Critique Thread

The ghetto voice is not the only voice used in description. I figured while writing the story that i should fuse the voice with the environment.

That's the one that seems clunky and gimmicky to me, but different strokes for different folks. What if you had an omnipotent nigga as the narrator, who doesn't interact with the story, but shares his opinion and whatnot. I think that'd be neato. Also I'm picturing him as Morgan Freeman in my headcanon.

Nah, the story is almost done, i just need to edit it. I don't care about accessibility, i don't plan on trying to get it published. I guess the nigga narration seems out of place because it's just a segment, and the flow of the story isn't there.

Yeah that might be it. How long is it?

The program i use says ''~36.240 characters/ 13 pages.''

Tell me why I'm shit:

A fat man in a sloppy suit sticks a stack of 10 pictures of a masked man, reading Hawken in big letters, and fifty million dollar reward, at the very top left of a board already covered with pictures other than that spot. Every other picture also has a numerical value, none higher than one million or lower than thirty thousand. The room is filled with seedy looking folk drinking, smoking, and having light conversation while looking at slips of paper. The buzz that was in the room turns to silence and stillness as they all notice where the picture was placed. One man walks to the board and takes one of the newly placed photos and all eyes follow. He walks to the door at the same pace he grabbed the paper; methodically. As he opens the door to leave, he says, “You all afraid or something? I’ll bring back his head in a bag”, and walks out. They sit silent, attention at the door for a while, and then switch the attention to each other until.
“Cocky fuck”
“This’ll be my chance”
“You all ready for a new number one”
“I give im a week, you know It, I know-“
“Me going up in this place”
“I liked him.. CHEERS!”
“Jahahahahah!!”
Drink and conversation fill the room as it hadn’t in years; it feels alive. Yet the board is left alone, seemingly not there. No one looks at it or goes near it – except for one man. He is not a secret member of this place, but he is forgotten as the night takes sanity from some, consciousness others. Finally, his gaze becomes a walk, his walk a grab, his grab a slow trot to the door, three eyes forward.

My attempt at a Sci-Fi

A prologue more specifically. Tell me how shit it is, but please tell me why. Go.

Part 2 of 6

Part 3 of 6

Part 4 of 6

Part 5 of 6

1/2

The little boy had not shit before, but knew that it was expected of him before the elders considered him a man. He had spent his entire life up to this point, 17 name days, excreting his feces the way most children did. Through his sweat glands. But the easy days of shit tinted skin gloss would soon be over. He was about to become a man. He had to shit the way a man was expected to. Through his arsehole.

He understood the mechanics of the whole thing. He knew logically, that all he had to do was keep the waste together in one spot, in his stomach and bowels. Eventually enough would gather so that he would be able to shit it out of his arsehole as a solid piece, or pieces if some of the stories were true, of shit.

"Please let it be solid." he prayed to the old gods and the new. Although a liquid shit from the arsehole wasn't strictly speaking against the rules, it was never considered a manly shit. Especially not as one's first adult shit.

It was now or never. And the elders were growing impatient. The boy climbed the 33 steps to the top of the toilet cathedral. In 200 years, the design hadn't changed much. 33 steps leading to the top of an enormous glass cube. On top of the cube was a toilet. The cube itself was filled with a clear liquid gel, sensors, and current controls. These would all work together, so that when the shit was released from the arsehole, it would be positioned by the currents to the center of the liquid, so the elders could examine it from all sides.

He climbed the 33 steps and slowly walked to the toilet. He tried to ignore the stern looks from the elders. The high priest, his father and mother, the sineater, the butcher, and the accountant were all there, and were all wearing very serious faces at this moment.

He pulled down his britches and underpants and sat on the toilet. He had made sure to eat a hearty breakfast. Blood sausage, hashbrowns, hotcakes, and just a bit of coffee to help the shit flow through. He had even swallowed a shotglass full of corn, just to add a little flare to what he hoped would be his first adult shit. And he had eggs. Although they were queer eggs now that he thought of it. They tasted funny.

2/2

But now he was ready. He felt the shit build inside him, and it came out feeling like a fart at first. "Oh no, " he thought, "is that it? Just a fart?". But the fear was brief, because after another fart he could feel matter exit his arsehole. Solid matter. His first adult shit had not even finished, but he was grinning with pride and looked down at the elders. They were all smiles, and his log was not even completely out yet. But then their faces started to change.

His mother shrieked, and looked away her face in her hands. His father yelled, "No, no, noooooooo!!". The high priest looked utterly confused, and the sineater was clawing at his own face, tears mixed with blood. The boy had a sick feeling, but he had to know what was wrong with his shite.

He looked below the glass top of the cube. He saw what had horrified the elders. SPiders. Thousands and thousands of spiders. They were bursting through his shit log, filling the tank. There were more spiders than fecal matter. Like a legion of spiders, with just a mist of shit to mark that there had ever been a shit in the first place.

The queer eggs! They were spider eggs! The boy had eaten spider eggs, and in turn the spiders had hatched and were eating his shit.

And the boy? The boy did not become a man that day.

Part 6 of 6

Veeky Forums fucked up on something so I'm uploading this old file as part 6 if you're still interested.

This is the beginning of a fantasy novel, I took some Veeky Forums critique already and got it to a pretty good spot I think.

Pretty good read but spiders exiting an orifice thing is extremely cliche, just read another one a week ago. Not sure why that's such a popular trope.

buuUuUuUummpp

I wrote a short little children's story in Scots when I was writing my thesis on it. It's about a grumpy dwarf arguing with a dragon. I don't know how much of it you'll be able to understand but hey.

>Lood, lood and loodir the Droich rair'd yirdlins tae the deep, his girr fou o gleeds, an his gab sputten fire.

>"OI."

>An furth the deep cam a greet blatter, as like tae shak the foonds o the Yird an rander a brangle upan its kintras. The girthit brouk tirrit frae the grund, an the bens did crottle a the soond. Niver wis thar a greeter Shirramuir (abeich Shirramuir itsel) or stramash as thir warldish dirdrum in aw o Alba's lewirs.

>The Beist waukit wae uncoly channer, chaffin his heid as he risit.

>Spake he thein till Droich

>"Awright pal, how's it goin'?"

>"DE THUIRT THU, TU CREATUR SALACH."

>"Ye know I cannie understand ye when ye get awn like that, Droich," spak The Beist.

>"AWK, AH'M AWFOU VECKST FER YE. RICHT THEIN, YE SLEEKIT BEIST, AH'VE WIRDS TAE HAE WAE YE. AN YER A RICHT BLELLUM, THIS A KEN, SAE AH'LL NO HAE NANE O YER HAIVER." Droich golderit.

>"Ageein, Droich. You're layin' it awn a wee bit thick."

>"HAE YE A MIND OF MUCK? RICHT THEIN, I'LL BE ME PLAINEST. CAN YE KEEP IT DOON, I'M TRYIN' TAE SLEEP."

>"Awright pal, no worries."

>Smookit The Beist ageen tae his delf, an Droich tae his ain.

>Alfredo expanded his arm
Excuse me?

i meant stretched i wrote this when i was around 13 bad engrish

i wrote more but lost it all, here is what i found
pastebin.com/h5sbvDzZ

Read it out loud and had a good time. Lovely and bouncy flow.

Just wrote this up, please critique:

pastebin.com/kFsjgVGt

>Painesville
user pls

>crows
>jumped

This is not right.

>Doesn't know that cocks (roosters) make a crowing sound in the morning.

>Didn't see the sentence "as Jinny" in-between the two clauses to separate them.

I'm asking for constructive criticism, sir, but please do go on ahead.

If the ring is so special why send a squad and not a battalion.

If you read on further, most soldiers the night before was posted at the Palace for a celebration. Plus a battalion would be kinda ridiculous to send just after one girl in an entire city going down the drain (rampant crime, etc). It spreads them too thin, not very realistic.

She only assumes it's so special because she's not used to that many guards chasing after her.

Spoilers: It's really not that special.

What? I was talking about the tense.

My bad fampai, I assumed that you thought a Crow jumped or something.

bumping this

bumping again.

Holy shit some else submit something.

Here, gonna do some critiquing to 1. get this thread moving again and 2. get some myself

The style of narration is kind of inconsistent in terms of overall theme and feeling. Try to make more gradual transitions between the more refined turns of phrase and the "ghetto" aspect of the narrator

Mmm, maybe try giving more description to the environment and enhance that element of "seediness" to make that last part really "jump" more

Try reading McCarthy and Henry Miller to get an idea for what I mean.

Holy old, the crotch goblet bellows. A lectern for the king. White water ransom, the quiet halls of a monastery, rambling silence, garrulous no-noise.

Grammatically incorrect

rewrite it, you pleb

First two sentences work, third garbles the rhythm a bit

>Painesville

Jesus H. Christ...

throw it all away except for holy old, and throw that away too if you've read it before

archiveofourown.org/works/6835171/chapters/16376644

I need help on my potboiler. Legitimate criticism needed.

bomp

Here

Open a new document and rewrite the whole thing. This is a first draft, begin totally anew and build it stronger from the ground up.

poo poo

Jesus christ

Thank you. I can definitely enhance the feeling of seediness. I'll have to think about how I can make it jump. I'm not really even sure if any of it will stick, but I want to write it well regardless.

In media res:

Next on the path is a sight which delights him. The great old oak tree, Sore Jeremiad! Still standing, of course. The same knotty, bearded fellow who has weathered a thousand such storms as last night’s—an elder who has squatted here upon his hillock since long before the town first settled (though precisely when this was and by what mock pilgrims is a matter of no particular interest or record to us), and who wears along his haft the white lash marks of lightning and ax bit alike. Sore Jeremiad! His roots tunnel deep and breach throughout the hill and span for a hundred yards beyond! The sole constitution of our town, this tree. For lack of a cemetery or a townhall that can withstand the cyclones— and for lack of a common memory—we entrust our laws and obituaries to him. All across his bark and branches is etched the account of our township: our deaths, our marriages, our lawful ordinances, our population year by year, our votes and court rulings, our contracts, our maps of the environs, our poems and our songs, our lustful pining and letch and calumny, our confessions and prayers, our very dearness and dread to God. All of it is here, carved into the flesh of old Jeremiad. Though our town has never had a name, just as it has never had a given form, if you pressed any of us for an answer we would eventually give it thusly: We are the people of Sore Jeremiad. We live together in his scripted bark. So yes, he is a fine old tree, and also a good friend to our Sebastian, who in times of hunger will come to suckle at the thick crimson sap which weeps endlessly from the knot at the center of his trunk, just as he does today.

Jesus tap-dancing Christ

How do you guys get your ideas? I really want to write something, but I'm stuck at the idea phase. Anyone have some suggestions?

Just keep saying Jesus Christ. The people who are writing their novels would get self-conscious about their Ideas

Somebody, somewhere, thought that I was cute. That meant the world to me. No; it meant the universe and beyond to me. I would never know who it was, so I knew that there was no point in continuing to live in this cruel, miserable world. I knew what I had to do. I had the gun cocked and loaded. The cold steel was pressed to my head. I knew what I had to do.

Jesus why?

Please rate.

>Please rate.
Jesus, why, just why?

Because this is a critique thread.

Anyone else want to read my shitty Sci-fi?

The burning beams from the sun had turned his skin from pasty white to bright pink. As sweat dripped from his stubbled scalp moisturizing his unkempt gray mustache, he wiped blood onto the left leg of his green cargo shorts. How did i become this? The realization suddenly crept in, but yet it was all too surreal. The feelings of detatchment were insurmountable. The regret was strong, as was the fear of what was next to come, but above all he felt a powerful sense of satisfaction. As he gracefully put his sweaty palm on her soft bare cheek, still pure from the blood that poured over the rest of her face from the the top of her crown, he smirked slyly. Not an evil grin, but a satisfying faint smile that expressed a sense of pride. Not pride in the actions that proceeded, but the pride a father has looking over his daughter as she gently drifts asleep. He gave her a strong kiss on her now crimson cheek, tasting the salt and iron on his lips. He was joyed to see she looks just as beautiful as she did all those years before. And he made his final goodbye. As he walked away he looked up at the sky and saw that the shade of blue has overtaken him. It was time. He jumped on his bike and pedadled his was to the pond. There he stripped bare and changed to the set of cloths he planted earlier that morning. A red and yellow hawaiin t shirt and a pair of ocean blue levis, as well as size 9 white new balances with a navy "N". The muffled scream echoed in his mind repeatedly as he struggled to put on his sneakers in a rush. No fucking socks, he thought. The adreniline was euphoric, he felt his gums pulsing inside his mouth. He didnt expect her to freeze, only letting out a defeated yelp when he forcefully put his large hands on her small lips and prominent philltrum. She did it as if she only did so because it was expected of her, a chore thay she realized was pointless. The muffled noise was a sympthony to him, to finally be verbally acknowledged. As he hasnt spoken to another human being in nearly 19 months, outside of saying "have a good one" to the delivery driver who would bring him his meals. And even then they were never female. But she was. The look of her eyebrows crawling upward in fear, as her large brown eyes showed a look of helplessness. Eyes that were looking directly at his eyes and at no one elses. The memory was enough to last several lifetimes in isolation, if that was what fate would have. Hearing a women talk directly to him was so foreign. It was all worth it if not just for the miniscule, quickly escaping acknoledgement from her. How could she do this, the selfish whore. Her skin was so soft and gentle; he grew acustomed to only feeling his rough, grotesque, oily skin. He forgotton that women were so soft and gentle. Then the anger. The realization that others led happier, superior lives to that of his...

Beams of sun had morphed his skin from white to raw pink. Sweat dripped between between his short hair and fell into a ragged mustache. He wiped blood off onto his cargo shorts.
How did I become this? Realization was setting in through his surreal state of mind. (the rest is a bunch of sentences tell but not showing.)
Yes he was satisfied. He placed a sticky palm on the woman's cheek (you don't need to tell us it's bare if he can place his hand on it)
still free from blood, though plenty of that still poured down her face. (Don't have anyone smirking, ever, and if you must have someone smirk, ffs don't have them do it slyly.)
He smiled with pride.

Lost interest after this. This seems like a generic torture scene so far.

hi fucks hope u like this, gonna try n critique some after i post this.

Eleven days ago, the storm started. A breeze wandered out of the west and, with the reins of weather, drew towering thunderheads behind it. Once the sky was covered, a pale green hue seeped into the clouds and gusts started to interrupt the breeze. The air turned quiet, save for the buffeting wind.

Whirlpools started to swirl in the volatile ceiling. Hundreds of tendrils, waving, twisting worms, elastic spears of wind, blindly groped towards the ground with roar of a speeding train. The earth exploded at their touch, spraying sod in every direction as they wove across the face of the Earth with the grace of a calligrapher's hand. After the land was latticed with lines of destruction, the rain started. That was eleven days ago.

Nothing in the prose caused my to recoil in disgust, but nothing really stood out in it either.

beta reason to an hero tho bub

Got a little purple at times, but overall it paints a clear image.

I waited in the shadow of my stupid house.
The Mustang rolled up in the low black water,
Growling softly, then it stopped and purred.
Dark green paint like a deep flavor,
Like hard, sour-apple candy catching in my throat.

A hint of his blond swoop, the red button of his cigarette.
Smoke out the window. Sterling:
His name like a sword reflecting light in a dark room.
I'm the sword swallower.
And the grass licked my shoes.

Never posted in one these threads before. Bracing for impact.

Though confused and wary, I did what he asked and found myself soon joined in the tremulous joy my parents found themselves in. The good doctor came bearing good news. (Although as I write this, I ruminate whether such an act was judicious or merely given life to abate some wayward empathy he felt upon seeing my mangled disfigured sister the like we do when we see a mendicant and pass him without a glance in the street.) He spoke at length of a certain contact he made while in medical school. A man going by the name Michael Fitzgerald; a medical student of prodigious skill and talent and wit. They were as friends as Capone and the police force were. Fitzgerald was the leading man and our good doctor a poor supporting character. They met by happenstance. The two happened to be looking for a certain medical textbook when they crossed paths. It was then that our good doctor learned of Fitzgerald and his grandiose ambitions; the kind you would not hear escape the lips of a medical student.

Its alright

i'm i really like the laconic style you're using here, but i think i'd be more selective about the verbs and adjectives you use. it's a bit short, so i can't really tell how much unity there is in your choice of adjectives, but i'd try to, as i said earlier, make them more unified. the character's actions should align with the adjectives used to describe them, as to make it apparent that there was no other way the events could have occurred.

sorry if i'm not making too much sense right now, i'm a retard.

it seems like you did a decent job with this defining him as a 'leading man' and with 'prodigious skill and talent and wit,' and then later, contrasting these strong, unwavering adjectives with 'escaping.'

sorry again if this wasn't any help, i hope you can maybe glean something from it though.

firs

fucking pc decided to post on its own

first time posting here

pastebin.com/7PwzDU5a

please don't bother replying if you're going to say something with an utter lack of content, such as this.

Never a man could be humiliated and lowered in such way and remain silent. Even the most submissive among men would rise and defeat his offender. And I'm no exception.
As he laughed disgustingly and debauchedly, I grabbed the knife over the table. I was facing his back, and even his back was enough to provoke the hatred and disgust needed to stab him.
With an undescribable pleasure, the knife firstly cut the cloth of his shirt, and then smoothly penetrated that viscous and sweaty skin. Drilling through his ribs and organs. The sound of the blade cutting the human skin was like a great symphony, orchestred by angels caressing my ears.
I took the blade out, and once more stabbed him. His muscles, until then rigid, slowly weakened. He fell on his knees, the only thing keeping him from falling to the ground was the knife. I took it out and he fell face to the ground, with a blank stare and stupid expression.
Rapidly, my anger turned into a smile, which then became a laughter. Never before had I felt so powerful, so joyous for defeating an opponent. And he was there, fallen before me. I kicked his corpse and laughed even more. However, slowly the extasis became fear, guilt and despair. Yes, the death of such hateful creature was undoubtedly a reason to be jubilant, but it was still a life. What right did I have of assassinating someone? Ending his life, neglecting his happiness?

Dislike the phrase "preying eyes." In the 3rd paragraph you say "women" when it should be "woman." Why put a hyphen in six months? In the 6th paragraph you say "the barn seems" when it should be "seemed." "Deadly degrees" is a hideous turn of phrase, there are much better, more evocative ways to express that thought. Why put a hypen in brown eyes? Change "had to be" to "was" in the last sentence of the 7th paragraph. It's drought, not draught (lol). Change "silent with a dangerous silence" to something less stupid.

Overall, there is not much style to this. Very mechanical writing, with little figurative language. This happened, that happened, this was the scenery. Everything is described in the same straightforward way, and as such there is little tension when there should be (i.e., the gun fight, the talk with Alik). Your dialogue does not seem appropriate to the period -- "You wanna fucking die?" is some American action movie shit. Anyway, it's alright. Things happen. Polish it, work on getting the language to reflect the action.

Try "never could a man" instead. Two adverbs in the fourth sentence, reconsider that. Skin isn't viscous unless you're melting, and then being stabbed is the least of your concerns. Knives don't drill (have you ever even cut through a piece of chicken?). The angel symphony image is trite. The killing here described is not an assassination. Just use the word ecstasy like a normal person. Awful writing, high scho wish fulfillment stuff.

Thanks I suppose.
Thanks for response. I understand what you mean though I didn't give it much of thought aside from getting the general feeling for the scene and it's characters. This is essentially from a rough draft of a short story I'm currently writing. I'll keep your advice in mind as I rework certain scenes.

any feedback is appreciated :)

She wore a tiara, a green summerdress, and walked down the aisle with pomergranates and potatoes and spinach. The sparse lighting bathed her in a spotlight as she stopped to look at an apple, before putting it down and stepping into the darkness. Every step she took echoed, and all at once the store was empty. The aisles and shelves and counters, and only we remained. I think the small store had become my world for an instant, though of course it belonged to her as much as it did to me, more to her perhaps, she was the central focus; my eyes followed her everywhere. I watched her move, one foot in front of the other, confident but not graceful, as she passed and eyed fruit after fruit. I should go talk to her, say hello, speak about the weather? Nice weather today, huh? What do you reply? What would she reply? Maybe she would smile awkwardly or maybe she would say, yes! yes it is isn't it? and where to go from there, I wondered, even as I slowly walked towards her.

Thanks, very good critique!

Two parts of the same story—first introduces the environment, second introduces the character. Written in fairly different styles—tell me if the jump between the two is too big.
Also, please tell me if this is worth exploring at all.

pastebin.com/whEXmGkN
pastebin.com/4VbamPrQ

Feels really HS creative writing class-ish and I'm not sure what it's getting at. Your usage of the passive voice is straight-up awful. The word choice is fine but what you choose to focus on within the scene feels pretty Duane Reade $2 novel-worthy. Foremost: is this narrator supposed to be sympathetic or not? What are you getting at? I don't have a sense of this character—you keep darting back and forth between really saccharine and really creepy, but not in a clear enough way if that's the intention.

Agree with the last poster. Awful. Don't use such dramatic words—nobody talks or thinks like that—and don't choose such subject matters.

the narrator is meant to be kinda creepy. any tips on how to improve, or what I should look out for?

First of all—nothing to do with the narrator, but kill the passive voice. You clearly have no idea how to use it.
Second—you oscillate too quickly between a genuine and a vicious tone. The "—what do you reply, what would she reply" shit and everything following it—aside from being awkwardly phrased, it's less creepy and more just normal-lonely. The fact that he does in fact approach her doesn't help—we expect these narrators to stay isolated. You want to make these kinds of characters relateable in only the basest, most humiliating ways—give too much to latch onto and they become normal sad sacks.

...

Don't take writing advice from anyone who abuses the em dash in such a way

First was private. Apologies: fixed now.

thank you!

Veeky Forums I need Ideas for a story. I have 3 characters: Main char, girl, introverted, eccentric, self conscious. Smart but over analyzes everything. Support char guy, has a high sense of moral, pride, values honor and is a serious man. Not love interest but feels the need to protect the main char mainly from herself.
Main villain guy. Eloquent, actually smart scraping genius level, condescending. Wants to demonstrate the main character that having autistic behavior doesn't make her special. Theme is suspense, thriller and detective-like drama.

I have 4 pages written of the final scene which is the start of the script: Main villain has taken the body of the support character and has the main char tied to a chair after a confrontation. Main char has her face beaten, a rip broken, two knives injuries and is slowly bleeding from one wound. She is thinking all of her options to get out but can't think straight. The villain gives her a monologue of "what is like to see a person loose its life". Finally he ends up using his mind to move her hand and stab himself.

I didn't want to add supernatural shit to the story, but I guess it's fine as long as I don't jump the shark. Since that part is almost the end, mind transfer and telekinesis should be the one time most powerful thing on the story. The setting is hard for me to grasp, age of characters, year of the story, location. Scenarios of the characters interactions are easy for me to write but I still have a hard time deciding on the setting.

Piece of something i have been writing:

Rigby drives up the alley to the back of the townhouse. The backyard lies littered with detris and discarded furniture, the backdoor ajar. He picks his way through scattered trash, through the scarred entryway. A hallway leads past walls scribed with grafitti, empty door frames and a waterstained ceiling. Rigby walks to the front entrance, the locks been kicked out and the door hangs on a hinge. Jim lounges on the front steps, holding a paint ball gun. A car approaches, Taking casual aim, Jim fires as it passes, missing. Rigby flinches at the sound of the vehicle's horn.
"I'm a good shot" says Jim, smiling lazily at the driver.
The car does not stop

Some expo/worldbuilding I wrote for a d&d character

pastebin.com/QnetL4nF

if your main char has never seen combat before anything your villain says is going to go in one ear and right out the other; she won't process any of it.

thanks bub. guess it was a bit short huh

Rotina

A aurora deste dia, como a aurora
De todos os meus dias, foi gosmenta:
Após rugir o alarme o canto ríspido
Irrompi de um casulo de remela
E a membrana de névoa dos bocejos;
Lentamente eu me livro da placenta
Acolhedora e quente das cobertas.
O banho quente solve o sono e arrasta
Os vestígios dos sonhos para o ralo.
Meu café da manhã é um genocídio:
Um punhado de gnomos azulados,
Mirtilos, e de suas róseas noivas,
Gorduchas framboesas; há também
O gengibre, duende apimentado:
Desse urticante diabrete erval,
Que há dias eu torturo, amputo mais
Um bife ardente e atiro na mistura.
Por fim, para engrossar o óleo sabático,
Uma banana, a dama desnudada
De sua veste chique e nobre casca,
Todas essas frutinhas mergulhadas
No sangue de laranja assassinada.
Essas fadas são todas mutiladas
Na máquina cortante de tortura
Que liquidificador nós chamamos.
Depois disso trabalho no escritório,
Um deserto cinzento, o triste reino
De pastas, relatórios, memorandos,
Onde o gritar do telefone e o estalo
Das teclas do teclado são o hino,
Esse inferno que abriga em suas vísceras
As desbotadas almas burocráticas
Chamadas auxiliares de escritório.
Quando a primeira fatia de serviço
É mastigada eu vou para a academia
Para forçar um corpo que não ama
Nada mais que sentar e ver tevê
A empurrar a velhice, a artrite, as dores,
A doença e a ferrugem pelo menos
Alguns anos a mais rumo ao futuro,
Varrer para um pouquinho além o pó
Do definhar, o pó que hei de tornar-me.
Almoçar com meus pais e meu irmão
Vem em seguida: é a glória de meu dia.
Tomando chimarrão, nós debatemos
As notícias, o esporte, a eterna lepra
Da política, e muitos outros tópicos
Enquanto nas panelas a comida
Fumega; é como a acrópole de Atenas
Ou a colmeia humana erguida em mármore
Em honra às vozes que no ar se embatem,
O senado romano: nós fazemos
A cozinha miúda da senpaiília
Imitar esses templos da linguagem.

Tendo almoçado eu volto ao escritório
Para mais petições, atas, sentenças,
Contra-razões, embargos e recursos:
Sempre a mesma ciranda a reciclar,
Com as mesmas palavras sem perfume
E as mesmas frases pálidas e anêmicas
Sempre o mesmo mingau de tédio insosso.
O sono é o grande mal que aflige as tardes
Dos pobres servos que rastejam pelos
Labirintos sem fim da papelada:
Qual caracol passeia nos miolos
Os besuntando em muco de apatia.
A nossa salvação são várias xícaras
De café, cujo abraço esquenta as vísceras
E sacode a alma: os cérebros o usam
Para fazer bochechos e cuspir
Fora a geleia preguiçosa e ranço
Bocejante do sono: o sangue amargo
E negro do café é o verdadeiro
Néctar do ativo Deus da Produção.
Findo o trabalho pobre do advogado
Retorno para casa, para minha
Escrivaninha, meus papéis, meus livros
E o trabalho embriagante do poeta
Inicia. Porém, se enfim me sinto
Livre, também me oprime o grande medo
De encarar, face a face, a folha branca,
Essa tirana albina cujo vácuo
Zomba de mim, o reino de vazio
Que anseio por preencher com letras, sílabas,
E palavras que ecoem, em conjunto,
Aquilo que sentimos na medula
Que merece a coroa da beleza.
A minha mente, que era no escritório
Um cavalo atrelado à uma carroça,
Carregando e buscando os mesmos víveres
Nos mesmos armazéns, por mesmas rotas,
Agora esse cavalo corre livre
Por pampas de mistério, por campinas
Inexploradas, sem roteiro ou rumo,
E ousa até mesmo criar asas, ser
Pégaso, a devorar céus e atmosferas,
A pastar entre estrelas, nas estepes
Do infinito, onde frutam as galáxias.
Enquanto escrevo eu bebo chá dourado,
Contemplação, carícia e compreensão
Liquefeitos em seiva fumegante,
O pôr do sol dormindo numa xícara.

Quando o cérebro cansa de ficções,
Quando os pombos de minha fantasia
Retornam de seus voos pelas cidades,
Impérios, oceanos, bosques, mangues,
Desertos, selvas, tundras, rios, geleiras
E toda a geografia inominada
Dos mundos sem substância do sonhar;
Quando regressam, sujos e cansados,
Os emissários, eu deponho a pena
(Ou melhor, a caneta esferográfica)
E preparo o jantar, que com prazer
Degusto no sofá, frente a tevê.
Comer gordurosas colheradas
De lixo pop da indústria do entretenimento
Me faz tão bem que é quase medicina
(A mente em ponto-morto pesa menos).
Chegada a hora de dormir, eu cumpro
Meu dever de escritor e leio um pouco
Enquanto gota a gota, gota a gota
A inconsciência avança pra afogar-me.
Pouco a pouco emudecem as galáxias
Que, entrelaçadas, compõem quem eu sou,
Essa teia-de-aranha da consciência
Vai lentamente desbotando em breu:
Astros e estrelas fecham suas pétalas.
Os neurônios assopram suas velas
E só em cochichos mínimos conversam.
Os sininhos tilintam lentamente
E então se calam: quem impera agora
É o sono pleno, esse apagar saudável
De nossa mente, as horas nutritivas
Nas quais deixamos de existir, nas quais
Visitamos os mundos infinitos
De nada que antecedem e precedem
A faísca minúscula da vida.
E assim, de dia em dia, eu vou vivendo.

How do I find writers who work for peanuts?

Find a writer.

Wew senpai. Ready to be torn apart.

She strode inward draped in bacchanal livery, the hems gilded in lilies and dotted by assortment of rose colored flowers rousing the impression of a girl tremulously teetering on the cusp of womanhood. She wore a sable choker with the six-rayed star hanging from the mean and her arms akimbo with her head turned up and her eyes cast downward. Her lips were as thin rose petals, pink and small, and she wore a lurid gold eyeshadow and had her hair down like a waterfall, gently breaking on her dainty shoulders. She wore her maquillage so as not to attenuate the tiny macula dotting her visage but to accentuate and to contrast her pale skin with the fawn of those blemishes. So as she stepped through the ballroom, arm wrapped around her beau, the eyes of noblemen and noblewoman, of generals and politicians, of artists and philosophers (of both the natural and unnatural) fell upon her countenance and a palpable awe swept the room.But alas, the girl was not taught in the subtleties of restraint and airs and thusly fell from her audience's grace as she became bashful. Her face flushed a restrained but evident crimson and her lips quivered anxiously.

i gotchu b. im just goin hard so dont take offense. givin u the bad first then the posi m8

>"by assortment of rose colored flowers"
that'd be *an* assortment

>"She wore a sable choker with the six-rayed star hanging from the mean and her arms akimbo with her head turned up and her eyes cast downward"
so she's wearing her arms akimbo and wearing her eyes cast downward? everything past "from the mean..." feels tacked on and out of place.

>"and had her hair down like a waterfall, gently breaking on her dainty shoulders"
i think it'd have to be "her hair was worn down like a waterfall" for the grammar to work.

>"maquillage"
m8 ur lucky i took french in highschool lol. you a fan of nabokov too? this aint really bad just pointing it out for some reason

>"So as she stepped through the ballroom, arm wrapped around her beau"
before this u said her arms were akimbo, which means hands on hips i think. sooo where her beau come from? howd he get there? i hope by beau u mean bf or date otherwise im lookin real foolish rn senpai

>"thusly"
u could just use thus desu. thusly odd af sounding but thats just my opinion.'

ok so positive things. youve got a big vocab, but it seems to come out forced in your writing. great imagery tho. i dont really have much more to say besides that ur sentences got pretty damn long sometimes. you gotta watch for when stuff just seems to be tacked on or out of place in a sentence if youre keeping em that long.

anyway, not bad bruh. keep writing mang. im bout to post something myself

please help