No new one till now. How's your work coming along?
Critique Thread
Austin Hughes
Other urls found in this thread:
newyorker.com
pastebin.com
twitter.com
Christian Powell
My love was deeper than,
the depths of the oceans,
that are filling with tears,
from hollow, broken eyes.
I don't really know,
which parts of you I miss
the most, for they were all;
beautiful and perfect.
Could it be your hair, that
felt like caramel? Or
maybe it was your lips;
softer than two pillows.
I sit and watch the pairs,
walk by me holding hands,
but what they have, is not
love, is not love at all.
I know that she is gone,
I know all love is dead,
she was my only love...
she is my only love.
Parker Peterson
Rate:
I dreamed I saw St. Augustine
Alive as you or me
Tearing through these quarters
In utmost misery
With a blanket underneath his arm
And a coat of solid gold
Searching for the very souls
Whom already have been sold
Arise, arise he cried so loud
In a voice without restraint
Come out, ye gifted kings and queens
And hear my sad complaint
No martyr is among ye now
Whom you can call your own
So go on your way accordingly
But know you’re not alone
I dreamed I saw St. Augustine
Alive with fiery breath
And I dreamed I was amongst the ones
That put him out to death
Oh, I awoke in anger
So alone and terrified
I put my fingers against the glass
And bowed my head and cried
Nathaniel Green
That’s some sticky-arse hair
Nathaniel Martinez
not too shabby i guess
He had no more to say to Jesus but one line. He stopped him from his course to the garden. He slowly reached for his hand, looked up at the back of Jesus’ head and said slowly,
>“Truly, Jesus the good Jew, the virtuous man, before you go into that garden, listen to me”
and with a brief pause of recollection, he closed his eyes slowly and spoke as they opened towards Jesus,
>“I have no God, but it is okay; I have your mortal words.”
The right foot of Christ trailed back towards the man, turning His body and His head. As His head turned, all could see tears falling to the hard ground. And horrified was the Atheist as Jesus faced him fully. His face was covered in blood. The tears that fell were not even of water; all were mistaken. Christ was crying blood of agony. Frightened, the man tried to let go of Jesus Christ’s hand, but he was never even holding it. And all that was said from the Lord was
>“Why have you forsaken me? Why do you persecute me? Why do you hate me? Why?”
All was silent. The man turned down and away as fast as he could in humility and in horror, thus Jesus proceeded to the garden as told in the Gospels. Though all was silent, there was only one sound occurring in intervals. Every second or so, the impact of drops of Jesus’ blood would hit the ground. The man said nothing, for he could not. His mind was interrupted by the loud impact of blood hitting Gethsemani. Remorse was in his heart and on his face as he let Christ walk away. And history was unchanged. The man went back to his time. I could not tell you if he converted to Christianity or not. I wish I could. But I cannot; only he can say.
Nicholas Bell
~800 words of a 1000-1200 word story I'm writing for class. Right now I think I need to add more details about the society (its hypersexuality etc) and give more depth to the character. My idea for the last 400 words is to write a third scene where the protag hits a low before realizing the importance of the industry that she works in (i.e. making intellectually and emotionally provocative "porn" in a world dominated by sex).
Maybe add some stuff about similarly hope inspiring clips from niche industries like tranny and interracial "porn" too, about equality and acceptance
Is the scene work and general story concept confusing, and if so do you have suggestions for what I could change/add/remove to fix it?
Personal insults are welcome and I will critique your work in return.
Caleb Nelson
>soft as pillows
>deep as the oceans
these metaphors read as cliche
>hair that felt like caramel
and this one is awkward to me. I think just reworking these would do a lot for your poem.
That said, the poem makes sense and I can see you're trying to make things happen with the line breaks and repetition. Keep at it!
Ian Taylor
I like it but the metre was tripping me up
Aiden Jenkins
The anger came across the air in a stench of burning, torn steel, screaming as he split the sky and held his breath. The latch wouldn’t release, the latch of the cockpit of this burning awful failure, it grinded rust so loud, and the fire stuck on the grill grew arms up high. Out the fire reached, clawing up the nose, furiously swinging with drunken fists, but it didn’t matter. The man, a gatherer, Nicholas, closed his eyes. With his hands he interlocked his fingers, and the fire came, knocking on the glass, wisping around the peripheral visors—the small ship trailed down, down above the treeline, not too far down yet. He adjusted himself with his back firmly against the seat, eyes closed, palms an inch apart, lips still, and as Mom brushed her nose against his cheek and the bosom of God rested so perfectly, Nicholas found himself floating. In the sky, there he was, a streak of smoke fell down a few hundred feet away, 200 maybe; the chute, yet pulled, out it went above him in a snapping billow.
A canopy so large, he had seen no clearing at any point in the descent. With a grand landscape of resources, no single gatherer could have transported all of this alone, not with so few resources of their own. A cart like Nicholas’s could hold a few thousand tons, but the manpower to collect so many resources, it would take months. He was tasked to be here for a few days, to collect laterite. This was a barren planet, no life, nothing, and he sank beneath the trees. A battle broke with cracking and catapults flinging the man, a man of rather large size, into gunfire that stabbed into his stomach, his back, slapping his lips with a fat scrape, and thick arms pinioned him at an angle that had branches wrap his right hand back around to the other elbow in anger. Some small, dumb man had done this, had him strung up limp; a well read, fresh young, no more than 22 stupid, idiot, dumb boy slithering out of bed for amphetamines and mother’s teat, he was responsible. He was, but what happened on the ship, moments before the descent, was looked over like a small nose of ice washed in breathy salt water. Nicholas, floating, wouldn’t see right, or better, for a while because the audience laughed at him, and the ship was behind him or to the right, one of the two, so it was both. His shoulder hurt attached to the arm branch, and it attached well where gripping the bark and lifting his weight using his left hand would pressure dislocation and yells. The naive dumb boy, his hands, thin and boney, slid across desktops and documents with eyes closed and a stupid girl smiling, and Nicholas was stuck there, his eyes blank and inward. Behind to the right, a knife in his pocket -maybe- his neck tightened and twisted to a pocket buttoned shut then snapped and unsheathed to stab his, no cut the arm away with a bit of time and tears that ran then and there. But time had nothing to say; God, already quiet, did not either, and the blade quietly tried.
Parker Cook
How do y'all think a short story would work with the beginning there are four friends drinking/smoking and hanging out living out their own twisted alcoholic ways in a garage they are always in and begin re-telling stories of history in imaginative ways but then one of the friends asks the main character to tell them a story. A real story about his own life and the main character goes over loosely connected stories of the recent past of his coruptive teen years doing/selling drugs (16-18) and later falling in love and losing his love in his young adulthood (18-20) all following in separate chapters leading up to his alcohol abuse and shut-in lifestyle we see in the beginning with him drinking in the garage. Ending with him hungover from a long night of drinking and pouring his heart into these stories, the main character speaks with his mother of foregivness and life, both looking at the stars. They say goodnight, and he is now alone.