Critique Thread

The world. Worldly as it may be it’ll never be my world, never in my space of world and worlds, so many worlds, swirling worlds, so worldly. Wordy as they are, they ring. Ring. Toward me now. Come closer. I feel the surge again I can feel the calm weight of this again, I can recognize this now, the meeting of two breaths, the total embrace, yes, come toward me now. Meet me again in one of those worlds we’ve both made up, we’ve both shared between our many selves, those worlds, which one corresponds to which one, where do we place this world and now that world, among the collection we’ve amassed both of our images of who we think we might one day become and our fantastic memories of who we wished we were when we weren’t. We’ll come together, now, toward one another in a constant state of embracing motion until finally the motion is broken and we part forever. This pattern is endless, and cannot be recounted, cannot be reclaimed, for it does not actually happen, it is merely a coming to of an event, but never an arrival. We cannot arrive, for really, those worlds, those selves, can never be wrested from their collective, can never be singled out from their infinite brothers and sisters. They exist because they are among many others like them. But they cannot come out, they cannot reveal truth. That is why when we embraced, it was not we, nor was it embracing; it was the sideswiping near-collision of many different worlds and many different selves, observing one another, noting peculiarities and interests, before zooming back into their massive, busied womb.
One day the weather will be just right. One day I will escape this enclosure, walking out onto the damp street, underneath the thousands of lamps placed in one coordinate, and I will sing to the sky, sing as I did that night when I was certain that there was reason for it. Reason enough, for singing, to that incredible sky. What sight will come to me next? Who knows what is to be found out there, do you? What many different organic notions spring to mind the moment one steps out of the familiar walls and into the park ranger’s territory, filled with critters and branches. I cannot say. I haven’t read Walden.

Tedious and insincere in my opinion.

It feels like you're trying to capture some poignant romantic emotion but you've blown it up in scale and shoved so much into it that its gotten warped. Its a fabrication of emotion rather than an expression of it.

The repetition and expansion thing you're relying on works counter intuitively (I think) because you're essentially universalizing / expanding what is SUPPOSED to be a very intimate experience.

I really enjoyed the second paragraph. But as for the bulk of it, this user has hit the nail on the head. Tries way too hard to make some big philosophical point, and the transition from the SOC stuff to that doesn't really flow.

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 erloschen war, 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 Flasche fiel um, anlasslos, 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 Vogelgezwitscher 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. Seine Augen, sie waren schwarz, durchliefen den Raum, rastlos nach Veränderungen suchend, fanden nichts. Alles war gleich. Nichts, seit A.L. gestorben war, die Ananas die kann was, hatte sich verändert. Nichts: der Boden, die Wände, die Decke - alles war gleich, an Ort und Stelle geblieben. Auch das Bild, in Front vor ihm, hing noch an seinem Platz, unverschämterweise.

Can someone help me with this one? 100-200 words. Personal insults welcome.

Miscalculation

The rocket launched, and I became a man— Then it crashed. My first thought was of my father and the second was of 9/11. I had been fifteen and I was finalizing a Rube Goldberg when he called me into the TV room. I stopped working, walked over to see the screen filled with soot. Now, as then, dark shapes appear. I finished that project. It propelled me to become a rocket scientist, just like him. “Run the numbers again!” he had shouted, but I slammed the door in his face. He was right— now he’s gone.

what an ugly language

once upon a leaf
the ant said to the thief
give me back my mandibles
so I can giveth thee
>A HARD TIME

a comet speedeth past
the meteor and laughed
"finished already?"
and tailed him at that

Putting together some thoughts on the screenplay and the fantasy novel posted here, but in the meantime here's the opening paragraph of a sci-fi thing I'm working on.

Just wanted a first impression about the writing style and to see if this is too douchy for an opening of something that is meant to be mass-market YA fiction.

a single hearty word
as sandwich did occur
between the off-like others
to make the message heard

at last, I'm done for now
to cud another cow
the chewing of the tyranny
has given me a pal

>what an ugly language
Was für ein hässliche Sprache.

I'm trying so hard to be witty
to tell you that you are so pretty
but I know that I'd fail
you're as fat as a whale
so come on and show me that clitty

my love, the extent of it
reaches into treachery
I steal the little bits of everything
because I know
all that I am could be added to
for the sole reason
of providing you with something
to die alongside biiiitch

thought this was really pretty desu

Help pls

...

Pic related is something I had revised after criticism from the last general critique and poetry critique threads, and this is what I have now after more revision.

From whence the blue of her eyes came,
That leaves the seas in wroth and shame?
Those fair soul-panes stained with kobold,
That my love does unmatchéd hold,
Evade all bids to solve with wits,
The source of hue which in them sits.
There is no stone or jewel I know,
Not even rarest sapphire’s glow,
Nor, topaz, lapis, fluorspar,
At all as bright as her gems are.
The highest grade is those rich stones,
To which I pen my praise and moans.
In cool springs neither does it lie,
Nor from the vaulted turquoise sky,
Instead, inversely, seems they art
Composed of paints which from her start.
So too do Nature’s live palette
Look to be taken from that set.
The feathers, fish and butterflies
Must be descended of those eyes.
Hear every dye that’s ever been,
As well as all raw pigments seen,
With woe’d cries, that envious band,
When put to where the prime does stand,
Does cause insult when in compare
To my sweet lover’s crystal stare.

What's good, bad, better, worse?

A rough first draft.The first part of it anyway. maybe it's just a plan of a longer piece.

They’ll feel the branding iron soon.
I had worked a lot of hard jobs before. I thought I was a hard man. I was leaving without any doubts in my mind that I’d be the best thing to travel north in a long time. But as I stepped off the plane I felt the first of many doubts. The heat and the humidity hit me like a brick wall.
Even inside of a large city, it was a different world. The warning signs that greeted me as I walked across the tarmac, the sweat drenching my shirt immediately, was the first of many new experiences. “warning snakes”.
I was picked up by two big, hairy and dusty blokes in an old and dinted Cruiser. V8 and worked on for even more power. I guessed they needed it to carry their immense bodies. The trip from the airport to the station took another 3 hours.
Over the next week, I helped prepare the place for the coming cyclone. The next four months I helped fix the damage. Hundreds of kilometres of damaged fences. Close to 100 creek crossings to do. I finally learned what terrifies me. Quicksand isn’t the humorous thing you see on the cartoons. But dodging it was what I did for weeks on end. Luckily there weren’t crocodiles there too. I don’t know if I could brave the quicksand the crocodiles.
And that’s how I was broken in. 45 degree days, 100% humidity, biting insects and snakes. I wasn’t the hard man I thought I was. It nearly broke me, but I couldn’t turn back. I had no money to make the 2500km trip back home. Even if I did, my pride wouldn’t allow me to run away with my tail between my legs.
But then the cattle work started. There’s something hard to explain about how it feels to work cattle. At times it’s incredibly boring. Staring at the swollen vagina of a cow that’s recently dropped a calf for 5 hours as you walk a mob down the lane isn’t always the most interesting of things.
But, in the yards. The yards can be fun. I was lucky enough to get my first job out on a station with feral cattle. About as aggressive as they come. I learnt a lot about myself over those months. Waking each morning knowing that I’m one mistake away from being lucky or dead. Or worse, paralysed. When a bull charges you are only ever one step away from safety. Learning which way to leap is the most important thing.
I found the heat from the branding furnace to be a blessing. Hot of course, but at least it was dry. Although the smell of singed skin and burning hair invades your lungs and burns your throat. Even hours later I could taste it in the back of my mouth.
Cutting the weaners was another interesting thing. As a man, I can think of nothing worse than castration.

Castrating something else was a close second. But after a few, you don’t realise you’re holding the essence of masculinity in one hand, squeezing the ball into the sack, the skin taut, slicing down with a scalpel. Popping the testy out of the cut, cutting the second membrane and then the cord before repeating on the other nut.
The real shock came when I realised I was so desensitized to it all that, even though my hands were caked in the dry fluids of the hundreds of calves I had just castrated, I rolled a smoke. I hadn’t noticed that it was dirty and discoloured. When I did, I didn’t care. It quickly becomes normal.

The repeating "Yet"s I think is overboard. Try keeping the first and last "Yet" and changing the other ones.

What tone do you want for this fantasy novel? Is it supposed to be dark, gritty and realistic (for a fantasy novel) or light? I didn't read the first chapter, but what I've read of the second reminds me of Young Adult novels.

I like it. But I'm not sure what a "candy spin" looks like. I'm also not sure why the lark has a whistle the speaks of levity. Is there some kind of symbolism connected to larks?

I'm confused. I see little connection between the sentences. Why did he become a man when the rocket launched? Why did it go back to 9/11? Why did he slam the door in his face and why was he right? Is the speaker gone or the other person gone?

I like how it's very short and to the point, but what do you mean by "a hard time?" If it's supposed to be a kind of double meaning, then I don't get it, and if it's not, it would be better if it was.

I don't get the joke in this either.

Kisses on a sunny morn, or
In the calm of dusk;
Like snowfall on my upraised face,
Like aloe mixed with musk.
Yet not one moment passes
On without my great attent
Use your lovely nostrils now,
Realize this wondrous scent.
See what joy we can unlock in
Every place we feel.
Listen to the rhythmic hum
For every kiss we steal.
Yonder past a babbling stream
Or in the summer night,
Until a path to God's demesne
Where I could have such sight,
How can I help but marvel now
On fortune that abounds,
Remembering the pleasant touch
Each time I feel your mounds?

I think "Ever since he was old enough to lift his own head" sounds ridiculous, but it might pass in YA. I think the sentences about the stars being hard to see and the smog from long dead factories being the cause could be connected in a better way. Wet wool doesn't sound like a good simile to smog.
"But if you went to the old city on particularly windy nights and got to the top of the two-hundred story husks of a skyscraper, the clouds could be thin enough to catch glimpses of the uncovered sky."
Do you think this sounds better?
You use "glimpses" soon after using "glimpse". I like the sentence that calls back to the burrows. I think the slang of that world, when used well, is good in sci-fi, and I like the relation of his life to waiting for an alarm to ring. Instead of "But not on clear nights. On clear nights, ... " you can just write "But on clear nights, ". And unless there is some kind of interplanetary travel in the story, I think "dead place" sounds better at the end.

I don't get it.
I don't get this either.

With what?
I think the foreshadowing of the failed rocket launch with 9/11 is too obvious and the argument between the son and father over numbers too unrealistic. If he was a rocket scientist, I'm pretty sure he would be more open to checking the numbers again. Maybe instead of anger and stubbornness from the son, he could be written as being too excited and looking over a simple mistake or something.

spin like when you put a spin on something. and he put a candy spin on eating the lark. so he ate him sweetly, as if the lark was candy.

i think you might be looking too deeply into this. a lark is a bird and bird's sing. they typically sound happy and melodic.

if you really want to get into the symbolism and pick the piece apart it goes something like this. the speaker writes inside a thread (a situation like that lark is stuck in later, giving the speaker a similar existence to the lark). a canine is a predator, and predators don't typically live in a world of levity. the canine eats the bird and the bird continues to sing inside the canine, mixing the two types of existence together. the canine is effectivity and the lark is play. eventually the play is digested, but the whistle echoes forever. you can think of the canine as capitalism or the machine of society and the lark as the individual spirit (similar to the name that chihiro isn't supposed to forget in Spirited Away) if you need a lens to see it through.

the thief has taken the mandible (the ant's main tool, weapon, defense, and offense). the ant asks the thief for his mandibles back so that he can do what the thief has done to him. the joke is that the thief would never do this (maybe he/she took them in the first place because of what the ant was doing to him/her). There is a double meaning to hard time, triple maybe. the ant wants to give the thief a hard time for what thief has done. mandibles are hard. the ant could also be meaning to kill the thief. hard/stiff/forever still. time will become crystallized for thief. it wont move forward anymore.

(cont)

what do comets do compared to meteors? comets stay in space forever circling the object of their orbit. a meteor has "given up" and decides to fly down into the atmosphere of what it orbits. the comet laughs at the meteor's "failure" at sustaining a cool sense of detachment. but ultimately curiosity overtakes him and he "tails" the meteor (becoming a meteor in the process, that which he originally laughed at) into the atmosphere and they both become part of the new heavenly body, destroying themselves in the process.

words together make a sentence and sentences together make a paragraph and so on. but they are all singular words making up the whole. the word the speaker refers to is a "single hearty word" in that it is somehow different from the words around it. in that it is alive (heart). "as sandwich did occur" it is in between two other words. "between the off-like others" the words around it aren't exactly like itself because they are different words, but they are still words, so they're not completely different. "to make the message heard" one word can only say so much, it needs the "off-like others" beside it to get the message across.

the last one is a little more complex. I think I'll leave this one alone.

I shouldn't be explaining these honestly because handing them to you defeats the purpose. but you asked so nicely, so, you get the spoon.

yo i didn't read the whole thing but "from whence" is redundant. "whence" means "from where"

I think it could be better with some more editing. Cutting superfluous words is something pretty much every writer needs to do. For instance I think "But, in the yards. The yards can be fun." can be better written as "But in the yards there can be fun" or something similar. Repetition isn't good if it doesn't serve a good purpose. I think the writing is good for the most part. It keeps the story interesting even when nothing super excited is being said, but little improvements can be made for the better.

wait shit nevermind ignore me apparently both considered correct. I think "from whence" is probably more modern though, if you want to sound archaic, which judging from your use of whence at all I would assume you do.

I've got this comment multiple times. Shakespeare and others have used it and I'm using it to fit the meter. Is there anything else about it; good or bad?

If they're supposed to be riddle-like on purpose then I can understand, but if not, then I'd try making them a bit more obvious. I think some of them could be quite funny if there was a good punchline that cleared everything up at the end.

riddle on purpose to an extent.

not clearing it up is the punchline for me.

there's plenty of punchlines inside the poem if you're coming from a clear perspective.

Thank you. It was quickly written. I went to town and had a beer, and just thought of it on the way home. I'm slowly putting together something for a novel and it was more of an idea storm than a short story or anything.

I'll give it a proper going over later on. I'm mostly just interested if it's an interesting enough idea for a story. It's mostly based on my own life, but i'll be throwing in stories that i've heard of other people too.

Still deciding if I want to write it from my own experiences, or wrap it all into a fictional character

I'm not so sure if they're clear, although it could just be me. But I think it can be easy for a writer to write something expecting the reader to get it, while in fact the reader doesn't.
Did you write something similar in the last critique thread? This reminds me of that.

I don't expect anything

Is that true?

>no personal insults
What the hell has happened to this place?

Anyway, here is a question of some off-the-cuff poetry I'm putting together. Keep in mind that each one will be accompanied by an picture.

Effortlessly is she erotic, but she's not to be defamed.
She knows in fact what she does To men who can't be blamed.

----------

Careless,
Free,
Known by few,
But cherished by me.

----------

She appears like a ghost.
Pale, lithe, sexy ghost.

----------

No fire in the fireplace,
It is she that warms up the place.

---------

Of all her delights, her serpentine frame, her features, while plain, become a vision when she smiles so sly...

---------

How to describe her every feature,
Such a beautiful, fanciful creature,
From the dark frame of her hair,
To the pointed blades of shoulders bare,
Gleam of pale sun on her arms,
Hugging her frame, so nobody harms
Her flat stomach, and below,
Smooth delta, and dimples bestow
Sexiness, alluredness, perfection attaining,
Propped up by her legs like a painting.

-----------

A sea-nymph spotted on a secluded beach,
Too far for my hands but not my eyes to reach.

----------

Will there ever, at any time, ever be,
Another being as perfect as she?
With the same smile, and erotic body,
An innocence somehow so taughty,
Exuding the most erotic desires,
With a strength of character that never tires,
Never gets old, and never wanes?
This type of girl is hard to explain.

----------

She is all-encompassing, all-consuming,
All desires is she exhuming.

I did. Things are starting to blend into a larger story. What I wrote in the last thread seems to be turning into a prologue or the first chapter. Explaining much of how i've lived for the last little while. It didnt work as a short story but seems to work as an overview.

to an extent

I'm going for lighthearted young adult fantasy.

I walked down to the harbor. Behind me the sun was sinking in to the earth, gilding the hills and casting red reflections which trembled on the water. Across the rails I saw a moored boat with a peeling orange hull buoyed by its own shadow. Black pebbles the size of golf balls sunk into the black sand. In the morning the tide would rise nearly level to the pier and all this shore would be covered. No one was about but me and a pair of teenagers necking on a bench. About a hundred yards across sat a little island comprised of three lazily rolling hillocks lumped into the water.

Ximena

That night the owner came into the kitchen and prepared a mate. Her name was Ximena. She had a thick wave of gray hair and had lived in Chonchi her whole life. When I commented on the cleanliness of the town she shook her head sadly. No, no, it’s not clean at all. People leave trash all over the streets, there’s no place you won’t find a plastic bag and a few cigarette butts. I said Chonchi didn’t seem to be that way, and she said it is that way, in Chonchi as in the world over. I lament mankind, she said in so many words. His endless production of trash. And noise. She looked up at me. I hope you are a quiet guest. I said I reckoned I was. Good, this is a quiet hospedaje. If a guest is loud, I give them back their money and tell them to leave. Because I am trying to listen. To the rain, to the wind. And not only to the rain but to the kind of rain. Is it soft? Is it sideways? Is there hail? I said I understood, but she only shook her head. No, no.

I like it, but I think erotic is used too much. I think the rhymes with the same words (ghost with ghost, fireplace with place) could be changed, unless you like it. I prefer not to do it. Ghost with host maybe? There's also some more modern language mixed in with older language and although it doesn't ruin it, it sounds off.

I see. I liked that too. Just keep writing and editing user.

Funny lighthearted or serious, yet light?

Kinda silly/funny-lighthearted. Sometimes things get a little serious but never like graphic content serious.

Alright. Just wanted to know because of the way it sounds. I can't really critique it since I don't read YA anymore, and the ones I did were more serious. Sorry, user. Keep writing though. You can always revise it later, but you gotta have something there.

Thank you for taking a look user, I appreciate it. Good luck with your own projects as well!

oh but can I ask, you said you only took a look at the second chapter. Was there a reason to skip the first? I'm a bit confused about that

Just a stupid journal entry I made a while back. Didn't think my writing was so good so I abandoned it:

--
The air around me is thick.

Only a single, small fan spinning above provides a scant comfort.

There’s a man on a nearby bed sleeping in his underwear, face pressed against the wall. Occasionally he’ll run one way or the other, grunting or moaning as he tries to fight off a long night of drinking.

I’m here, too, undressed just the same.

I sleep on a thin mattress between the bed and the refrigerator, spread out across marble tile.

I am a guest in the small apartment of a friend I’ve known for hardly a year.

There’s a bedroom, a kitchen, and a washroom with four taps, only one of which works. Two of the knobs are an inch away from the ceiling, probably installed to complement a shower that never was.

Each morning I wake up to use the toilet – sometimes to pee, and sometimes to shit out a stream of cheap desi whiskey – I’m greeted by a pigeon perched on a windowsill above the toilet.

I know it’s the same pigeon, because he has a cragged beak that looks like his wife tried to file down his pecker with a nailcutter.
I know it’s the same one, because he’s lost his fear.

Frankly, I’m not sure how that makes me feel.

For my first few days, he’d see me stumble into the toilet and flap away before taking a second look.

Now he’s gotten increasingly comfortable. He’ll wait for me to drop my pants and sit to shit before fluttering off and up the concrete chute outside the window. Sometimes – and we’re seeing more sometimes now than we did even a week ago! – the cragged-beaked little voyeur will land when I’m not halfway done doing what I need to do.

Sit and stare.

My mistake. I read your first post as "chapter two" instead of "chapter one and two". I was reading quickly because I'm trying to critique many anons' works.

ah got it. Thanks again!

And thanks, I'm still working on this poem () right now, but I think I should set it aside for a bit and work on something new.

Thanks. Some of the word choices I'm attached to, some I'm not.

>rhyming been with seen

This is dece, but it's a bit purple. And has no purpose.

This is dece, but

"scant comfort" sounds shitty and cliche'd. Also I was disappointed to realize this is just some college crashpad, not an SRO or something more interesting. Sentence by sentence, you're doing fine, but you start to overwrite. cragged beak little voyeur, for example. The humor is calling too much attention to itself.

Yeah, it was just a half-assed journal entry. Don't have much else to post.

I keep wanting to write from pleasure but never find the motivation.

Is it some /lit convention to only write rhyming verse? I can appreciate the tributes to a dying form, but man do we have some doggerel up in this motherfucker!

I usually don't see anons telling people specifically what they like, which is what I've noticed in critiques of my poems, so I'll tell you what lines I specifically like too.
>How to describe her every feature,
>Such a beautiful, fanciful creature,
>From the dark frame of her hair,
>To the pointed blades of shoulders bare,
These lines remind me of something from older poetry, especially with "fanciful". There isn't any modern words. They might be able to be refined (Most things can be), but I think they're good.
>A sea-nymph spotted on a secluded beach,
>Too far for my hands but not my eyes to reach.
I like the second line, not sure how to explain why though. Hands could be changed to arms if you like. I like the idea of the last two sections too, but it could be written better, and I think the last part should go together with the one before. It's all good compared to a lot of what I see, although it can always be made better. Also, have you put it in meter? I haven't checked.

What's wrong with that? English poets have rhymed words that look, but don't sound, the same.

That wasn't the convention user was using throughout his poem.

>meter
Kek, no. I am not into poetry all that much to be honest. I'm just winging it. Glad to hear it didn't come out cringey.

Rhyme makes poetry better.

your mother

It could be that much better in meter if you take the effort.
What would you do to make it better?

I agree, which is why Edward Lear ranks higher than Milton.

Why would you come to that conclusion? Are you twelve?

Thank you!

I notice a few grammar/spelling errors, That I wouldn't mind fixing with your permission. Also by chance are you writing in Third Person Limited?

Experimenting with prose for a short story. What do you think?

‘I ought to warn you,’ Doug threw over his shoulder, ‘we're going to see some things that may disturb you.’ Ian grinned to himself, he was beginning to get the hang of the Land of Children's Jokes.
At that moment there was a squeal in a dark corner some twenty yards off to their right. Ian jumped. ‘What's that!’
‘The first of them, I suppose, come on, we'd better take a look.’ The man with the spade in his head pulled a torch from his pocket and, using its pencil beam tentatively, guided them through the maze of rubbish that littered the floor.
They rounded a low bank, which as far as Ian could make out was composed of tumbleweeds of swarf, dripping with oil and frosted with sawdust. Behind it there was a bloody baby. Doug's torch gave the baby's head a weak yellow halo. It was around nine months old, wearing a terry-towelling Babygro and sitting solidly on its broad-nappied base. Its chin, its hands, its Babygro, even the beaten floor beneath it, were all covered in blood. Something glinted in the baby's tender pink paw, something bright which travelled towards its budding mouth.
‘Jesus!’ cried Ian. ‘That baby's got a razor blade!’ But immediately he saw the stupidity of saying it, for scattered at the baby's feet were ten or fifteen more razor blades, all within easy reach. While they watched the baby raised the blade to its mouth, opened wide and inserted it vertically. The baby's blue eyes twinkled merrily at Ian as it bit down on the blade, which straight away sliced through lip and gum at top and bottom. Ian could see the layers of flesh and tissue all the way to the bone; he screamed weakly and Doug squeezed his hand as if to reassure. Thick plashes of blood gave the baby a red bib, but it continued to sit upright and was even happily burbling.
‘What's red,’ Doug asked, ‘and sits in the corner?’

Then followed up by excessive masturbation, I’ve figured out why I do it so much, it’s simply due to the dopamine release, the more I do it, the less dopamine will be released, so I have to do it even more until my quota is fulfilled, and I'm left somewhat satisfied. I have struggles even getting it up at this point, my cock is bored of what it’s seeing, it’s not extreme enough. The habit of masturbation goes down a rabbit hole the more I do it, first it’s solo, then it’s straight amateur videos, then it’s anal, followed by rimming, then it’s BDSM, it’s not enough, I need to see people suffer to get off now, then there’s a turning point in my sexuality, I want to see men fucking weak men dressed up as girls, but it’s not enough, it just never ends.

Degenerates please help, I know what I wrote is too vanilla.

>simply due to the dopamine release
Scientism has no place in degenerate writing if you ask me. Reducing twisted human desire to formulas and diagnoses is boring and lifeless. So you like dopamine, so what. Cheap universal. Let the character's fetishes come into their own without paring everything down to the pathological level.
>quota
Again with the dry business lingo. It feels inhuman.
>my cock is bored of what it's seeing
>the habit of masturbation goes down
These aren't conscious entities, they don't 'do' things. Unless you want to write them that way. But to give a cock a personality entails more than just shoehorning a verb onto it. And masturbation isn't going down the rabbit-hole, the masturbator is. Show me some more juicy human flaws.
>it just never ends
>I have struggles
>then there's a turning point in my sexuality

user the whole thing reads like a sheltered white boi trying to look into the mind of a pervert. This isn't how degenerates think of themselves. They revel in their filth and deviance, they devour sexual perversion like wild animals. They don't recount their experiences as if they're trained psychiatrists filling in a rap sheet. You need to grow.

>user the whole thing reads like a sheltered white boi trying to look into the mind of a pervert.
That's me alright.

Thanks man, I'll remove the dry scientific parts, and let his flaws explain his habits and so on.

A bit from a YAish sci-fi writing thing I'm working on. Meant to be an intro to a sort of psychological profile flashback of one of the edgier, more melodramatic characters. Trying for something more weird, how's it work?
Dozens at the door, screaming for blood. Three in the room with me. Red all over. I can't hear the cries of pain over the cries for guidance. Left hand, knife. Right hand, saw. Cut. Carve. Slice. None of them will get past me. Left hand, needle. Right hand, fire. Stab. Burn. Seal. Three down. Six more arrive to take their place. I'm not moving. I tell the scouts to stop giving me backup. Go find more and guide them to me. I'm not done. I won't be done even after this is over. I'll never be done as long as anyone here draws breath.

Let them come. Let them beat down my airlock with every consequence of their hazardous virulence, their irresponsible violence, their glorious valiance. Left hand, something metal, built to industrial spec. A sickening cracking noise from their bone. Right hand, something sizzling with fresh chemistry. They scream when I put it to their body. Let them come when I'm equipped with the fruits of all modern technology or when I've got a kitchen knife in one hand and a crowbar in the other. Let them come, shattering bones, pulverizing organs. High-caliber weapons fire. Radiation. Chemical warfare. Let them all come. Left hand, needle. Fill them with it. Right hand, fire. Burn them, seal. I don't care. I won't back down. I won't turn back. I won't run away. And I won't be beaten.

Just let them try to die in my medbay.

Left hand, defibrillator. Right hand, defibrillator. Clear.

>It could be that much better in meter if you take the effort.
I'll have to learn again.

Today I met a new woman. She told me she was a beast worker and continued to boast her worker mentality within the first three minutes of me first ever talking to her. We got engaged in conversation because I loved listening to her. Sometime later, after she dropped the fact that she had three kids quite casually, she worked it into the conversation that she has'nt been working for a considerate amount of time. Also she's going to school and the conversation was littered with mentions of her ex.

Just wanted to release this brainfart.

Oh yes, please do let me know if you don't mind. And third person limited is what I'm going for, you're right.

Honest question, boys: How do you dispel the worry that someone could easily steal your work if you share it on here? My writing is pretty shit, but I still stress over the fact that an user could just take it. I want to share my work, boys.

Your first works are likely not going to be published, so even if some user takes it they won't be able to do much with it. I also begin writing in a journal, so I date and sign every page. If you're really worried you can screencap your posts and date them as well. But again, your first pieces are likely not good enough for publishing. Use them to become a better writer, and then you can revisit them when you're better.

Hey guys I forgot that Veeky Forums had critique threads.

I posted this and I can't delete it now.

Anyhow I'm posting it here and letting that thread die.

Original text from that post

>I haven't written anything in a while. I'm rusty, blocked, non-creative... whatever you want. Anyhow, yesterday I got kind of drunk and decided to shit-post on /pol/ with some LARP, pretending to have bought an old medicine textbook, having found some old, mysterious letters inside. While I like Lovecraft's work I find that his 'omg this was so horrible I cannot describe it, you do it for me' thing gets old fast. Yet the atmosphere he manages is great, so I tried to copy his style. Can I get some critique? I got a decent response on that board, the few that realized I was shitposting instead of trying to pass the whole thing as real enjoyed the story.

...

...

Time burdens one with a heavy heart
Lacking in principle and sitting apart
From a book with familiar phrases
But only half-full in total pages

Forgive my wading in the natural tide
That overcomes the best who try
Where every strength seems to falter
Even those in placid water

Memory is drawer of blessed images
Reflected in eyes of touched visages
Only made visible through the essence
That which follows a wanted presence

Within a field clothed by splendid flowers
A man picks plants by the hours
A poppy in his breastpocket, hear my plea
Send one for me, send one for me

’’You know, Christoph, uh, a lot of the problems with wanking aren’t about, you know, that you’re objectifying women or unrealistically idealising women -- don’t get me wrong, that’s a seriously important problem with wanking but, uh -- you know, an even bigger problem is that you’re, uh, objectifying yourself? You’re, uh, imagining yourself as the best sexual partner possible and you won’t ever be able to live up to that, in real life. Even if you’re -- Jesus, I don’t know -- like, wanking to the thought of yourself being a sub or being sexually pathetic or sexually humiliated -- I’m not saying you necessarily do that but, uh -- you’re still over-idealising your inability to sexual perform? Which is as equally harmful as fantasising about yourself as, like, an incredible porn-star level fuck or something, and for more-or-less the same reasons too, you know? I don’t know if that makes, uh, any sense but -- and I think it’s safe to say -- the physical act of wanking, like numbing your penis and all that kind of thing, is probably the least of your problems regarding, uh, your ailment down there between your crotch.’’
While Counsellor Daniel spoke, Christoph furrowed his brow and incrementally did quick little head nods and sucked in his cheek. All the poor guy could think about was booking it out of that office ASAP. He couldn’t leave immediately because then his discomfit would register loud as all hell and then God Knows what sort of monologue Counsellor Daniel might launch into (’’You’re uncomfortable because this is such a potent truth merely acknowledging it would cause a mental collapse’’ type-BS or whatever). Eventually, and this is after one long-ass silence, during which Counsellor Daniel stared at his subject with an inverted smile and raised eyebrows and anticipatory widened hand-gestures, Christoph (who had been blinking at the middle-space throughout said silence) eventually said entirely devoid of tone or emotion, ’’There is a great deal to think about here.’’