Catalog

Change the title. "Die Leiden des Jugends" is correct German.
Try to improve the imagery by using better word choice.
Make the message more subtle.

Great Flames of Old and Its Dying Sparks

If even the smallest ember creates a great flame,
then a spark can create a forest fire,
a fire that can cast great light upon a clouded mind!
What a glorious light! Great Clarity!
However, the ember has no fuel,
will burn out fast
needs help,
a great Kindler?
Who knows; Time?
Perhaps time will tell,
time will bring great fuels,
to create great holocausts
in my heart,
For flame gives life,
is life,
needs life.

Tell me how to improve.

Flow of Ink

Something I was told,
such wisdom!
Me: cup, words flowed forth,
it: water, as pen flies across page.
Focus contagious,
leaves vacuum,
no air,
can’t breathe!
Room hot,
before was cool,
face red, veins popping.
Head dive in,
a deep end indeed!

You carry weight,
no relief,
stagger on, can’t throw off of shoulders.
And water came.
Filled flaccid form,
now rigid, upright.

When water leaves:
Sweated out? Perhaps.
thirst is left. Thirst for more weight.
Froth is mind,
clay is form.

Storm stops,
clinks against desk,
Pen thrown,
red subsides.
A look, a warm smile,
An embrace.

We have done it.

Thoughts?

ahem

Yes, but he's special. I can't think of anyone else who has been able to pull it off.

reposting the TV script I wrote
give it hell
drive.google.com/open?id=1iVKYBasKN0pQI9k_xoNFnrpgpkBdGAhE

>to create great holocausts
remove that
what the fuck were you thinking
Otherwise it's a 7

Fui beber uma bica
E a máquina fez uns
Sons assim:.
Já era a segunda do mickey
E como tava com os manos
Toca o sino tintintintin.

Hora de entrada no torniquete
Do metro alexandrino. Perdão:
Augusto. E pensei: ora como sabe
Bem o aroma a café pela manhã, hein?

affalencia.blogspot.pt/

la creatura

Non. Yo hablo portugues

'Holocaust' means a burnt offering

oh shit I guess I'm the brainlet then.

23.July
Yesterday morning, I forgot what my name was for a full four hours. It wasn’t amnesia, I don’t think. It’s not like I’ve ever had it before. When I got up, I just got up and did all the shit I usually do. I stumbled into the bathroom and took a piss. I poured myself some cereal- some off-brand, tie dyed sugar mix with a parrot wearing a pirate hat on the box and then I realized I had no milk, so, out of spite, I scooped the cereal out with my fingers and did the “high fiber corn maze” on the back eight times with a look of sheer defiance on my face (I assume) before I lost interest.

I wandered around the house engaging myself in typical internal monologues about whatever crossed my mind.

And suddenly, abruptly, I became aware that my name wasn’t John or Jack or Kevin or Alois or Reginald. Alarm impacted weakly upon me, sputtered and died to be replaced by a deep, burning agitation. As if the name I had forgotten wasn’t my own, wasn’t the precursor of my own identity, but the name of a cartoon character I used to adore as a little kid. I hummed and hawed and pounded the palm of my hand against my forehead.

Eventually, I remembered. Satisfied and feeling pleased with myself, I went about my day. My last conscious thought before falling asleep that night was that I didn’t usually forget my name and that seemed sort of weird.

24.07
Yesterday I remembered my name all day. That wasn’t to say that I was concerned about the sudden memory loss, -I’m well aware that I probably should be worried about it, it just seemed, and seems, like a non-issue, no matter how much I try to convince myself that it really isn’t. It’s like I’ve been a professional mechanic for fifty years and my subconscious is telling to “try wiggling that thing there-“. I hear it, but I just can’t bring myself to give a shit. So yesterday I remembered my name all day. I don’t think I forgot anything else, either- if I did then it was something I didn’t think about.

I wonder if it was a one-time thing, like a mini-stroke, but then I found a letter that shouldn’t even exist.

I just found this. Apparently wrote it 4 years ago and immediately forgot about it.

That paragraph is going nowhere and neither is that idea. Put it down mate, move on to something new. It will be better.

when i write in the morning my filter is down

to write before breakfast or to write before dawn. deal with the pink ants running out of the hole in the wall. freely divulge whatever leaks out of your teeth, like seabourne enamel rushing inlands discreet in appearance make a raft out of it and travel back out. your words spill out over the surface of the rockpool indignant peashots - hitting against the crabshells and you take this ugliness away from the beach and you do it on the way home, whenever women laugh at you or you're caught in a wc with both stalls full - unaware that the urinal is availiable, perhaps because you wanted to be and not because you were misinformed.
a long poem out of descriptions of things exactly as they are. not trying to get so far into things that they're just textures on your wall. measuring the corners, you find it to be no worth looking into reviving the highstreet with your loud voice. you can shout as loud as you want and people will give into you. they won't get annoyed they'll just talk to you, calmly review what's happened. it's because you're an important face in a dangerous neighbourhood - your unswept scars compile into a sigil of the ancients. they kept scarring your face, and stealing your money, and harvesting your golden hair like it grew back the same colour in the moonlight. a lycanthrope, would that be when you stop - the sun was headed through dawn, the neighbourhood streets get paler with anticipation of the brightness turning the sky inches redder. you must fall into the black hole to keep cover. you swim about in the pentinerary larder, opposite rows and rows of dead things documented with blank square tiles on the floor
dripping with sweat and unease you pinch your skin before finding that it dribbles out like clay. you expect to awaken onto comfortable pillows but you're paralyzed today. the one piece you can hold onto, was not in a safety net - it, or you, were bleeding from the stomach almost irreversibly spent. and it seemed agenda-pushing to cry out for help so you leapt onto the floor and rested on a bed of gelt. five hundred hours ago, your destiny had been spilled across the floor - fate never gets punctured, you're inflicted as far as you can be by the curses and blessings you could ever recieve through your knowledge you might find out sooner than it happens, but your mind was damaged from the start. it wasn't enough to make you inhuman, it was enough to make you forget everything of what happened beforehand.
the start was not too long ago. why were you here, you didn't have the craftsmanship that could be steering your skin away from ageless decay. algal bloom came out of your neonate fingertips as you cried out to the stars (and had got more silent so far) in the blue forest of slying dreams. the scenes in your life of one description but many photos and drawing that you took on your journey to the city were esoteric and that was your downfall at realizing the city was landless.

you sustained yourself off blood, it was just like the slaughterhouse should've had written on its door that you should have trusted that author. and the clock kept ticking on as the blood in your body lingered and mixed backwards with the salt, hurting you as well as it could mingle with the redness going down, down, down into the drain. that was strange.
you could smell compost being sold and greyhounds getting old with that old lingering sweatshop scent hanging over the windowsill and on the tags of meat. then a sudden bark which shook you down and made you realize how small the bruise actually was, and the browness of your vision perhaps disguising your tears as blood. you woke to new sensations which wanted to pull you up and you held the balance as if stalken in a barren oxygen.
parts of the hanging cadavers felt empty and eviscerated like a butcher's knife through the core of them revealled only hollow shells of what an animal once was. you went to check your chest and felt nothing, and got worried as you pressed down harder and harder expectantly to hear your surgically impossible beating heart going once, or maybe even going twice. nope.
it ate and ate outside where you could go shining what was now abstract to your porcelain. contemplated that you were any ammount like something of a commodity, trapped inside of the purgatory that would judge whether humans would be prepared to eat each other. that seemed stupic, unlawful, and maybe you couldn't let it slide. travelling through an airbourne panel within the human suction of a windowsill to the nearest ventillation. impossible to want to take caution of the netted fan, gliding across the blockades uncannily at your claustrophobia to the soapbox outside.
the comedian on the roadside a drunkard approached you and askedyou if you were alright. you responded to say that you were "all that was left" because it was a drunkard and thought it would be funny. but he then agreed, excepting himself "i'm here though" and that wasn't the response you thought to projecting. the compex maze a drunk mind gave to make sense of anything you wanted them to say. he displayed a badge on his chest and asked
"did they succeed on all the others"
"how far did they get with you" he roused ravishingly. the high, immortal drunk beast of curiosity on the sidewalk who has committed more sins than the writer of the project who'd "stayed in there" for a couple of days, shouting at the doctor obnoxiously as much the same as him he forgot where his heart was. but certainly metaphorical for something that his feelings remained without a cordless brain in their chest. nothing lay abreast.

see, the problem is, you wrote poetry

actually, though, your first paragraph did ok. I can dig that part but then the immersion breaks down and i fell out. I hate peotry so i don't read it, critique it, write it or appreciate it, but perhaps you could clean up line 5 in a way that would allow the flow to continue

you're writing memes first off about knowledge and just why. secont, you're losing it big at line 5, too. "however, ..." marks the beginning of the bruised part.

the line "needs help" is too weak to stand alone and additionally describes the work as a whole.

i am revoking your permission to use the word holocaust ever again

i don't even hate this enough to read it

no it doesn't mean "burnt offering" it means jews in an oven. With that much connotation HOW ON EARTH could you EVER hope to return to a forgotten denotation?

>some off-brand, tie dyed sugar mix with a parrot wearing a pirate hat on the box
too long tighten that up bucko.

after finishing the paragraph, i retract that. that was what you wanted to do and you did it well.

> As if the name I had forgotten wasn’t my own, wasn’t the precursor of my own identity, but the name of a cartoon character I used to adore as a little kid.

this, do tighten up. the first little bit of your work is fine but floaty. After that protracted abstraction, i'd like to see a little bit of solidity, something feeling homey perhaps.

Like a painting within a comic strip? It's an interesting turn of phrase but I'm not sure how the idea coheres?

el goblino de el oscuro de las américas

>after finishing the paragraph, i retract that. that was what you wanted to do and you did it well.

>this, do tighten up. the first little bit of your work is fine but floaty. After that protracted abstraction, i'd like to see a little bit of solidity, something feeling homey perhaps.
Hey, thanks man. I won't, probably, because it was probably just a throwaway little writing idea, but it was nice to hear such a nice appraisal anyway. My "floatiness" is something I use in all my works, though, so I'll try to apply your suggestions to what I'm working on now.

This

>Yeah she had a boyfriend, so what? I wasn't planning on fucking her--although I could have--it's just nice to go out with a cute girl from time to time, it keeps you grounded. Anyways, she bought us drinks and I took her down to the creek that ran along the outskirts of our town. We made our way through the eucalyptus and I held her hand while she forded an incredible puddle via stepping-stones and fallen limbs; afterwards I started to loosen my grip--she tightened hers. I cracked my beer and pointed out the constellations I knew, all two of them, but her eyes were fixed on me. She slipped off her shoes and tucked her bare legs beneath her small body. She let herself fall on me. I wrapped one arm around her but held my gaze upwards. Her lips crept closer to my own--I was paralyzed--not for fear of her, nor of her boyfriend, who I could've pounded into dust, but of my own ineptitude. The eyes which shone on me were honest.

>I had never taken an honest look at a woman before that night, and, to be truthful, I had never taken an honest look at myself.

This was a wild ride of what the fuck. I can't say that there's a point to it all, and it fails the "so what?" test miserably, but it was fun to read and I urge you to keep going.

A sky can't die, but this one was clearly asphyxiating. Through the dull haze of my vision I saw 12 of the stars were still lit, something remained beyond. Normal noise had ceased. Crouching behind a metal receptacle I had to check my own pulse to make sure I was alive. Nothingness thrived around me. Was I being hunted or merely being a plaything? Useless questions, wastes of time. Something clanked audibly to my right. My chest hurt, I glanced at the blossoming rose the wound on my abdomen was becoming. Not much time left now, I guess. Soft footsteps, padding like a child sneaking out. I snapped open the revolver, three cartridges remained. One for it, and two for me. It was Easter Sunday.

impossible to tell without hearing in context, but they're pretty bad

some interesting ideas and images but bad writing.

Lyrics for a song I wrote today.

The lies that we believed
Like Pacquette and Candide
We covered the globe with mistakes

Adventures that failed
and heroes we hailed
were killed all the same in the end

So pack up the Geo,
we're driving towards Rio
When we land we'll be on our feet

Submitting to powers—
our finest of hours
but Adolf had slept on the streets

How have we gotten this far,
how have we gotten so far?
I stumbled out on the street;
fell into a different beat
six feet under the bar

we're nailed to our past
like gold on the main mast
Old Ahabs been licking his lips

I've slept beside worse rats,
mean drunks, and alley cats,
while laying on beggars' cardboard

How have we gotten this far
How have we gotten so far?
I stumbled out on the street;
fell into a different beat
six feet under the bar

Where Princip was standing
is where I'll be handing
a dime for a bag of burnt white

Submitting to powers—
This will be our finest of hours

>Para from a short story

I long for windows. I know exactly what I would see: I see it when I close my eyes. Blackness filled with writhing shapes, potential. Changes in pressure bending blood vessels in my eyes? Or eyeless fish carrying out their nocturnal errands? It would be nice to know for sure that there was life without. Barely life within, as I remark to the lieutenant. He nods and quips on my quip. Invariably his is the better, and invariably I choose not to remember it. Let him remember his own. The lack of windows does this to us, I think. It turns our energies inwards instead of letting our stresses be dissolved into the dark salty wild outside. But why would there be windows? I may be the captain, but unseen hands steer this ship.

>I long for X

Cliche writing.

> I know exactly what I would see: I see it when I close my eyes.

>Blackness filled with writhing shapes, potential.

Poor writing. Second one could be salvageable. Change the comma to a period.

>Changes in pressure bending blood vessels in my eyes? Or eyeless fish carrying out their nocturnal errands?

So what?

>It would be nice to know for sure that there was life without. Barely life within, as I remark to the lieutenant.

>Invariably his is the better, and invariably I choose not to remember it.

Oh hmm, yes, quaint. Quite yes good chap I do say indeed. Invariably, indubitably, exquisitely!

Birgir stood atop the hill, weapons in hand. Him and his Tribal comrades stood to his left and right. Further right were the Wolf-Brothers,Bearskins and the longhairs.To his left were the horse-cleavers, the helm wearers and the club-wielders.Below them, into the forest down the hill, stood the roman column. Being civilised, they scorned the rain and the weather, the natural forces of nature, they sighed and moaned in their mongre ltongue and walked on slowly.Their commanders, chose not because of fighting prowess but because of "noble birth" and bribery, rode white horses. Birgir thought to himself that the horses would make a good sacrifice to the gods after their battle. Him and his tribesmen didn't mind the weather, they were born into it, and spent their youth running naked in the snow and braving the extremes in bouts of glory and honour. The Germans were mostly naked, clad in loincloths and hides and wool trousers, with their hair tied back and their red beards braided in ornate patterns.Their shields and weapons settled on the earth in front of them,and in their hands were ranged weapons; long, stout bows of yew, javelins, slings and rocks. They were masters of these, and had hunted with them ever since they could walk. Birgir looked at his chief, and the chief shouted his cry to Woden.At that moment the strings were loose, the javelins flew, and rocks were hurled by strong arms. The Romans were caught unaware, and were carrying their shields on their back, and their helmets were off. With the first volley, fifteen men fell to the ground, covered in arrows or heads caved in by rocks.Birgir's shot went through a mans neck, sending him to the ground, screaming with pain. They shot volley after the volley, and the romans scatted and hurried to get their shields out and put on their helmets. The puddles of clear water turned crimson, and more and more bodies littered the ground. After a few volleys, they dropped their bows and slings, and took up their arms on the ground.They held clubs, spears, swords, and large hexagonal shields, painted with runes and primal symbols.The carnyxes sounded, the drums pounded, and the men took off down the hill. Birgir swept down the forested slope. He bounded over fallen trees, bushes and logs, his unshod feet sliding down the slope.He felt the fox fur over his head provide him with great spirit and energy, making him run faster, and the wolfskin around his waist made him howl as he ran. He was the force of nature personified.He was the antihesis to the civilised men at the bottom of the hill, who trembled and cried in fear. As he landed and bounded down the last few feet of the slope, and his tribesman ran behind him, he cried out, and asked for glory from Woden and the spirits of nature. Finally,he drew back his axe and struck the roman in front of him.The man fell and stumbled to the floor, head cloven in two.His red hair damp with redder blood, and his blue eyes burned with nature's fire,his thews strong.

He tried, tried, tried
For her he tried
But he will die
Hollowed out inside

Winter in his bones
Hatred in his brain
But he will show no signs
and he can show no pain.

>Him stood

Tuuli sat alone, cross-legged on her bed. A lone mattress graced the interior, the only furnishing, and not even it was given a bedstand. The carpets were dirty, and long had not been properly cleaned. Moonlight poured in from the thin windows, draping itself across half of the girl's face. Her clouded eye sat stationary within it's socket, as if it were dead. A bruise laid across her cheek like a plague underneath the skin.

The light of a full moon reflected off the snow, gently laid all across the ground outside, turning the covering of snow into a blanket of surreal moonlight, with no texture. The moonlight also pushed itself into Tuuli's hair, turning it into a prism of bright platinum-blonde light.

Tuuli let out a little gasp of confusion. She felt a cold line being drawn across her face. Her hand came up to meet the cold line, only to find nothing drawing it. A single drop of saltwater coalesced onto her finger from her face. A single tear drawn from her cold, blinded eyes.

It was long since the orange skies of a Finnish summer painted themselves across her eyes. She missed it. Nature was her favorite thing to clear her head, and she would never be able to see it again. She would not be able to decompress, as she had before, with quiet walks through gentle snow.

Her silence was broken, and a reminder of passing time, sounding through her door. Her drunken father raged in the background. Tuuli did not react to this, for pretending to sleep would not stop her from being beaten.

Tuuli's cell phone rang. She could no longer identify the caller or the screen, but she did not need to. She already knew who it was, and exactly where the small button to accept it was.

>"Hello? Tuuli?"
>"Hi."
>"How are you holding up?"
>"I'm fine, mother"
This was a lie.
>"What's going on? What's that yelling?"
>"It's nothing, mom"
>"If that drunk bastard is h-"
Tuuli quickly moved to cut off her mother.
>"He's not going to hurt me"

Tuuli and her mother talked, primarily about her schoolwork, and soon Tuuli found herself alone once again. She laid her head across her bare mattress and closed her eyelids around the glass beads that she no longer had any use for. Her mother was halfway across the world, and if Tuuli ever wanted to talk to her, she would have to stay up.

It was a sacrifice that Tuuli was willing to make.

>graced

I almost want to say this is too ironic, but we'll see.

>and long had not been properly cleaned

rephrase

>Moonlight poured in from the thin windows

cliché, consider using a metaphor, and avoid being too purple with the prose unless its critical for the plot, point, or purpose.

>A bruise laid....plague underneath the skin

Excellent imagery here. Plague-like skin is a perfect way to describe domestic abuse.

>Second paragraph

I don't like this at all. Feels forced. Feels unnatural. Feels boring

>Third paragraph

Boring. Shes crying. Okay, So what?

>Nature was her favorite thing to clear her head

Rephrase.

>Never be able to see it again

This would be the point where you might consider rewriting this in the first person. You can do a lot with a disability in the first person that you cannot do with the third or second person narrator.

I read the rest but grew tired of critique and my interpretations. Its a good idea. Definitely could be better.

>stop her from being beaten

actively avoid the word "being" since it is so lazy and sounds so fucking trash. Rewrite with a more active verb.

Question: Why is Tuuli with her father if hes known to be abusive?

I need a lot of rephrasing, but the general idea I think is there.

The second paragraph is a little forced, I agree. However, I did want to fit in some imagery about her hair, since her bright blonde almost white hair is supposed to match the moonlight and the snow and be symbolical of her overall personality, which wasn't put in much detail

The third paragraph was meant to emphasize her blindness. I didn't make it clear, but the cold line being drawn across her face is the feeling. She doesn't realize she's crying, and things that something is touching her face instead, since she can't see if anything is. I should have made it more clear.

I would want to avoid first person, because I still want to be able to use some visual imagery. If I were to describe it from her point of view, I would have to write it completely disregarding any visual imagery, and I really want there to be at least a little, since it can function as very good symbolism.

I used the word "being" there because I wanted it to come off as a little rough, the first mention of domestic violence isn't supposed to be surrounded with pretty words in my opinion.

As for your question, the answer is that I don't really know. Circumstance of some kind, though I haven't fleshed it out that much.

This is just a little writing I made in the Veeky Forums text editor, I'm not spending that much time on it, more or less just trying to play with the idea and see if it's something i'd want to elaborate on.

you need to stick to a rhyme scheme. right now it's:
A1
A1
B
A2

C
D
E
D

Which doesn't make any sense. It only serves to irritate the reader highlight the lack of substance in the poem.

>Winter in his bones
find a better cliche or make your own.

>But he will show no signs
>and he can show no pain.
this line seems to just repeat the same thing.

start from scratch. stick to a rhyme scheme. say at least one thing that means something.

>arguing with the critic

You're not going to make it.

>She doesn't realize she's crying, and things that something is touching her face instead, since she can't see if anything is. I should have made it more clear.

Nigga, I don't care if you're blind or not--you know if you're crying. Is she retarded, too?

I'm not arguing senpai. I actually agree with a lot of their points, I was simply addressing them. A lot of the rephrasing would be pretty easy to do, and I'm not so much worried about that.

It was really uninspired writing as well.

>arguing with the critic

Links back to more unexplained things familio.

The character is essentially somewhat emotionally blind (which will tie in symbolically with being physically blind) too, though she is naturally that way. Where someone might feel sadness and say, "This is sadness", she just feels a cold, dropping feeling and asks, "What am I feeling?", or, alternatively, fails to recognize that she is feeling any emotion at all.

Sounds animesque

>175 bpm
lmfao you fucking colossal retard

I've been watching quite a bit lately, but no, it's a pretty real thing. It's not as immediately obvious as it might be in anime, as in the people afflicted don't just walk and talk
TOO robotically, but it's still there.

A fun thing to read. Can't say anything else, might want to tone it down with the Ghost fetus thing. And the redundancy along with it.

interesting ideas and images you have, it's only a shame that it was poorly executed. Also just say My pulse instead of My own Pulse, It's redundant.

Need context to make an assessment. But otherwise, they are poor.

Here's mine
pastebin.com/QWmKBMnB

soundgasm.net/u/s1rpanda/he-tried

To actually offer some constructive critique, the reason everyone hates this is because it's clearly just reading the writer's self indulgence in his/her own perceived awkwardness.

That alone is not enjoyable for anyone to read, it might be bearable if the self-deprecation was funny, but it's not (although it's not far off)

I'd go back to writing more traditional stuff and getting better at that, before attempting something as difficult as 2PPD

clearly these threads are memes.
Are there any legit critique websites?

>I can't properly articulate my thoughts
>better call it a meme

He's saying nobody in these threads actually critiques, and that more often than not people post meme inspired doggerel.

First page of a short story I'm writing. Tear my shit up, Veeky Forums.

Sydney’d spend three hours looking at her wonky image in the windows of the trains. Her reflections passed by, changing too fast to get a hold of them. It made her think of old, primitive motion pictures, with their choppy, inhuman fast movements. It brought to mind that one short they’d seen in class earlier that day, Sallie Gardner at Gallop. It was just a few seconds of a horse running, showing all its hooves leaving the ground as it did. The earliest film recording ever made, titled after the horse. It was a loop. Sallie would just keep going, going and going, until the viewer lost track of the original image. She thought, the film was infinite. Every horse in every frame was a different one. The race didn’t end, and it didn’t start either. Both states got lost as soon as you pressed play. Sallie never stops. It just goes and goes until the film becomes unplayable. Sydney pictured the celluloid jamming in the machine, light burning through whatever frame it touched.

She thought of VHS tapes that would bloat and distort after being copied thousands of times. She thought, the camera couldn’t capture detailed reality. What got captured decayed until it was unrecognizable. The trains kept passing. She looked around and noticed the security cameras all around, and the security booth, with its windows laminated so one couldn’t see the CCTV screens. She tried to think of what she looked like, sitting there, and saw her own face melding with the tape noise, the degrading colors. She couldn’t remember what color her eyes were. Syd fished her dead iPhone from her pocket and it slipped, falling face down on the grimy marble. She picked it up it and looked at herself, the phone as a mirror, obscured and fractured in the cracked screen. She tipped it sideways so the light would hit it, so it would become a bright, white rectangle.

patreon.com/a_brilliant_pen_name
As a poorfag trying to get noticed I started a patreon where I will try to write a couple of stories every month. It's really recent and maybe nothing will come out of it, but fuck it, I'll try. I have three stories so far, give me your worst.

Does this sentence sound too cumbersome? If so can someone help me clean it up?
>Despite being espoused by right-leaning circles, the claim that an increased minimum wage would force employers to fire their workers is fallacious

I don't like that the phone cracks in the scene and shes not at all upset about it, and is more concerned with how she looks. No need to have the action happen right then. It could have happened in the past.

>Maria had been reading a chryselephantinely overwritten book called Moll Flanders in the coach, and very definitely she thought the somber, passionate, tragicomic and picaresque story was most absorbing and certainly presented the dark, sinister, underground side of English life in a vivacious and veridical manner that carried conviction, but she wished Mr. Defoe were not so in love with ornamentally excessive adjectives and long, stentorian, and somewhat inchoate sentences that, even by the standards of the time, seemed to twist and turn through curlicues and arabesques and wind on and on through ever-increasing clauses and sub-clauses, including abrupt changes of subject and total non sequiturs, even if he did seem to be making a unique effort to understand a woman's perspective on the world, which was all to the good, of course, and it was less monochromatically monotonous (she had to admit) than the other one he wrote with virtually nobody in it but that one ingenious mechanic on the island, living in total isolation until he found that mute but ineluctable footprint; and yet it could all be told as well and be more pleasant to read if those sentences did not get so totally out of control and sprawl all over the page so often in positive apotheosis of the lugubrious style, and then she wondered if reading so much of such labyrinthine and arabesque prose for so long in the hot carriage had affected her own mind and she was starting to think like that herself, instead of just enjoying the shade of the oak trees and resting from thought in the dense cool quiet of the mid-afternoon English summer.

Get rid of the first part. It suggests right leaning circles are never fallacious. Even if you're going for irony, drop it. It just makes you sound like an emotional little bitch, instead of authoritative

if you're writing a piece in favor of minimum wage just stop

Thank you guys for the criticism.

>This was a wild ride of what the fuck. I can't say that there's a point to it all, and it fails the "so what?" test miserably, but it was fun to read and I urge you to keep going.
I'm not sure how to have a sense of mystery and to give people solid reasons to care about the character.

>A fun thing to read. Can't say anything else, might want to tone it down with the Ghost fetus thing. And the redundancy along with it.
Fair enough.

He sat on the sidewalk, hunched up against a concrete slab wall. Above him a rectangular section of the wall began to move forward. The man grabbed onto it and suddenly it spiralled back into the wall and him along with it. It made a zapping noise. ZAP. And now he was in the wall. There was a circle of about 20 chairs. They were old and well made, but not ornate. He sat on one of them. Men and women sat on the other chairs. One of the women was speaking:

"It's grotesque that this registered charity which is funded by a direct grant by the taxpayer through the Government is carrying cash reserves of 2.4 *billion* pounds and has been underspending its budget by..."

The House of Wall was a strange place. Ancient, certainly. He saw no way in. He became aware that the members of the meeting were looking at him, as if waiting for him to give a response. He found himself saying:

"I thank the honourable chairsitter for bringing up this matter. I hope you will be happy to work together with me to uncover this scheme and to ensure that the disabled get the money they need."

This seemed to satisfy the others and the discussion went on without him. The quality of this discussion was surprisingly good. Throughout his upbringing he had developed a certain disdain for the way in which the average person would argue. Even for the way people he respected, or people who had gone to good schools such as Oxford, would argue. But these people were experienced. They would raise an issue, articulate it with eloquence, and set out the response they expected. The responder would respond with respect and either make a counter-case or agree to take the steps laid out. He wondered how he was going to uncover the scheme and help the disabled. He didn't have any position in Government or even a job, or a house. A loud crack. He was back on the sidewalk again.

>it made a zapping noise. ZAP.

fucking no. just no. I can't finish it.

>zapping noises

ZAP ZAP... ZAP

I'm too far in to stop now. I had to choose between 6 different subjects and this was the only one even remotely interesting.
Yeah I know, but the professor is hardcore leftist and I was thinking it'd earn brownie points with him by throwing things like that in.

Thank you for your feedback

The white CNN reporter says we're living in “very emotional times”.

He's speaking from the television, I think. It's difficult to work things out in the rainbow grey overlap between sleep and waking.

I stare at the altar from which he preaches and I wonder what he'd sound like if I were to meet him in person. Do you think his voice is different when synthesised through television reception and wires? When it passes through equations of electrical physics we only vaguely understand?

A lot of life is invisible if you want it to be. There's a whole world of wires in my television I know nothing about.

When was the last time I looked beyond the blurb?

In reality his voice is probably steady, but the bad reception on my television coats his voice in a layer of fuzz making him sound like he has a nagging cough or – more likely - that he's about to malfunction. The static is bleeding out over my room, lending itself as a sickly light source over the wooden floors and carefully disarranged furniture. The greyness of the television seems to extend outwards towards the fog that is hugging my apartment window; when I'm sleepy I mistake the window for the television for a couple of seconds.

From my mattress my apartment looks as though it is submerged in murky water. I had a dream once that the TV had a crack in it and it started to bleed out water all over my room. I didn't know how to suture the wound in my television, luckily I woke up before I drowned.

If this happened in real life I'd imagine my bed would act as a boat, a blanket ridden vessel on a grey sea. It would weave in between the borders, in the microscopic overlap between the wooden vessel of man and nature's temper, in a sea entombed by four concrete walls.

The TV is moving through a cycle of Trump's face and the riots in Venezuela and electric cars and pictures of cartoon frogs and whether there's enough women in tech and whether there's an over-prescription of SSRI's and if sanctions are going far enough in North Korea and eventually it all looks the same.

My television would make a shitty lighthouse, I think. The light would oscillate between too bright and too dim, the words it'd echo would become increasingly confusing and my frustration would nullify my sea legs. I would follow the flickering light through the waters of my apartment, but I would only end up lost in the repetition of it all.

I flick my tongue against my teeth and pray that I'm present.

I change the channel.

Now, the white BBC reporter says we're living in “very turbulent times”.

I'm surprised he's not smiling. Turbulence is his currency.

I sail and doze between the fringes of things and grow scurvied by my stasis.

I turn off the TV and sink.

>writing about television in 2018

thats about 20 years past expiration date bud

>electrical physics we vaguely understand

maybe for you, but the fundamentals of signal processing is well understood

end this pseudery

You should expand on the element of hallucination and losing touch of reality, would make a really good allegory on the connection between mental illness, isolation and the normalization of extremism (if that's what you're going for). Like the part where you talked about your bed being a boat and your television having a crack in it was the most captivating two scenes from the paragraph and makes the tone of the piece more down to earth and mature.

The majority of news consumption still comes through television, it's roughly 20% more than any other form. I do admit that electrical physics line is garbage. Thanks, user!
That's a good point. That's effectively what I'm going for, along with the damaging effects of news consumption. I'm always paranoid that I'm being too heavy-handed with my themes, though, so I tend to undercook them. Cheers, user.

rate me /b/ros
i did some earlier

its good, but what fucking place has eucalyptus trees next to giant puddles?

don't red this if you r fbi

pastebin.com/vELRjGM3

Your sentences are too fucking long and it requires a lot of fucking thought to go through each sentence and decipher what the fuck is happening in the scene. I don't like it.

nonsense you were just distracted by your boner

in a basin after a rain was my thought process
thanks btw

Didn't get a boner from your incest story, sorry.

truly one of the worst, least intelligent things I have ever read

at least it wasn't too difficult for you to understand the plot.

Thoughts traveling down
The crooked path
Get split
Broken
in half
Like a run away train
On their one way lane
Passeging ideas
forever lost
Destination sought and found
Occupancy arrived
Vacancy recieved

Its okay.

Its flowery, a little funny, weird. Seems almost like you're trying to be a funny Bataille. It seems like some victorian porn script. I'm perhaps not the audience for it, or at least not with so little actual story. In others, I don't like or dislike it. I think it could be improved by making it longer and giving the story more time to develop, so I can at least see if shit gets weirder or not. Are there more parts to it?

...

In other words*

Pardon my accidental retardation.

The dwarf started to his feet.He walked down this courtyard filled with bugs and messy mushrooms and fungi's that seemed to create clouds of green. There was a nasty smell that sting his nose. He covered it up by putting on a mask connected to a bronze tank slung behind his back. The dwarf stride in front of red-spotted mushroom that tunneled. The dwarf pulled his weapon and pointed it, releasing a gout of fire. The red-spotted mushroom guffawed. The dwarf had his torso bitten.

.

>Are there more parts to it?
no sorry. I just wrote it in an hour today. Thanks for the feedback though, nicefriend.

“Now this, this is a gorgeous photo of you. Look at you, you look so young!”

Watching my mother rummage through boxes of old photographs has always filled me with a peculiar kind of anxiety. As the photos are looked at, smiled upon and placed to one side they ordinarily form a collaged timeline across the floor. A collage of people, both alive and dead, staring outwardly at a future they knew nothing of, and with us, presently looking back at a past that we know even less about.

She’s been inviting me over to look at photographs more than usual lately. I say I don’t mind coming over, but we spend more time looking at photographs than we do talking, as if we were in some hushed photo gallery.

My mother assumes her usual position of sitting cross-legged on the floor with several albums spread open in front of her.

I prefer photos where you can tell the smile isn’t put on; I think my mother likes photos from my school days for this reason, too. She always talks about these photos with the same kind of nostalgia.

“You always did suit that school uniform, you were broken hearted when you went to secondary school and had to change it. I remember you complained that it felt ‘like a costume’. You’ve always been a dramatic boy".

I smile, half-pretending I remember. Thinking back to those days is like watching a roll of film that’s been left out in the sun.

Watching her reminds me of a story Dad told me once about how Mam used to spend hours foraging for interesting rocks and lumps of dirty coal near the old mine. She’d spend hours picking away at rocks with her fingers, running her hands through the patch of land where the polluted onyx undergrowth would meet the grass tips of the valleys. Bits of pearly rock and shiny coal would shine like stars for a moment before being plucked out of existence and taken home to be melted down in the fire or turned into vanities. The mine isn’t much anymore, shut down and caved-in long ago.

She’s smiling now in a way Dad used to describe, as if her past self was overlapping into now, a mimicry of the way she flicks through photos.

She asks me this and that, interrogating for certain answers, searching for recollection in my eyes. It was as if someone was mining for evidence, digging into my temporal lobe for dirty clumps of memory.

The man on the radio is mumbling through static incoherently as my mother puts a photo on my lap. I look at it the photo and take a while to recognise that I’m looking at a photoit’s of myself, albeit with two teeth missing.

I’m probably around seven years old judging by my missing teeth. I looked wide-eyed and cow-licked, my brown eyes obstructed by the red-eye on the lens. In the background you can see my Dad, smiling, laughing at something. I remember he mowed the garden that day and the smell of moss hung in the air.

I press my tongue against my two front teeth and try to remember what it’s like not to have them.

Please tell me this is ironic. It has to be the worst piece of writing I think I have read in any critique thread.

>as if her past self was overlapping into now, a mimicry of the way she flicks through photos.
try again.
>She asks me this and that
think around cliches
>digging into my temporal lobe for dirty clumps of memory.
pretty nice.
>mumbling through static incoherently
mumbling implies a certain incoherence, think about what your verbs are alluding to.
5/10 (relatively acceptable). Read more, and for God's sake start with the Greeks.

isnt that from one of those warhammer books

Believe it or not, "she asks me this and that" was put in by my editor, it was originally a bit longer than that. I don't really like it, either.

That overlapping sentence is a messy one, I'll give you that.

Thanks for the critique, user. "think about what your verbs are alluding to" is good advice.

I actually managed to get the full short story of this published in print, but I always come here for proper criticism. I'm reading every day, but I'll read more. I have started with the Greeks, but maybe I'll go back for a bit.

Thanks for the time + crit, user.

The red-spotted mushroom guffawed madly. The flame spitter that the dwarf left behind still released a gout of fire that burnt the vine sprouting below the spotted mush-room. Another one came in dressed in a black long coat. Holding a flint-lock that was primed and ready. The hunter thought it could shoot the red-spotted mushroom only to be disemboweled by a thorny vine

That first sentence is cock cancer and so is the rest of it.

Jesus fucking christ.

:l
I thought it was beautiful.

The entrails of the two flooded the area. The red-spotted mushroom was dyed while still guffawing. Another one came, this time it was a knight armed with a greatsword. The Knight walked slowly while taking note of the distance. Then the red-spotted mushroom release a spore of acid that melted the head of the knight.