/Critique/ Thread

After death, all lions in Nereboth entered.

Ankles do"ing" anything like I never end.

Answer "da" fAking little incubus ass

that's all my mind can give me. smpn

i think this one was the best one.
[][][][][][][][][][:)]

Anyway,

pls cum back
heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey

The syntax definitely needs work, but moreso the 'voice' of the peace. It sounds very simplistic with simple and repititious word choice that gives it a very highschool sound. A story like this should sound like you're telling it to someone, not like you're TRYING to sound like you're telling it to someone.

Keep working on editing the grammar and try for a more authentic sound.

I don't mind the voice. I think you should read it aloud, there are a few word choices in there that are awkward.

I'm thinking of a flashback about Boxer with his fellow dobermen, what do you think?

*ozone

ugh sorry guys, I'm in a shit mood and feel like being an unhelpful shit to complement it

what the fuck is worthwhile writing anyway, and who am I kidding if I say anybody gives or will give a fuck about what I have to say?

and I don't know if they heard or not in the first place, but why should I explain further?

I have to do things for the sake of it but that seems impossible.

Teenage perfectionists dash their dreams on shards of angst and
Ask if it's really worth cash to feel like this

A friend of mine who knows Cliff says he has a mean heroin addiction, probably spent all his jewtube bux, running low on $$$....

Fuck off you fucking pencil tapper

>friend
normalfags leave NOW

cheap chip cheeping
twit twit its twits
twisting and sweeping
beceause they beeping beeps
being beeps they beep the beeper beeps
beating beta' betamax
as he baiting beta baits
being alpha
beat beat alpha bait beta
bit by bit he beat-beating betas
beat by beat beta losing bits
killed to bits
beta is no longer close to vasco the guma
beep beep he is the jeep

I began to fall, my reality had become a void, in an instant I lay silent in the shadow of purgatory. The air was thick like fog, for a short moment the void became fantasy, and I danced in a warm and conformable dream, in an instant the light vanished, my ego decayed.
My essence faded, slowly consumed by a dormant figure – one that was faceless and hollow. A silhouette of form quickly became of flesh.
Before me stood a woman, nude and without eyes; suddenly I became surrounded by an inescapable shroud of primal desire, my vanished ego replaced with selfish and sickly hedonism, a hunger no man has felt, no starving child or man without cause.
Had the excessive drinking sent me into another delirium, had the opiates induced a nod so deep I where neither dead nor alive? Was this place of emptiness a middle ground between my life and death?

sounds like my saturday night senpai

Sounds like a lovely weekend

I really like this. Before
>"Had the excessive.."
I was reminded of Alex from A Clockwork Orange.
I really don't like that line, delete "Had the excessive...dead nor alive" and keep the last question. Definitely one of the better things I've seen posted in one of these threads in a while, despite its short length.

Here's the first quarter of a flash fiction piece I'm writing:

We stood on the platform, our hands tied behind our backs by itchy rope that was too tight. Before us stood a hundred people, all of them waiting in anxiety. A wave of sweat rolled across my body, caged against me by the shrunken t-shirt and shorts that I was wearing—that we were all wearing. A bright green light flashed slowly, illuminating the faces in front of me; their mouths were twisted and misshapen, their eyes completely focused on us, on me. The sound of footsteps emerged from behind, and from the tall, green curtain walked a short, stout man. His eyes sat uncomfortably on the top of his head and he had a stubby nose that took loud, fast breaths like a pug. The girl beside me began to mutter some sort of prayer. Her words stumbled over one another as she shook like [a newborn calf]. I looked down at the people before us once again, and my eyes met those of a young man with platinum blonde hair folded neatly upon itself like an envelope. He had a jagged scar to the left of his left eye that ran down the length of his face and he seemed to be about the same age as us. The corner of his mouth cracked a devilish smile that mouthed the words, “I win.” It could have easily been him up here, on this platform, shaking and sweating, silently begging for a quick death. Touché, I thought.
As the man made his way to the front of us and to the podium, the emerald lights stopped flashing and in their place shone a white spotlight that forced my eyes to the floor with its brightness. I tried my best to put on a bold face, to feign courage, but by the [] smirks on the faces of the men and women fortunate enough to make it past 20 it was obvious that my attempt had failed. The man adjusted the microphone before him and, taking a sharp, deep breath, said, “Welcome all, to this our annual rites ceremony.” He sounded as though he’d had sand dumped down his throat, the way it creaked and stuttered, “The men and women whom you see before you tonight have been chosen by our ever-prudent council to be this season’s offering to this our graceful mother.” His eyes meandered to the dirt upon which the audience stood and lingered there before returning to the crowd, “From the soil stained by their vigorous, youthful blood shall there rise a plentiful crop. And as there has always been,” he bellowed, gaining confidence, and the people before him replied—though with an air of duty rather than pride and conviction—
“So shall there always be.”

After reading it again I revised a few things:

We stood on the platform, our hands tied behind our backs by itchy rope that was too tight. Before us stood a hundred people, all of them waiting in anxiety. A wave of sweat rolled across my body, caged against me by the shrunken t-shirt and shorts that I was wearing—that we were all wearing. A bright green light flashed slowly, illuminating the faces in front of me; their mouths were twisted and misshapen, their eyes completely focused on us, on me. The sound of footsteps emerged from behind, and from the tall, green curtain walked a short, stout man. His eyes sat uncomfortably on the top of his head and he had a stubby nose that took loud, fast breaths like a pug. The girl beside me began to mutter some sort of prayer. Her words stumbled over one another as she shook like [a newborn calf]. I looked down at the people before us once again, and my eyes met those of a young man with platinum blonde hair folded neatly upon itself like an envelope. He had a jagged scar to the left of his left eye that ran down the length of his face and he seemed to be the same age as us. The corner of his mouth cracked a devilish smile that mouthed the words, “I win.” It could have easily been him up here, on this platform, shaking and sweating, silently begging for a quick death. Touché, I thought.

As the man made his way to the front of us and to the podium, the emerald lights stopped flashing and in their place shone a white spotlight that forced my eyes to the floor with its brightness. I tried my best to put on a bold face, to feign courage, but by the [] smirks on the faces of the men and women fortunate enough to make it past 20 it was obvious that my attempt had failed. The man adjusted the microphone before him and, taking a sharp breath, said, “Welcome all, to this our annual rites ceremony.” He sounded as though sand had been dumped down his throat, the way his voice creaked and stuttered, “The men and women whom you see before you tonight have been chosen by our ever-prudent council to be this season’s offering to this our graceful mother.” His eyes meandered to the dirt upon which the audience stood and lingered there before returning to the crowd, “From the soil stained by their youthful blood shall there rise a plentiful crop. And as there has always been,” he bellowed, gaining confidence, and the people before him replied—though with an air of duty rather than pride and conviction—

“So shall there always be.”

Narrator sounds like Holden Caulfield. If he's supposed to sound like he's in high school then you did well, if not you should really change it to make him more mature.

Pretty good, I like it. My critique would be the constant references to the passing of time, they occur too often and sound too similar too each other. Like you said "in an instant" twice and you use for a short moment in between the two "in an instant"'s. You should either change them to something less jarring or get rid of them altogether, unless for some reason the repitition and jarringness was done on purpose. I think eliminating most of the references to time altogether would be best as they simply distract from the mood of the scene and its mystical atmosphere which seems to be apart from time anyways.

Wasn't aiming for it. I'll need to do rewrites.
Thanks for all the advice. I'll fix it up soon.

i'm a noob reader so i can't judge the technical aspects, but is it on purpose that it reads like a YA novel? otherwise rewrite the cheesy dialogue, the cheesy protagonist and reinvent the cliched setting

sleep tight pizza

This is a period of temporal decay
What is beautiful settles at our feet
The rays of sun would shine freely
Through the trees
But there is no sun
Only trees
And spring is not a bastion of hope
For those about to face winter
It is coldness robed
In a cruel promise

bleed for you
the city laughs
the streets weep
as figures pass
outside my window
their faces pale
They cling to life
tooth and nail
"please try to remember"
we always forget
that everyone
has blood to let

This is a first draft or at least a first imagining. You've got a nice slice of life here but it needs to be refined.

Start again, open a new document and write the story from the beginning, feel free to refer to your old version as much or as little as you like.

Punctuation is always useful m8s.. I wouldn't assume that a line break is a pause; often it isn't.

Not very good desu

slight update.. wasn't happy with the last line

Its better, Hope you keep writing. what you're writing seems interesting

Punctuation is in order, line breaks isn't a pause

Rip it apart

Burning embers shine so brightly
For a flicker then they die
Lasting an eternity
for a moment
Then goodbye

Who can say that their light's nothing
When it blinds such
Stupendously
If only my heart too could capture
Souls, if it'd then die still happy
I'd be

For fiery red my heart too bleeds
Pristine like roses wild neath the trees
You can't find them the leaves rustle too much
And the cry of the birds will enchant you so
You'll forget all about it like my heart too
Was forgotten by her
Who so long ago
Promised me the peace of the pastures
Where Caedmon lay when god sang to him
He wrote hymns while I write litanies
Demonic indeed guess that's why she won't touch me

And fiery red the embers still bleed
I flick them away ashes that they are
and I light a new one another one indeed
And sigh smoke eyed
What else is there for me?

Thanks mate. I'll keep trying. Btw, that poem is somewhat related to the theme of a competition. Worth entering?

The First Critique

Two components of one story. Rip them to bits, please.

pastebin.com/whEXmGkN
pastebin.com/4VbamPrQ

That's a rare Bloom. Thank you, user.

punctuation

1st:
*stragglers
2nd:
>He had drunk, and he was fallen down backwards, through an open window and out of the apartment and out of the heating and the pink wall-washer lighting and onto the dirt sprinkled with dead grass and salt to soak up the snow eight stories below.

I don't like this sentence. I know it's not meant to be elegant but come on..

Uh, they're good, I suppose, but veryveryvery DFW. Very DFW.

----

I'm not a bad man, lass,
just lonely, trust me.
I'll pay you grand
for some of your company.
Like the other men you know,
my urges are unquenched,
I'm desperate, insatiable,
the devil has my cock
in withered grip;
how dare he speak for me -
I'll deny him all his worth, my soul
will stay with me, just need
to seek another. And you sell
to me your mouth and twat,
you laugh at me behind my back,
that sad old man,
no friend nor lover.
Tit for tat, marra.
You're not better, you cannot live
for sin and live; I'm here
to save us. Put your tits
away, I want to speak.
Damn it, understand it!
You're my friend, my friend
above my lover.

Been a while since I've been to /lit. Been writing outside my usual, collaborative stuff, but when I return to my own stuff and do exercises, I usually write about this.

This is a small extension of a larger piece I'm writing. I've critiqued pieces of that before.

>The Island
There is a place that is pure, where the sun warms and goldens the bare skin of young girls, as they adventure through the land.

Three square miles of jungle, fields, beaches, and sand, and a gigantic waterfall by a gigantic cliff, at the bottom a crystal-clear cove, where young girls swim, and sparkle in the sun. Glowing, sparkling bodies, thin and thick, matured with breasts or breast-buds, dark angles over rose-buds, or maturity yet to come, little blank frames, templates for future women.

But all smile, all act the same, all sparkling, all immodest, all naturally comfortably nude, regal in the water, or running across the fields, tip-toeing through the creeks, surrounded by the wall of nature.

In the open or in hidden parts of the world,
There is no matching the magnanimity of naked girls.

You write with a certain reverence that your subject matter just doesn't warrant, especially not out of context. It sounds tryhard at best, creepy (and not even the "but it's INTENTIONALLY creepy" shit that people in these threads love, just straight-up creepy beyond readability) at worst.
If you want to give your writing a mythical quality, read your culture's myths and use their language. Don't be dramatic for the sake of it: it sounds awful, especially in English.

If you intend to set it to music, we need at least a score. If you don't intend to set it to music, it's far too lyrical (and driven far too far into the American pop tradition).

A-are you saying naked girls don't deserve reverence?

Otherwise, noted. These writings are definitely going to be using a pseudonym.

They deserve oblique reverence. In the West, and especially in anything influenced by French (such as the entire English language), we write about such things with a little more shame.
Mixing high-strung language ("In the open or in hidden parts of the world, There is no matching the magnanimity") and obscenity ("of naked girls") sounds either juvenile or horribly pretentious and creepy or both unless done very well and very intentionally.

Uh... what the fuck are you talking about?

"Sky Burial"

When I die, give me to the birds, for I have always loved them anyway.

When raptor tongues have rasped white and clean the bones beneath, and carried away my flesh, wheat harvested with sickle talon, I will be free. And there forevermore live in the breath of mountains, the screams of rabbits, and the slaying of doves.

Agreeing with that was really fuckin creepy. There are several problems with it. For one, these "young girls" seem to not have brains. They move and act in random, animal-like motions. I think it would actually be less creepy if you replaced the girls with cows. For another, you hyper-focus on the fact that they are naked. It's like you're a lecher staring at these things (things, they're not people) from the clouds. If this is the opening of whatever it is you're writing, no one will read it. You seriously need to rethink whatever it was that brought you to write this part. If there's some kind of justification for it elsewhere in your story, fine, but it better be hella funny in its context.

In media res; a wild child having a sugar rush after drinking sap off a tree

I like it. It conveys this very innocent yet orgiastic experience, and definitely has that primitive, pagan sense that it should, given the character involved. I enjoyed it.

Perfect, that is just what I was trying to bring across. Thanks for the critique, glad you liked it.

I had a response typed up but I guess it didn't go though.

Though I disagree with the idea that the subject is obscene, I understand the criticism. I think I went for the juxtaposition out of a sense of amusement, but also because I believe in every word I wrote. I guess I just be an insane perv.

The longer piece isn't as direct, but it probably comes off just as creepy. In response to an earlier draft of part of that work, an user said it was "obvious what I was doing," so I decided to strip away the fluff and bring it front and center. Maybe not the best of ideas.

Or maybe after I die the piece will be uncovered and gain popularity as the ramblings of a madman.

Here's the first part of a short story I've been working on.

‘’I’ve been sick. My nose has given up on me. Onto greater lands I shall descend.’’― ''This has to be fresh... It's written right on the door; must have taken the guy some time with such a fancy font. This isn't a grimy gas station, this has to be fresh, one of the workers would have wiped it off... But what's the guy trying to say? It's probably meant to be weird, or maybe he wasn't all that well in the head....''― He dozed off; staring at the fluorescent lights above him― ''How fragile this world is, how fragile the mind is. It doesn't take much; before you know it, you're screaming, naked, and scared... no aid.''― The memory of the thought was there, the thought however dissipated into the heavenly glow of the florescent lights. He flushed the empty toilet, just in case, just in case, just in case. His mind was empty now; bouncing between the pleasantly sharp porcelain steps and the ambient buzz from above.

This is damn good

whatever the fuck this is, go ahead and critique it. I wrote it when I was 11.

Anonymous 08/24/16(Wed)21:14:14 No.8434219 ▶
#
Here's some free advice, nobody wants to critique a piece of writing that you dismiss already (in order to protect yourself from negative feedback) by saying that it's just something you wrote when you were however many years young. It is just a lame as shit cop out. Take ownership of your writing or don't waste someone else's time with it.

i posted it because i thought it might have been amusing ya dingus

this nigger is so fucking ugly lmao

Critique threads are serious business, bitch

oh hey!
I actually watch your video on Michael Gira's book. Then I watched a few others.
I dunno if ur legit but you fuckin' cool

luv u

he's fucking cute, you watch your whore mouth you herpes infest cum bubble of a whore's creampie. >:(

fuck waiting and revising it myself first, have at it (1/3)

(2/3)

look at those crows feet and those sun yellow stained chompers. for a 40 year old man he can barely grow facial hair .

Literally just started this a couple of minutes ago, it's an idea for a short story. Hope it works well. I want a good 10 pages out of it.

(3/3)

Winds of Pentecost

SEEK OUT YOUR OWN
SALVATION
WITH FEAR AND TREMBLING

WITH FEAR AND TREMBLING

Mouth full of tongues
Earthquaking jaw

Eeeeeeesh Da’alada
Deeeeeesh Ba’al (NO!)

Christ’d! I am Christ’d!
My chest swells with
The breath of god.

I am empty (was I lying?)

To call it a door would be a lie on a magnitude greater than any she had ever told. A door was a small curved plastic thing that separated one tunnel wall from the next. Perhaps it has a small lock, more an indication of the desire for privacy than a security measure. This was not a door.
This gargantuan slab of metal was larger than her home, than all their homes. It was larger than thought, as she should not imagine the edges of it, could not hold the size of the thing in her mind. It seemed larger than anything could ever be. And yet, in its obscene size, it began to move.
It swung outward on hinges that defied belief, emitting a screech greater than the sum total of all the noises she had ever heard. A thousand fingernails on a thousand chalkboards could not have begun to approach the noise as the un-door opened, a rush of scorched air slamming into the final tunnel as she had always imagined the fist of God might.
And when the thing-that-could-not-be-a-door had completed its journey, one that seemed aeons long to the assembled members of humanity that watched it, she saw that its size was a lie. Before her lay rasping sands, valleys, canyons, into which it could disappear in an instant and be swallowed up in its wholeness.
Around her there were screams and there were wails. They swelled into a great chorus, and yet as deafening as they might become, there was yet something beyond them. A still, finely-etched silence, waiting through the screaming and terror with patience unimaginable. As the door might fit into the desert before them, so their moans in the silence.
She was one of the first to leave the curved static walls behind her, to move into the sands. Later she would be called brave, called foolish, called mad. She did not argue, but in the moment that she moved, she knew she was none of these things. She did not fear. She did not think. She understood, deeply and without words, as people once understood the world and themselves, that it was time for her to walk into the yawning chasm before her.
It was this understanding that saved her.
((I know there are some cliches, fairly unpolished, but first thoughts?))

if this is done right it should be feelsy

lemme know

The first 10 lines are great, but then the piece just comes off overly pedantic and ostentatious to me.

The prose is impeccable but reading this in a novel would feel like a chore.

>ear-splitting
avoid cliches or adages when you can add something that is your own (unless it's important to the story, metaphorically or in a character sense)
Also use some synonyms for explaining the light.
Also not to be offensive but the idea doesn't even pique my interest.
I would try to be more engaging.
Otherwise it's pretty decent.

The girls segments are well done but the guy feels like he was written.
The letter part is shit though, it's a precarious situation though, as it's better to show a letter than tell about it.
I just feel like the letter and the man are too synthetic.

Yeah, I'm rereading the 3 pages I've written now, and I noticed the repetition with using the words light/dark/night/day. I'll work ways around it. Thanks.

I'd really like it if someone would read this and give their best interpretation.

I'm afraid I might've lost the original sentiment behind it on account of the bizarre imagery and poor word choices

10/100
its better than most

Is anyone willing to read and rate the opening of my first chapter?

I self-published the book on Amazon last week.

rate my opening paragraph

I like Cliff, but he actually does strike me as an addict type. I'd always just assumed he was an alcoholic and all the """""coffee"""""" and """"""""water""""""" he drinks is actually booze.

If you talk shit about Clif one more time...

ONE MORE TIME

The dude's a hipster cunt.

the prose is awkward, sorry i can't provide anything more specific than that.

so =>5/10, thanks

Is it meant to be funny?
The prose is awkward and (sorry) to me it screams autism. If he's meant to be a sperg then that's fine, you did a good job.
>within their lids
Doesn't really work.. your eyes aren't part of your eyelids

>I'm afraid I might've lost the original sentiment behind it on account of the bizarre imagery and poor word choices
Then rewrite.

It's ok but I agree with the other user - the guy is very synthetic.

Pic is an old piece I've reworked. It's not part of anything larger. Anyway I'd like to know what people think of it

Is it meant to be funny?
The prose is awkward and (sorry) to me it screams autism. If he's meant to be a sperg then that's fine, you did a good job.
>within their lids
Doesn't really work.. your eyes aren't part of your eyelids

>I'm afraid I might've lost the original sentiment behind it on account of the bizarre imagery and poor word choices
Then rewrite.

It's ok but I agree with the other user - the guy is very synthetic.

Pic is an old piece I've reworked. It's not part of anything larger. Anyway I'd like to know what people think of it

The Nephew

The universe is an endless cycle
At least according to my uncle Michael.

I don’t believe him, or even care
What the universe is, or does, or where.

As a matter of fact, I think it’s silly
To bundle up when it isn’t chilly,

To philosophize on pointless topics,
To sit around and watch biopics
When you could holiday in the tropics.

So my uncle and me, we don’t get along
Or hum the same tune or sing the same song

We go our own ways, we heed our own senses:
If he’s wearing glasses then I’m wearing lenses.

And that’s how it is, from beginning to end
Me and my uncle, my rival, my friend.

>Cliff Sargent is a hipster

What is this, 2008?

> crawling in my skin
> these wounds, they will not heal
> I began to fall
> reality became a void
> an instant I lay silent
> in the shadow of purgatory
> The air was thick like fog
> the void became fantasy
> I danced in a dream
> my ego decayed

> a child

and yet the narrator is acting like Moby fucking Dick just drank a black sea's worth of rum

rhymes are childish. the focus on the relationship between the uncle and the nephew is contrived and has undertones of perversion. the tone of the poem feels like a hollow imitation of silverstein or something. is that what you were going for?

use your imagination. by closing your eyelids, your corneas do indeed exist "within" your eyelids. Open them, and they are revealed to the outside. The thought of someone interpreting that line to mean that corneas are somehow part of the membrane of the eyelid is really entertaining, thank you.

>contrasts are bad

Je le tiffe, m'user

squinting at the sun
my eyes are having fun
dripping time
bitterness produced by a lime
farewell
i will let my life quell

caught by what holds
it is my hand which folds
around life

wtf

First one was meant for masochists with either a happy end or suicide, whatever you want to see in it.
Second one the will to live, which one is bound to. I didn't think i made them to abstract...

read more poetry then come back and try again.