/CRITIQUE/

i dont like the pizza and pepperoni shit, but other than those 2 paragraphs i like it. of course, what i like is completely meaningless to you, but it is entirely meaningful to me. it is the only thing with any semblance of meaning

I think I was trying to go for a kind of mock profundity for so that there would be comic disjuncture between the register of the prose and the insipidness of what the prose actually describes, idk though, to might be a little much. My idea for this story so far is to have it follow the arc of Chekhov's "The Duel", but with the characters and plot even more inconsequential. I'm not sure if its a good idea since I dislike works of fiction that are clearly modeled on earlier works of fiction in a way that's meant to be cutesy, but the idea I had for the climax, where two of the characters are going to 1v1 quick scope in some FPS or something instead of dueling, seems kind of clever, so I feel like I have to keep that frame to make that fit.

I have no pretensions of this being good, so don't feel bad about tearing it apart. I'm just curious as to how to make an interesting opening line right now.

Growing up, I was always under the impression that the unspoken rule of not shooting your best friend was a cardinal one, but apparently, that rule falls secondary to the explicit order of your friend's commanding officer to "shoot that fucker in the face." To his credit though, James didn't actually shoot me in the face; he shot me in the stomach.

I woke up at 12:30 last night to find my father telling me to slip my clothes on. I asked him what for and he replied hastly
"Mr. House found some of his goats dead, and we have to help him out."
We walked outside and waiting was Mr. House in his Studebaker. It was raining so I sat in one of the seats in the back.
"I'm thank you two enough for comin' round for help'' Mr. House said.
We drove off to the farm. It was only water on water outside, and the doors were washed off from most sight. Nasty rain was flooding some of the street.
When we arrived at the farm; there were four of the work men out with their laterns. The rain made them all covered and wet.
"The goats were found out here an our ago" he spit and told us "Walter over here said he heard some noises from the outhouse, and went to go check on em'. When he went he saw

I will continue if you'd like

It's one of my best writings

Continue please

When he went he saw a tall man, very tall."
Mr. House turned and asked Walter "Is this true?"
"Yes sir, very. He was crazy, he was eating out the goat raw. The savage man was suckin' all the blood from em'. I think he saw me, so I ran back out to the house and told Buddy to bring his Winchester. But it was too late. We couldn't save them all. It was the most awfulest thing I'd ever seen sir, usually we get dogs and coyotes. But it was a damn man! You shoulda seen it yourself sir, im tellin' the truth!" He was frantic and shakin' by what happened. I had some right to believe in him, the guy seemed honest.
Mr. House shook his head in shame and told him "I believein' ya, you always told me the truth, and you look like you're sober enough to know. It's just a damn shame that there is not much we can do here. I want you boys to get these bloody things on the back of the truck and i'll bring them home with me and take a look at them."
I helped pick up the cadavers from the blood puddles they were left in and threw them on the back of the truck. Once we did, Mr. House dismissed us and told us to go home and get rest. We got back home and sat down at the kitchen table.
Dad took off his boots and told me "I dont exactly believe what Walt said, and you shouldn't either. Sometimes I think we just see things that aren't there. But dont tell him I said that, because he is a good man, and he is smart." I nodded off and went upstairs to go back to sleep.

I woke up at noon from a nightmare, it was one similar to what Walter had seen last night. It's scary to wake up and see what he saw; just like he described I saw a man, tall and thin. He had fanged teeth and was feeding on the animal. Blood ran down his face, and on the ground. But like my father said, I must discredit it all. It was only just a dream, and it probably came from my thoughts before bed.
I think I should have time to relax more, since this week had all been so much stress. I cant complain today though. The weather makes it all seem better than it has been.

They're good.

here's mine

Ten months ago the cataclysm happen. And in those ten months the world had been slowly dying. This led the hunter wondering, why is he trying to survive? Ignoring the obvious answer that most would reply, he was left wondering, he would do the same routine every single day for the past ten months, and nothing change at all. So why was he trying to survive. Was it because he assumed everything would get better? That wasn't it as he wasn't an idiot. Did he hoped that someone would just suddenly appear and fix this tragedy? This wasn't a fairytale, at least he hope it wasn't, it would be too depressing.

I don't know If I should rewrite the first paraghraph

>THESE are the people that recommend books on the literature board of the above-sky mongolian nail-trimming website

I wanna write a book about a slave master in the Antebellum south and his gay relationship with a nubile slave boy who grows to adulthood and reflects on this relationship after his master's death and eventual freedom. has this been done before?

Don't ever capitalize "And" it just seems illiterate.

I cant give much critique since I don't know what you're writing. But from what I read I cant get interested since the writing flip flops back and forth with questions. I'm sure it's good but I just need to know more on what you're writing about.

I'm writing a novel called "The Southern Vampire." it seems very cliché but I put my own twist to it. It's a epistolary novel from two different people
One is a Missionaire for a church in KY
and the other is a boy 17 who moved from Washington with a family of five. It's a cat and mouse story of who's hunting who. After Michael Smith (the vampire) dies of a sudden death in his 20's. He comes back to find Harriet (17yo boy) and his family to be living in his once owned house. As he terrorizes them, they set out to put down the damned demon back to his true death

That first sentence has nothing to do with the rest of what you wrote. Everything else could do with fewer adverbs.

someone try me. It's just something I've been working on

pastebin.com/Hkrvb0qp

don't be afraid of doing stuff that's been done before. if it's been done, then do it better.

Napoleon watched from his chair in admiration at his friend, in slight envy of his emotional coolness. Yet it was hard to understand him, and how his passions could be so controlled. He bore all the prudence and logic of a true advisor, the solid pillar of reasoned strategy which kept Napoleon from razing fields and causing rampant destruction. He wondered if Rude understood him and his passions. Yet he realized it did not matter. So long as he was aided in his efforts he did not need to be understood. When the two would stand outside the great sphere and watch and know, he would understand then. A jolt of electricity shot straight through his brow and kept his thoughts percolating in rhythm with the old press as it burbled in the kitchen. He remembered why he sat in the chair, and how he could not leave it once he had decided it was time. Impulsively, he chose that moment. The electricity shot down through him and controlled his limbs. A tiny reticule appeared in his field of vision, and began to amass all the matter of the room, piece by piece. Soon it would begin its distortions, its powerful lashes of gravity bending the seams of the space he inhabited. Soon he would be gone. Rudolph set a cup of coffee on the ground next to his feet and went to return to his desk. Napoleon caught him by the arm. Rudolph started, then carefully sat down with his cup in both hands, sighing a little.
Napoleon stared at him with dire intensity. “We go soon.” Rude nodded and returned the stare, his eyes slowly relaxing as he realized that Napoleon was not really looking at him. He let them peer into the red-rilled world of those two eyes, a split world of mirrored effect, the small incarnadine cracks almost identical in each globe. The pupils were deep blue whirlpools, illuminated by the light so that their depths could be located by the richness of the hue, right at the center.
Napoleon: Holy fucking shit.
Rudolph: Strange how relaxed I feel right now. Is he going to speak again, ever?
Napoleon: We are going in, I can feel it.
Rudolph hesitated a little, then cleared his throat. “How have you been feeling?” He hoped his voice wasn’t strange when he asked.
(2/3 actually)

Napoleon: That was Father talking. I am sure of it. He has come back for me. Mother said to follow my dream of reaching the outer world (or at least to follow my dreams, ends justify the means) but Father had always pulled me back. Too many mornings in the sickly daylight on the couch, rocking with unspent dreams after three days of being awake, staring into the crags of his face so as to like place myself in an adventure where his voice was like a strange echo through that terrain. I tried to follow his voice, but got lost, and found my way to some trees. From there I found the woods, the true home of my mind, obscured from Father but always amongst nature, always in touch with Mother. The senses are all that protect me. He must not return.
“Just fine.” Napoleon replied.
“Hm. Good.” Rude found his book on the small wing of the garden chair he used for the sitting area, crossed his legs, and flipped it open halfheartedly, still watching his subject. He seemed poised for conversation, an expectant glance over the half-raised cover held for too long, lips pursing and parting. Napoleon smiled half-politely. Rude reflected it was such a shame that conversation only flowed between them when they were of the same state of mind, which meant seldom ever. He felt unusually voluble and wanted to find some topic to speak about that wasn’t insane, which by the way was the other stipulation of their conversation, that it be insane. When sober and when definitely not. He looked down at the cover of his book, realizing only then that it was Canetti. Enticed by essays, he flipped past the first leaf. Then, it hit him. A moment of absolutely no thoughts. An astonishing moment, a rare one, and strangely familiar…
Rudolph: No, it cannot be. He can’t have done this. No. No. No. No!
Napoleon: Time to go.
Rudolph jerked up out of his chair, and Napoleon restrained him with a mere gesture. “Prepare yourself for stormy seas, and off we are to meet Aziz!” His hand shot out and grabbed Rudolph’s, and he skipped their way through the apartment door and for the stairs.
(3/3)

(This is the first one, not sure what happened when I edited the last post)
Napoleon: Back at Rude’s, a home away from home. Here I marshal my strength and regather the forces of the mind, and having resupplied, soon I shall foray into the heavy terrain of the unconscious. There—and Gods willing let me be there with my trusted friend—I shall encounter those obstacles still remaining in my mind. Those enemies of mine must find their end. Thank the Gods for my conductor, my ally, and my friend.
Rudolph: I hope he didn’t notice me slip the hits back into my pocket. I really loathe taking the substance. Ever since he tried to “bring me outside the unreal,” whatever the Hesse that means, I’ve been absolutely terrified of the stuff.
“Don’t be afraid, my friend,” Napoleon uttered solemnly across the room from him. “This is but the first of many stages in our journey, and I need my benighted friend doughty for the days to come. We must catch you up.”
“You know,” Rude gently interjected, “I’ve always felt like you’re as much at home here as you are. . . Well.” He suddenly felt absurd sitting in the chair directly across from Napoleon’s, and crossed to his desk and sat down. In mirrors Napoleon could be seen slowly following him with his gaze as he sat back in chair as if it were the only place he could sit.
Napoleon: I don’t like him changing the subject.
Rudolph: Please let this distract him for a moment.
The two sat in silence, tension felt on Napoleon’s end but not on Rude’s. The empty chair stood between them.
Napoleon: I had better begin preparing to enter the slipstream and push on through. It will be quite some going from here, relaxing my associations enough.
Rudolph: Maybe he wants some coffee. That would relax us.
Rude put down his pencil from its hovering position and crossed over to the kitchen, and began the slow process of grinding the beans carefully down, creating the smooth silt that made for a good cup. He reflected on the fact that life wasn’t perfect, that he didn’t always have time for his writing, for his reading, and for times spent alone in the quiet apartment. Ever since he had taken in Napoleon, other concerns pulled at him.

>it seemed very cliche
At this point in literature any thing we write could be consider cliche. So don't worry.

So I'm going for a character with severe autism, that rambles and rants in his head through mundane things. Tell me what you think.

10/10 You have Autism

Are song lyrics allowed in this thread?

>it starts off strong

No it doesn't

>implying Veeky Forums listens to music and not audiobooks

right, but it's still writing.

sure post what you want I like music

You aren't Pynchon, knock it the fuck off

"Scratched it is ass." Alright though, at least you can write a coherent sentence.

Just scrap that whole awful idea and write something worth reading. Masturbatory pap.

Can't tell if your prose is just bad or your shooting for some rootin tootin downhome good ol boy type vibe.

Reads like it was written by a 15 year old Spaniard.

The town was smaller than he expected, having seen the outer walls. The streets were wide and spacious, lined with boxes, crates and storefronts alive with nodding heads and drifting hands. The buildings were bunched and stacked together like children's blocks, yet maintained a subtle harmony with the gaping streets, between their roofs dangled wires for clothes and power. Unlit lights waited patiently for the reign of night, and each window was closed, square eyes shut with sluggish dreams inside.

>paragraph from my novella

Thats actually very authentic. Keep it up and it could be pretty funny. What sort of situations do you have planned for him?

A man, a servant of the beasts, came and took the child despite the snow. They had not gone far from the village before it was on them, outlining the man's shoulders, his gloves, the rope that swung between himself and the child, her gloves, her eyelashes. The way he had explained it to the villagers, children made the beasts uneasy.
Would you keep reading user?

reads kind of like gurm, but it could be because he's always describing villages and castle and shit.

lol thats a new one, how bout this

He let the man drop on his back with a gurgle and reached for his rifle, but by the time he met eye to eye with the source of the madness many others had already died. For a shadow coursed among them.

It moved out from the dust of its crash, and was as tall as two men. It's bony skull protruded from a neck bent so low as if broken by an ageless yoke. Wispy black hair dangled like threads of a torn scarf; great hands hung low as if touching the floor were another means of sight; and its eyes, its actual eyes moved in difference to another, without any coordination or unity, each a single unit bulging out and scouring the room, to find men taking aim to fire.

Some screamed, their pained hands crunching triggers so they fired from the floor or in midair where their bullets ran indiscriminate like rain. They flew, not like the small, darting birds of the bush, but like stones kicked wanton by a child in the midst of discovery. Their trailing sounds coming to punctuation against the walls and steel frames. And more red draped them.

It's just going to be a kid going to school, I'm going to try and keep the conflict internal for a greater part to show the mental conflict that arises from him over analyzing things.

Nice, will never be published.

Beginning a sentence with a conjunction is thought incorrect but isn't, first words in sentences should always be capitalized. You are completely wrong.

This, its just something they tell gradeschoolers so they dont completely butcher their 500 word essays.

Yeah, I really didn't know how to start it off so I just went with the first ridiculous idea that came to mind.

You have two good characters here. The narrator's optimism regarding the American Dream is a nice departure from the typical cynical protag, though I expect that optimism will be shattered at some point in the story.
>Being the guy who people associated as his “friend” was starting to throw some shade on me.
This seems a bit awkward, "being the guy" is a condition, and conditions don't do things (throw shade)

>Being a dick.
>Not adding anything

>so I throw the manuscript into the air, demanding it stays there
>then throw the ketamine pipe on top of my tombstone. Rest in peace, pipe.
>I go to my bathroom and induce vomiting to get rid of the pizza. I need room in my stomach for work.

These are genius, what you have to do is rework your methods to accommodate for more things pataphysical or chaotic and leave out descriptive paragraphs - unless they are reworked into daydreams, don't give the reader the right to a lucid plot, it ruins the fun.

you sure got them

why do you say this to me?

At this point, I am tired of playing children's games with this handsome devil. I take Hans by his hand and take him to my bedroom, I take out my special handcuffs and tie him to my bed. The handcuffs are a little bit small for his enormous hands but I am not the girl that won't make a man suffer a little bit for my own pleasure. I start licking and kissing his cock of a size that I have never seen before.

"You're a big guy" I say while continue to lick his scepter of love.

"For you" He answers while being handcuffed to the bed.

"I don't allow you to speak to me like this" I tell him while I stop licking.

I start kissing his burnt lips and I whisper with the softest voice into his ear "Learn your place, you're nothing but a sex toy now"

thanks for the feedback

A bit too simplistic - you have two consecutive sentences starting with "I take..." Try to shake things up. Also, USE COMMAS, PLEASE.

Your grammar could use some work as well. Get some recommendations for decent dom/sub erotica and read that. None of this Fifty Shades garbage.

And "scepter of love" made me laugh.

>Enjoy this tryhard sci-fi bullshit

In the distant reaches of the Cosmos, far away from the bounds of the universe observable through our primitive instruments, there is a galaxy called Teng. In this galaxy, along with countless other planets and stars, there is a small world which was also called Teng. It seems rather presumptuous, but the people of this world named the galaxy after their home, since as far as they were concerned, no one else had gotten around to naming it yet. Other cultures on distant planets named the galaxy things like “Parongi” and “Solassas” and if we had been able to see it, we would likely have named it “Sagittarius something-or-other.” But nonetheless, our focus is on the people of Teng, so their naming conventions, uncreative as they may be, are the ones we shall use.

Teng(the planet, not the galaxy) was very small, but highly developed. It was mostly ocean, but the land had been built upon by its people prodigiously, and the cities of Teng were large, lavish, and marvelous. According to the tourists. The people who lived in these cities were mostly indifferent to them, often describing it as being “better than living in that mess of a countryside.” Their culture was global, having dissolved most of its political bonds ages ago, and mostly egalitarian. Tengana, as they called themselves, were bipeds, standing upright, with two arms and an entire torso connecting them. In fact, they looked rather like humans, with only a few minor differences, which are so minor, they are hardly worth mentioning at this point in the story. Also like humans, they had a tendency to be curious, innovative, and adventurous. So it should come as no surprise at all that their planet became subject to a horrific mass extinction and is to this day uninhabitable.

>In fact, they looked rather like humans, with only a few minor differences, which are so minor, they are hardly worth mentioning at this point in the story. Also like humans

Either make them human or don't.

In the distant reaches of the Cosmos, there is a galaxy called Teng. Within, are the usual stars and planets and things. Our focus however, is on one rather small planet by the same name. Now, many question why the residents would do such a thing. Surely they could have thought of something else, something better! But to the people of Teng (The Planet), it was a simple answer to a simple question.

Despite its size, the inhabitants were a highly developed race. With more ocean than land, they made good use of it with extraordinary cities. Even the envious accounts of tourists cite their indifference to the outside And for good reason, as the culture was global, and its politics none by egalitarian standards. Tengana, as they called themselves were upright bipeds with two arms. Pretty much human by most other races, barring a few irrelevant differences. While also having curiosity for the new and adventurous, it's not a surprise they met tragedy.

It's fun to edit and do try to combine styles.

watch your redundancy and silly exposition though mang.

So how can I make this not shit?

By not making it shit

It all makes sense now.

I wrote this while on a Clark Ashton Smith/Lovecraft kick so apologies ahead of time for verbosity. Please only provide criticism, I prefer to know what I can improve on than what I've done well.

The clarity with which I relay these findings may be partially marred by the haste at which I write. There are forces, Aggressors, hounding me like some irrefutable criminal amid a network of housings beset in a city of architectural convolution. I am not fleeing punishment; my very presence in this land has been absolutely revoked despite, to my knowledge, no recognizable imposition on the local society. I am hidden among merchants in an alien bazaar flowing with goods of incalculable quantity and admittedly unobvious purpose. Much like the products offered, the currency of exchange is indescribable. Even in the most arduous attempts to express a vague framework by which these supernatural products can be judged I am sure to fail. These courses of sublime merchandise buffeted the ceaseless populace of the surreal affair. As waves of extramundane wares assaulted purveyors, an equally blitzing tide of consumers surged in a capitalist communion. Ephemeral transactions were being conducted in a familiarity that could have only been established by tradition dating back thousands of years.

I will post the rest if prompted.

wordy but oh well

While growing up, there were a few simple but important rules you followed.
Not shooting your best friend, that's definitely one of them right? Apparently not, when said friends CO is yelling to "Shoot the fucker in his face."
Thankfully, it was only my stomach.
Thanks, James.

I think "Now, not shooting" would add more to the delivery, but it's a little awkward to read.

Appreciate the feedback. It felt clunky reading, but I couldn't tell why.

Is this all of it? I don't want to critique something that only half-finish. Maybe try re-writing it a few times. Like a journal or something.

He always knew the day would come in which he would cross the line. There was no point in trying to fight it no point in trying to delay it. The day was here in which he would have to test himself not just as a hunter but also as a survivor. Months of mental training, thinking, wondering what it would be like to be to finally cross the red line, a line that should never be cross, nor swept aside so easily.

To me, you got a little verbose on the rule emphasis.
And then again on the reveal, which is why I cut it down a bit.

A speculative sci-fi short I wrote a while back.

(1/2)

The assessment bots came at three, leaving Peter sort of unsure of what to do. He had expected there to be people, and so had made coffee, but the bots had no need of hospitality and promptly got to work measuring his house.

It was a handsome structure, with a gabled roof and great big New England style rooms. Peter had inherited it from his father some years ago and was still settling into the big empty structure. He had considered renting some of the rooms out for extra money but ultimately decided that he didn’t want to share his home with other people, even f they were paying him. So instead he had invited the bots over.

They were little things, painting the walls of his house with flat beams of red light and chirping to each other. Peter stood in the scraggly weeds of his side yard, watching them work, unsure what to do. He didn’t really feel comfortable going inside, since the bots might need to talk to him, but didn’t really want to stay outside either.

“Your east wall has no windows in it, that is optimal for advertisement placement.” One of the bots said, voice tinny, piped through sub-par speakers. Peter nodded.

“It was my father’s house,” he said, toeing at a dandelion, “he never wanted windows facing that way…” The bot that had spoken floated over, rotors fanning Peter’s face with a light wash of cool wind. He blinked and trailed off, feeling slightly like he had to sneeze.

“We’re aware of the history of your home Mr. Maddox,” the bot said, “constructed in 2014, purchased by your father in 2029, refurbished once by Orpheus Builders in-“ Peter waved his hand, cutting the bot off, feeling slightly distressed by the rush of chatter coming from the machine.

“I…uh, would the house be suitable for ad displays?” The bot chirped and waggled slightly in the air. It had no neon facial display so it was sort of difficult to tell how the machine was feeling. If it felt anything at all, Peter had never really bought into the idea that AI could feel anything. Sure it could carry out conversations these days, but there wasn’t much feeling necessary for that.

Instead of a face the bot just had a touch screen, on which the assessment company’s logo was bouncing slowly around, awaiting the completion of a deal.

“Taking into account the specific dimensions of your house, the population density of the surrounding area as well as the volume of traffic through surrounding streets, our servers have indicated that there are two hundred seventy nine companies who would be interested in purchasing ad space on your home.” Peter blinked. That was a lot.

“How much would they…uh, how much do you want to pay?”

(2/3) Veeky Forums character limits are a bitch

“The median six month advertisement contract, for silent ads, adds up to twenty two thousand dollars, paid upon completion of the contract.”

Peter looked across the street, to where George Washington was gazing solemnly from his neighbor’s garage door, hawking life insurance.

“And that’s just that east wall?” Peter asked.

“Yes. You could also agree to put advertisements on your roof if you are willing to do so.” The bots had finished assessing his house and were instead looking around his yard, mapping everything out. Peter watched them with a hint of unease. He hadn’t really expected them to be so…nosy.

“Which companies are interested?” Peter asked, tearing his eyes away from the fleet of roving bots.

“Would you like me to provide you with a full list of the two hundred seventy nine companies whose needs match the specifications of your house?” Peter considered that for a moment but shook his head. He wanted to make a decision now, so that the bots could get off of his property.

“Uh…how about the top three companies who would pay me the most.”

“Sunshine Technologies, Proxy International Protection, Firework Industrial.” The bot rattled off without a moment’s hesitation. Peter had heard of Sunshine before, and knew that they mostly dealt with nanotechnology, while Firework manufactured heavy goods and Proxy maintained armies of bodyguards and private security contractors. Proxy sounded too violent, and Peter didn’t want his neighbors thinking that he was militaristic or anything like that, so he decided on Sunshine.

“Wonderful,” the bot said, “be sure that you read the contract Sunshine provides you with carefully.” The touch screen flashed white, the company logo immediately replaced by a block of text. It went on and on, tiny words blurring together.

(3/3)

Peter squinted at them. He would not be allowed to tamper with or remove advertising software before his contract was up, he would not be allowed to park a vehicle in front of the advertisement or in any way block sight of the advertisements from the street. Any sort of anti-social behavior that could reflect badly upon Sunshine would be punished with suspension of his contract. And…and he would need to improve the condition of his lawn.

He furrowed his brow at the last one, surprised by the pettiness of it.

“Why do I need to improve my lawn?” He asked, confused, looking up from the contract and around his yard. Sure it was scrubby and patched with dead spots, but that was virtually everyone. Except for the folks with gravel lawns, but Peter had always found those a little pretentious.

“Sunshine Technologies takes the appearance of its ad space very seriously,” the bot told him gravely, “proper maintenance of the ad space is vital if the ad contract is to be considered valid throughout its six month duration.” Peter frowned, feeling oddly dispirited by this.

“It’s fire season though,” he protested, “we aren’t allowed to water our lawns until September 1st.”

“Sunshine Technologies understands the difficulties that people living in drought stricken areas face, but also insist upon the proper appearance of those places which it displays its advertisements.” Peter looked to the scrappy tufts of grass and weeds eyeing out an existence in his yard, then over to George Washington’s solemn gaze. The first President nodded, pleased as punch with the brand of life insurance he was selling.

“I guess I could resurface my yard with gravel…” Peter sighed. With the economy the way it was he really did need the extra money that the ad would bring. The bot chirped.

“Are you interested in displaying advertisements on your rooftop as well?” The bot asked. Peter sighed.

“Might as well…”

I like this. It flows quite well and makes me want to know more about the bizarre nature of this new land that the protagonist has found himself in. Though, if you're sticking to the Lovecraft angle I suppose there'll be plenty of vagaries and cries of 'oh God the horror!' but in much fancier literary dress.

I think it really suffers from being non-representative of any story. This is really just kind of whimsical detail that needs more context, or should be condensed. Waste not, want not, I feel.

Asimov writes that you can have two types of detail in writing: stained glass (pretty prose) or plate glass (realism). Yours is totally shattered, dude. I cannot get into the scene when I have to think this hard, and your descriptions are not graceful because of the verbosity.
>pastebin.com/86jATbSd

This is really entertaining. Your voice reminds me of Reynold's Deadpool, strangely. It's really funny shit, even if sometimes it's kinda distasteful. I don't really like the fart and shit jokes. The colorful metaphors and oddball details are better focused upon I think.

I'm trying out something different here, shit I write is usually more straightforward and usually deals with less sappy themes. Anyway, I'd really appreciate some thoughts. I will critique some work tomorrow once I get some sleep.

Title: I Want to Apologize for the Kid I Was

The kid I was—shamefully hidden under a guise of an imagined wall constructed to divide the best of us in categories not of race, gender, sexuality—rather a cultural divide birthed from subgroups that only truly existed within the confines of a box that flashed colors at the press of a button. Five seconds, that’s all you had, five seconds because I bore an arrogance so great that I believed there was a world where I could figure out every bit of your intricacies within five measly seconds. You called me out, I said, that’s just how I was. As if my definition of self that I borrowed from the media was any justification of who I was. Who I was—I once told a kid I would piss on the eye-holes of his dead mother’s skull for reasons so unimportant that they’ve already left my mind. Yes, I cared, I was caring, I cared deeply. But I cared not because it was the right thing to do but because I wanted you to care in turn, I wanted others to be impressed, bow at my very feet, envy me, because I possessed a human trait you had figured out when you were eight. I grew up thinking I was the bullied, I was the underdog, because how could I be anything else when everything consistently hurt. But it wasn’t enough that I hurt, it had to spread. I want to apologize for the kid I was—am.

>the sitting room, a nook place with cozy hermetic chairs with repetitious floral imprints facing each other, conversing more than either of them, those flowers in a constant bloom, the fireplace agape, the dining table austere with flowers in the cutglass basin, not even a television.

This is beautiful. You have quite a way of description. I really love the rhythm and voice in your work, but your details are a little confusing. I was dismissive of the entire first paragraph, at least out of context. Reading it back, it makes some sense. The language is really interesting, too, the kind of thing I don't get but love reading the words all together.

Just a hunch, but are you describing a flag being attacked by locusts? This is a very puzzling piece, but I like that.

Kinda corny, honestly. I feel like this could be a trite feeling amongst many 20 somethings. It reads like a rhythmic diary entry.

We had reached the fork where we had to split for our different workplaces, and I bid Tori farewell for the day. She took off in the opposite direction towards the Park.
I took a deep breath; entering this place every day was slowly killing me, or so it felt I pushed through the hatch that leads onto the main floor of the positronics department after my momentary pause.
As always the room was an absolute disaster, there were papers and calculations littering every surface, and the main computer was showing a star chart in the shape of a dick. Home sweet home right?
Sanchez was standing behind the controls of the main computer and he shouted for me to come over,
“Yo Fishy, get your ass over here girl we found a new constellation.” Then he fell to pieces laughing whether over the new so called “constellation” or the clever fish joke I’ve heard a thousand times I couldn’t guess and it didn’t really matter.
“Sanchez you idiot that’s not cool I had schematics in there come on man.” I said. Maybe it was whiny but, it was super annoying to say the least when one of these morons deleted something I needed, but even more so when they did it to play a joke.
Walker piped up then, saying, “Relax Kist I’ve got’em right ‘ere all backed up on a BD” how in the hell the southern accent had survived the near extinction of humanity I will never know but god damn I wish it hadn’t.
That being said Walker was the best of the best when it came to our weapons systems, he had a mind for explosives like I had never seen and though it was fifty years ago he had been on the team that helped mine out the core of Phobos.
Now his job was pretty simple, make sure the weapon systems weren’t drawing undue power, and think of ways to improve existing systems before we launched which was getting closer and closer to the present.

i feel like your begining statement might be too much of an exposition dump but that's just me

Not mine m8, just an edit of

Yeah I really wasn't happy with it. Glad to hear it from someone else though, makes it easier to move on to other experiments

ah didnt see that what do you think of

>rewriting someone else's work

Seriously dude, no-no

I think it's pretty self-conscious in a good way. It's well-controlled, the story has good rhythm and energy. I think some details and/or humor are sort of cryptic, like the >rather like humans...
bit. Guess I'd need context. Anyways, it's got style. I'd love to see some scenes from this.

This sounds like it could also be quite funny. Please post more.

Lots of unnecessary words and clunky phrasing.
>we had reached
>we had to split for our different workplaces
Redundancies like your first sentence with the repeating "hads".
I think you're trying to mimic a style that doesn't come naturally for you.
"Bid farewell" sets a certain tone that has no place in your story.
"Super annoying" is a valley-girl, your character isn't a valley-girl.
Some tedious sentences like the third and last, especially.

You can write, but it's obvious when you go out of your comfort-zone.
Do more like your second to last line, and less like:
>“Sanchez you idiot that’s not cool I had schematics in there come on man.” I said. Maybe it was whiny but, it was super annoying to say the least when one of these morons deleted something I needed, but even more so when they did it to play a joke.
Learn to convey the same sentence with less words.
And learn to draw a picture without explicitly stating it like your shape of a dick line.
Not a regular so sorry if I break board-culture.
Why is it frowned upon though?
I'd figure people would like an alternative take on their stuff to get new insight.

third and last line*

I just see it as not agreeable to most writers, myself included. It neuters the essence of their writing and rings false because it's not their chosen words.

>myself included
>because it's not their chosen words
Neither are most of the words they have right now.

> It neuters the essence of their writing
I don't see how.

Do you mean to suggest that simply because they're derivative they don't belong to them? Do you want to just churn out some golden standard of writing? If you don't see how doing that neuters it, then you don't write.

No I meant, that none of this is final-draft, and any input is just another step towards it. And whether I or any outside influence, determine the final words in some way is impossible to say.

I think you should ease up and stop being so cynical m8, I have no foul intentions, just like it for practice is all.

What's a good way to achieve an "unsettling" atmosphere? Like something is wrong with the world, with the people, but you don't really notice it until later. A feeling of uncertainty, like a void. How to achieve this without being too hammy?

Any books that achieve this kind of atmosphere in a subtle way?

I think you should write his book

Hello, I am the writer of Flashbrid the Vampire.

It is a famous meme and I wrote a new page.

Let me see what you like.

...

>posting that you don't care

That's like saying "I'm not talking".

It was alright kinda diary. Relatable so it works

>"I'm not talking".
that's stupid

This was my favorite in the thread.

What are the Prerequisites for a Science fiction/ Fantasy novel?

I'm currently working on a Fantasy novel, though I'm not an authority on the subject by any means. Anyway something you should do before writing is really build your world. Ask yourself a lot of questions, even mundane questions, about this world. The "how do they eat" question is very important, even if it doesn't play into the story at all.

That's what I was saying, yes.

Do you guys have any good way of finding literary descriptions of things and ideas? We all know that imitation is the best way to learn, but sometimes there are subjects I want to write about that I have no model for. I'm always picking stuff up from the books I read, and I write down things that might be useful, but I obviously cannot read every book on every subject, so it can be a bit difficult to find passages relevant to what I'm writing about.

that was good

Feels like a diary entry from a- douche. I feel as if you showed examples of all the things you mentioned it would be different.
S .Standing still: yes, he feels no need to leave the place he has called home for so long. A. To face the constant fading of thoughts and images as he leaves a slumber holding him so. N. He hears the water drops as they hit against the window sill. G.
U. Dark walls. Around me everything is dark. Pillow limp. I. Yes, must turn pillow 'round to enjoy the coldness on the other side. N. Awwwyesss it feels so: so goooood: go-ooo-od. E. Eyes turn, otherside, beautiful side of head, curly hair, blue eyes, mirror stare, lookin' me in the eye like I'm blind to what I see on that mattress: man laying on his side observing his life in a glass, past experiences made me blind. S. Reach head up from warm embrace, shall I wake up, or shall I lay forever in this place, eat the warm breakfast that I undoubtably will make for myself. A. This world stares and screams at me, the mirror lapses, and the clock is so stuck, so blind to change, so everything that I have concluded: I must've been high. M.

'It's a beautiful day to understand nothing,
It was a yesterday, it was a tomorrow, it was today,
It might as well be everyday.'

Outside the rain is continuing, for how long no one can be certain. Inside the drenched windows all the young office workers prod on their keyboards.
'What's your name', said in off-style, bureaucratic ladylike gleam. Eyes popping slightly. I wonder if she knows I'm looking at her breasts, fumble for just a sec'. Name. Yes, name is what she desires. Desires my name, thus she will receive my name.
'Sam, Sanguine Sam', I said. She takes out a pen from a nearby drawer and takes some notes on a paper, however she takes no note of the irregular nature of my name. S-A-N-G-U-I-N-E-S-A-M, yes that's my name, that's my name, I want to scream it! -no I should not scream, make a scene, gander at her 'what I fancies', be completely still and solace, want this opportunity quite a bit' more than just a passing fancy.
'Thank you Sam, you will be receiving a letter in the mail in about a weeks time' she sez, and I'm so happy she sez it so.
'And thankyou very much, I eagerly await the letter'- I wonder if it will all end up well, if everything I desire will take shape, will this room, whitewall, white employees 'cept one black fella over in a corner cubicle typing what I can only assume is his social life eulogy. Laughter bubbles within at that quip, while the universal acclaim for my comedy is null, I'm not the dullest comedian amongst friends, not the most sullied of men that piss in their undergarments after reliving themselves. Pssss.... The feeling of relief, a feeling of complacency, yellow stream... And would you lookie' there a piss stain in mi' drawers, just how it would be till' today, yesterday, someday, and the neverday.

but as the book fell from its rightful place three artificial stories above, so he fell from his unconscious but daytime dreams, as one falling from those at night, to the unsolicited shock of reality, where they broke at the speed impact broke the fall to a place out of sight, among the imaginary friends, memories, colors, breaking, faster than any worldly break, and rebounding, as one recoils from the sudden consciousness of sleep’s advance, blood hurled up along the walls of the skull, but from the fall, of the book and the dream and the unconsciousness, in sync from the strings of mind and body.

I hope this is bait

not many people want to read shit that's just making fun of insightful thought. Most people can just tell you're covering up your lack of ideas by appealing to the lowest common denominator of spergs who resent everything. You'd really need some god-like wit to pull that off in a publishable way so that people will want to actually read it.