Critique Thread

Selective Service at the Powder Puff Ranch
docs.google.com/document/d/1Ihjp_Go7nEQuECE2BO07NCzcZrvU6TOxNwLFIkt7gw0/edit?usp=sharing
"When Emily was drafted into the National Prostitution Service, the last thing she expected was... pleasure"

get woke, kid

At first I was annoyed by your frequent use of commas, but after reading it again I warmed up to it. Your passage has a nice rhythm to it. My only complaint might be that you are packing a bit too much information in each sentence. Try splitting some sentences apart if it doesn't break the flow.

If I cant shit out something impressive in every one of these threads it eats away at me more than I'd like to let on. I can hear someone mocking me in the back of my head everytime I phrase something awkwardly, and imagine them laughing when I spell something wrong. They won't stop watching me. Or trying to correct me. They show up in my dreams, and poke fun at the way I wake up screaming. I'm not schizophrenic, or psychotic, just plagued with an unfaltering panel of critics who live to pick apart and study my every mistake. Some of it is constructive, most of it is intentionally deteriorating to the psyche, all of it is patronizing. If I shot myself in the head tomorrow someone would see my obituary and ask why it took me so long.

My suggestion is to cut out everything before the sex scene and replace it with some brief exposition to establish the scenario. You know why we're here, get to the good stuff.

>that was actually bad
how did you make an ironic meta boring and predictable?

I think it was bad on purpose (assuming it was ironic). Not really worth critiquing, though.

I hope it is, it's still bad and unfunny. Irony or no. Hope it doesn't become some shit copypasta.

I doubt it will, it's not memorable enough.

>spent the last 15 minutes drafting this into the comment box

Out of generic hot pockets head to HEB
Running through the 10 items or less line with 15
I barely talked to other people, to make up for it I'd read
And I'd listen to podcasts at two-times speed
Didn't leave my home, I'd spend the weekends alone
Never opened my mouth so I just breathed through my nose
Stayed in the closet studio, the home inside of my home
The closet studio: the home inside of my home
Pissed in water bottles to avoid my roommates
Fuck toothpaste, brush was too electric I avoided the noise
Pizza boxes stacked where dirty dishes hide
Roaches everywhere and I ain't talking bout the swisher kind
Living out in Riverside, this was just a different mind
Lying on the ground made the ceilings feel high
Agoraphobes don't have time for summer skies
If you ain't getting busy then you're getting high

Cause all illness is physical
And all weed is medicinal
The mind is the brain
I don't fuck with the spiritual
Everything is material
Everything is material

Brown recluse: feeling like Spider-Man
Found refuge, needed healing from a higher plan
I was dying, man; living had me tired
Busy brooding, seeking quarter-life retirement
Needed God or Buddha (mom or father)
Saw neither when I closed my eyes so fuck it, never bothered
Turned a desk into a cesspit, never ate guess that's a diet
I was desperate, reeling, hearing voices, in a spiral
Thinking if my songs are fire I can make a vine and go viral
And if not I can end it all the week before finals
No bible, growing up I was my own idol
Mood cycles had me wishing that I owned a rifle
I know it sounds stupid, Melodrama had me crying
My mind a liability, chemical instability had me eyeing death
Cliched and clunky, because cleverness comes from hope
Mania makes you crazy but depression ain't no joke

All illness is physical
And all weed is medicinal
The mind is the brain
I don't fuck with the spiritual
Everything is material
Everything is material

Is my sobriety depriving me of cure for my anxiety?
Caught between filial piety and vital need for privacy
No religion but aimlessness carries piety
The type of kids who quietly wallow in dirty irony
Carpal tunnel from strumming guitar and jacking off
Happy when I'm slacking off, at least in some ways
Skipped all my classes turned hump day into Sunday
Visions of closed garage and running my mother's Hyundai
Too weary to rhyme, but too obsessive for free verse
Haven't changed for a minute but too dirty for clean shirts
Maintenance guy wondering how I live like this
Well, under my bed is kief crumbs and pills: my fix
Tripping off of poorly settled serotonin levels
Grandmamas call it devil, and dualists call it a vessel
Body be a temple for the soul is substance mental
Nah, the mind is just the body cause the brain ain't special

All illness is physical
And all weed is medicinal
The mind is the brain
I don't fuck with the spiritual
Everything is material
Everything is material

Posted this a week or so ago, not sure about it but still keeping it. Basically the idea was to write a story within 1500 words or less. This one takes place in three time periods with three writing styles: before, during, and after the Spanish Civil War, with the bridge the constant thread between them. Still haven't finished the third part so keep in mind it's unfinished.

1/3
There is a bridge in the town. It arcs above banks of baked sandstone that hold the sun in their veins. A river runs beneath.

It was a Sunday in spring, and the air was drowsy with the fragrance of orange blossoms. The sun was a lozenge melting on the tip of the tongue, shedding its colors upon white cloudbanks. Those long spring twilights instilled in us a sense of lethargy and urgency at once, like a ripe fig drooping on the branch. And so we all rushed out of doors—but did little else but pass the time, measuring the hours with coffee cups and bowls of chocolate at the Café Ernesto, strolling back-and-forth across the bridge, throwing stones at the storks high in their belfries while the bells chimed and the pale streaks of cloud revealed their tooling of gold. That day I had my first cigarette, and the white vapors flew up to meet the evening moon.

When the dusk had come and gone and the last bells had tolled we perched ourselves upon the bridge’s stone rail and watched the stars. She wore a cloche hat and a ruffled floral dress. We talked about the future—she boasted of the wedding gown her mother had worn that all of the town’s women had sown together, and the mantilla that had been crafted with such precision that it spanned the exact length of the bridge and not a cobble more. I kissed her then, for the first time. She tasted like smoke. She laughed, and I begged her to stay. But her mother wanted her home—she said I was a rabble-rouser, and she was probably right. Luck had it, however, that we lived at opposite ends of the bridge, and so our dalliances were always played out of the sight of peering eyes. “Dream of me!” she called out from across the bridge, bathed in the gilded light of a streetlamp, her face obscure. Then she was gone, and the bridge was quiet beneath the stars.

2/3

There is a bridge in the town. It arcs above banks of baked sandstone that hold the sun in their veins. A river runs beneath.

It was a Sunday in spring, and the air was drowsy with the fragrance of orange blossoms. We were awoken by the booming of the bells. “Up you louts!” the captain hissed, “God be damned, it’s already past nine!” We mumbled in protest, dusting off straw and blindly grasping for our carbines. One of the militiamen pressed a flask of rum into my hand. “Courage,” he said, and I drank. The warmth spread all the way to my toes. Still rubbing the sand from our eyes, we readied ourselves, and, at the captain’s signal, we burst out into blaring sunlight. The clacking of our boots on the cobbles bounced between the overhanging balconies and chipped brown shutters. The streets were empty. “The bastards are all in church,” the militiaman said, “Let’s pay our respects to the blushing bride.”

There is a church before the bridge, and a plaza with a stone cross at its center. The belabored strains of the dusty old organ filtered out from the cracked door. We approached on tip toes, ducking behind walls and columns, scouring the court for any sign of the enemy. None appeared. Finally we surrounded the church. The stench of incense filled our nostrils. The organ was deafening. “You,” he mouthed, gesturing to me and the militiaman. Then, he pointed to the ground. The captain unholstered his pistol, motioned to the others, and crept inside. Three shots rang out, immediately followed by a flurry of screams, stamping feet, and discordant notes. “Outside! Now!” the captain bellowed. The screams didn’t stop. “Father! Oh Father!” they cried. “Oh God! Oh God!”

Soon they dragged the churchgoers out into the plaza. A group of women sobbed over the corpse of the priest, who had been shot in the eye and died. We beat them. Heaps of firewood were stacked against the walls and set alight. Smoke began to rise. “Look there,” the militiaman said, “they’re finally bringing them out!” The captain, with his cap doffed in reverence and a broad smile on his face, led a procession out of the burning church. In his hand was a basket filled to the brim with fresh blooms. Every few moments he held one to his nose, took in its fragrance, then tossed it to the flagstones with a sigh. We laughed and laughed. Next came the groom dressed only in his cufflinks. His face was bruised and bloodied. His eyes were cloudy with tears. A white rose, fresh as dew, was wrapped around his prick. We hooted and howled.

3/3
Last came the bride. She wore nothing but the mantilla her mother had worn. Her face was bruised and bloodied. Her eyes were cloudy with tears.

She was beautiful.

The captain, leaving a wake of flowers, led them to the bridge. We followed.

“Up! Up! Up!” the captain cajoled, coaxing them with his pistol. They mounted the bridge’s stone rail. They could hardly stand. They held each other.

“Do you take this woman as your wedded wife?” the captain asked.

“I do.”

“And do you take this man as your wedded husband?”

“I do.”

Then they fell. The mantilla that had been crafted to span the exact length of the bridge floated languidly down. The light revealed its arabesques of lace, its tender blossoms and sweet fruits. Suddenly it began to ascend. It flew up on the wind, up and up, high above the town. It danced and twirled and made pirouettes, it made arcs in the empty sky. It soared towards the eastern horizon where the sea shimmered like a plate of hammered bronze, and the brown-faced seamen on their white ships raised their eyes to watch its passing. Up and up, higher and higher, grazing the bellies of clouds and the wings of eagles. The winds raised it on their backs till the world below was only a marble.

Then, finally, it was lost in the light of the sun.

>>spent the last 15 minutes drafting this into the comment box
Oh good, now I know it's not worth reading.
Come on, asshole. Some people here have been working on their stuff for days. Don't waste everyone's time with this crap.

I don't post finished work in here. I figure a critique thread is the perfect place for a draft so I can get some general feedback before revising. Sorry if I broke some unwritten rule.

The unwritten rule is DON'T WASTE PEOPLE'S FUCKING TIME. If you didn't put any effort into your post, then don't expect anyone to put any effort into their critique (if they even give you one).

>don't waste people's time
>on Veeky Forums
All y'all do is waste time, ya cunt. Nobody's writing here is a masterpiece nor even worth a dime. So stop being an ostentatious dipshit and dial down on the austims.

you should never put effort into posts on this site they'll all be recorded and mined for their value by giant data analysis firms in the near future

...

Just read the guy's writing and say what you think of it and move on. Who cares when he wrote it.

I enjoyed this a lot user, I hope you realize you have essentially taken on the the style of an epic poem. It reads like Milton (but I'm sure we both agree, not nearly as great.) A few suggestions: I'd remove any unnecessary spacing, especially in part three. I understand the intended effect, but it almost always feels cheap to me. Try to create space without breaking the flow of the text.
I would also recommend eliminating some adjectives and letting your nouns stand alone. For example, I don't think the contrast of white ships and dark sailors was necessary, as nice as the sentiment is. It is too specific in the context of the paragraph. It's just some general tidying for such a breif story.
Finally, and this is not to say you did not, but it might help if you employed active voice just a bit more. Using 'was' and 'is' can sound really repetetive and dry.
Again, overall I enjoyed the story, very pleasant read and you seem to have accomplished your goal.

Tired of the internal debate thats been raging in my head for the last few days. Considering leaving my job but am not sure. So I put some of my thoughts into words. Sorry to inflict it upon you guys. I read, not write, as a general rule.

There’s something beautiful about the work I do. It is hot, dusty and dangerous. There’s no glamour or prestige. Just a simple work that keeps the country rolling. But there is a beauty to it. The sweat stinging your eyes, the sun burn and the hot air scorching your throat leads to a certain understanding about your place in the world. I do a job that very few people would be willing do. The sacrifices made to earn a pitiful wage, the long thankless hours that build the bosses bank account leave most dumbfounded.

The bloodied arms after a long day putting up a fence, torn skin and sun burnt arms, leave a man exhausted, yes, but with the knowledge that for the next decade that fence will stand for all to see. A monument to your hard work, dedication and skill.

Perhaps it’s the feeling you get when you successfully slow the death rate of cattle during a severe drought. Hours spent cutting mulga trees for the cattle to eat. The sweet stench of a rotting carcass barely 20 meters to your left. Or perhaps the sadness that strikes as you pause, a tire lever raised above your head, as you take aim, resolved to offer mercy, before bludgeoning a calf to death. It’s never just one hit. Hardened as I may be, it’s painful when your boss asks about the blood splatters on your face some 7 hours after the numbness in your hands has resolved. A product of your repeated blows to the thick skulled young calf.

The long days and confronting nature of the work is relieved by the adrenaline. There’s something beautiful you soon come to recognize about death. Not the starved beast that finally drops dead, nor the young beasts you kill with metal or rock or wood. But your own. Wakening to the fact that today you are one mistake from death.

Chasing after a wild bull, a scrubber, until it tires and turns. Snot and foam covering it’s mouth as it stares at you. Stepping off of bike or horse, your mate beside you, waiting for the bull to charge one of you. Teasing it, aggravating it, he suddenly charges. Hundreds of kilograms of muscle, horn and killer intent focused on one task. Taking out that which angers him.

But soon as its charged, all thought disappears from your head. There’s an internal silence which I’ve never been able to find. I either step around it or I die. The one not being charged has the harder job. Grabbing a bull by the tail, swinging it at the exact right moment so that it falls to the side. Failure isn’t really an option you want to consider. Better you die than the man beside you.

I feel it's a bit too quick and cliche. Boring even... florid without substance. Just another youth love story. Reads like a chopped up YA book. End critique of part 1.

Although confusion may be the intention, it is not engaging. There is little reason for what is happening and it is not graphic enough or raw enough to evoke anything. It's just mere descriptions of events and the cliches return once more to riddle this already drab prose. End critique of 2nd part.

This is very good. My only complaint is this line:
>There is a bridge in the town. It arcs above banks of baked sandstone that hold the sun in their veins. A river runs beneath.
I know what you're trying to do here, but I think if you want to have a line that you start each period with, it should be something more compelling. Honestly, I wouldn't even do that if I were you, as I find it a bit gimmicky, and you have a rather small word count to work with.

thank you everyone who helped me fine tune this over the last week. still not perfect but I definitely got where I want it to be emotionally. the second couplet still bugs me but i went ahead and put in a print order.

I hope he likes it.

Part 3: a hamfisted ending and I know you said it's unfinised but this is the worst of the three parts. Once more this is trying to ride on emotions that are not present, not established. It says this and that and expects me to feel something from it but I don't. I just feel bored. Now, since this is the last part I will say there is potential with this. It's got potential even with these cliches. Extend it, make more of a past. Have more build-up to the middle, making the end better in its attempt at emotional story-telling. There is stuff here, just needs more, a lot more.

Why would you put the text on that background image if you hadn't even fixed the spelling errors? (or at least disabled the red lines). Maybe you could provide some context on what the text is even about? I didn't get it.

I can barely get past the first paragraph due to the obnoxious photograph. Seems pretentious anyway.

Better? That is just the background to my Word Processor. It's not like I arranged it like it is some of art installation. Most of those words are spelled correctly anyways. I don't know why they are highlighted. Homogeneous was the only unintentional one.

I really enjoyed reading this. Although considering the context you might want to qualify why you're considering leaving the job.

Context? Weeks of isolation. No phone reception, internet or land line. To go shopping is a 2 hour drive each way. I can't simply forget to buy something. If I crave chocolate milk, i;m fucked.

But the camaraderie, the adrenaline, the simple beauty of the out back. Living a life that so very few people will experience. It's easy to get pissed off at the little things, but throwing all the good things away terrifies me. Maybe I just need more consistent sex. But few women can handle this life style.

But thanks. Someone enjoying it means a lot. I don't write. Mostly as I feel I have nothing worth saying. So it's encouraging to know I'm not a complete bore.

'Sunburnt' is one word. Other than that I don't have much criticism to offer. I didn't really get a sense of direction for where your story was going.

I quite like this. Nice work.

thank you. its my first time working on a poem (if it can be called that) and I hope he likes it too. Its littered with personal moments but it would be really embarrassing if he just didn't make the connections.

>Word processors can have wallpapers.
What program are you even using? If you say Microsoft Word I'm going to feel like a real dumb ass. Also, are going to explain what the text is about?

> AA BB
Ew

i do enjoy AB AB but this is how it came out. perhaps for the next one.

This is the first short-story-like thing I have ever written I am sorry if it is awful.
context: two weird private school boys first meet

The students’ reposed posture parallelled that of the seats, their head hung on their stiff necks, and their faces deliberately painted with decrepit concern. Abel admired the Ego that was glazed over the students, brimming and spilling to the deepest crevices and folds of their uniforms. How prideful they were, and awfully obdurate. The unsleeved coffee all held between the students’ legs allowed each reluctant sway of the bus’ springy core to urge the bitter nectar an escape.
An “Old Soul,” their grandparents would snob-about proudly, but all knew the orison had lost its original freshness long ago. He observed the Vonnegut covers that decorated the interior, such diligent care was there to face the proud bold-yellow-red-shit-coloured cover outward, and the eyes that danced vigorously with those around in desperation for any, O any attention at all. Had their parents praised them for their dilettante “literary mind,” this could have been all avoided; however, that was not the case, especially not for the West of the city.
The classic jingle played and one by one the White Elephants followed one another, getting off their stop with a single, routined turn-and-step. To most, the jingle was like an olive from the rotting Garden of Gethsemane but they picked and nibbled at its taste with sour faces. As far as the boy could understand, the reaction was akin for all students- even the Adults. Some quickly rested their half-sipped coffees on the ground, others held it close to their face like an accessory and so they went. The bus now moved at ease, no longer a drunken snake.
He looked across only to face another uniformed boy, irresolute in the patterned chair and analyzing the cars that passed. Through his parted lips he mouthed words to himself.
“2002 Toyota Corolla, 1992 Honda Accord, 1999- No, 1998 Chevrolet Silverado 1500,” the dissociated boy murmured.
Abel, now fascinated, moved his soft, effeminate shoulders to an erect position and watched the boy, who, at closer examination, had a diminutive yet beautifully sculptured face.

>gay autistic erotica
>minus the erotica

started strong but burnt out fast. sometimes less is more.

Familiar is where the sad and happy collide, the comfortable and anxious, the charming patterns and disdain for banality. Familiar faces mark familiar memories, cascading nostalgia and perceptions of size. The boundless mind does nothing to appease ones sense of confinement, though many have tried and deluded themselves into feeling otherwise. Into the abyss of immense thought one only emerges, not long after, with a reinvigorated desire to be home, immersed in that with which the mind can be at ease, ‘just be,’ go through the familiar motions of familiar actions and feign familiar reactions to familiar events. The bedrock of familiarity is a deceitful game, a promise of pale content if only you submit, and submit to submitting. The vigor’s gone, and that’s okay.

Man this sucks. I can't exactly pin down why I hate it, other than that it seems really amateurish (too many unnecessary adjectives? No rhythm to the sentences? I don't know). My advice to you is simply to write more and maybe read some books.

What is the point?
Is it an essay?
If not this has little context, if so, it has even less value for being rather self-absorbed. Stuck in the mindset of familiar and what comes out is familiar, nothing special.

I agree completely. I have no creative writing experience, just academic texts. I read a lot and am trying to figure out how to craft compelling sentences, but everything comes out sounding absorbed and satirical. I need to learn how to write like I think..

Yes, I think i may be trying too hard...
is there a particular way of learning rhythm? Its a shame to say that ive read quite a lot and failed to learn anything from them writing wise. thank you though! will continue to try

Well, the writing good, even if it doesn't quite make sense to me. I'm not sure why the familiar would have a disdain for banality; is unoriginality not familiar?
Like this user said, I think it may help to have some more context to this.

its not that bad, it just reads like a first draft, and it definitely reads like something that has no point.

you said its about two weird anons meeting for the first time but its not. its about one weird anons general location before suddenly seeing someone out of the corner of his eye.

unless this was just an excerpt from a bigger story, in which case its a little unfair to ask us to judge it based on a few paragraphs. that lengthy opening doens't feel so lengthy when its in the context of five pages.

focus on getting out a complete draft with a complete idea behind it, or even just an excerpt or a 'scene' with a complete idea behind it.

writing is more science than art sometimes. when you know what the 'point' is, suddenly all the details between the beginning and middle are easier to fit in. you realize that you arent supposed to just randomly describe coffee, but rather whatever item will foreshadow or parallel the bigger point you are trying to make.

a good example is TV or movie writing. because they don't get to sit around and masturbate with words and descriptions the quality of writing is based solely on the structure. if you watch a good movie there are no useless scenes or useless moments. things that seem casual in the beginning of the episode later turn out to be relevant to the journey or arc. you know at the beginning of the episode you might show people just talking about 'random' shit having a good time, but it turns out to play an important thematic role later on.

apply that logic to writing in prose and you'll find that its not just about adding nice sounding descriptions to things. what you describe is just as important.

>is there a particular way of learning rhythm?
Some user posted this once.

And I was stopped by a young woman as I walked down the hill. She couldn't have been older than 25. She wore earmuffs over her hair which stopped just above her shoulders. Her glasses sat well over her petite nose and cherry chipmunk cheeks. Even though she wore a thick red sweater, I could still envision a slim body underneath. Hmm... C cup I surmised. Her tight blue jeans did well to highlight her lower half. Not as voluptuous as the Brazilians, but with hips like the Lebanese and legs like the Koreans, it was an easy decision to make my move as the snow came down.

"Excuse me, but aren't you cold?" If she wasn't standing in front of me I would have guessed she was in grade school by the sound of her soft voice and curious tone.

I replied, "Baby, I never get cold feet. Once I see what I want, I pursue it; like a tiger." She looked at me puzzled. She didn't get it. She just kept staring at my face, as if I had spilled some mustard on the corner of my mouth. I tried to recover.

"Sorry, let me introduce myself. My name is Cake. I work at the nearby kindergarten. I actually just got off work. If you're free let's have a chat at that nearby co--"

"What about frostbite?" I was interrupted. She looked at my feet, then returned to my countenance. "Aren't you afraid of catching frostbite?"

I wasn't sure how to respond. Should I correct her by saying you "get" frostbite, not catch it? Should I ignore the question completely? She just kept staring at me, waiting for an answer. Her eyes glowed with curiosity. I couldn't resist.

I took a step back and withdrew my phone from my pocket. I extended my arm and showed her my screen. "Am I afraid of frostbite... NO! BUT YOU SHOULD BE!" As I cast my spell she barely caught herself from falling back.

"Cake no Baka!" She screamed, and ran off. I was about to pursue her, but my feet became unbearably cold. Thus, I retreated to the nearby Lawson.

this is surprisingly encouraging! youre absolutely right on this, i did not plan for anything. i really wanted to write something for the sake of writing and simply bundled a variety of ideas together into something that did not have a point at all. godspeed
thank you!

Was mine ok for this... too samey?

yes, I just opened this thread and thought I would sketch out something that was on my mind, that's all the context I have, it isn't part of a larger project. To your second point I was just thinking that one can accept and feel comfort in routines, but on a deeper level feel a sense of unnerve that there is no development, growth or experience going on. Just a safe space

that happens man, i think when it comes to prose writers thats how a lot of good things really start. you sit down and you just got a 'feeling' you want to explore so you throw it out. in this case its two weird young boys noticing each other. and thats actually a good start. the idea behind it interested me, though im a bit of a homoromantic guy that likes stories of dudes bonding, i find it to be more on the rare side these days.

but now that you got that initial splurge out there its time to think about what you REALLY want this to be. a beat sheet can always help even in a short story.

good luck user. i hope you repost it or link to it if you expand on it later.

Yeah, you could stand to break up a few sentences.

link: fanfiction.net/~sucknbig1z

thinking of getting back into writing, lemme know if you guys wants more

The Unbearable Hardness of Being

The aural disturbance of a rusty door hinge was no match for the deafening silence that accompanied the shared stare between Arthur Read and his sister DW immediately after she entered the foyer of their family home and found him atop a long, narrow ottoman in the living room, knees to his chest, methodically pumping a semi-flaccid penis while straining to read the reviews of his latest x-rated Sonic and Mario at the Olympic Games fanfic on an iPad lying on the floor beneath him.

This unforeseen test of his deeply-practiced Slow Stroke technique was admirably handled by Arthur for several seconds, maintaining his metronomic pace with the discipline of a third-week yoga student until he fell backward onto a couch and began searching for an excuse to even be doing something like this in the first place.

"Faggotry is a social disease!" DW shouted, dropping her backpack full of pain pills and cock doodles and scrambling to find any device connected to the internet so she could inform the tight-knit community of Elwood City of her brother's relapse into ungodly sexual deviances.

~6 MONTHS EARLIER~

"Y'ever wanna just grab Buster's and ears and use his dumb rabbit teeth as a nut massager?" Brain inquired to the rest of the lunch table, upending the stale conversation about whether or not outer space was real and living up to his unusually divinatory name with his innovative suggestion for a new way to victimize the most exploitable member of the class.

(cont'd)

"Me and Buster used to rub hands on mad dick area parts back in the day yo", Binky impulsively divulged, stealing a glance at Arthur to gauge his jealousy and get a mental snapshot of any arousal that might reveal itself and jerk off to it after school.

Francine squirmed in her chair, hoping the integrity of her Oshkosh overalls would hold up against the furious throbbing of her secret penis. Binky had changed a lot. At some point in the previous year he had seemingly rhino-charged his way through an army surplus shop in a desperate attempt to not look like a guy who wanted some dick in his butt 25/7. Despite the ridicule he endured for his fashion felonies, she somehow found herself unbearably craving the swampy patina of his vinegary ball sweat.

Meanwhile, Arthur was paralyzed with uncertainty. The crippling anxiety of losing his best friend's sexual validation to someone in his social circle had poisoned their relationship over the summer. He knew his growing addiction to the masterful hotfics of Timmy 2016 were a symptom of a deeper psychosis, and in the faces of his compatriots he could see only the likenesses of a certain fictional hedgehog and a fat italian plumber who sold him shrooms at the Brokencyde show last April.

Under his sock, Arthur hid a shameful stack of napkins on which he'd jotted down his ideas for scenarios where the plumber and the hedgehog might plausibly have a steamy rendezvous while Arthur watched from afar, jelqing his meat under the cover of the bleachers at the Elwood City Community Center's track and field complex.

linking is enough. this thread isnt designed for critiquing big stories, if it cant fit into a post, just linking is fine if anyone wants to take a read, but don't expect much.

>fanfiction.net
Goddamn it.
Veeky Forums.org/rules#lit

Wanted to try to do a quest but have no experience, so i made this draft

'ahhh goddamnit' you thought as you were dragged back into the land of conscienceless from the blissfulness of sleep

Or atleast what you thought was sleep, felt more like playing a drinking game with horse tranquilizer

As the fog in your mind began to clear, you realized something

You weren't in a bunk bed as your fellow squad mates loudly snored away

No this was a much too familiar feeling, the feeling of being facedown on a ice cold laminate floor in a pick black room

An old memory reared its head, all those nights spent sleeping in the bombed out ruins of your old home town
desperately trying to stay out of sight of the Russian soldiers patrolling the area

You quickly suppressed that thought as you heard something slice through the silence that had built up in the room

drip the sound of a dripping faucet. After every drip the echoed through the room like a German singing on a hilltop

You lay there still on the hard floor, not moving a single muscle

wat do?

A. Try to search your memories for an answer to how you ended up here
B. Open your eyes, have a look
C. Caution to the wind! You were being too paranoid, it was time to get up
D. This could be a trap, it would be best too bide your time and wait for any threats too make themselves apparent
E. Man fuck this you were too tired for this crap, you were going back to sleep

sorry famalam didn't see that. i'll keep it in my pants next time.

>fan fiction
>it's Arthur porn
>didn't read the rules
>Apu Apustaja
>famalam
I'm feeling pretty triggered right now.

not him but I'm 99.99% sure it's FocusWriter

gottcode.org/focuswriter/
Yeah, that looks right, thank you.

lmao. im not reading this but it made me chuckle nonetheless. keep memeing bro

>printing garbage
you might as well gift someone toilet paper

i thought it was pretty hilarious. best to keep it short. there are only so many ways to describe deviant sex. that being said, you do a good job of keeping it fresh. keked hard at "the most exploitable member of the class"

>The students’ reposed posture parallelled that of the seats, their head hung on their stiff necks

>I am seated in an office, surrounded by heads and bodies. My posture is consciously congruent to the shape of my hard chair.

i know it's at least reworded a bit, but if i noticed it then i think a lot of people would

also it's 'paralleled'

>Hmm... C cup I surmised.
Are you a girl writing what you believe to be an average man's thought process? Holy shit.

You didn't even edit this. It's fucking double-spaced even. It's trashy, unfunny and the swearing kills any potential immersion.
>E. Man fuck this

Quit jerking each other off you sadist taintlickers

>No tripfags allowed.
IS that for me, bitch?

I'll be back later to throw some knowledge down later when I'm not busy. Respond to this post with your writing and I'll do yours first.

Beginning at her shoulder his eyes followed her arm, natural contours formed hills and valleys in a breath-taking vista. His gaze slowly descended towards her fingers in an attempt to visually quench his thirst for her skin. As he reached her painted nails he noticed the other person, wearing a white t-shirt and sporting a fashionable hairstyle dancing beside them. “I’m going to chat with him for a bit to find out his intentions and whether or not he’s bothered by my flirting with you.” She smiled, nodded and went back to swaying her lithe, almost cat-like body to the beat.

He turned to the friend and held out his hand as a gesture of goodwill, “Hey there,” he said as they shook hands. “Do you mind if I flirt with that girl? If you have your eyes set on her make your intentions clear and I’ll back off.” Unable to properly word a response, Friend nodded, usually a sign of agreement, but he didn’t seem happy at all.

Ash turned back to the girl and whispered into her ear, “I think he likes you, but I’m pretty sure I like you a lot more.” She laughed inaudibly and placed her hand on his arm. The barely perceptible weight of her touch made him curse the leather of his jacket, wishing it would disappear leaving nothing between her hand and the naked skin of his arm. He cursed all clothes, wanting nothing more than to exist in a world where his flesh would be free to touch hers. As this thought took place, Friend reappeared beside the girl and protectively put his arm around her, his touch polluting the perfect landscape of the limb he had previously admired.

>And
Why start with a conjunction? I can understand starting a sentence with one, but an entire...why?

>She wore earmuffs over her hair which stopped just above her shoulders.
comma after hair, it sounded like the earmuffs were what stopped just above her shoulders

>everything else
Is right? I'm seriously curious.

Thanks for taking the time to criticize man, I'll work on presentation, try to be less unfunny and remove swearing.

"January 2018"

Tanks growl; gas wafts;
a Kurd digs
another grave.
Smoke rises from the schoolhouse,
rises from the chimneys,
rises from the barrel of a launcher.
A shell draws another line on a formless sky;
at its crest it glints—it winks—
the keening breaks off:
the battle stops:
the tanks halt;
the flower, half-crushed,
lives on.

The woman lets down her launcher
and picks up the keys to the combine:
here there is always a mouth to be fed.
Every other kernel is born scarlet;
every sheaf is a checkerboard;
the fields are a plain of blood.

The men and women of Rojava
eat their scarlet bread and grow strong:
to lift a spade, to break red soil, to plant
steel rods, steel beams, steel frames, trees,
and flowerpots in graves.

The last 4 paragraphs are confusing about what you want to convey. It's particularly difficult to distinguish between the hypotheticals and the concrete event of killing the calf, mostly due to the disordered chronology of events. (You have killed a young calf, your boss asks you about it, then you chased a bull and started killing the bull. Not sure if it's the same animal being referred too.) It's very hard to keep track of.

The use of second person is odd but works. The switching between first and second person does through me off a bit however.

>But soon as its charged, all thought disappears from your head. There’s an internal silence which I’ve never been able to find.

'I' or 'you', who is being spoken about? I feel like you switch it too much.

If you pulled up to a cypher with this shit I have no doubt you'd get crunched

It s cool what your doing, with the metre an all, but you really should say your bars outloud/to a beat in order to get the flow right

A lot of sparesly related allusions with no real cohesiveness, it sounds like you just copy and pasted randoms lines out of genius

3/10 overall, some boneified trash rappin

if only i were as cool as you.

I'm unsure about the puntcuation

I wrote these as lyrics to this song:

youtube.com/watch?v=GSa8EhAR6n0&index=10&list=PLuIhfiqEcF8osLtaXGjRWXnGd2o1D0094

>As winter turned to springtime and the daytime turned to dreamtime I once more thought of something best forgotten.

>Thinking, and thinking, I almost had an inkling till’ you called me from in front of my apartment.

>Woe, oh woe, why do you hurt me so? You throw a jacket in my face. Next thing I knew we were on the chase of a party that you swore would last us a lifetime.

>Just a minute now and it is 4 o’clock. A fellow’s strewn out naked on a table top. And my head feels heavier than a ton of rocks.

>But will you remember me?

>Someone has smashed the Roomba with a baseball bat. And I’m sure that I am wearing someone else’s hat. The hostess can not seem to find her tabby cat.

But will you remember me?

>Champaign Wine: We were drinking it out of a stein. Can’t find my way home. And I’d never want to let you go.

>And all that’s left of the parlor is a smashed up chair. A couple in embrace lie on the spiral stairs. The cat I mentioned still can’t be found anywhere.

>But will you remember me?

(Piano Solo)

>The sun soon will rise. I should probably shower before I part. Why, oh why! Must I leave here with a still broken heart?

>The bathroom sink is filled with drunk sangria cans. I decide that I should steal myself a bedroom fan. I stumble out and mortify the clearly clean-cut garbage man.

>But will you remember me?

>Friend nodded,
>Friend reappeared
Is 'Friend' a name?
The last paragraph strikes me as melodramatic, in particular:
>He cursed all clothes, wanting nothing more than to exist in a world where his flesh would be free to touch hers.

y/n was laying on the bed, clad in sexy (your favorite color) lingerie. gnomeo walked in after a long day of helping his mom with the toilet flower and flexing his sexy muscles. upon seeing you, he let out a deep smexy moan, his hat popping up erect along with his meatstick. “gnomeo-kun…” you purred, shaking your hips seductively. “no babe not tonight im boutta piss” he groaned out. you gasped and bit your lip, craving the blue boy’s sweet, sweet pee pee. you slithered off the bed, army crawling to his feet. you tugged off his boots, holding back a moan at the sight of his yummy toesies OwO. you slurped them all up, moaning as his big ol donger got larger. you finally released the beast, salivating at his massive porcelain dongey. you slorped that up too. ur eyes rolled to the back of ur head as gnomeo finally released his delicious amber dick liquid down ur throat. ur belly felt so nice, you wanted more. you grabben gnomeo by his head and put him down ur throat, sighing as he slipped his way down ur esophogas, landing in ur lovely pink tummy. you had a good meal.

Wow this is obscure. Are you crossposting from /mu/? It's rather silly for poetry but it might work in a song. I can't hear it in my head though, and I'm not about to sing it aloud. I'm mostly wondering why you even wrote this. Is this for practice? Or do you actually intend to cover the song?

Because I am the greatest rapper of this generation, I have no use for the advice of a pleb.
Thank you anyway, because I'm sure you and your peanut brain had only the best intentions.

I came across this album on Spotify while listening to different versions of this song: youtube.com/watch?v=PSWHL7IRPhk

I really got into Barrett's original songs, I mean, almost the album is original pieces, and I just felt like coming up with some lyrics about a crazy party to one of them.

She smoked in the rundown backyard. The dog was barking. The sun was setting. The rent was due. $1200 to be wired out of Susan’s account by sundown. $1200 she did not have. The anxious minutes and tireless seconds dragged her down. Each tick of clock was a fresh notch on her back. The monotonous song of grasshoppers reminded her of childhood, and of how life seemed to start anew right at the moment of collapse.
“There have been many difficulties,” Susan said inconsolate and placid, “There are many more to come.”

This is the opening to something I'm working on. I feel like there's something wrong with it, but I'm oddly kind of attached to it anyway. Tell me yr thoughts

>Tonight the bus window only reflects its insides; either night-fog or something like night-fog snuck inside the glass panes on its left row. And so the world was invisible.

Hebs are only in texas noone else will know shat youre talking about

this is some decent kmart realism

A half-caught glance from a woman's face, burnt-orange by electric luminance behind the fogged glass which, dripped with rain and imprinted with the outlines of children hands, is hazily mirrored onto the wet pavement directly beneath the window of the cafe you wearily pass every evening from the subway. You hadn't glimpsed her expression's start, when the mouth shows tightening and curls upwards, revealing the edges of teeth between parted lips, flushing red this time of year, and neither had you caught the corners of her nose, sharp and small, beginning to gently flare as the cheeks rise, curving inwards at their center stressing dimples, nor the pupils dilating, expanding her—from what you can tell—rings of hazel intermixed with her short twined hair, diffuse and scattered in slits along her forehead, coiling along her edges and ears as though a tired building's vines. You had only seen the apogee, receiving, so you think, her completed stare into your own; her head starting to return down to her book, open below her on the widow-seated table. Your step undoes her reflection underfoot as you pass along these quarter's streets and passages.

Yes, you think, continuing down these familiar pathways homeward, there are certain things that only happen at night.