away from each other. "I had been able to get there before anything too bad happened, but this time I fear I have been too late. I'm sorry I snapped at you earlier…. I um.. I have not healed from what has been done to me… And I should have known you would be scared of me."
There was a long silence, it seemed to be a very long time to her, as she covered her face.
"You have never hurt me." Loki softly spoke out, before biting her lip for a moment, then continued further. "You treat me very well. I am sorry that I… Made you so sick. I had no idea you were hurt."
Ryder Garcia
"The person who did it to me." Samuel started, before stopping just as quickly.
Her face turned to look at him, to see what he was thinking. His head turned to look at her a moment, and then turned away. She saw a little less or more of a heartbeat's time, of parts of his face. Letting out the same deep, tired sighs she seemed to hear only from him, he continued to say nothing.
"I am upset about what has happened to you." He finally continued, sighing out again, "I will never hurt you, I will never use you, I will never devalue you. You are mine though. Someone spits on you, they spit on me, and I am a very violent, sudden type of person."
"What in Tartarus do you mean?" She almost blurted out, her voice raising, trembling just enough to make her feel naked.
"You wouldn't accept being my better?"
The back of his robe betrayed nothing. His voice just spoke, it wasn't without emotion, but it might as well be.
"Why would I be your better?"
Grayson Miller
>Möchtegern-Döblin
Immerhin.
Julian Bailey
Any thoughts on this would be greatly appreciated
Gavin Reyes
You have a good attention to detail.
What you should work out is having a variety of sentence structure. Almost the entire read is the same type of sentence: Subject verb object.
Having this low, low variety of sentence types becomes a burden very quickly.
I suggest you create more interaction between the vast—it's really good that you are developing an image with all these descriptions— amount of detail that you have. An example would be:
>He closed his jacket against the wind, realizing it dropped from 86 to 41 since the time we awakened. Cold tears blew over his temples from a cold dry sting in his eyes. He pushed his glasses up as if they were now googles.
Also, I think it is the present tense that you're taking on. The immediacy of that narration, the excessive simple sentence types don't pair well together. Sounds like "He did this. Then that happened. That thing did this."
So, I say lose a lot of the present tense narration and start combining those sentences, don't be afraid to create variety among your sentence structure.
I hope I could help, user.
Would you look at mine?
Samuel Long
Do any of you take part in little writing exercises or challenges? I decided to challenge myself to write a short story, in any genre, in the hour lunch break that I have at work. I just take whatever idea pops into my head and run with it.
Here's my first one.
Do any of you have any exercises or writing challenges that you recommend?
David Stewart
Was that new Veeky Forums book ever finished btw?
Benjamin Wilson
In the Medieval Mediterranean Sea, a ragtag crew of what some call outlaws, monsters, adventurers and sellswords, sail with ale in their cups and inhuman vigor in their veins. Their own interests loosely band them together under the banner of their leader, Hector Sea, known better as his nickname: The Dark Angel. Hector sits atop the ship's mast, scanning the dreary night scene like a hawk searching for its next prey.
Nathan Torres
I opened the map
full of shes, hers, its
ass and breast
unreal and flat
from around the globe
they make me go mad
Jack Cox
- It tastes disgusting.
- What?
- This pie. It taste fucken gross.
- That’s a shame.
- What you doin then.
- I’m writing.
- Oh aye, what you writing about.
- I don’t know.
- Is that why the text file’s blank.
- It’s London. I’m writing about London.
- Uh huh.
- Yup.
- And what’s happening in London.
- Eh.
- What’s happening in London.
- Everything.
This is about layers and veneers. This is about proxemics and margins. This is about tracts and expanses. This is about limits and overlaps. This is about thresholds and surfaces. This is about the words ‘between’ and ‘under’ and ‘beneath’ and ‘over’. This is about verges and peripheries. This is about conjunction and expiry. This is about ‘and’, also about ‘but’, but about ‘also’ and ‘about’ too, and don’t forget ‘this’, but you also should include ‘forget’, and ‘inclusion’ should be on the list too, as should ‘list’, and you must list ‘should’, maybe add ‘must’, and ‘maybe’ and ‘add’ as well. It’s about being within and without. It’s about the broken spaces where nothing happens. The gaps in stories that people tell you. The forgotten places and environs that never get mentioned again before they are dust. And it’s about the particles within.
The light circles the box. The shape places the box between itself and the light. The shape rotates, in perfect diametric opposition with the light, not a single shard of beam hitting it. You are the shape. The incidence angle of the light can be avoided so long as you place the box between yourself and the two individual point sources of the light, which can move together but not independent of one another. You know when you stare for long enough at one spot and the rest of your field of vision begins to blur and bubble? That’s what’s happening now, because you’re staring at the edges of the light around the box to make sure it can’t touch you. You have to stay in the umbra the box is casting.
You also have to be aware of any noise you might make as you move around the box. The sound of the car’s engine seems to be loud enough to mask the skids and skuffles of your feet through the gravel, but you should still be very aware. This place eats noise and breathes it out louder.
Kayden Baker
The corrugations in the metal of the box scatter a pictogram of a seven pointed star and the words MAERSK. It’s a shipping container, of course. Of course it is. The words are becoming easier to read and that’s because the light is again creeping around the box and you have to move to the other side again. Then, the light stops moving, and the soft crunching of grit under tires churns to silence below the rumble of the engine. The light is thrown up against the great wall behind you, the square shape of the container’s shadow stark but small against it. High above, the top of the wall projects the message ‘A.D. 1913’ across the wasteland and into the estate beyond the fence.
There’s a crackle from the car. The sound of voices in a walkie talkie. It moves away again and up towards the gate, under the street lamps beyond. It’s a BMW. The car’s engine growls slightly louder and it hums away. The light is gone.
But it reappears. The BMW makes to circle the roundabout outside the steel gate. This moment is frozen. Time is in perceptual hysteresis, there is a lag and delay physically represented by the transit of the car around the towering redbrick chimney stack at the centre of the roundabout. The vehicle itself is the gyrating hand of a clock, chomping on the interstitials. This moment is frozen, but thawing.
You currently exist on the other side of the shipping container, but you can exist elsewhere before the clock strikes the hour and heralds the reentry of the BMW into the site. Your behaviour is held in conditional tandem with the re-emergence of the headlights past the fence. The next few steps in your path are contingent upon whoever is behind the wheel of the car being able to discern directly the space between the shipping container and the great wall of the factory behind it. So, you move.
Luke Jackson
Now you are subject to other shadows. You are scurrying between the shapes of a decommissioned lightvessel and an old steam coaster, both over 30 feet long, both suspended high over the water in drydocks to the north of the solitary MAERSK container. They cast vast shapes across the stretch of ground between the fence and the factory, shielding you from view.
Beyond and below the coaster, the hulking corpses of others of its brood, sired before even the factory, lie rusting and encrusting deep under the surface, scuttled and dismembered long ago. The steel decks and bulkheads of 3-mast schooners and stunted tugs from before the turn of the century fester there in the black water, still, half-buried in silt, choked with slime and caustic life, organic structures strangling the ruins, filling the old confined passages and cabins where men once walked and worked, like fat furs an artery. Those great carcasses form the sunken foundations of these docklands, and nowhere more so than Royal Victoria. And when the buzzing of the redevelopments and renovations starts to implode and the clean parks and trendy estates and office blocks begin to eat away at themselves, subsumed to time, when the wind blows through the cracks in the Port of London reclamation and everything new here becomes decrepit too, the bones of what came before will remain, deep beneath. The true appeal of a passion for dereliction is that it can never stop occurring. Things always fall apart. The wheels keep on turning.
The wheels keep on turning and the car comes back through the gate, headlamps flooding the face of the factory and you cower behind a rise in the earth. You’ve hit another fence between the steamer and the factory, and you’ll have to retreat to the other side. You can see the BMW between the grass stems of the bank, despite the fractured light crackling and fuzzing between them.
Robert Thomas
*The cast vast shade
Angel Jenkins
very autistic. i like it. best sentences are
>This is about ‘and’, also about ‘but’, but about ‘also’ and ‘about’ too, and don’t forget ‘this’, but you also should include ‘forget’, and ‘inclusion’ should be on the list too, as should ‘list’, and you must list ‘should’, maybe add ‘must’, and ‘maybe’ and ‘add’ as well.
>This place eats noise and breathes it out louder.
>This moment is frozen. Time is in perceptual hysteresis, there is a lag and delay physically represented by the transit of the car around the towering redbrick chimney stack at the centre of the roundabout.
> The steel decks and bulkheads of 3-mast schooners and stunted tugs from before the turn of the century fester there in the black water, still, half-buried in silt, choked with slime and caustic life, organic structures strangling the ruins, filling the old confined passages and cabins where men once walked and worked, like fat furs an artery.
and
>The true appeal of a passion for dereliction is that it can never stop occurring.
Parker Bennett
A revelation. Universal desire, the striving for the betterment of oneself, explored in full through deceptively spare vidya analogy.
>I don't need to be totally meta, but I want something that makes sense at least.
is perfect title, manifesto and core ideology in one.
Liam Bennett
This is absolutely fantastic. Would definitely love to read more.
Jace Moore
the descriptions of sunken ships are spoopy
Xavier Howard
How many sunken ships/boats are there actually in the London Docks/London Pool? It seems like they would've dredged them by now, surely it's quite dangerous to have wrecks in major shipping lanes.
Brandon Barnes
It was more of a reference to the fact there's lots of bits of old boats under the docks, but in terms of complete shipwrecks:
en.wikipedia.org
theguardian.com
standard.co.uk
I don't think there are many major shipwrecks in the docks themselves, but there's definitely lots of debris from ships that have been taken apart and scrapped in the docks, and definitely in Royal Victoria because it's the biggest. There's shipwrecks all up and down the Thames though.
Zachary Green
If anyplace in Christendom needed a miracle right now, it was Tuscany. The war-torn countryside stretched far and wide, a patchwork of gloom stitched with blackened cypress trees .
Five days had passed since the army blazed through and Father Marini could still smell the smoke they’d left behind. As he closed his eyes, he realized that his bodyguard’s wheezy breaths had faded to the patter of rain. He turned in his saddle and felt his heart sink. To his apprentice he asked, “Have you seen Rinaldo?”-
Young Pierro tugged on his reins. “Not lately,” he said in a reedy voice. He glanced left to right, whipping his chestnut hair with each flick of the chin. Something in the distance made him lift a brow.
Father Marini followed Pierro’s eyes and felt his own scalp prickle. Down the road, outside a boarded-up farmhouse, there stood a riderless horse. Rinaldo’s horse.
“Maybe he’s… you know.” Pierro twisted his pimply face. “Answering a call of nature.”
“He would’ve told us. ” Marauders crossed Father Marini’s mind, that class of people who’d rob two clergymen once they’d taken care of the muscle . Father Marini’s blood ran cold when he saw movement between the slats of a window. “Damn these old eyes! Did see who that was ?”
Pierro shrugged. “He seemed to have the same brawn and beard as Rinaldo, but with the rain it’s hard to tell.”
Fr. Marini cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted over the storm, “Rinaldo! What in heaven’s name are you doing?!”
A moment’s pause. Something crashed indoors. The door creaked open.
Out strode R inaldo gripping a bottle in each hand. He raised one aloft, amber fluid sloshing up to the rim. “Worry not! There’s enough here for us all!”
Pierro burst into a fit of laughter that stoked Father Marini’s fury. Yanking on his reins, he dashed through the mud in the hopes that some of it would splash the smile off his apprentice’s face. He brought his steed to a skidding stop within throttling range of Rinaldo .
“Put those back where you found them!” Father Marini speared a finger at the farmstead. “The Church sent us here to confirm a miracle, not to commit crimes .
“Even if the crime is victimless? The folks who owned these are long gone.” Rinaldo shook the bottles and gave a gap-toothed grin. “Unless it’s ghosts you fear ?”
“G-ghosts?” By then Pierro had caught up with them, his gloved hands fiddling with the reins. He seemed as quick to laugh at mishaps as he was to jump at superstitions .
(1/2)