/crit/ique

Bumpan

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I'm not OP f a m

Roger 'Sputnik' Octavius settled down to watch the latest game of Online Billiards on a Twitch channel run by his good friend Harold Barthes, alas tonight he was not streaming and Roger had to content himself with masturbation and reading the essays of Emerson until in an epiphany he remembered Harold texting him earlier about his plans to stream that night. Aghast Roger picked up his Motorola to call Harold. No answer. He tries again. Even less of an answer. This is dodgy somethings happened he thought. Roger wasn't used to thinking and soon to took to action! He leapt to his feet yelled to his mum he would be 'out' tonight and took to his chopper bicycle posthaste to shuttle over to his friends and get to the bottom of this. Once and for all.

That wasn't even entertainingly bad, user

I know you can do better than that

BUNP

i think im losing my fucking mind here guys

Bomperlomp

>Prologue
>When it come to the human mind, there are things it cannot comprehend. When people see something unexpected, they assume something logical must have happen: door closes by itself, heavy wind from a open window. A certain item was move into a different location; they must have place it there. Falling asleep in your bed only to wake up in a different part of your home, merely noctambulism. It was nothing more than a prelude on what was to come.

>Had the researchers know they would not have been applauding proudly. Nor would Douglas Swann been smiling. In the moments after the historical event, of the ten of thousand question on his mind, the one that stuck out: was he dreaming? Surely this must be a dream. It was too good to be true. What he did was unprecedented, a human achieving Psychokinesis. With this single event the age psychics had begun, and with it the downfall of man.

Critique my prologue.

Desperately need feedback. pastebin.com/uRcKarHr

Inside the classroom. Its raining outside. Poem. Poem. Poem. Said the Teacher at the front of the classroom and before the blackboard which had the word poem written on it. All the kids in the class said Poem. Poem. Poem. Together in unison. On a projector was a picture of Walt Whitman. Poem. Poem. Poem.

Then a boy said. Prose.
And a rose bloomed.
And then wiiiiilltttted.

Poem. Poem. Poem.

*drops mic*

Not great.

any advice on how to improve?
thanks

Try to rely less on tropes and elements you've heard before. If you write something a realize you'd read something kinda like it before when you read it back to yourself, delete it and rewrite.

I just want to show this neat river I noticed on my text. There are 8 words before the river in the first line, then 7, 6, 5, 4.

YOU FUCKERS NEED TO RESPOND TO OTHERS AS WELL, IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK OF YOU

My eyes started hurting halfway through the first paragraph, but that's just me.

Original in portuguese

YOKO: I am confused
To think about him: he is my father, and I was supposed to
Love him, or to feel sorry for his crimes,
But his image, when it erupts
In my mind only smears and tar it
With the reek of anger and fear, and nothing else.
Rape is one of the masterpieces of violence,
It is what we have learned to expect
Of monsters, but when your own father
Is the one who commits the crime, and at an age
In which he is still your hero,
Your protector ... It is as if your God,
Who you believe have created it you with infinite
Affection now returns only
To harvest your organs, as warm fruits,
To eviscerates you while still alive,
And you, in your blindness, have confused cultivation
With love: that is a wild disappointment,
Visceral frustration! It's almost like
Seeing God crack the heavens, tear up the clouds
To get access to you, your daughter,
But not to embrace you, to comfort you,
But to puncture you with the thorn of a lightning
For several hours, laughing at the torture,
Just like the cruelest boy
Of the village when he finds a poor frog and proceeds
To poke the animal with a toothpick or a splinter.
The angel have soured in a faun.
I use to ruminate, looking at my father:
"I thought that inside of you
There was so much love, so much joy,
So much beauty ... Fool! I was so stupid!
I should have known you were empty,
Or rather, that you were nothing but a dark and fetid cave,
And your soul a fat salamander,
Without awareness, compassion, affection
And attachment, but only blind hunger "

Originals in portuguese:

>This is other excerpt:

I have never seen in my entire life
The nocturne hour entomb life
In such a complete way with its silence.
The darkness was so dense, so
Thick the grimy blanket of the shadows,
That it even seemed like some God, drunk,
Had knocked down, when he stumbled,
The bucked of nankin in which the night
Wets the brush that invokes the evening hours,
With the black ink of an entire month gorging
A single twilight; or maybe some
Ambassador of the skies, some minister
Of the clouds has spilled the cup
Of coffee that he was sipping above
The atmosphere, frightening the timid world
Of us mortals, that do not comprehend anything
Of the clergy and the politics of the heavens,
Of the gears and wheels that operate the universe.

>And this another:

You don’t know anything about me:
Your own nightmares are unable to
Dream with nights as terrible as
The acts that these hands of mine have consecrated.
I have seen death, glutted and full, with the stomach
And the intestines pulsating with victims
- Souls are roundworms whose howls
Pullulate and itch in the bowels
Of the reaper - yes, I have seen death itself
Begging me to stop forcing her
To eat, but in vain, for I have disemboweled the thorax
Of genocide itself and plunge,
In the trough of his purple organs,
The muzzle of death (already nauseated)
For the black sow to choke
In the wash of hot and oily blood.

6/10

2/10

functional/10

mediocre even in trolling/10

post a thing we can read

7/10

8/10
7/10

Mine:

>Grosse Fugue (Beethoven Opus 133)

What does it mean, chaos
gathered into a sudden bronze sweetness,
an October flourish, and then that moment
denied, turned acid, disassembling,
questioned, rephrased?

Not my cup of tea, but very unique. I do like how much you were able to bend the language to your want but I also found it mildly distracting in abundance. As a demonstration of that style it was quite good, I think, and I really commend you for the effort and for your audacity. It seemed very thorough but I simply couldn't jive with the language you used by no fault of your own. Maybe if you toned it back a hair, and made your unique words stand out more amid regular English, I don't know. At any rate, good job! You clearly have talent and I admire you for thinking outside the box

As a stylistic example, some of this is good. I think the subject could use work so as to not be so brazenly awkward but more subtly so, but what the hell do I know. Ya gotta proof read, homes, and that's a square and simple fact.

Needs work, my friend. Proof read, first of all, because a lot of your verbs aren't used correctly.

Extremely good. I liked it a lot and you exhibit great talent. You ought to be proud, this is really quite good. I didn't, however, feel like Maroon's personality was exhibited quite enough past its description toward the beginning. Strong language and very vivid. Could use a good proof read:
>cladded
>conundrum's
But otherwise really enjoyable and full of promise.

Here is mine. It's old news now since I posted it in that other thread but I only got one person to give any critique so I'm hoping for some more.
pastebin.com/jvDxdtc8

Working on a follow-up but it's slow going

R8 my short poem

A heart that's full up like a land fill,
A job that slowly kills you,
Bruises that won't heal,

You look so tired and unhappy,
Bring down the government,
They don't, they don't speak for us.

I'll take a quiet life,
A handshake of carbon monoxide,
With no alarms and no surprises,
No alarms and no surprises,
No alarms and no surprises please

sooo kniiiiiiiives ouuuuuut
caaaaaaaatch the mouuuuuuuse

Flies are buzzin' round my head
Vultures circling the dead
Pickin' off every last crumb.

The big fish eat the little ones
The big fish eat the little ones
Not my problem give me some

You can try domestic ham
You can try domestic ham is good enough

Yes, I know it's terrible, but somebody please tell me how to fix it

“Thank you for your generosity,” she spoke with a thick Thracian accent, “can you tell me how long I was asleep?”

“Only a day,” Polybius replied as he poured her a bowl of lentil soup, “you’re quite fortunate to recover so quickly.” It was a rich broth made from onions, garlic and green olives. Sheep’s milk cheese had been crumbled into it, a favorite of the family. While the boys drank heartily from their bowls, the girl dabbed at it looking guilty with a hunk of barley bread in her shaking hand. “Are you cold?” Polybius asked. “I’m certain we have another chiton about the place.”

“No,” she replied, “thank you but I’m warm enough already.”

“You’re shivering,” Anthousa chided.

“Missus, uh-”

“-Anthousa,” Anthousa said, “and this is my husband, Polybius.”

“Thank you, Anthousa, but I am not at all cold. I broke my wrist many years ago and it has not been the same since.”

Ok, I'm winging this:

For awhile it was like this, a torpor from which were electrified and superconscious oases of lucidity. Awoke from the sleepwalk long enough to find the body or bod in locales that were too real to be real. To get what I mean:

on one occasion, a truck stop. 5am and pitch for it were fall. Driving. On pavement. Along pavement. Might as wellve been gravel. Might as well have been gravel, cause it was tore up. Tore up and he felt the needle percussion of the potholes and loose cement through rubber and steel and up through pleather and into thigh. Sensual, almost. And he was awake.

The convenience store which was the crux of the stop was swallowed in black mass like he was in that torpor fog. Now out of that fog and with sensory organs jumper cabled to life all light became acute and pierced darkness and retina. In the window of that convenience store was epithet'd

Save water/
Drink beer

and it's neon scrawl reached out with pencilthin tentacles to his windshield and filled the cracks and nicks and imperfection of glass with pink and yellows. The streetlights, too, had their tentacles projected like peacock feathers like they would make a lover of the neon. Exploding faded yellow light. In that he could just barely see colors of the pavement: sunbeat yellow clip art shapes which went ignored in the dead disappeared traffic of early morn. Mustard geometries hardly noticed in pitch dark.

He pulled up to, walked into, saw a lady at counter and

And then it was back to dreaming. And this went on and on for years or maybe more.

Two AM is no normal time to be visiting a store dealing exclusively in energy products, but there they were, their presence marked by the pneumatic hiss of plate glass door, the accompanying inrush of freeway sounds and scents.
Both late middle aged or early late-aged, both carrying distinctly dissimilar airs of steadfast resignation in their familiarity of posture vis-à-vis one another, the man and woman, neither noticeably taller than the other, approached me with their faces a veritable moonscape of creases, folds, indents, pockmarks, mole protrusions, and-one for each of them- two pink ellipses, both cut into the left cheek.
“Hello, and welcome to NRG,” I said, as I always say, as I had been told, years ago, to say. “Now You’re Drinking For Power.” It was customary for a prospective customer to return my scripted salutation, usually with a nod or half-sighed reply, but on this occasion I was met with two myopic stares. They were standing mere inches from the meticulously cleaned counter that separated us. “Would you like to try one of our newly developed in-house energy bars, available for a Limited Time Only in the color of your choosing?” The woman’s parched lips quivered as though about to be hydrated with the runoff of tears, but instead she said simply, “Oh no no we’ll have none of that, we’re just browsing.” And with that she turned and disappeared into the well-stocked alleyway of aisle one. The man faced me a second longer, and, before following the woman, contorted his face into what I presumed was an apologetic glance.
With the couple’s disappearance into that diminutive labyrinth, I was left again to a reassuring silence under which the hum of air conditioner and the sigh of passing car-accompanied by two diffuse globules of red light through tinted glass- belied rather than challenged the times inherent taciturnity. I had devoted myself to NRG eleven years prior, and it was in moments such as these that I found myself inundated in the accumulation of stored moments. My reflection on the wiped counter- discernible in all of its minutia, such was the vigor with which I wiped it- displayed the austerely wizened face of a wise king. Indeed, I did feel a kind of hard-fought regality whilst contemplating the serpentine road that lead me, finally, to my lofty status.
I had been a mere custodian at first, and at that one who deigned sometimes to loiter or even dawdle whilst on duty. But then, months into my employment, came the seminal moment when the gears of the universe seemed all to spin in concord, finally bringing that great steaming inexorable machine of destiny trundling confidently, with a redemptive bellow, into the stop at which I had waited for thirty seven years.

This is an excerpt from what I'm writing. Is it any good or should I stop, or how do I improve?

When you look into the pastel night sky, take a moment and internalize that you are looking at the work of what used to be me. How I did it, I need not say, but as to why – that might qualify as a fair inquiry. I had grown tired of staring into the empty abyss that encapsulated our vessel to the rhythm of our planetary trajectory; in the benign hours when men sit in gloom, howling at the moon as if to release their most intimate and suppressed thoughts, ones which had been silenced with a growing fear of mysticism. When man lost the will to delve with who he was at his core – a fearful and superstitious beast – he did not improve with his fateful selection. From a cowering giant in a corner to a trembling machine, he merely replaced that from which fear stems from.
But you – you must know that this is not so. You have looked into my heavenly canvas, and you saw what you wanted to see: that what is. As we float comfortably helplessly, the hands of the Geiger men swivel frantically, trying to rationalize the irrational – to make sense of what need not make sense. You understand, don’t you?
Look at that sky above you now again. Do you recall what it was before? Staring into the freezing emptiness, our minds terrorized knowing that nothing was out there waiting for us. You grabbed for comfort, claiming the moon, solar system and galaxies as your cold, mute friends, but in retrospect, you know that you were only self-deceiving. Your quest of knowledge only brought you misery. Those you hear wailing at the moon are the very same pale scientists that brought their own unrepentant doom upon themselves. When they look up, they still see the dark, tainted.

Sounds like something shitty that Radiohead would write
Kind of basic, not really impactful
It's fine. You haven't really done anything bad here, but lack of context makes it seem choppy
I like the concept, but I think your choice of words doesn't compliment the surreal feel of this scene
Nice quints fella, and I like the story

He smiled stiffly, as if he was forcing it, yet it looked like its purpose was only to mock. The aura was cold, his smile a freezer, and the hallway a battleground between the weak and the strong.

She took a deep breath, opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t - her sweat could fill half a bucket and her lips shook like speakers who continuously boosted the bass of the music, an occurrence she had never experienced before, and whatever was happening, she had to resist it, or, or!

She clutched her chest in panic, her breathing speeding up rapidly and filling the atmosphere with the ugly mix of anxiety and calamity that made her feel like an unwanted child about to be thrown in the garbage can by her neglectful parents, and -

>torpor
jeez, you sound so ostentatious with this kind of dialect.
quit trying so hard

Latest thing I wrote. Raw, unfinished, on a whim, could be part of my main work right now.

For context, the narrator is pregnant, she's addressing her unborn child, who's father committed suicide.

pastebin.com/77pVTZ5d

Really m8, you reckon use of the word 'torpor' makes a piece of writing overintellectual? This may not be the board for you

I like it. It's evocative. But there are parts where I can't tell if your choice of jarring vocabulary or irregular/incorrect syntax is a stylistic choice or a proofreading mishap. If the former, I think the following instances are ill-advised:

>in the benign hours when men sit in gloom, howling at the moon

'Benign' is a discordant note here. In contrast with 'comfortably helplessly' later on where you make good use of paradox, this use of 'benign' just feels misplaced.

>he merely replaced that from which fear stems from

One too many froms and a generally clunky construction.

>you saw what you wanted to see: that what is

'...that which is', surely.

Your style is an odd mix of immediate detached, hysterical and ironic. For me the result is offputting.

How can I improve it? Sometimes I don't really think when I type, my finger just does its job.

Use fewer clauses in your sentences.

Okay, I'll keep that in mind. Thank you very much!

If I made the sentences shorter, made them have more breaks for example, would it accurately describe erratic, panicky emotions?

That's not really why I was suggesting it, but yes, shorter sentences are usually better at conveying that than long sentences which have many clauses and just go on which tend to convey a more relaxed, drawn out, drawling sort of feeling. Then again, you could achieve similar effects with both, I mean, why don't you try, experiment, see what happens, you never know, might work.

I see. I'll revise it and see which one fits better. Once again, thank you kind user.

That could be a big help but also your tone is inconsistent. The erratic, panicky mood is spoiled by asides like 'an occurrence she had never experienced before,' which feels like a dry aside from an omniscient narrator. Likewise 'her lips shook like speakers who continuously boosted the bass of the music' - this is an odd metaphor which jars us out of any immediate identification with the character.

To illustrate what I mean here's an example of how the middle bit could be rewritten with more immediacy: (n.b. this is not intended as a 'correction' or even submitted as something necessarily better, I just want to show you what I mean about creating and maintaining a mood of urgency)

'She took a deep breath, opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't. Her skin was clammy and slick with sweat. She fought to regain control, form words, but her lips quivered uncontrollably and her throat felt strangled and all she could do was try to resist this thing that was happening to her. She had to resist it, or- '

That does sound much better. Once again, thank you. I really need to work on my skills.

My scarf roja is wrapped around my neck
like the noose that ties me to the gibbet-lintel
of propriety. I rip it off
and it flutters in the wind with the sound of the wings of a bird negro
that is batting with all his strength
and is letting the wind underwing
that he would fly, fly, fly away.
I hold the scarf high above my head
with one hand as the other grips the bicycle handle
and it catches the wind roaring into its battlefield
that is encircled by clouds
and it does a war dance that it hails its passing.
I loosen my grip, or maybe the wind is too strong for me,
but my scarf roja, fluttering violently in jubilation,
it slips my grasp and is lost forever
in the tumbling wildness of the Tierra del Fuego.

Op I've heard that writing is therapeutic, so I tried it out. Its unedited, and I don't think I have any inherent talent. It did make me feel better though. Thoughts?

I think my greatest solipsism might be my omnipresent desire for validation. It isn't so much that I yearn for attention - or even respect - but rather an understanding of my intentions. I've always perceived my intentions to be altruistic in their nature but I've been analyzing it recently and I'm forced to wonder, contemplate whether these intentions are truly benevolent at all; I may have tricked myself into believing that so, whereas in fact my true desire lies in the validation and appreciation of others for these 'good deeds'.
I've never been a fan of self-analysation. A very fragile idea of who i am has been built up over years and years of consumption of art, music and iconoclastic figures. My conscience, my conscious, have fortified this idea so any attempts to analyse myself have been thwarted.
This has gone on unnoticed until recently. This year, I've had somewhat of an existential crisis. All contributing factors to this ailment are much too clichéd to waste ink writing of. The experience - despite the deadening nature of it - has had some positive outcomes. I read more voraciously than ever. I thought. I truly thought. What I mean by this is that I've always been able to contemplate ideas, and I enjoy the abstractions of it but I've never thought inwardly in a truly objective manner. It's always been shrouded with the mists and fogs of my false interpretations of myself. Never an examination of my own nature, a purely scientific dissection of my corpse with all its diseases and bullet wounds on show.
My life has been lived without conscious introspection, which has caused me to have a vague idea of what happiness is, without ever truly reaching it (for you can only truly reach it once you've felt the bleak, harsh gaze on yourself: a mental deconstruction on the fabric who you believe yourself to be). Perhaps, in the aftermath in the death of my glorification of self, and once I've walked this rocky path of despair to its inevitable end I can be engulfed with the same desire, lustful energy towards life that those I admire have achieved.
Or I may descend into alcoholism, substance abuse and debaucherous adultery until I am stripped of all I know and care for, with only the alabaster carcass of my self-hatred for all curious eyes to look upon from a distance, invoking shame and disgust, but worst of all: pity. Pity for a life not lived to the potential of our universe - all powerful and stunning in its stoic beauty, deserved might.

Although it is a bit over indulgent in the language, specially the last paragraph, this is pretty decent user. The piece progresses naturally, and the thoughts and subjects are coherent and well-explained. You have a good grasp of language and writing on technical terms. I don't see why you shouldn't pursue writing some more.

Thanks f a m, I'll fix accordingly

this feels bad

>In the days before I became a writer, I studied computer programming in the middle of a dull and unaccredited university that may or may not have been a hallucination induced by swamp gas. It was there that I first learned of the idea known as the Singularity.
>For those unaware, the Singularity is a word with two very different definitions, but in this case the one I am referring to is the Technological Singularity. It is a the name given to a certain point in foreseeable future whence all humanity’s problems will be solved by the advance of human technology. Exactly when the singularity will happen varies from scholar to scholar but generally speaking most believe it will happen some time within the 24 hours of them contracting a moderate-to-severe case of death.
>Old age, petilence, poor taste in Japanese cartoons – all of these and more would one day be a thing of the past, and it was for that reason that Shesha Bose had hot-glued two iPhones to a spare pair of eyeglass frames: because if you wanted the singularity to come soon, you had better start inventing.

>To be fair to Shesha, her creation was a bit more complicated than I had described. The two devices had been shucked from their aluminum casing and soldered together by a complicated mesh of wiring to run together as a single device. Their cameras too had been detached and relocated to the cent of their backs and a complicated application had been written in objective-C to both allow her to see through them and to allow them to track and interpret her hand gestures. It was was messy, it was unsettling, but more than either it was an extremely clever contraption, and as of today it was now obsolete.
>On that fateful day (and the two days prior), Shesha Bose had been camped out in front of the 14th street Apple Store eagerly awaiting its opening

I really like this actually, i can tell you love prefixes and suffixes as much as I do

So this is a sex scene or something, yes?

Thanks user, I appreciate it. Anything you think I should do to improve it?

I'd get rid of the "alabaster carcass of my self-hatred" part, simply because it crosses the line from existential self-reflextion into pseudo-poetic sentimentalism. You did a fairly good job on the rest of the piece not to fall into self-pity and victimization, so It feels odd that the narrator should suddenly express himself in such a way.

As a general rule, I say: Expansion and contraction. Storytelling is (for me, at least) all about saying as much as possible in the least amount of words possible.

Cut the fat, re-read, and expand upon the character you're building.

Will do. Thanks for the advice.

Emended it:

My scarf roja is wrapped around my neck
like the noose that ties me to the gibbet-lintel
of propriety. I rip it off
and it flutters in the wind with the sound of the wings of a bird negro
that is batting with all his strength
and is letting the wind underwing
that he would fly, fly, fly away.
With one hand I hold the scarf high above my head
as the other grips the handle of the bicycle argentina
and it catches the wind roaring into its battlefield
that is encircled by clouds
and it does a war dance that it hails its passing.
I loosen my grip, or the wind is too strong for me,
but my scarf roja flutters violently in jubilation,
and it slips my grasp and is lost forever
in the tumbling wildness of the Tierra del Fuego.

1/2

Black Mould

I sit in the polished bathroom of my apartment on the upper east side of Manhattan. I thought this would be the right place, the cleanest place, the most intimate place to do it, but it reminds me too much of my office at work. That disheartens me, but it's the only place that seems appropriate.

The walls are tight, the ceiling is low, the shower curtain is open in front of me. I see a small spot of black mould on the upper right corner. That mould is living, and I feel like it's mocking me. I'd never thought twice about it before—nobody'd ever see it—but now it's bothering me, and the thought that people are going to see it frightens me. That thought frightens me more than the Glock 17 I hold unreliably against my throbbing temple. I reach out and pull the curtain shut, almost ripping it off its bearings.

Now I'm sweating. My hand is shaking and I'm afraid I'm going to screw this up. I can't bring myself to do it. I can't bring myself to pull the trigger.

2/2

I think about what brought me here—the nothing and nobody. I think about what I'll leave behind—nothing and nobody. And I can't decide which is worse. Which is more terrifying? To remain, unsure of it all? Or to leave, certain? Someone once said reality is only provable through contradiction. So long as I stay sitting here, they're right.

I look over at the still life apples on the wall to my left—one green, one red, sitting ripe atop an elevated brass dish, the glorious light of the sun washing over them as if of God. Evelyn gave me that when I first moved into this apartment. Evelyn—how you convinced me so that all I ever needed in life was your affection. You and all the others. But what now? What happens when the well runs dry; when the season's passed and the fruit go rot? What happens when Sisyphus stops to catch his breath, loses grip, and the boulder he's been pushing his entire life rolls back down to the bottom of the mountain?

Ten years—ten years gone and I sit here alone in a city filled with millions of lovers, haters, givers, takers, teachers, preachers, lost and found; removed only by a few thin walls of concrete and plaster. And here, on judgement day, with so much past and so much to come, all I can think about is that little spot of black mould removed only by a thinly hanging sheet of white, enshrouded in the debilitating sound of silence.

Can I have some tips on how to improve this? What to cut, what to add, if I am in the right or in the wrong way, if the metaphors are good or need more imagination, etc.

>In the beginning there was darkness, and then shit exploded. It would be 10-12 seconds before there was light. In that time, the rapid discombobulation of the fabric of spacetime divided the underlying symmetries that composed the substratum of reality and for a lack of a better phrase “fucked their shit up.”
>Exactly what happened before is a mystery known to physicists as the cosmic singularity. We cannot say where it was, due to the fact that every ‘where’ we can conceive of was inside it, nor when for a similar reason. The nature of this single vertex in nothing is beyond the capacity of modern physicists to explain – though doing so has been my dream since I was twelve – but what we do know is that every event in the history of everything is just a strange side-effect of this event. It was why the stars fuse hydrogen atoms instead of freeze-dried blackberries. It was why the pharaohs looked upon the sands and decided “I should be buried in a big triangle. It was why the Beatles launched Apple Records and became so famous you can get your ass kicked for calling them a boy band. But most of all, it was the reason I personally was accelerating down an open manhole at 9.81 meters per second per second with a snake trailing behind me.

I'll be honest mate. Starting off at maximum edge is not doing you any favors. Good angst needs time to develop, this is a damn linkin park song

>soo-side
>britspellings
>the meandering and infuriating wanderings of stream of consciousness without any of the style, prose, or impact to compensate for it
>cliches on cliches on cliches on cliches
>describe the colors of things because why not
>name the gun because why not
>fucking LEGIT NAME-DROPPING SISYPHUS

Yikes, fampai

I can't even think of any ways to improve this, it's just straight mediocrity from beginning to end. I truly had a bad time reading it, my day and by extension week is a little bit worse thanks to this post.

>

Who are you referring to, me, or the person you're referencing?

>britspellings

I use the British spelling of certain words because... wait for it... I'm Canadian.

>describe the colour of things because why not

Maybe I'm describing the colour of things because they represent themes?

The only times I've ever seen someone go off so unashamedly on something actually well written here on Veeky Forums, even amongst all of the genuine garbage that goes completely unnoticed, without providing any real constructive criticism, is because they realize it's good, realize they spend their lonely schizoid days moping around on Veeky Forums, can't tolerate their own inferiority, and so feel an urgent need to roast anyone with actual talent.

the part I was referencing was my story rendered in greentext. I was talking to you

Dans une pièce sans porte, des clameurs m’ont éveillé par leurs tons aigus, perçants et enfantins. Sueur au visage, bras relevés; genoux contre torse et cœur étiré. Ils criaient autour, s’envoyant des mots horribles sur lesquelles ils se masturbaient – seuls ou entre eux; ils agrippaient leurs belles phrases usées qu’ils s’échangeaient depuis si longtemps – des barres de fer rouillé, des tubes de papier rose à parfum de printemps et de genévriers – et les inséraient dans leur anus – le leur ou celui des autres, sans différence; et ils jouissaient d’autres phrases qu’ils connaissaient déjà et que le seul souvenir du premier plaisir les rendait extatiques – même si les phrases craquelées rouillaient et s’effritaient, laissant des plaques rousses plantées dans leur chair tendre infiniment pénétrée, sans but et sans raison. Forts joyeux, ils grouillaient autour de moi et dansaient avec leurs tubes fétides, les enfonçant partout, excepté dans leur bouche aux dents ébréchées, car leurs mots devaient couler et se répandre dans la pièce, monter sur mes pieds nus, me menacer d’une noyade pestilentielle qui pourrirait mon estomac avant que l’odeur ne m’arrache la conscience et qu’on ne m’utilise comme autre orifice fertile et vierge d’épines de rouilles, de fleurs rougeâtres et violentes. Couché dans la masse, je me retournai vers le sol dur et pur pour mourir sans voir les jouisseurs festifs et bruyants qui s’empalaient avec la joie civilisée de celui qui vient d’apprendre un nouveau mot. Un liquide étouffant monta dans ma gorge, alors ma tête frappa le marbre du sol, s’enfonçant dans leur produit, dans leur merde, juste pour mourir plus vite, pour que leurs clameurs d’imbéciles joyeux cessent d’arracher mes fragments d’humanités dans les plis de mon cerveau et de les tirer par mes oreilles avec leurs longs doigts fins de reptiles, des baïonnettes froides, des griffes couleur cire d’oreille, longues et pointues, butant contre le tympan avec de le percer. Ma figure raclait la pierre lisse avant de la percuter pour qu’elle s’ouvre et me laisse entrer. Les jambes dansaient autour de moi et les cris toujours aussi aigus et faux résonnaient jusqu’à ma poitrine agitée. Un vomissement subit me ferma les yeux d’un coup – la douleur froide qui rongeait mon cœur, qui se glissaient dans mes membres, le ver affamé de chair fraîche, qui chatouillait mes os avant de les fracasser, cette douleur envahit ma gorge déployée et chia dans ma bouche sans rapetisser, sans s’affaiblir – au contraire, l’éjection de ses déchets la rendit si vive que j’ouvris les yeux pour que le liquide me brûle les yeux et me distraie de cette douleur.

I don't understand your point in referencing your own story. Unless your intent was to compare garbage to garbage.

You're quick to criticize, but if you're good at interpreting literature, could you please analyze my piece and tell me what the glaring symbols and themes are (because they're pretty obvious)?

I wasn't making a comparison I was posting my own work. See when you're in a thread like this you post your work and then cirtique someone else.

You however, critiqued no one and then got defensive when someone didn't like your garbage. Do us all a favor and fuck off

Well, if what you've written is the standard, at least I know my work is a little bit better than garbage.

This is actually pretty good. Ignore them user, theyre just butthurt you didn't give any feedback. Do that next time.

Oh my fucking god, do you need a glass of water or something? In a non-spill cup? Need some Cheerios to gnaw on while you cool off?

You're writing is terribly sad and banal, you're a defensive fuckhead, and you believe that you have a semblance of talent where in fact you have none.

You are white noise.

Your writing is white noise.

You will never impress or amuse or reach anyone until you greatly improve from the way of writing you are using now.

READ MORE.

>wait for a little bit
>hmm no one's agreeing with me or telling me I'm good
>i'll simultaneously bump the thread and reply to myself with some well-deserved words of encouragement

No valuable user on this website would accept your writing as anything better than mediocre, if that.

>and while I'm at it, call myself out for not giving feedback. that way no one will suspect that I'm a samefag!

Thank you. Can you expand? Is there anything I should improve on?

When you criticize someone for using the proper spelling of words, your criticism cannot be taken seriously. You sound really angry and really insecure, and I have every right to defend my work when you approach it like that.

Obviously, that was added in with humor in mind. If you think that one frivolous line added for comedic purposes completely invalidates a criticism of your work, there is something very flawed in the way you're viewing your efforts and self-worth.

But it wasn't humorous. I don't know how anyone could find that funny. I think the reason you panned my writing is because you recognize it's pretty good compared to most of the examples here, that makes you feel insecure about your own inferior ability (prove me wrong), and you're also offended that I didn't provide any feedback to anyone else.

If you had approached your criticism in a respectful manner, I could tolerate it. But you didn't, so don't act shocked when I stand up for my work.

Let's dissect these statements one at a time

>But it wasn't humorous
Quite possible

>I don't know how anyone could find that funny.
Anyone who isn't overly sensitive could easily find some casual jabs at Canadians/Brits funny

> I think the reason you panned my writing is because you recognize it's pretty good compared to most of the examples here,
So right off the bat this is a dangerous, narcissistic, misguided, and just fucking stupid way of thinking. There have been plenty of genuinely entertaining or skillful posts on critique threads throughout the years, and I am always glad to see them and tell them what I think. Yours is awful, that it was I truly believe. For reference, here are some posts in this very thread I enjoy more than yours:
And that isn't even a complete list.

>that makes you feel insecure about your own inferior ability
A wonderfully hopeful and pretty thought, but whoops! Once again I must stress how woefully misguided and sad this is.

>and you're also offended that I didn't provide any feedback to anyone else.
I didn't even notice that. The fact that you are again mentioning this provides even more evidence that is actually you, along with the fact that "whoever they are" has not responded yet.

The only reasons you would go off on anybody like that in the first place would be because you're either a very angry person, a very insecure person, or both. There's no other reason and no justification for it. There is so much stupidity in the things you are saying, it would really be a waste of my own time to address it. But I guess you have a lot of time to spare? Why not write something? Why not share it with us all? I'm sure it'll be outstanding. Totally original. Totally compelling. Deep, symbolic, allegorical, well thought out. Give it a shot and let's see.

Dearest user,

I may be angry. I may be insecure. But pray tell, you say it would be a waste of your time to address all the stupidity in what I'm saying, but I'd really really appreciate it if you took some time out of your clearly very busy day to supply me with some reference points of my stupidity.
Could you please do that for am old soul as silly as me? I hate to badger you but I think this conversation can not go on until we clear this out of the way.

Hugs and kisses,
user

I made the meter and rhythm a little more relatable and went with more eccentric imagery and wording in some areas. I'm not sure if I like this edit version more than my last. It doesn't read with as much elegance, but is overall more vivid.

pastebin.com/DSvTZfHX

pastebin.com/DSvTZfHX

just terrible, listen to these guys

Warn out and stressed, Edgar sat down at breakfast table trying to gather his thoughts on what had happened recently. He found it quite disturbing how such a vivid memory that was far displaced from concious mind, was only to be revealed to him in such a unconstitutional manner. It was as though some antagonistic force was meant to wake from his slumber to realize the true nature of the reality he was living.

I wrote this for a workshop, I had a 2000 word limit though so I feel it's rushed.

dropbox.com/s/dintzt46elhmerc/Ariphates the Lord of Magic.pdf?dl=0

I wrote this for a workshop, I had a 2000 word limit though so I feel it's rushed.

dropbox.com/s/dintzt46elhmerc/Ariphates the Lord of Magic.pdf?dl=0

>functional/10
>Needs work, my friend. Proof read, first of all, because a lot of your verbs aren't used correctly.

Is there anything else I should know? Was the prologue any good in enticing readers? Should I re-write it?

drive.google.com/open?id=1-DnLPfDs8_eKn-y1u7x5P0CVUzuDfAouZLLvKZ99kxc

BOMP ^_^

Show don't tell... Pretty impossible with such a short blip, I know, but still...

Also, careful with your language.

Blood burning, I ran frantically to the front desk where a desk maid was lending her attention to another one of the snobs, this one a younger woman wearing a white fur coat - original fur no doubt. They were talking at each other’s face in a quiet manner like they all do, as if they weren’t really talking but rather mimicking how a conversation would go. Time seemed to slow to a halt as I stared at the two witches communicating in their witch ways and my heart grew fast again.

My blood was burning, I really do think so. I tried to slow my breath but it was of no use and I could no longer wait. I shoved the wretched fur bitch out of the way, long thin limbs and all and positioned myself in front of the desk witch - maiden. The fur bitch made a shriek as she slowly tumbled to the ground in this slow motion world I now resided in. It seemed as though even her scream had the tone of a snob and my sub conscious ear found it quite hilarious.

>self-analysation
You must be having a giggle

This is like a strange weeaboo knockoff of Galathea 2.2 Also your writing is bizarre "For those unaware, the Singularity is a word with two very different definitions..." who CARES?

Pure trash and my god why are you so butthurt. Your writing is good just write about something that isn't emo punk shit

>"Warn"

Is this some sort of jest that I'm not getting

Blood burning, I dashed to the front desk where a clerk was lending her attention to another one of the snobs, this a young woman wearing a white fur coat -- authentic, no doubt. They were talking in hushed tones at the faces of one another as if mimicking how a conversation should go.

Time dilated as I saw these two witches communicating in their witch ways. My heart charged in [anger, fervor, madness, whatever the narrator is feeling]. Blood still burning, I tried to slow my breath, but it was no use. I could no longer wait. I shoved the fur-clad bitch to the floor, her spindly limbs trailing like smoke wisps after the body, her cries intensifying after impact. Even her fierce shrieking had the tone of a snob. [insert something about the desk girl's reaction, narrator's action upon the desk girl]
---
I'm just doing this for kicks. The most easily fixable issue I see is your affectations that Anglicize the prose: do not use indeterminate adverbs/intensifiers like "quite" and "really" unless you're writing a 19th century period piece. Also go easy on the snide asides - one per paragraph is too much. Also try to avoid "it seemed" or "it appeared" unless the narrator is truly unsure of the situation. Also avoid cliches: no "time seemed to slow to a halt".

Otherwise, look over your prose and streamline it, as you'll find plenty of easy fixes: "The fur bitch made a shriek" has a clear problem and clear solution, and in general breaking up one long sentence into two or condensing two long clauses into one sentence can improve flow greatly. Last, and most difficult, do your best to vary your sentence structure to avoid "Subject verbed" sentences, especially if they start with I like in the second paragraph.

Keep it coming

Anyone?

>dashed
pukinggirl,jpg

I like monkeys. The pet store was selling them for five cents a piece. I thought that odd since they were normally a couple thousand each. I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. I bought 200. I like monkeys. I took my 200 monkeys home. I have a big car. I let one drive. His name was Sigmund. He was retarded. In fact, none of them were really bright. They kept punching themselves in their genitals. I laughed. Then they punched my genitals. I stopped laughing. I herded them into my room. They didn't adapt very well to their new environment.

They would screech, hurl themselves off of the couch at high speeds and slam into the wall. Although humorous at first, the spectacle lost its novelty halfway into its third hour. Two hours later I found out why all the monkeys were so inexpensive: they all died. No apparent reason. They all just sorta' dropped dead. Kinda' like when you buy a goldfish and it dies five hours later. Damn cheap monkeys...I didn't know what to do. There were 200 dead monkeys lying all over my room, on the bed, in the dresser, hanging from my bookcase. It looked like I had 200 throw rugs. I tried to flush one down the toilet. It didn't work. It got stuck. Then I had one dead, wet monkey and 199 dead, dry monkeys. I tried pretending that they were just stuffed animals.