Sange's Critique thread

It's been a long time so I'm not sure if any of you bitches remember me, although you really should, because I'm the best reviewer to ever grace this pretentious community of wannabes and trudge through the sub-par bullshit you bitches always throw at me.

Right, so its simple.
1. Post your shit
2. I'll tell you why you suck

Other urls found in this thread:

warosu.org/lit/?task=search2&search_username=sange
pastebin.com/raw/gfwQk21y
pastebin.com/4kDQe3pj
pastebin.com/GW4Kjt67
pastebin.com/z5PxfcxL
pastebin.com/DYiSPbum
pastebin.com/Si74Ng0C
youtube.com/watch?v=_bwHK1xkgJA
azlyrics.com/lyrics/steelydan/reelinintheyears.html
warosu.org/lit/?task=search2&search_username=sange&offset=672
twitter.com/AnonBabble

warosu.org/lit/?task=search2&search_username=sange

And I'm still 10x more cultured than a fuckwit like you who thinks that means shit.
Now post your shit or get out, faggot.

>I'm still 10x more cultured than at least 90% of the bitches on this board
10x0=0

stupid fuck
10 x (the culture of at least 90% of the bitches on this board)
That equals... okay, guess you got a point you uncultured faggot but it wasn't 0 you stupid fuck.
THIS is exactly what I'm talking about with you bitches thinking your all smart and shit.
Now quit wasting my time bitch, this thread is for critiquing writing.

you're*
I guess I'm smarter than you.

Mother fucker, how did I know you would point that out? You ain't shit, and it was a typo that I didn't feel like deleting my post to correct but you thinking that means shit just proves my point more faggot.

Now you going to post something so I can really rip into your dumb ass or what?

You're so mad and insecure.

Susie didn’t know the answer even though it seemed clear to her that indeed it all (not just companies, all) had formed itself into a they, though simple in its wants and desires. The superimposition of machines and code, dedicated to the optimization of ‘x’, had now created a self-sustaining ecosystem built out of television static and short-hand communication. What made them so scary, so alien and frightful to our very inner-being were their single-minded pursuits of exposure and the increase of profit-margin. Susie had now begun to thought that Judy’s death was a choice that no-one (yes! no one) had really made but rather a consequence of algorithm put into place by metal and silicon which had found the most-popular girl for the most-horrifying fall to enable the broadcast of the most-seen national television event possible. Everything from the contest to the suicide to Susie’s bare-ass fall onto concrete to the revolver held by the twitchy hand at her head – indeed it had been the best possible solution as found by heuristic-based search tree pruning, her each action so predictable that even the most basic molecular atom of her very being would follow along willing by its determined path. It made her feel stupid for even trying; it made her feel dumb for even trying to pull herself away from the path which had so obviously been paved just for her. We rehearse these tiny revolts, intoxicated on our fervor, without realizing that it only sustains the system which enabled for it in the first place. We’re just opening the pressure valves, letting out societal steam, never willing to admit that change will never come – and it’s all our fault.

Who's insecure? Bitch, I'm the best!

Lysidike took her ability to read his mind as a matter of course, but his converse power was still unsettling. Time was only Anaximander ever gleaned what she thought with any proficiency; but he deduced her nature from what his oily smarts told him was the nature of a person, and only sardonically hinted at his mastery. Tlexictli didn’t even have to puzzle to catch her straight away, so the privacy she took for a metaphysical given in her youth broke up, and she felt her disagreements with her husband as dumb sensory pressures, like heat or cold. Their cross-purposes weren’t any easier for their transparency, but there was nothing to worry over – they’d conducted business together before becoming sentimental.

I get what its trying to say, and I like that its trying to say it, but it gets so stuck up its own ass the message is drowned out by confusing heavy-handed prose.
Tone it down, and have you ever even heard of this thing called a fucking paragraph?

Though it's not entirely bad, it does need to be more concise because nobody would want to read this shit the way it's written now.

To be fair, you have to have a very high IQ to understand a sange post. The humour is extremely subtle, and without a solid grasp of theoretical irony most of the jokes will go over a typical reader’s head. There’s also sange’s nihilistic outlook, which is deftly woven into his characterisation- his personal philosophy draws heavily from Narodnaya Volya literature, for instance. His fans understand this stuff; they have the intellectual capacity to truly appreciate the depths of these jokes, to realise that they’re not just funny- they say something deep about LIFE. As a consequence people who dislike sange truly ARE idiots- of course they wouldn’t appreciate, for instance, the humour in sange’s existential catchphrase “I'm still 10x more cultured than at least 90% of the bitches on this board” which itself is a cryptic reference to Turgenev’s Russian epic Fathers and Sons. I’m smirking right now just imagining one of those addlepated simpletons scratching their heads in confusion as sange’s genius wit unfolds itself on their computer screens. What fools.. how I pity them.

And yes, by the way, i DO have a Moby Dick is shit tattoo. And no, you cannot see it. It’s for the ladies’ eyes only- and even then they have to demonstrate that they’re within 5 IQ points of my own (preferably lower) beforehand. Nothin personnel kid

I could say what you just said in about 1/4th the words. And why the fuck is some Greek philosopher's name randomly thrown in there? I had to google that shit and the sentence still doesn't make any sense. What the fuck is this? This is shit.

Why are you so angry and stupid?

>And yes, by the way, i DO have a Moby Dick is shit tattoo
No one asked, bitch.

10/10 post btw, although you are giving me way too much credit

well you're gay

i dont like paragraphs they waste space

“After I heard that other girls were killing themselves because of Judy, because of something that I created… well I couldn’t live with myself anymore, Sylvania.” The men nodded in agreement as Susie & June took in deep breaths. “I stood by the waterfront; I looked at the ocean… I took as many pills as I could and I lunged into the water.” Susie looked up from her bent-over position, trying to set aside her contempt… “But when I jumped in, I didn’t land in the water, Sylvania. I landed on a pile of shit.” The men laughed with chortles, the Duchess herself even managing to crack a smile as they slapped their backs & knees. “I was so disgusted, the shit went into every part of my body, and it was in my eyes and my nose, my mouth… it tasted so awful that I just threw up all the pills I’d swallowed down.” Susie looked at June, who now was starting to cry with discomfort and had hid her breath-mask-clad face into her arms. “But when I was surrounded with shit and throw-up I realized something, Sylvania. I felt so… alive. I couldn’t explain it away; I couldn’t think about it or take control or push my anger onto others like I’d always tried to do. It was real, without any possibility for fantasy or anything like that. For the first time in my life, I realized what being physically alive meant. All the troubles of the past, the jealousy & anger, it seemed to just melt away and I finally felt alive. Those generations of hardship finally made sense. I realized as the shit and throw-up penetrated every orifice of my body that I was born so I could live.”

>i dont like paragraphs they waste space
Well it's not about what you like.

>But when I was surrounded with shit and throw-up I realized something, Sylvania. I felt so… alive.
Way to throw away an actually kind of decent premise. It had potential, but you blew it. Nice going, bitch.

what would you have written?

>I realized as the shit and throw-up penetrated every orifice of my body
God I fucking hate you.

How has it taken you six minutes to read a single paragraph?

im glad it provoked such a strong reaction

Can you paste bin the whole thing? I'll be better able to get my head around it.

how did it take you 2 minutes to think that stupid ass thought was actually worth posting?

Drops of sorrow cascade from my
eyes, and fall like slugs being shot in
the sky for one last time. Tears more
alive than the colourless world of
which I live in, a world of haste and
spite. Everywhere around me, I see
senseless lives, living in a norm of
colour blind. Do these people not
realise, that art is not dead, that
science will die?

Word, fuck science. What the world definitely needs is more edgy faggots who call fucking tears "drops of sorrow"

pastebin.com/raw/gfwQk21y

part of a large book that i have to edit down. feel free to add paragraph breaks for your own convenience.

An optimist will look at a glass of milk
and say it's half full.
A pessimist will look at a glass of milk
and say it's half empty.

I look at a glass of milk
and say it's sour.

>pastebin.com/raw/gfwQk21y
Holy fuck, how can you even write like this?
I'll work through it, don't expect anything right away though.

Simple, and it makes its point.
I'll give you this one.

thats how they exist in my head.

hence the need to edit down

"Insane"

They dragged me away dying inside.
My memory is gone, no longer with me.
They speak calmly, truth they are trying to hide.
No matter how hard I try I can’t see.

My mind has become broken and shattered.
An empty space, darkness only remains.
My memory is gone fragments are scattered.
This darkness and silence drives me insane.

They tied me up and threw me in a room.
In that empty room with white padded walls.
The silence kills me spelling my doom.
As the door opens screams race through the halls

Its name is “Asylum,” but it’s no such thing
I’m doomed to die here, alone in C Wing.

The way its written captures the disconnected mental state of the patient. He/She is trapped inside their own head and is at least responsive to the abstract concept of self, but not much else.

Or something like that, I don't fucking know. Not bad though.

Hello good morning to you how do you do i do good that is good ah yes indeed yes i do good yes how do you do yes i do good this good yes I am good yes good indeed how do you do good yes ah good yes yes yes yes good oh, lol yes do you expect something else well yes there is somethging else oh good lol yes yes yes oh yes good yes oh oh oh good yes stream good yes treat good yes oh good good good yes yes yes yes good yes yes yes good yes yes yes good yes yes yes good yes

Yeah so I pasted it in google docs and messed with the formatting to make it a little easier to read.

My general impression
You got something going here. It's definitely a rough draft and there are parts that drag and are hard to understand, but there are other parts that prove you do in fact know how to do it right; concise sentences that give me a solid image or feeling.

One issue, there is a little problem of whos whos going on for me at some moments where I'm not entirely sure where they are and who is with them and who exactly they are, but if this is from a middle portion of a longer work that probably corrects itself when its taken as a whole.

I'm not sure about the 'n thing that you're doing, but perhaps that just takes a little while as a reader to adjust to, so I'm not saying not to do it but it was a little jarring.

My general advise. Keep going as you are and worry about making it more readable once the work is complete. You're lack of paragraphs (among other things) shows a lack of awareness towards how the reader is going to be receiving it, but if that is something that doesn't come naturally to you don't let it bog you down. Just worry about that later and let your ideas flow.

The highlight of this is its distinctly original and there is some underlying messages and feelings it trys to get across, which does so successfully without being too blatant... for the most part... the swimming in shit bit didn't quite have the same subtly as other moments, but that's not to say its wrong or bad.

If you're interested, you can share more stuff with me via email in the future. If you want...
[email protected]

Heads up to all you other bitches - that's just for him. Don't the rest of you go bothering me unless I give you express permission to do so. Fuckers.

The pills
The pills inside
The pills I took
Taken

Taken by
Taken by talons
Taken by trees
Taken by the storm

The storm
The night of the storm
The night is dark
The night is full of terrors
The night is young
The night is dead

You think this is a mother fucking game?
Fuck out my thread bitch!

If that took you more than about 60 seconds, and if you are even a little bit serious with that shit, then do the world a favor and fucking kill yourself.

Every so often
one
is struck with the most profound
feeling of vertigo
as if one had
hitherto been
lollygagging on
the cusp of
a precipice
and has only
just now noticed
the depths upon which
one lives
and one is
suddenly overcome
by l'appel du vide

(You)
>the swimming in shit bit didn't quite have the same subtly as other moments, but that's not to say its wrong or bad.
To add to this, maybe I just didn't get it but I really wasn't all that crazy about that part. Yet, I wonder if the "I'm a bug" thing means it was meant to be taken more literally?
I'd probably still need a bigger sample size to fully understand what exactly this is suppose to be. The fact I'm stuck thinking about it like this is probably a win, though. Typically I just read whats posted, tell the writers to go fuck themselves and call it a day.

ups,

and dulls,

unstable illusions
of
the Truth?

distracted.
from
realism,

carelessness,

fear,
at extremes:
mania,

tears
inside.

What gave me vertigo is this shit format.

Alright, I'm done with you. Quit littering my thread with this shit.

Rain seeps into my eyes,
It is indescribable,
A wave in motion,
Split into thousands,
falling from the sky.
It is cold, oh so cold.
But my skin is strong,
and I ignore it,
and carry on,
into the night,
onto Bourbon Street.

I hope that polluted rainwater gives you pinkeye and you fucking go blind.

Sometimes I want to go to an airsoft arena with real guns
And paint the tips orange
So people don't notice that my guns are real
And that my guns shoot real bullets
Not fake shitty plastic pellets
Anyway
I'd go there with my real guns
And never fire them
And get shot with shitty plastic pellets
And lose the battle
And go home

__

I want a necklace of your teeth
But I don’t want you to die
Maybe if they grew back
But they don’t so I’ll wait

I like looking at your teeth
Even if they are a little yellow
At least your face isn’t yellow
And I don’t mean “asian”
That would be racist

If I die you can have my teeth
You can make jewelry with them
Or grind them into powder
And brush your teeth with it

__

I want to ride a tornado to school
And then destroy school with it
Someone will call in a bomb threat
But it’ll be too late
Because school will be gone already
And then no one will learn ever again
Maybe I’ll destroy everyone’s cars too
They should be riding tornados instead

>They should be riding tornados instead
I smirked.

...

Quite a few
Orbs falling
Through my eyes

Wondering
If my eyes
Are broken

If people might
Stare at me
Un nicely

Reflecting
The absence
Of Kindness

Could spheres mean
Great saintly
Affection

Maybe I
Am lost in
Angel orbs

God will clap
Beardily
Jump around

And give me
Snuffely
Great god hugs

To kill tears
Flushing from
Broken eyes

Guess a lot of people will eager to tell you how shit that was too, huh?

...

Rick and Morty is shit.

Embarrassing

-Sigil Atrocious
Chapter One: The Devil’s Dreams
“Toby take your sister and run.”
“But father where I will go?”
“Away from here” His mother’s voice was barely audible over the roaring fire that engulfed their village. “Listen” amidst the chaos and screams of agony the boy’s father took a knee. “Remember what we told you when we sat upon the tallest hill, gazing upon the rolling landscape at sunset?” The boy nodded his head. “One day I would have to be a man.” Toby recollected the past that now, in this suffering, seemed like a dream.
“Right” his father said ruffling his brown hair. “That time is now.”
“Take good care of Seiya, Toby.” He gripped the sling over his back that carried a crying infant. Toby’s mother kissed her children before rising from the ground “know that we will always love you.” Yet Toby didn’t move an inch. His father growing irritated was about to scream at his kin to go, to survive, but a cackle resonated above cries and the crackling of flames. “What a touching scene. A beautiful wife and her husband trying to preserve their seed.” The voice came from a silhouette walking through the flames. The figure emerged from a wall of crimson fire, a man of enormous statue. From behind gleaming silver bangs he stared with piercing red eyes. “Michael, Erin” he said addressing the boy’s mother and father. How long has it been since you defected from the Legion?”

For who, bitch? Not for me.
Now someone post something, I'm so bored I balanced a lighter on top of my cigarette.

Looks like something a slightly above average 7th grader would write.

From the distant city emanates the muffled roar of industry, the squelching of pneumatics and writhing of metal on metal; the delirious ambiance stifles with the vague hum of human mechanization. Interminable blocks sprawl out over the soggy crust, their foundations well sunken into the soft earth, and, like water through sandstone, narrow alleyways carve through the plateau of abandonment, forming deep trenches where light reaches only but from the sun's zenith. Rare and elusive beasts stalk the thicket that shoots up from veins of exposed soil in the fractured asphalt and winged things roost among crumbling concrete facades that, at one time, entombed people. Against the dark rooftops that tower obliquely over the grassy street below, the afternoon sun retires, his amber rays now prodding through disheveled shingles and shattered glass. The prehistoric sidewalk, which, long ago, rose up through hot layers of lithology from a great subterranean ocean, suddenly finds himself estranged from father sun

Very funny bitch. Get serious.
This aint a fucking game.

A bloated figure works its laborious way through the night streets of Düsseldorf, keeping away from the lights, seeking a refuge in dimness, pliable flesh and bottles of darkness – it’s Pierre Périte, from Liège originally, and he’s entering a basement containing a small, deeply degenerated Satansbrut of deadbeats, too disgusting for the taverns and beerhalls: drug addicts, prostitutes and boozehounds spread across the floor, twisted into swastikas, a woman offering her bottom to a man too drunk to count his own fingers, yet somehow still standing, pants around his ankles. The stink of liquor, piss and God knows what else is so pervasive, it’s coming out of the floorboards, mixing with various mind-fogging smokes and the smells of unhealthily-prepared foods into a demonic fart of an atmosphere that gets into the hair of Périte’s globoid belly, where it mixes with his bodily sweats and greases into a veritable sheen. This fat man has a fat wad of marks with him, and he’s ready to pay handsomely for some discreet entertainment, quality food and fine beverages. But don’t go thinking he’s some kind of mindless hedonist, here – his mighty appetites are matched by a mighty brain, and a noble heart besides. Under his arm, he has a copy of La Guerre du feu, which he has nearly read all the way through – he has read nearly every story published to date in French, and what little he could find in German, dealing with other times, alien life forms, spectacular technologies, fantastical human progress. Somehow, sometime, there would be an event which would cut the catapult’s rope, and the world would be sent hurtling toward utopia, a spontaneous scientific revolution that would, through means that our base, modern minds cannot even fathom, ensure profound and lasting satisfaction for the entire species, the biological secrets of human happiness unlocked. The thought of this epiphany takes up a great deal of his mental space, and sometimes he even carries the conceit that it would occur to him specifically. To him, Germany, with its deeply biological politics, seems the place this would happen. If at first biology was to be the queen of the sciences in society, it was only a matter of time before physics, chemistry and mathematics rose as well, each with an equal crown, forming a hydraic monarch in the mind of every citizen, who would all begin to see the world objectively, without the troublesome rumblings of the less sophisticated cranial meats which, alas and alack, he knows too well.

Nope.
This shit isn't ever readable.
I'm done for now, you bitches have literally numbed my brain with your shit writing. When I come back there better be something actually worth reading on here.

Buuut, I can't leave you with that so I'll tell you why its shit but you probably already know.

It's a fucking wall of text with very little action and all I got to was a fat drunk guy walking into a bar before my brain was numbed so bad I couldn't go any further. I hope you didn't think for a second that this had any entertainment value whatsoever. Because it fucking doesn't.

That is the sound of a man who is scared of life. The idea that life is too painstaking that he would rather avoid it. Never letting himself mature naturally and just deciding one day he should. You would have had to coach him.

Men are predictable, one must at least act surprised whenever they don't do something.

He could never hurt me, he tried. I was devestated. Not because of what he did, but because I knew from the start he would disappoint me. I did nothing with my knowledge. I knowingly let it happen. I knew all along.

It was late at night, all the wine I drank gave me a head full of clairity. The lamp was on. He looked at me and I saw him. I saw all his imperfections, his age, how worn he was in comparison to me. I was everything he wasn't, or... to be kind, wasn't anymore. It was similar to the kind of cruelty I felt when I saw someone ay. Though this was possibly worse. He was so goddamn unaware of his vulnerabilities that even when it manifested itself physically, he knew nothing, he was drunk and dumbfounded.

Red eyed and red faced, I am almost sure I am the only person who would care for a picture of a man so wretched.

>It's too big. It's an inhuman monstrosity. It's design seeks to alienate. I always feel like a cow in a giant warehouse.
>He shuffeled through the aisle and threw a box of Frosted Flakes into his cart. There were so many options; too many even. It would have been better if the choice was made for him, he didn't like this little responsibility, although pointless. A woman in her pajamas with a child in her cart walked by browsing the sugary selection. Brian turned away immediately and left. I need to stop coming this early.
>He stood waiting in the self-checkout line. The computer systems had to reboot at midnight, and they said it would take a couple minutes. Was there anything else he needed? Perusing the magazines at the check out he picked up The Enquirer, this was his favorite. They had good stories about fake news and Donald Trump, this issue contained a sexual expose of Shepherd Smith, he was fag and would supposedly shoot the shit with a young Italian assistant. Another woman came up behind him in line and he tried hiding the magazine. He was ashamed of his tabloid habit.
>He thought he recognized the woman behind him, but she didn't notice. She said she was 40, her face was rinkled and old. Drugs really brought out a patina. The systems were back online and everybody shuffeled to their stations one by one. He felt like cattle, even his death would be self-service. All they needed was a funeral parlor and they could satisfy everything, you'd never have to leave.
>He sat in his car, bent over like he was on a toilet; he didn't want to move. Motionless he remained in the fecal position, before starting the car and leaving the Walmart parking lot.

Intro to a short story:

We had spent the previous December in Arizona, chopping apart with machetes the barbary cactus that had grown to behemoth proportions in my Grandmother’s yard. Our blades sliced through the fleshy stems that extended over the driveway and they fell to the dirt with the rubbery bounce of true severed limbs. The cactus had engulfed the orange tree we used to pick fruit from as children, my cousins and I, and as we worked we gradually uncovered its remains. A twisted gray spindle at the center of the thorny mass, all the water long sucked out of it by the cactus, its bark fossilized into a kind of skeleton, its fruit dried hard and black. We picked up the fallen stems and tossed them into the dumpster we’d rented, which was about as big as the house we were emptying. My cousins and I wore gloves, while Uncle Drew worked shirtless and with his bare hands. He sweated in the dusk and bled from countless small puncture wounds. His skin was loosely draped over a hard rack of muscle and he said not one word to us as his brothers, our fathers, carried a sofa out of the house and tipped it over the rim of the dumpster. Drew’s shaved head wore a laurel of veins that pulsed under the skin and he leaned back to drain the warm dregs from his beer then threw it clattering into the street. The mountains in the distance were beautiful and pink and supposedly populated by Apache spirits; were supposedly where a lost Dutchman’s treasure was buried; were supposedly where a hole leading to hell could be found.

>; were supposedly
>; were supposedly
It just doesn't roll of the tongue, I don't like it. Although I don't mind the semicolon. Consider revising. You from Phoenix? It takes a long time for Cactus to grow, and I think I know about the Dutchman's treasure. Interesting idea, write more.

Yeah man, the superstition mountains, they are beautiful and have all kinds of interesting folklore. I don't live in Arizona presently but grew up around the Phoenix area and go back every chance I get because I love the country. The rest of the story is actually set in the lake of the Ozarks but I find myself writing about Arizona a lot for some reason.

I just feel like I'm reading a list of traits about this supposedly wretched man. Not much feeling is in it, it's boring and I'm given no reason to care. If this is from a longer piece try posting a little more next time so I have some actual fucking context.

No, bitch. Did you really think I was going to read this shit? Write like a normal fucking person.

Opening sentence is a little clunky. Read that out loud to yourself and figure out how to work on the flow.
aaaanddd, the rest of the passage has the same issue. At its best it's dry and just seems to be listing things: "this was over here, that was over there". At worst, it's clunky and the prose is jarring.
The positive however, is you managed to present what this story is going to be about with your opening, though even that part could use some work. I'm not giving this entire passage a full on "this is shit" stamp, just become more aware of voice and stuff like that and try to make this actually entertaining to read.

And what the FUCK is with you bitches on this website not believing in fucking paragraphs?

you're not worth hitting Enter for.

But you just fucking did dumbass.

The girl stared at the beginning of the labyrinth. It's massive, stone walls seemed to radiate their coldness straight into her soul. She began to march into the labyrinth, mindlessly, like a zombie. Her hand seemingly with a mind of its own ran over the wall of the maze, feeling every crack and ridge. She shivered as cold air came from nowhere and chilled her to the bones, this snapped her back to reality as she stared and loneliness crept through her mind like darkness. Collapsing to her knees, she wept at the knowing that she'd never leave this maze, at the knowledge of her being trapped here forever. Certainly she felt like a lab rat with cruel scientists watching over her, testing her, controlling her. Her free-will was nonexistent and her only reason for existing was to be a puppet for some higher power's amusement, until it got bored and tossed her away like an old toy. Emotions flowed through her like a river; anger, confusion, loneliness, betrayal and apathy. They tore through her mind like it was nothing but a meek sheet of paper, destroying her sanity and leaving her staring blankly at the stone wall opposite her as tears rolled down her cheeks. She was lost to the world, lost to her emotions and lost to her mind.

Begin, ephebe, by perceiving the idea
Of this invention, this invented world,
The inconceivable idea of the sun.

You must become an ignorant man again
And see the sun again with an ignorant eye
And see it clearly in the idea of it.

Never suppose an inventing mind as source
Of this idea nor for that mind compose
A voluminous master folded in his fire.

How clean the sun when seen in its idea
Washed in the remotest cleanliness of a heaven
That has expelled us and our images…

The death of one god is the death of all.
Let purple Phoebus lie in umber harvest,
Let Phoebus slumber and die in autumn umber,

Phoebus is dead, ephebe. But Phoebus was
A name for something that never could be named.
There was a project for the sun and is.

There is a project for the sun. The sun
Must bear no name, gold flourisher, but be
In the difficulty of what it is to be.

The pavement and the yellow paint that segmented it into two stretched on until the flames of the sun consumed it and it disappeared at the edge of the Earth, travelling to a new area where the sun sits high in the sky colored golden yellow. But here the sun was low and only a fraction still shone blood red onto the yellowed grass that stretched out of the ground on the side of the road. On the other side drooping and untrimmed trees peered over the outskirts of the road and mingled their branches with the other trees of the forest.

How the fuck is it that you bitches are so good at using so many words to say fucking nothing?

Alright, look, you are trying to be good at least so I'll give you credit for that but "this was like that" a simile does not make, bitch.
You don't have to find five different ways to get her emotions across, as the reader I'd much rather have her actually start walking through the labyrinth and describe new things rather than just stand on the outside with her for a really fucking long paragraph (again, with this shit) with nothing really happening other than the writer trying to act like he's hot shit by making all kinds of weird ass comparisons that don't even make fucking sense.

>have her actually start walking through the labyrinth and describe new things rather than just stand on the outside
To add to this. A good writer can get across her emotions without expressly stating "this is how she felt" like maybe she saw something and the way you describe that thing she saw conveys where her mind is at.

Bitch, who the fuck is Phoebus? This is shit.

Be more concise with your language. I shouldn't have to try to figure out what it is you are describing. It's not being poetic, or good, its just annoying. Nobody would tell you this is good unless they are just being nice.

People rush through like a flash flood in a desert
They hurry about like ants doing their queens every bidding
people buy junk food and batteries as if they are canned food before a hurricane
babies cries are like the screeches of a bobcat on a solitary mountain
There is an old man arguing with the woman behind the counter like she is keeping his grandchildren hostage
every once and a while a beeping sound as loud as the alarm before a thunder storm
I jump out of the way like a grasshopper
foreigners want to take their picture with me
an american
like i am the mascot of a sports team
but thats ok
people file onto the airbus like it is the entrance to a high profile club in a big city
there is a feeling of relief once you are past the bouncer and walking the hall
as if your troubles are gone

Why the fuck did you make me think desert with the opening line when none of this shit is about a fucking desert? How about just "People rush through like a flood" but even then it is still shit, but you get my point.

And yeah, this is just a bunch of fucking disconnected images. I have no idea what the point is except that its chaotic. There is not one single line in this shit poem, if I can even call it that, which invokes any kind of emotional response or even a halfway decent image. There is fucking NOTHING here.

The inquisitor, having exhausted all options and abandoned all hope, stood before the monstrous gates of the final Wall that defined the Empire's form. To step through these gates, to pass from one side of the Wall to the other, to enter the desert would be to forfeit his status as a human.

Alone in the wasteland, he would be subject to all its terrible and desolate nature. The onl life or water would be the slow circulation of blood in his arteries and veins, and the desert thirsted for it. The barbarian tribes who permeated the desert could not be called living. They wre not like him, or anyone else from the Empire. Sand flowed through them, and they too thirsted for the wet plasma, existed only to quench themselves in it. To meet them would mean his death or enslavement. He was not on a trade or diplomatic mission, and had neither guard nor envoy. The only protection he had was a rusted pistol and a string of prayer beads tucked in his trousers. Perhaps if he was swift enough, and if his gun didn't jam, he could fire a bullet through the roof of his mouth before they caught him.

He had traveled unaccompanied to the edge of the Empire, but he had remained a citizen, andany harm done to him would inevitably be subject to the Empire's machine. If he stepped off its precipice, he would truly be alone. He would become an nimal--no, less than an animal, who at least had other animals. he would have no-one to bury him if he perished to the desert sand; no one to defend him if he fell prey to slaves; he would have no-one, no-one at all. A magistrate without a state is nothing at all.

MY god... something that is actually halfway decent. It's a fucking miracle.

For you bitches who are upset about getting a bad review let me explain why this is better than the bullshit you spit out.

The sentences are easy to read and concise and say more than one thing. They give me some insight to the character, the setting, and plot all at one time. Meanwhile, all you other bitches use fucking five sentences to explain that someone feels lonely.

Good work bitch, keep it up. If you'd like me to review more of your shit you also have express permission to email me a larger portion. Or post a pastebin here.

The rain collects on the plastic lining
which divides the world and I.
I see you walk past the place hwere I one day did die.

Yesterday: when the clouds existed still,
Only, as stars and steam in the end of the world, glimmering,
Invisible in the looking-glass sky. You swaggered, drunk,
Lust emanating noisily from
Your broken-bone eye.

Where the land passes, I cannot.
Where your step crosses, I cannot.
Where time passes, I could not.

I stand and watch, and you go by.
I wait and wait, I should not die.

On predetermined principle, I proclaim,
I have staged this affair, indebted in death only
to the persistence of life, which I have found
in your feckless stare.

Bury me in grey beneath a sky unblue!
Why, if this night is not,
Then why should your day be true?
How could I be under a sky marked in blue?
If you did not see me,
THen why should I remember you?

The tears rolls along the plastic face
which is for me, prepared--I wear it over my own
Deep, separate and alone, I lie prepared,
I was not there.
At whom should you have stared?

>Bitch, who the fuck is Phoebus? This is shit.
I'd tell poor Wallace but he's dead.

Alright, listen bitches. No more shit poetry. If you're going to post some poetry it better be fucking amazing. I'm not reviewing this shit anymore.

Alexander awoke to darkness and noise, under a sky in turmoil as lightning and rain greeted him in substance. He had no idea how he came to be outside in the rain, and as he lethargically sat himself upright, strange sights surrounded him. He was in an alley, and a rather dirty one at that, between two wooden buildings. Light poured forth the far entrance of the alley, illuminating almost nothing. Mind cloudy and body aching, Alex moved towards the light.
He was soaked in every aspect of the word. His head was propped up against a wooden box earlier, fortunately, so his hair was only wet, but down his side and back was a coat of black, horrid smelling mud. Each step he took made an indescribable sound that he could only say was the noise of the earth trying to devoir him feet first. Pushing forward, he finally reached the end of the alley, after a few bumps and bruises from the larger piles of litter that seem to have occupied it before he was ever born. Someone chuckled at his approach and Alex put a hand to the wall as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the brightness from the light source.
A man in an outdated suit stood by an old argand street light, he raised a questioning eyebrow and a smile as Alex stumbled up to steady himself on the lamp post. How long was he back there in the mud? The formally dressed stranger held nothing in his hands exept a watch and a small box, of which he pulled out a cigarette, the former he tucked back into his pocket. It seemed odd to find someone so well-dressed standing in a downpour like this. A sign depicting a sinking ship with the words "Voyager's Rest" carved into it was behind him, hung on a well-lit Inn. Eerily, the rest of the houses nearby were dark, with the only light provided by street lamps, similar to the one that led Alex out of the alley, that dotted the lane at regular intervals every dozen feet or so. The street itself was fashioned out of cobblestone and brick, and extended in a straight line for farther than Alex could see through the rain.
"New around here?" he asked in a puff of smoke.
Alex stopped and stood on the opposite side of the lamppost. A sharp contrast to his well-dressed aquaintance, with his clothes covered in mud from the alley. "I'm not really sure of that myself, where am I?".
"Why, you're in Respite, the greatest city in the world!" replied the stranger, as though he made some sort of joke. The man offered Alex an umbrella. "Welcome, newcomer. Can you remember how you got here or when?"
"No" mumbled Alex as the torrent grew more violent and water began to replace air.

He was at the entrance to a shed somewhere. It was in the middle of the forest where tall, slender, knobbly-trunked trees guarded the tumbledown shack. In the corner of the dilapidated shelter was situated a blocky throne and sitting in it was a man dressed in thick white robes.
Logan looked down. He was stripped bare except for his pants, which were slashed and tattered enough to be more like an extravagant loincloth if anything. The soil underneath his feet was slightly moist and oozed between the gaps of his toes. A tide of panic rose in his chest as he perceived long, half-dried lacerations across his abdomen and chest. Dirt was smeared across all of his exposed skin and he just now he noticed his mouth was unbearably dry.
A thick loud dripping noise like giant drops of viscous fluid falling into a sink pervaded the shack. Logan’s head snapped up. The robed man inside started wailing. Loud inhuman noises—halfway between a death rattle and choking—poured from him and Logan noticed something else pouring out with it. The man’s face was covered with a thick rubber mask which was the same color as his robes with a large band of cloth wrapped around its lower half so only the black semi-rectangular holes for eyes were visible. A long and damp streak of red ran down the middle of the cloth, running in a crimson stream that coagulated into a fist-sized splotch in his lap.
Logan’s breathing accelerated. His limbs felt light and the wounds didn’t bother him. The brightness of the shack was acute and blinding—it seemed everything in there was a slight shining color. His body could run a marathon, it seemed, but his mind kept his flesh petrified just near the entrance to the shack.
Logan’s breathing hitched when he saw the man brandishing a straight razor. He slung it half-open, but he wasn’t aiming for Logan. His arms were jerking left and right and spasming uncontrollably, his grip loosened and then reaffirmed himself, the blade slashed around in the air. A burning nausea climbed to the back of Logan’s throat, and he grasped the sides of the fragile entrance, which cracked and caved underneath his grip.
The man made the decision and plunged the razor into his own stomach. Logan’s body hollowed out and his face turned ghost-white. The robed man slid the knife out of his stomach and stabbed over and over and over into himself, his wailing growing louder—thick pieces of skin unraveling around his stomach—a gagging and sucking noise—a splatter of liquid—a release of tension—a boiling heat released in a white-hot wave—coming in a chariot of fire—

The vision shattered. Logan shot awake while his fingers were clutching with white knuckles his bedsheets. Sweat drenched his neck and forehead, his muscles trembled weakly, his jaw was stiff and his tongue felt lead-hot. Beams of dark-gold projected into his room and onto his blanketed form The sun had risen. His eyes were glistening.

>Darkness and noise
no
>a sky in turmoil
no
>lightning and rain
no because you already used "darkness and noise" which was shit
>lethargically
normally this would be passable if you didn't already prove your one of those "if I add extra words it will sound good" faggots
>Mind cloudy and body aching
you use the "this and that" shit too much

Alright, do I need to go further? You get the point. You're trying to have good prose but it isn't working because you don't know what the fuck good prose is. You'll get there, though. Just keep trying.

>somewhere
no
>thick loud dripping noise like giant drops
read this out loud to yourself. It sounds horrendous.
>thick pieces of skin unraveling around his stomach—a gagging and sucking noise—a splatter of liquid—a release of tension—a boiling heat released in a white-hot wave—coming in a chariot of fire—
I was almost going to let you get away with this until I read "coming in a chariot of fire"
Shit.
>Logan shot awake while his fingers were clutching with white knuckles his bedsheets.
Language is inconsistent with the rest of the passage

Not the worst I have ever read on one of these stupid threads, but certainly not the best either. Can't think of much advise other than to just keep writing and allow yourself to improve naturally with experience.

Alright, any of you bitches out there want to admit how fresh I am at this critiquing shit yet?

I skimmed some of the other threads, and there aint advise half as good as mine coming from any of these other douchebag anons.

>Alright, any of you bitches out there want to admit how fresh I am at this critiquing shit yet?

pastebin.com/4kDQe3pj
pastebin.com/GW4Kjt67
pastebin.com/z5PxfcxL
pastebin.com/DYiSPbum
pastebin.com/Si74Ng0C

I swear to god if you faggots had been posting shit from there to waste my time... actually, I seriously hope that's whats going on with how fucking awful the writers in this thread have been.

Don't fuck with me, though. Only post your shit if you are seriously trying to improve and don't mind being called a bitch.

Actually, if you do mind being called a bitch then post your shit anyway. Then get all bitter and try to deny my skills after I tear up your pretentious bullshit.

youtube.com/watch?v=_bwHK1xkgJA

The fuck you posting this shit for? It's a nice song but stay on topic, bitch.

This is an act.

azlyrics.com/lyrics/steelydan/reelinintheyears.html

>You wouldn't even know a diamond
>If you held it in your hand

No one is this stupid.

see
>Then get all bitter and try to deny my skills after I tear up your pretentious bullshit.

I'm spot on, you're just one of them douchebags who completely miss the insight my posts provide.

Prove me wrong, bitch. You can't.

So which of these shit stories I tore up did you write anyway? Try not to feel too bad about it. There are lots of shitty writers out there, faggot. So you're not alone.

For the record, I do in fact know what you were posting that for. The irony is that song applies more to your dumbass than it does to me. You think I type like this because I want you to fawn over how fucking smart I am? fuck no. I'm smart because of the quality of my ideas, so I don't need to wrap them up in some douchey presentation.

When I do rip someone apart who sucks, it also gives them a chance to just brush off what I said without it hurting their feelings, because I know some of you bitches are legit in thinking your fucked up writing is good. However, even if they brush me off without their feelings getting hurt the points I make should still get through to them.

So I'm helping without the hurt, bitch. You wouldn't get that though because you don't know how to look any deeper than 2 inches below the surface. Do you?

Plus I'm having a lot of fun. So quit hating, bitch.

Have you really been posting as this persona since 2012? Jesus.

Ah, thanks for the memories.

I've been gone for a long time, though. I just recently came back because I missed you bitches so much.

warosu.org/lit/?task=search2&search_username=sange&offset=672

You have made almost 700 posts. I'm thinking that this is not an act, and that you really do behave like this in real life. I find this immensely disturbing.

Every good lie has a layer of truth tacked onto it, bitch.

Is there a way to see how many of those posts include the word "bitch" ??

Enough about me though.

Post some more writing, what the fuck. I'm here for a goddamn reason, you know?

Appreciate the critique. I'm the Arizona intro guy. You have any specific thoughts for revising the first sentence. Because I've noodled with that sentence endlessly going for readability and that construction has been what seemed best without chopping the whole thing up.

Is that reason to see how many times you can fail to spell "advice"?