No critique thread?

this is my first project of thisnscale so i did kinda want to do it straight-laced, but if taking it away from the tolkien style would help make it original and easier to outline then i'll give it a go. thanks.

That's kind of good. I'm getting a 19th century classic vibe reading it.

“...criticism from the Royal Observatory for Human Rights, but in a press release today Brigadier-General McMarshall defended the decision as a military necessity. The Queen also said today in a statement that although she regrets the use of Sarin gas, the British Empire is as committed to fighting terrorism in the colonies as it is in the Home Isles to ensure that all of its subjects can live in peace. The time is now seven minutes past ten on the first of March in the year of our Lord two thousand and twelve, and we go now to sports. The first day of the test match between England and the Confederate States of America ended in tragedy yesterday when...”

i'm not a smart person but i long to write like one.

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sounds like the intro to children of men

I think you very nearly succeed at what you are trying to do. Enjoyed reading this. Only thing I'd say is put down your thesaurus; big words don't contribute anything to the characters' speech register.

Don't write a part you know is shit; you won't be able to. Just like you can't seem to get through a book if you're not enjoying it.
You know Tolkien used to start a story over from the beginning if he reached a point in the plot he wasn't happy with?

Yeah. Ok, I guess. A tribal shepherd has a long walk home ahead of him and it is raining. Some imagery and housekeeping. Even though I now know more about the emotional state of the hillsides (joyful) than I can tell about the human, it functions. There is a voice trying to emerge. "feast of rain," poured forth," "tasted the rain in my dreams." Well enough.

What are these "other thoughts" that get teased then abandoned? Do any of them give a clue about how this character feels about any of this? "darkness closed in around me tightly" as in foreboding? Isolating? Comforting? Threatening? It could go any direction. "I ran down to the stream" alarmed? Worried? Excited? "Not yet it hadn't" Relief? Apprehension?

It takes a Vulcan to play a first person narrator this passionless. People experience involuntary emotional states on a continuous basis, even while asleep. Compare from The Bone People:

" She had debated, in the frivolity of the beginning, whether to build a hole or a tower; a hole, because she was fond of hobbits, or a tower—well, a tower for many reasons, but chiefly because she liked spiral stairways.

As time went on, and she thought over the pros and cons of each, the idea of a tower became increasingly exciting; a star-gazing platform on top; a quiet library, book-lined, with a ring of swords on the nether wall; a bedroom, mediaeval style, with massive roof-beams and a plain hewn bed; there'd be a living room with a huge fireplace, and rows of spicejars on one wall, and underneath, on the ground level, an entrance hall hung with tapestries, and the beginnings of the spiral stairway, handrails dolphin-headed, saluting the air."

"frivolity" "liked" "exciting" "saluting" as well as an obvious portrait of what this person imagines as a perfect home. Every detail characterizes the character in terms of her emotional state. And without telegraphing it. "Dolphin headed."

Even Hemingway, the Autist In Chief of the 20th century, managed to come out and tell us how Nick felt after getting kicked off the train. Put a little blood in it. Figuratively speaking. You'll be astonished how much more a reader will care about a character that leads them through a journey they can empathize with.

One character is referred to as "the Messiah," "the Archangel," and "the Iron Knight." I have no idea why the identity confusion.

I'm going to do just on of these, because it will tell the tale:

"A stormy night, filled with despair in the air." First, that's a fragment, there is no verb for "night." "Filled" awkwardly transfers its transitive to "in the air." Which is confusing - is the night filled with despair, or is the air filled with despair. Artless grammar is not the way to do either mood or style. "A stormy night, the air filled with despair."

If it serves whatever purpose you intend, very well. For my part, I don't get it.

It's cute. Veering on precious. The more common, and less intrusive custom would be to put her name much closer to the beginning. As it is, there is a sudden question of why the first person narrator suddenly remembers to think her name this time after not thinking it through the 11 or so prior "she"s "we"s and "each other"s. "Mila and I began drinking and talking." Done.

I am also unclear how these two people know each other, and for how long. "repulsive [teeth] in the sober day" but "our new game" like an established couple. The sober day implies that he found her ugly just hours ago, but then they have this fuzzy puppy familiarity like newlyweds after a year of engagement, and they head off to his place together. As cute as it aspires, their relationship remains a mystery.

You also don't seem to want me to care much about where or when any of this is happening, which, up to you. A beach, but with vodka, maybe glasses, all left behind. Obsolete tannery, so somewhere between 1900-1920-ish, depending upon locale. The little stuff is little in particulate, it's the cumulative weight that finally crushes interest. "Northerners." Whose?

Genre. Cavalier. May your God go with you.

I assume we have witnessed a homicide. The style is not working for me. I get it, it's just not tuned in. As is, it sits in the uncanny valley between comedy and macabre. Not getting to either side.

"Neither Gods nor Devils care for men like me. I am a pestilence that even they would not wish upon folk." - The Monster of Mount Elrond.

Thanks bruh.

Thanks for the feedback friend :3 That's just an excerpt from a random place 30,000 words into the story, so all those things are known by that time, maybe I should've mentioned that

Objects can occupy multiple states at the same time if you move their subjectivity fast enough. These moving states could interact with everything in their frame of reference, it was only a question of frame rate and scale. Only Gships could manage that. But a one-time, instantaneous jump of a car sized reference frame to another, following a causal effect, such as a sweaty palm pressing a button, was significantly simpler and needed no inflationary multiverse juggling. A firm hired by XX Company produced the bulletproof, lightweight, semi-intelligent, Davillin for Gluos, but kept the license for resale. The cost of design and manufacture of their first vehicle consumed 6% of Blone's output for several months, the car only came in black.
Gluos was pointing at button on the dash, “hit this and we can go anywhere we want.”

Malymyn said, “okay let’s go to Mileage.”

“We’d get there unfashionably early.”

Malmyn lifted and bent a bare leg, putting her heel on the dash in front of her. The engine revved as the car was looking into the rearview at the twisting steep driveway. Gluos gripped the wheel with one hand hit the gear shift and slammed down his foot, the car flew into reverse. Accelerating as fast as it’s spatial sensors allowed it. Turning through narrow concert wall, its front tires drifted and squealed as the car swung onto the road. Pivoting around the back tires, for a moment until Gluos’ arm hit the gear shift. Maximizing the amount of energy that could be delivered from the wheels to the road they screeched forward.

There were no speed limits in the City, only constant, pervasive recording, automated automotive legal programming, computerized courts and limitless liability laws. Malmyn spent the ride to the highway gripping her seat belt. Climbing the on-ramp in a half skid then screaming across open lanes. The car account purchased lane rights for the whole trip. Malymn felt her stomach sink as they climbed a suspension bridge across the Taipan. North was mountains sky scrapers stretching up and slowly turning their blade like shape to cut through the movements of the wind. Hedges of cranes sticking out of the build up. South was a green grid surrounding a black towering mar of smokestacks, black and grey steel, huge containers and an endless next of piping. A county sized oil refinery at the nexus of highways and pipelines. Turning crude into e-chips.

Gluos was pointing at button on the dash, “hit this and we can go anywhere we want.”

Malymyn said, “okay let’s go to Mileage.”

“We’d get there unfashionably early.”

Objects can occupy multiple states at the same time if you move their subjectivity fast enough. These moving states could interact with everything in their frame of reference, it was only a question of frame rate and scale. Only Gships could manage that. But a one-time, instantaneous jump of a car sized reference frame to another, following a causal effect, such as a sweaty palm pressing a button, was significantly simpler and needed no inflationary multiverse juggling.

Malmyn lifted and bent a bare leg, putting her heel on the dash in front of her. The engine revved as the car was looking into the rearview at the twisting steep driveway. Gluos gripped the wheel with one hand hit the gear shift and slammed down his foot, the car flew into reverse. Accelerating as fast as it’s spatial sensors allowed it. Turning through narrow concert wall, its front tires drifted and squealed as the car swung onto the road. Pivoting around the back tires, for a moment until Gluos’ arm hit the gear shift. Maximizing the amount of energy that could be delivered from the wheels to the road they screeched forward.

A firm hired by XX Company produced the bulletproof, lightweight, semi-intelligent, Davillin for Gluos, but kept the license for resale. The cost of design and manufacture of their first vehicle consumed 6% of Blone's output for several months, the car only came in black.

There were no speed limits in the City, only constant, pervasive recording, automated automotive legal programming, computerized courts and limitless liability laws. Malmyn spent the ride to the highway gripping her seat belt. Climbing the on-ramp in a half skid then screaming across open lanes. The car account purchased lane rights for the whole trip. Malymn felt her stomach sink as they climbed a suspension bridge across the Taipan. North was mountains sky scrapers stretching up and slowly turning their blade like shape to cut through the movements of the wind. Hedges of cranes sticking out of the build up. South was a green grid surrounding a black towering mar of smokestacks, black and grey steel, huge containers and an endless next of piping. A county sized oil refinery at the nexus of highways and pipelines. Turning crude into e-chips.

Way before any line reading, just start with this. Can you see why?

Just write you either have a good idea or you like what you have enough to see it through. Commitment is a BITCH. But its worth it if you really give it your all.

The ochre rays that slash the fumes at dawn,
Brief gales that lift the curling flakes to light,
The black-tipped geese irenic on the lawn,
The flies that flash like cameras in the night,

Coyotes, ragged from their endless chase,
Run panting hard from traffic in the road:
The mule that fails to ever learn his place,
Need not be taught to shirk a heavy load,

And consciousness, that unifies these things
To store in rippled vaults until the day
That it itself is brought at last to bring
A final judgment on its Earthly stay:

All joy stands thus unfurled before my eyes,
Yet here I sit unfurling paltry lies.

Iambic pentameter is the only meter I have any kind of experience with, I thought I would try to git gud at that before attempting anything else. So is it tedious and pretentious like I think it is?

im terrible

After school he would watch YouTube videos for hours. To him, YouTube represented the outside world, and it was awesome to see what kind of shit people could do, what was going on in the world, all the different things people could do, what people gravitated towards, what other people similar to him thought was entertaining. He had watched cartoons nearly every day when he was a little kid, but when YouTube exploded it was like cartoons on steroids. The sheer volume of content extremely outweighed the low average production value. The best videos (if he was in the right mood) would get him to laugh out loud for a second or two, others would get him just a smile, but for a few minutes of content and the tiny bit of attention that it demanded; the smile was well worth it. And that’s the thing about it, how much of a good deal that it looks like on the onset. Endless entertainment, and all of it - for free! When adblocker was discovered he went on YouTube even more. But that’s when it pulls you in. He watched enough, and soon YouTube knew what fix he needed. Another video he would like would play automatically afterwards, all he had to do was sit there! But then he started to smile less. There were less chuckles. The entertainment of YouTube has a pattern, because it was made up by people, and people have patterns. Comedy is about an unexpected outcome- which works great in the micro, but as he watched over months the people became predictable, so he would watch different people. Then the predictions he could sense from the original people began he began to see in the new people, with some added patterns. And so on until he thought he knew it all. Not much surprised him anymore. He looked for more extreme videos- but even then, seeing people get their heads blown off or someone getting caught in an avalanche started to become predictable. He learned the world faster than any man ever had before him. Experiences began to standardize. Jokes became cyclical; similar technique, different context. What was once a smile or a chuckle became a notion of that, then the next video it would be a notion of that notion, and it all went on till he could feel barely anything more. He juiced it until he could get nothing more, but he kept watching regardless, for fear he might stumble upon something special that might light him afire again. This video did not come. Other people were more predictable than he was, but he couldn’t blame them; an actor only has so much range with one character, especially if they played him every day, which most of them did to keep up the competition of other creators. It might have taken a few hundred thousand years, but now man could find Nothing on demand, it did not even look for him. It was a mutual occurrence, really. All human information at your fingertips and Nothing really seems to pop out at you faster. Relativity becomes emphasized.

This is well done; I quite like it. Ain't nothing inherently pretentious about iambic pentameter; maybe it's out of fashion but no serious modern poet has anything to say against it. And it's a great tool for honing your poetic abilities.
But if meters are timeless, language isn't. I'd avoid archaic words like 'paltry', and be very careful with dusty-sounding terms like 'all joy stands thus unfurled' and 'earthly stay' -- those are very Miltonian and I like them, but ask yourself the question of whether you're using them because they contribute to the poem (good) or simply because using an old form of meter makes you gravitate toward creaky language (bad).
Another thing, which I don't see in your passage, but which I see a lot in OC poetry on Veeky Forums is people fiddling with syntax (or with syntax they do fiddle) just to make things fit within the meter. That's definitely an anachronism to be avoided.

Having said that, I see many deliberate choices you've made with language that are really impressive. And your rhymes are neither forced nor hokey.

Finally, in this passage I see only one example of enjambment ("at last to bring / a final judgement"). I don't think this particular poem needs more, but try to take full advantage of enjambment while writing in IP; I think it was an important step in the modernization of the style. Stephen Fry calls enjambment and caesura "liberators of the iambic line, allowing the rhythms and hesitations of human breath, thought, and speech to enliven the verse." (from The Ode Less Traveled, a worthwhile read)

I made a deliberate effort not to describe things in an old fashioned way, or things that are themselves superannuated. I had the thought that my couplets don't agree with the quatrains stylistically as much as I'd like, from using archaisms, good to know my judgment in that case wasn't too far off the mark. Thanks for the encouragement and advice

Really enjoyed this. Only criticisms I see is the last last line, It feels out of place and doesn't fit the theme

Bad advice. Don't expect a first draft to be good. Every first draft is shit. Write something through, then fix it.

I might turn this in to my creative writing workshop just to see the look on the SJWs' faces when it's my turn to be critiqued.

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This is unironically great from either a far-left or far-right perspective. I bet far-leftists would eat it up if you were black.

would work a lot better if you made it less self-aware, it bleeds over into farcical in a way that hurts its themes

make the protag a dropout and the siblings college-educated, drop the websites altogether, drop the precise musings on what is and isn't racist, just have an obsessive brother and sister wanting to remove/recolor a statue of a black man and an onlooking narrator. A hit-piece won't change any minds and will just make your class hate you, whereas a speculative piece with very light satire might actually get people on both sides of the fence, which should be your goal.

Good advice here OP.

Pretty good stuff, it was like looking into the life of a /pol/ tard.

I re-wrote the first few lines from ‘to him’ to ‘well worth it’, bringing the word count of just that segment from 142 to 91:

“After school he would watch YouTube videos for hours. YouTube was his outside world. Seeing the shit people did, the world, what people gravitated towards, what others like him thought was entertaining. He watched cartoons religiously when he was little, but YouTube’s explosion was cartoons on steroids. The production value of videos meant nothing with the sheer volume. The best videos (if in the mood) brought great laughs, others just a smile, but for an instant of content and the iota of attention it demanded; a smile was well worth it.”

Writing concisely – chopping out unnecessary phrasing and keeping what makes it interesting – is my advice. A great writer could bring the word count far lower and not change the meaning. This makes it more impactful and memorable and develops a voice in the writing. People remember (Politics and philosophy aside) “God is dead” far more than “People don’t really believe in God quite like they used to” because it is concise; it to the interesting bit without clutter.
A more in-detail breakdown:

“To him, YouTube represented the outside world, and it was awesome to see what kind of shit people could do, what was going on in the world” – I shortened this.
“all the different things people could do” – this is redundant.
“what people gravitated towards, what other people similar to him thought was entertaining” – this is fine, but I would use ‘trends’ or maybe ‘what people loved, what others like him loved’, but that may slightly change the meaning?
“He had watched cartoons nearly every day when he was a little kid” – I used ‘religiously’ here. Often there’s a word that can replace a whole phrase and this makes it more impactful and interesting.
“But when YouTube exploded it was like cartoons on steroids” – I’m not a fan of similes or clichés like ‘on steroids’
“others would get him just a smile” – ‘would get him’ is basically already said and very easily assumed.
“tiny bit” – As I said, there are many words to say this in a more interesting way.
“that” – Many common words such as ‘that’ can be cut out.

Sorry if this is very long for this thread.

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John rose his head and then layed back down after taking a seconding to look around. he sighed lighted, and then he counted to ten, just as softly as when he sighed, taking three to five seconds each time he let a number out. Bracing himself to get up, he swung his legs off the metal desk on which he had slept as he got up.
John, still groggy and beaten, looked around squinting at first until he opened his eyes fully and remembered that he was in the same clothes of the night before, a jet black jack which had a broken zipper stuck halfway, a pair black sweatpants full of holes covering another pair of pants. His left shoe also had the back half of their sole missing. John also wasn’t the most handsome man at twenty-four years; he had a chubby face, his nose and cheeks were covered in large dark freckles, but he did have a slight charm about the kind that wasn’t associated with such an average looking individual.

I'm just wondering how it reads.

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Oops. That's part three. Here's part 1

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Part 2 is attached. Part 3:

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A boy sat underneath a grand yew tree. Its trunk, branches, and vibrant leaves shielded him from the summer sun. Shuddering and fidgeting, the boy scoured the surrounding thicket with his eyes. He could see hares munching on the forest clearing's fresh grass but couldn't make anything out beyond the veil of green concealing the area.

With a nervous sigh, the boy lifted his nose into the air and took a long breath.

That's all I got so far. How am I doing?

Maybe keep the second sentence in the first paragraph? It'll look better and flow better if you edit it a bit.

She cringed.
“That’s all you eat?”
“It’s all I need.”
Her eyebrows went up, and she made that face girls used to make when I said something gross in middle school. We stood there in silence for another few seconds, and she alternated between staring at me and the stacks of fifty-something packs of beef- and chicken-flavored noodles.
“All ramen?”
“I eat out sometimes, like last night.”
“You ordered bread and a cup of tea. You had that the other time, too, actually.”
“Oh, yeah.”
The apartment was clean, as planned, so I was understandably angry I’d gone to so much work just to disappoint her. They’re never happy. They’re never content. They’re never willing to accept you, not even a little. I did all the right things. The TV was on for white noise—MTV, like user suggested. I even cleaned the carpet.
She’d been looking at her phone for some while now.
“I have to go get my brother,” she said.
“Oh, I thought you said you were free all afternoon.”
“I was, but my mom just texted me. She can’t leave her office, so I’m going to get him.”
“Oh.”
She left. I pulled up /adv/ from my bookmarks and started typing.

Forgot the formatting would be shit

Post to feel glad,
and not when you're mad.
Caring is bad,
cause that makes you sad.

Don't need to win,
to hold up your chin.
Net's quite the din,
but you can still grin.

I like this, but I'd ask you to be consistent in your style and be very careful with your word voice:

>Why is it that clouds are whiter than sheep, yet they disappear in the nighttime?
this struck me as out of place and a shallow profundity.

If you're going to write in the style which you are, avoid common phrases and parlance:

>would be the deciding factor

factor is a very cold, technical word that doesn't fit well into this style or into the narrative you are weaving

I was reading this in the voice of an old radio news bulletin almost immediately so nice work, definitely listen to lots of old broadcasts to get it right

This is actually quite good

This is how I'd write, if only I possessed the ability.

Same. Reminds me of Henry Miller or something

It is something. An unreliable 1pov narrator is on a murderous bender involving a car. Time and distance are misperceived. Hallucinations may or may not be in play.

The setting and events remind me of the brief Hollywood infatuation with "film blanche" a version of noir that takes place in baked out locales and over-exposed blinding sunlight. Desperado, Kalifornia, etc.

The trick with broken reality is not losing your reader - the timeline and events themselves become a meta-mystery above the narrative myster(ies)y, in this case, level one is "why did Uncle have to die," or "what really happened in Furnace Creek," and the meta-mystery is "what is the true sequence of events and what is the explanation for what is wrong with our narrator?"

Both mysteries are as yet unresolved and because of the order of presentation and the lack of clues among the markers, there is nothing to hang a hope on. The only exit for the critic here then is, "maybe it comes later."

>Jim Bea/m/

And I wonder why he is planning to return his shirt. It seems he has bigger fish to fry.

If ever finished, I like it for Thuglit, if they ever open submissions again.

Forgot to say thanks for the lengthy feedback. I've already gone back to re-work it a couple times based on what you said. This story has two narrators, and the shepherd is supposed to be the transparent one of the two. Now I see that isn't the case.

Thanks; I 100% agree about the voice and eventually I'll strike out the more literary bits. It's mostly indulgence. It's tough to get around how limited first-person narration is.

The real world cultural markers failed to reach me, as expected. In a workshop context, this would not last long. Because: memoir/diary/blog, and the stakes around the big mystery aren't that great. A concert goer suffers a crisis and is "saved" by some strangers. Now that I know the beginning is outside my interest, and the ending is "he lived", I'm not intrigued by the middle. The closest cultural analog I can summon are the "mosh pits" of the 80s, and 90s, and I never understood those either. It's like people whose hobby is eating every latest pepper to set a new record on the Scoville scale. I don't grok the craving for pain during an aesthetic experience. It is literate enough and colors inside its own lines.

I don't think this is fiction, plus rule #1.

Thanks for the feedback. I guess I assumed the reader would pick up on more than they really can.

I'm just a brainlet trying not to fail a paper. My teacher said any run on sentences are instant grade of failure. Is this a run on?

Looking back to this gruesome time of the early twentieth century, a natural impulse to understand the war and its etiology has arisen, both from a want to prevent the events from repeating and for a satisfaction of pure curiosity.

Hey, thanks for your thoughts.

Untrodden feet, smooth legs, soft thighs me ‘twine;
Firm hold on hip and waist, to trace with bliss;
Such coyful breasts, more sweet than Bacchus wine;
Then gentle collarbone, bare shoulder kiss;
Unlabored arms to slender wrists up-vine;
And snowflake-fragile fingertips caress.

Upon that sens’ous neck warm mouth rest make;
Against slim, tender throat, breath quiet, drawn;
To lightly stroke cheeks flushed brings soft heartache;
Though supple lips upraise as does the dawn;
Affection pure those eyes return when ‘wake;
And all about silk strands of hair, hands press.

A Love reflecting all in whole embrace,
Such love as this my restless soul must chase!

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Sen'sous? 'Twine? Wat? Those apostrophes aren't doing what you think they're doing.
You've got poetic ability, but you oughta read more lit from the genre you're trying to imitate.
I'd suggest Ovid for a start.

I was thirsty, so I went to the fridge to get a beer. I drank the beer. It was nice and I enjoyed it. I felt a pleasant buzz about my head. I stepped out onto the porch and looked at the horizon. It appears to tilt from side to side, so I sat down. In that rocking chair I fell asleep. It was restful. I felt rested.

I don't see any major issue with them. Spenser, Milton, plenty of other poets did it to fit the meter

It's an acceptable device, sure, but those particular instances...I don't think the word 'sensuous' even can be abbreviated, and I have no idea what 'twine' is.

Although abbreviating sensuous to sens'ous isn't proper, poets have also done so and I don't think it's a serious issue. As for 'twine, it is abbreviated from entwine. Would n'twine or wind be a more fitting word?

And so much verbiage ambrosia
and steely daggers to the heart

who more than muses gives us wine
and more than nectar poison?

so have at me with axe and sword!
For these words are my life and breath

man's clay, God's wind, all one and same

so with shaking hands carressed his love
and with beating heart aimed to kiss
and with mortal craft and poetry
the man mimicked angel Cupid's bow
he drew the thing, let loose and missed!
and so the man wandered months insane
till he throttled himself with string

Neither would be a fitting word because y'u can't put ap'str'phes wh'ever you g'ddamn p'lease.
Sensuous is flexible as it is; removing a vowel doesn't even do anything. If you can find a precedent with a real poet using sens'ous I'll ride through town naked on a horse and post pics.

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This is a cool poem, but the meter is a little distracting; it's like a bumpy rocking horse. At the start it almost seems like you're trying for iambic pentameter, but by the end you've settled into a 4/3 ballad.
The line 'the man mimicked angel Cupid's bow' has no meter whatsoever, because the two words it starts with are both flat. If anything it reads like an Anglo-Saxon alliterative line.
If you're trying to be avant-garde, more power to you, but I'd enjoy it more if it were consistent:
And he with shaking hands caressed his love
And thus with beating heart he aimed to kiss...

I don't think I can find sens'ous, but Spenser and Milton put them in where convenient, like
>orepow'rd
Although they did have a more uniform use of it, to be fair. And it's also not like I'm using them for the Hell of it, but what do you suggest I change it to?

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Noted. This was what I was going for but I'm still learning meter.

By "flat" words you mean it doesn't strongly imply a stress pattern one way or the other right?

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Yes you're quite right, and to be honest I have no idea whether or not there are any rules governing the practice. And ofc there's no harm in experimenting. But personally I'd stick with words that are approved by precedent.
What I meant re: sensuous is that it can act as either 2 or 3 syllables as needed; it doesn't need to be altered.

But you know what, you've got me googling, and I'm noticing all the weird shit John Donne does to cheat with syllables --
>You two have one way left yourselves to'entwine
He's clearly condensing 'to entwine' into two syllables, so I guess that could give you license to say me'entwine...

Ah, I see what you were going for. But I can't make my brain read it the way you've marked it out. Maybe I'm wired differently.
I read your last two lines are more of a ballad form; certainly not iambic:
and SO the man WANdered MONTHS inSANE
till he THROTTled himSELF with a STRING
...which rhythm is identical to the classic ballad form:
A bunch of the boys were whooping it up
At the Malamute Saloon
The fella that handles the music box
He was hittin' a jag-time tune

Thanks for this suggestion, I think it makes it work better and there's some precedent. I abbreviated sensuous though to emphasize the way it's supposed to be said in the line, so, yes, I could keep the word as it is, but it might trip up the meter.

Remember to use pic related for all critique threads in the future, OP.

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I don't know how I feel about this

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Shorter words like he, is, and, the, etc etc shouldn't be used as stressed syllables because when someone reads it the meter will be off, since usually they are pronounced softer.
>Till neck he throttled with a string

I'm not frightened. I'm not frightened of anything. The more I suffer, the more I love. Danger will only increase my love. It will sharpen it, forgive its vice. I will be the only angel you need. You will leave life even more beautiful than you entered it. Heaven will take you back and look at you and say: Only one thing can make a soul complete and that thing is love.

When will it be my turn to love?

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"No, like, what's your interests?"
"I thought I said that"
"No, that's just things people say who don't want to say their interests, those aren't interests everyone says they have, like traveling or drinking wine or whatever."
"Playing Games, watching films, reading and listening to music doesn't count as interests?"
"No, because those things you do alone"
"You don't have to be alone to do them"
"Yeah, but everyone does them alone most of the time. What do you do with other people?"
"I dunno, hang out, drink a few beers?"
"Oh c'mon, you don't do anything with people?"
"That counts as something. I'm just laid back. I like drinking beer, talking, listening, y'know it's fun"
"Yeah only if you never do them. if you regularly go out with people, you don't go out and just talk *ever time*"
"Maybe I'm just weird"
"Yeah it seems like that, but your friends aren't"
"Maybe I don't see them very often"
"And if you don't, you don't often go out and drink beer with them, and it's not one of your interests then, is it?"
"What's your point?"
"I just wanna know what your interests are"
"I said what they are"
"Ohmygod, you just said what you do when you're alone, those aren't interests, those're pasttimes"

I dunno if I should continue, should I?

Sometimes it is almost unavoidable to use a smaller word, like in my example I use "with" as a stressed word and it works somewhat, but it's not ideal. If you're having trouble reworking a line to fit the meter it might be easier to rewrite a couple lines in a way that's more flexible or goes with the poem better.

Not interesting, but pretty realistic conversation. Too bad real conversations are mostly boring though.

I wrote a short song today

We take at dawn
To
Put place to fate
We were a
Silent mass with
Somber masks
No one spoke
of
Times before
when
We found a tree up
Beyond a hill
An old cherry
That
was still
with life

We stand now
And plant a spade
To dig a hole
For
The One
that
never grew Old

hot broad in the painting

as for your poem: it's quite dated and boring. I don't think you'll have a large readership with this kind of stuff

Why would I care about having a large readership?

=.=

Even strangers with a chance
To engage me
In mutual tolerance
And tobacco sharing.
Our noses drawn together
Brace a shield
Erected by my Particular Nature.
Idiot nature, keeps me from
The culture of my peers.

I hang before them
A marble apparition,
Sable and demure
Luminous and excellent. Or,
Such is a necessary picture
To keep of my form,
So I may imbibe the impression
That my strangeness is unrecognized beauty.

I assert that it is,
And I do not feel bad
To be unrecognized.

Though I wish I could be
Closer to the cultures,
My prayers dribble over the great shield
And leap to fill the chests
Of my far-away friends.

The bag lagged behind me, clunking against the rocks on the hill. The moon stared down at me, judging me with it’s condescending glow. I had to do it, there was no other option. The soft drizzle from above seemed to progress into a roaring thunderstorm, soaking me entirely. My feet crash down on the leaves before me. Every step I take turns earth into craters. The weight of the bag is killing me, bringing me down closer to the dirt beneath me. The disgusting, insect-filled dirt, is edging nearer and nearer to my pristine face. I keep descending down the hill, becoming closer and closer to the edge of the woods.
My boots sunk into the mud as if it was quicksand. Every movement of my feet forward was a giant leap to my destination. The head of the trees creep up over the horizon line. The scent of pine became more and more apparent in the air. My feet were almost entirely covered by mud now, and the morose rainfall made it difficult to keep balance on the steep hillside. Every now and then I slip, but I must remain on two feet. I can not make the slightest peep, as any abrupt noise could possibly reveal myself to the neighboring families. The bag trailed after me, sliding across the mud.
I finally reached the bottom of the hill. The pines towered over me, vigilantly observing my every move. I slowly crept into the forest. I continued on my path towards the heart of the woods. No one was behind me, nobody could tell what I had done. There was no stopping me now.
The sounds of the woods were all around me. I could hear the subtle scurrying of the forest creatures as I walked by. They were afraid of me, running away in complete trepidation. I could hear them whisper. The trees, I could hear them murmur to each other. I know what they’re doing, I know what they’re all doing. I shouldn’t get wrapped up in them, I need to continue on. The whispering became louder and louder. The muffled muttering just kept on rankling in my brain. I can’t take it anymore, I must do something.
My feet propelled me forward, and I ran as fast as I possibly could in this weather. I had to escape them, the voices. I kept dashing, dragging the bag closely behind me. I started to become weary and overworked. I slowed down eventually to a complete stop, panting and wheezing. I was completely breathless. I toppled over in my fit, plunging down towards the Earth in my lack of breath. I layed there for hours. I could do nothing but only weep, realizing that I had became the beast I wished to destroy.

I pray to the god
the forgotten trance
and I screamed a song
in catatonic dance
the framework fell
from out the ground
the crowd wept a sigh
and turned to mound
deep in his sunken chest
and excavated key
to chambers burned to feet
a circus full of fleas
he died the last time
for the first time
and all unmade sense
voiding recompense

Sorry: just *readership

A spring shower was followed
by brisk stratus clouds shadowed
the eyes from a sun beam
supports the structure of arches
painting pastels across the sky

The scent of petrichor permeates
as tilled soil's seed germinates
a sprout reaches for what emanates
warmth from up above precipitates
light and stimulates life

maybe I should post this in /sffg/, but I'm working on a making a map for the fantasy novel I'm planning. Is this map too busy? should I dumb it down, make it black and white, take out something, etc? Excuse my lack of artistic talent as well

Attached: world map.jpg (1706x1331, 381K)

I like it

Sorry cant critique people, that would be like a per schooler tryna correct the teacher. Here's what I got;

Infernape was overly ambitious, and every bit as greedy as he was stubborn. So it was no surprise to the party when he refused to turn back when the blizzard started. This
Was no place to be for a fire type, yet he pressed onward. The party now back at the cabin, Articunos words echoed
Throughout Infernapes thoughts; "Should you be foolish enough to brave the howling blizzards that frequent this place, the frozen labyrinth ahead past them will devour you- and if not that then what lies waiting inside will!"
But there was no turning back now.

>Infernape would not be seen again for some time, if not at all...

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The highway in the morning sun was cracked and cars were scattered on it, faded and rusted like the last leaves of dry winter. A messenger moved on it, picking his way over the glass and the steel and the pooled and long-dried oil. The man’s clothes were torn and covered in dust and blood. He carried a satchel over his shoulder. The leather was oiled and completely unmarked.
The messenger went down the highway until noon. He passed scraggly trees and hills covered in thick grass and faded billboards with the faces of dead men staring endlessly.
Heat came off the pavement in thick waves until it blurred the path five minutes ahead, and the messenger strolled off the asphalt and onto the green grass and sat.
“Beautiful country,” he said out loud. He wiped sweat off his face and took a canteen from his hip and drank.

Why are all these things named what they are?

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I just fucked around with google translate to come up with stuff I liked

A shame.

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words can't express expressions
the way a sad face can:(
inverted "air-quotes" steal the show
but really "the hole in your heart—
if it gets plugged with something,"
David Goggins says, chin-up champion.
I didn't hear the end, out of sight,
because this scream in my chest
turned the video off, turned and scoffed.
I'm a tiger egg quietly calling itself a rabbit,
Bugs Bunny, ideally speaking, the choir runs
and kicks a tumbleweed into the demolished flame
during 9/11: #neverforget
that Stevie Ray died in a helicopter
and Sugar Ray died in our memory.
You can, of course, at any moment
forget everything because death
and all that jazz about taxes.
I'm pancake people stacked inwards—
"why does he only talk about himself?"
I ask my friend about the psychonarcissist,
not realizing I don't know who I'm talking about
with whom. So I kill someone in silver varnish,
hoping to gods he doesn't comeback,
as I hold down the fort of noble savagery
no matter how hairy it gets
or how much success eludes.
The only true failure—lol—
is never failing at all.

Back to the page, I fall into formation
And fingers hang on empty thoughts,
Empty, I suppose is wrong, failing thoughts,
Thoughts hinged on rusty clasps
Not even set by my own hands,
But mine to use and maintain.

That being said, I hear the wind
Outside and inside the storm windows,
Whistling up through the screens,
The vortex of high and low,
Spring and you rose up for a moment
And the shudder and thud of the dumpster lid,
Down some flights and distant,
Clapping down from sudden bursts of air,
Somehow, I mean, obviously, each thud was you,
The hollow clang and clatter rang bell-like,
It's not my nature to be cutesy, coy,
But this low ache stays firm, a long cold wind,
From far away, I hear your creak and clear voice
And shake, the rustling of old habits I swore off.

In the elevator, I held the leaky carton,
Mother's milk, mixed and secondhand,
Dripping down onto linoleum,
Older than anyone I know,
And I felt your hands, and the sad, trite ache
Of sentimental throes, still and long born,
Soberly the loner lulls.

How old are you?

The place of the senchus was Tara, in the summer and in the autumn, on account of its cleanness and pleasantness
during these seasons, and Rath-guthaird, where the stone of patrick is this day in Glenn na mbuir, near the river
Nith nemonnach, was the place, during the winter and the spring, on account of the nearness of its fire - wood and its water,
and on account of its warmth during these seasons in the time of winter's cold.

And they were composed at the same time in the time of Laeghaire, son of Niall, king of Erin;
and Theodosius was monarch of the world at that time and as an example of this the poet said: -
Patrick baptised with glory,
In the time of Theodosius,
He preached the truth without failure
to the glorious sons of Milidh

And the authors of the senchus were:
Laeghaire, Core, Dairi, the hardy,
Patrick, Benen, Cairnech, the learned,
Rossa, Dubhthach, Ferghus, with science,
These were the nine pillars of the Senchus Mor."

The author of the Poem was Dubhthach Mac ua Lugair, royal poet of the men of Erin.
The cause of the Senchus having been composed was this:

Patrick came to Erin to baptize and to disseminate religion among the Gael in the fourth year of the reign of Laeghaire, son of Niall, king of Erin.
But the cause of the Poem having been composed was as follows:

Laeghaire ordered his people to kill a man of Patricks people and Laeghaire agreed to give reward to the person who should kill the man,
so that he could discover whether he would grant forgiveness for it. Nuada Derg, brother of Laegaire was in captivity in the hands of Laeghaire,
said that if he were released, and got other rewards, he would kill one of Patrick's people. He took command of Laeghaire's cavalry, he was released
from captivity and he made a promise. and he took his lance at once, and went towards the clerics, and hurled the lance at them and slew odhran,
Patricks charioteer.

The cleric was angered and raised his hands towards his lord, and was in the attitude of prayer with his hands crossed; and there came a
great earthquake and darkness came over the sun, there was an eclipse and they say that the gate of hell was then opened, and that Tara
was being overturned. The lord asked him to lower his hands to obtain judgment for his servant who had been killed, and told him that he
would get his choice of the Brehons in Erin, he consented to this as God had asked of him. And the choice he made was to go according
to the judgment of the royal poet (Ollamh) of the island of Erin, Dubhthach Mac Lugair, who was a vessel full of the grace of the holy ghost.

(1/2)
When Steven woke the world was wild, a forest clearing with fog a-brimming, and a cool wind was a-blowing mild, leaving packs of leaves a-spinning. A fizzling flare shone scarlet against the woodland mist, and all throughout the trees woken June-bugs furiously hissed, for across the clearing stood some demon, now all cast in dianthus hues. The haze spilled out onto the ground, so that ghost was standing on sheer nothing, and tall oaks seemed to grow out of air, roots below without a founding. Steven recoiled from the ghost in horror, and backed up against a tree.

It saw this and said, “Courage now, Steven. It’s me, John. No need to be afraid.”

Then Steven got up from the ground, walked on top of the misty pool towards John, but the wind blew away enough fog that he could see two switchblades in John’s hands. John threw one to Steven.

“John, what’s going on? Did you drug me? How did we get here?” Steven said while cautiously picking the switchblade off the leafy floor.
“I drugged you and drove you here.”
“Why the fuck did you do that?”
“You beat Diane. Why the fuck did you do that?”
“What?! That’s a pretty bold fucking thing to say, where’d you get that idea?”
“I can only see her with bruises so many times. But Liam thinks its you, and I believe him.”
“Liam? What does he know? He’s just jealous, ‘cause I have Diane and he’s just got a fucking sock. Come on John, we’ve been friends for a while now. I love Diane.”
John grimaced. “Yes. You do love her. Ready yourself, one of us dies tonight.”
“This is insane John. You don’t have the sack for it, honestly.”
John flipped his switchblade out, and started walking towards Steven.
“Don’t make me do this John.”
The wind was gentle, the mist was deep, and the forest stirred still half-asleep, but John and Steven circled round, one against the other. Steel shone dully in red light faded, hunger for blood still unsated, and Steven called out, “John if you really want me to do this, tell me to come to you.”
“Come.”

And all at once Steven walked on mist and ran to John, lunging lashing frenzied thrashing, and John stepped back and swiped, and cut Steven on the arm, but Steven nicked John’s shoulder. Steven struck out, found some skin, cutting into John’s chin, but John did not stop to rest and plunged his blade into Steven’s chest, and each danced away, then back again, and John cut left but Steven right and they came apart and back throughout the night, and Steven stabbed John in the thigh and John cut Steven under his eye, and each now was soaked in blood, and both their strengths were failing. They rushed towards each other, finally Steven stabbed down and John stabbed through, and Steven sunk his blade into John’s shoulder, but John caught a space between Steven’s ribs.
They held each other for a moment, and Steven let go of the switch stuck in John’s shoulder-blade. He staggered away, then fell forward, all in disarray. Immediately John reached out his hand and caught him. “You of little faith,” He said, “why did you doubt?” And then John sat, Steven’s head in his lap. Steven bled, and reached up, up to the sky, and as his life drained away he cried “Save me, Di-Dia…Dia-ne“ and then, John, as Steven finally fell to nothing, whispered, “Goddamn you Steven. Why?” But Steven could not give a reply, and so only God knew why.
John picked up the flare, walked to his car, threw it in the trunk, and drove home.