Critique thread

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Confound with proof yet no belief
the ghost who condemns youth to flame,
to compost, sapling – care for it; an oak
is promised by a leaf.
In winter acorn bread will fill you;

drink juice from the sun's bitter fruit
brewed warm to heart's content, and with
an heir's pride of nigh estate watch dawn
paint green on copper leaves, and from
the wind's first breath catch secrets in
a birchbark chest to bury when
it's summer and the tree is bare.

>an oak is promised by a leaf
>not a seed

I skimmed through foundations edge. Its the closest ive ever come to finishing a book. I like how theres a machine thaf calculates particles to predict the distant future.

the sapling starts to grow = eventual tree
a seed might not sprout, so there's no promise there

also
>seed

>a slight breeze moved through the screen escaping darkness. a cat on the sill felt his fur shift in the wind as he peered outside.

I smeared thick, chunky shit in ropes
Over Christy's hairy thighes; her choke
Set pounding symphonies, rippling ships
Streaming to my fingertips.

After, I strung her body from a bridge,
And it dangled sadly, knocked by rocks
Chucked by kids whose smattered socks
Once were white. They smack their lips.

I passed through glades and smokey fields
And reached her silent, silver-black pond, knelt,
And deeply, flatulently shat.

wow

Edgy as fuck

Man, I don't give a fuck what you are. May be some frigid shovel-faced cow who thinks she's the monolith of seriousness, some inwards-shitting drill-seargeant who jerks it to twink porn in secrecy after getting a boner screaming at the face of the american cracker boys standing in line or some stoic autist little shit who never manifests emotion no matter how fucked the ordeal seems to be even though he's dying to go out screaming like a fag since he's such a hysterical proto-woman. The moment a belt of 50 caliber explosive ammunition starts being discharged towards your direction in the open field, everyone turns into a paralyzed doe-eyed immobile little bitch.

There is nothing as cute as a doe-eyed bitch by the way. I love brown-eyed women way better than any other eye color. What I'm drinking right now, from what seems to be a whiskey glass, is actually a Black Mary. A Black Mary is nothing but what happens once you mix Vodka and Pepsi-Cola (forever superior to Coke, fuck you) in equal parts, add a lot of a squeezed lemon, then sugar, then any mint liquor, and voilá. It would also be great if you were able to serve it in some kind of Bloody Mary glass, otherwise you done fucked up. As you may realize, I did fucked up (I did fuck up?), because I didn't have said glass at hand. What I had though, was a lot of luck in this unlucky ordeal, because I was able to find a lemon (old and brownish ugly motherfucker, but it did it), Vodka (I brought it with me), liquor (it's orange but what can I do), Pepsi and some sugar, and I did this aberration that would make the blessed original creator of the Black Mary, also known as yours truly, shoot whoever did it to the face, and seeing that I'm having to deal with sitting in the same room with a gunned down fat spic (don't look at me like that hoe, I am a spic, so I can say it) that was hit by fifteen 45 caliber explosive bullets shot from a double-stacked magazine loaded into a Colt 1911, not even five minutes ago, I might get drunk enough to convince myself to eat a bullet. If I still had any.

I just hope Black Mary's toxicity is enough to take me the fuck away from here soon. I'm already feeling light-headed but I think it must be because I suffered some kind of stroke with how ugly that lemon was. Also, I'm pretty sure that I should change the name of this drink to “Black Betty”. I always hear Spiderwolf's version of that song in my head when I'm downing one of these ladies. As soon as I get another pistol I'm calling it Mary-Bettie. The gun I have right now is named Eliza. But that is a whole different story, that I'm going to tell later. Or maybe not, whatever.

Man this Vodka is shit.

It's beautifully written. Nice language, images, and velvety sentences. However, I feel like its essentially expository, and thus keeps the reader too distanced to really engage with the story and the characters in it. It reads like a poetic and smooth table of contents of the story you actually want to tell.

But, again, you can obviously write. I'd just work in getting more of the details down without worrying so much about stylistic melifluity. You can rewrite content stylishly, but it's hard to shove content into prose poetry after its already been written.

Going to sleep now, critique would be welcome.

Funny, good punchline.

Well written, but I think over-detailed and too heavy-handed in the cursing department to the point that you just clutter things a bit. The style is so rambolic you barely move the scene at all, and I haven't been given enough sense of character to justify it.

>he was not however the start of this story
Sounds a tad cliche, otherwise good. I've used very similar similes to you in the past, which is slightly odd.

Which is to say: start with the girl in the tower. What does she want? What does
see? Does she think shell ever escape? write her situation in a way that makes the reader want to know about all the backstory. And then filter in expository elements seamlessly into the action, instead of info dumping.

third guy here. The narrator is an angry, drunken latino who always coons out all he does (case in point, he uses fifteen explosive bullets against ONE person), and rambles about everything. It's a scarfacey crime comedy

I write fiction, not poems. Don't be gentle.

I felt in terms of color
I had more than my share
But I left my Red in London
And Yellow met her there

Pink ran off to Dallas
Purple hates my guts
Khaki claims he lost his phone
Beige says I'm a putz
Orange says he's staying home
For Teal won't help him up
Grey won't even take my calls
Since Charcoal came to sup

Brown no longer has my back
Same for Lemon-Lime
So all that's left is blue and black
Call back another time

Wrote this during my lunch break today.

No discernible talent.

Thanks bro

you should start a pornogrind band

i feel the heat of my own body,
yet i am only a pantomime in a glass box,
bereft of which is only you or them.

It goes: i glass box it.
to crack the glass, to let the yolk of the i flow into it, you, them,
would be like being sucked through the hole of a dime-sized aperture,
first the skull, then the brain, and so on.
i might be different then.

Lying in a chunky brown-red pool amongst everything,
a dispensed, unprepared charcuterie,
i bereft of it and it bereft of me.

this is cute I like it a lot

might even save it to read later desu

I wanted to make it longer but the more I try the more I feel like I should leave it at this and that it conveys what I want to say enough

Lmk that its shit, its one of my first attempts writing poetry

To accept it is to abdicate a love cultivated for years
But the armies have long approached, and who but a fool did not have the foresight
Who can hear the broken man? Who can understand his tears?
Ever tempted he drank from the Sun’s bitter fruit, then threw it up one fleeting summer night

The contractor got the job the way they usually do: family friend, barbershop, church, etc.. Kurt is tall and looking down on him in the mud cursing the people who dreamed of saving the places like this. They thought that some trees down by the watering hole might mean ‘never again’. But now Gary is making calls, far off like Redford, silent in an unfocused desert shot, and here we are: thinking that setting a cigarette on the bank of dug ditch might mean something awfully low, or lower than we are...Kurt says a thing or two later about the poor bastard that makes me think we are above it...here, in the sun, unashed (for the time being) and somehow unmanufactured feeling, because we are indeed good men. And that thinking of myself as opposed to industry is like a deja vu of the television program I watched as a child. It was something about kids in an industrial place on the outskirts of town, with synthetic background music always discordant, like the web of pipes that of course no child could understand, except for the fact that there was something to their blue-grey nature that said, “Don’t forget your family’s special word...Don’t go with strangers...Say no to smoking or you’ll whither away and die,” like the dinosaurs.

We joined Bob in the vanishing point where he had stood, taking a phone call as we looked over the trench and felt big, with our guts that were still holding shape. Bob told us about how nothing would be getting done until Tuesday ‘cause this motherfucker had a whole plot’s worth of trench to dig: all the shit from here to there. Bob left us without sentiment, to whatever matter rose into today’s importance; Rich arrived late, sharing a fair piece of chew with Kurt, and a story about the waitress from the steakhouse in town, from whose home he had arranged a stump be pulled with company money, and how his going to see “just how happy she was” was interrupted by a call from his ex-wife, and how he told her some horseshit about his replacing cigarettes with tootsie-rolls, and his staying of desire, and his newfound discipline, and how it was all shit that she ate up, “She said, ‘that sounds so good baby!’ and I was gonna tell her, ‘you know what sounds good to me? The two of us having sex, and me smoking a cigarette right after.’”

kind of purple, with no music

don't force it into rhyme, but try to make the words seems brutal, like the pre-existed in the universe

for example, 'abdicate' is a word almost totally devoid of music; 'abdicate' sounds like a rock, but hollow, or woodlike, it's clunkly

also, most writing abt girls breaking up w dudes is pretty cringey, so don't worry, just start writing abt more compelling things, feelings or observations that you think have never existed, but be brutal, don't fluff it

thanks for the advice m8, will consider all of it

any examples of brutal words? just so I get a feel

ex. phrases:

>They did it like the dogs
>The faye moon
>Cry over the milk
>That cannot win in the Earth

these are just a few examples that I feel are really 'heavy' and 'immediate' in terms of aesthetic effect, which can help your poetry hit, and not just slide over the ice of language, all clunkly-like

interesting, thanks

I definitely have a better idea of what youre saying

mind if I borrow some of your phrases to brainstorm with? lol

Slushpile material - to be rendered down again later. - extract 1

It began with voices; distant and crackly like a broken radio.
I knew I should have asked what it was and how much to take;
I snorted a quarter gram which I was later told could have killed me.
It was then I realised that the tiny spoon in my hand was alive with power, vibrating in resonance with my body; conducting heat away from my burning palms,
but still seemed icy to touch.
I felt suddenly drunk, and the world became large as if seen through a convex lens.
About two feet off the ground in front of me was a tiny loop in space; like a loose fibre that hung semi-transparent between the edge of the table and the floor
Like a part unpicked stitch.
A curiosity seized me and with the spoon; charged with my chi or orgones or whatever you call the fields of invisible energy that emanate from and
permeate your body, I began to tease at the loose fibre.
Carelessly I let myself topple forwards and fell from my stool in sick giddy rapture; the spoon's wide blunt head widening the hole.
It caught and ripped and I immediately knew I shouldn't have done that, because now I could see a hole in the air; and behind the hole there was an eye.
and it looked at me and the crackling voices stopped as if I had intruded upon a private conversation.
I looked at it and it looked at me; it was very much like a human eye.
Despite myself a terrible urge seized me and I picked at the edge of the hole I'd made; the substance of the tear seemed different;
it had lost it's pliability and the edge flaked away like an eggshell, complete with translucent living membrane
The eye withdrew and the hole darkened, then the membrane stretched towards me
and I knew that whatever had seen me was now working at the hole from it's side.
This instinctively terrified me, and I made perhaps the only wise decision of my life and rolled away from the widening tear.
The world of the squalid abandoned garage squat shot away as if it had been picked up and thrown by an angry god.
The full winter moon glowered down on me as I stood outside the perimeter of a great dark welt in the air,
which had insinuated itself into my living room, coarsely tearing the armature of the building in two, without so much as rustling a newspaper.

My sleeping room-mate turned on his pile of coats, flickering tendrils like like flaming verdigris snaked from the rip,
one licked his ankle and he grew still and grey.
The tear crowned the welt like a septic pore, and spindly black and white TV shapes began to pour out of it like termites from a mound.
I ran out into the winter night; leering monochromatic demons harried my pounding feet.

Slushpile extract 2

Two miles through endless snow choked streets and rime diamond forests of obscure signposts, not a sound of a scream or cry,
all my breath spent in blind flight through the empty shopping arcades and business districts, no people or cars to be seen,
pursued by crawling flickering terrors that would not give pause.
I fainted clawing my way up a white hill sunk to my waist where the snow piled high at the foot of the steep incline to the church, totally spent.
When I came to I was on fire with emerald tongues and the shapes; green-white lightning sometimes moving like men and sometimes like animals,
with indistinct features flickering over the grainy unreal surfaces of their un-bodies, cavorting and fusing and dividing again, uncountable,
leaping like sparks and crackling with roaring static
They spoke, and told me that they were demons, and that they would chase me forever because I had broken the world,
and that if I ever stopped to rest I would die.
So I ran until the drugs wore off.

End Example.

Basically I've taken to writing mid-length short out of context stories and piling them up in a text document, gradually editing them all over time to be reflective of a similar theme, and I can then cannibalize them piecemeal for parts I want to use in a project piece.

changed it up:

To accept it is to relinquish a feeling cultivated for years
A drunken haste to occupy the most absent state of beauty
Visceral, a feeling that cannot win in the Earth!
But the host have long approached, and who but a fool did not have the foresight?
The slaughter of the spirit, the dimming of man's fire
Who can hear the broken man? Who can understand his sorrow?
He drank from the Sun’s bitter fruit, then heaved it one fleeting summer night.

But to cry over the milk is a defeat of its own, for what was lost was not collective
The boy lost someone who will continue to glide over the ice of emotion,
Who could imagine it would ever break! Brush-off the splash, continue.
A fool would rub your sonorous words in the dirt, burn any memory, and continue.
Why then must the pain of prudence keep me awake?

stoles some phrases from anonbecause I'm a loser and I thought they sounded cool

I would say learn about Syria if you're going to write about Syrians this kind of gives a very off putting vibe, it's racist but that's not the problem, it's transparently racist I can see all of your shortcomings in what you've written here. Syrian kids don't just fucking brandish scimitars their whole lives.

This picture is art.

I enjoyed this a lot, actually. Your prose is nice and descriptive, though it bothers me as a former degenerate hedonist that the drug you describe doesn't exist, as far as I know. The closest I can think of that would achieve that visceral of an effect is Peyote, which you obviously don't snort.

Waking horror has more impact if it stems from real-life situations, in my opinion; I might consider cutting the drug angle altogether, and making it more unexplained as to why the character is experiencing all of this. Corruption as a whole is also a terrifying concept, so you might dedicate some space to describing changes to the environment, or to the room-mate. While his dying helps to illustrate how alone the protagonist is, as well as the perceived danger of his situation, it's a bit one-off and doesn't add much to the story as a whole. For example, if you don't mind me borrowing your style,

>My sleeping room-mate turned on his pile of coats, flickering tendrils like like flaming verdigris snaked from the rip, one licked his ankle and he grew still and grey. He turned, and behind his eyes sat Nothing, and it spoke to me in rhyme.

Simply something to add to the surrealism of the situation while making him more relevant to the overall arc. I'm a sucker for this sort of thing, but you have real talent. Have any more?

I think you're really correct here. My issue is that I've only spent a small time in Egypt and really wanted to use the priest-murder as a framing device, and kind of cramped in all this evil unnecessarily. I'm not a racist man at all, in fact I was quite shocked at the language my Arabian friends would use towards Jews and Africans, which is why I put it in that rather tasteless dialgoue at the end. The aim of the piece I'm writing though, is to have the West come across as the real evil, to the protagonists eyes at least, and if my character is already a racial stereotype then I've failed at that from the start.

You are very correct on what I've written: people aren't just getting raped and throwing swords around. Perhaps I should stick to what I know, rather than a cartoonish depiction of a topic I'm trying to force.

Is it, at least, written reasonably?

Not that guy, but honestly I don't think you should be too concerned with the racism. Having spent time in the middle east, you're leagues above 98% of the people who frequent this board as far as actual experience. As for the writing -

First off, the uncle ought to be introduced with a name, so that you can call him things other than "the uncle" or "Faizon's uncle" throughout.

You're correct about the purple prose - not everything needs a descriptor, or a fancy simile. That being said, you have talent as a writer. The dialogue in particular is well-done. As a generalized piece of advice, you should strive to make each of your sentences build towards an overall idea; as it stands, it seems to me that each is largely a self-contained thought, with little flow to the ones before and after. Try to group ideas by paragraph. As a small example,

>... as real as giggling jinns. Faizan stops sipping as a finger grows suddenly towards his face...

Do you see what I mean about there not being much connection between sentences? You can help alleviate this by referencing the previous ideas:

>... as real as giggling jinns. Faizon can see this now; his uncle's cup flashes to the table, and a finger springs to his face.

An example I didn't put much effort into, but hopefully I'm making myself clear.

The description of Faizon should also happen earlier, or at least with more of an introduction - as it stands, it comes somewhat out of nowhere and feels forced. The description could come after the first three lines, and be separated entirely from the background of the rape. However simply introducing the description better would be fine, if you want to keep that as the lead-in to the rape story. For example, you could switch temporarily to the uncle's perspective, having him internally comment on Faizon's troubled appearance, then explain these features with the story of the rape.

Overall user, it is certainly written reasonably. I'd encourage you to workshop it around with people you know, and if you find my advice worthwhile I'd happily critique more of your work.

Rate me, from a semi complex short story I wrote

As the hunk of steel vibrated rhythmically as it turned in the chuck of the lathe, it flickered in the subtle light of the early morning. With the hypnotic glistening Vespers mind wondered back in to thought, this time to that of philosophy, well versed and well read in the philosophy of eras past. He wondered how Plato and Socrates applied to him, a modern day philosopher, he realised how pretentious it was to liken himself to the greats of yesteryear, he wouldn't dare do such a thing out of the realms of his own thought, he was quite the quiet and reserved fellow. Although it was the topic of his philosophical thought, he thought of how it was applicable to him. How was a man influenced by his environment as a whole? Some would argue not much, how a man incarcerated in a prison will read and write his memoirs or even how he himself is covered in grease standing in a workshop pondering some of the best.

But he wished to disrepute this, does a poet who experienced the horrors of war write about the beautiful fields before they have been turned into sod? Does he write about the flowers which rarely and sporadically sprout fertilised by the blood of Lance Corporal Jackson, tragically wounded at the battle of the Somme?

If a man is not the product of the his environment than how is anyone to explain himself a man driven into brainless monotony at work, escaping the lathe and mill into a world of art and thought, but yet again one could argue if he wasn't a product of his environment, if he wasn't bound by the hi vis shirt he was wearing he would be in a university or library studying the works, the literature of many and than reflecting upon them, just like he is now at the workshop

Maybe I'm wrong, but why do you think modern Syrians speak like this?

Sorry I'm not good with quotation marks and the grammar that follows. They always confuse me.
“Shite fucking stinks.”

“It’s a dead body; they do that.”

“You sure she’s dead?”

“It’s dead, retard.”

“What if she’s, you know, fucking about or something?”

Dave stared at the red snow for a second or two before continuing:

“Kids, you know?”

“It’s fucking dead,” Alain replied calmly, as expected of him.

Dave kept staring at the body in unjustified anticipation, and she only stared back. She must’ve dressed up in the morning already in mourning of her death; black wool shirt, black pants, and black boots covered her pale skin. Her hair was conveniently darker than any shade of black she could ever wear, and her head rested over six feet of snow, certainly in no peace.
God knows Dave couldn’t have stayed silent for more than a minute:

“I read about this shite, you know, I must be in the denial stage, you know what’s next right,” Dave continued as Alain sighed, “PTS-fucking-D, you’re going to pay for my therapy, I want a Le Canian therapist, fuckface.”

“I think we’ll have to cut it into pieces,” Alain replied.

“You know who Le Can was you uneducated prick, aye, the only true Floydian to ever exist, wait what?”

I like your ideas, and what you're going for. However, it seems to me however that you're simply using this Vespers fellow to espouse your own thoughts - there's nothing wrong with this, but you have to make sure that there's an actual story, and not just your dialogue on philosophy. Try to work in more references to what he's doing as he thinks, perhaps describe the area/people around him, or the man himself. As it stands, Vespers is a non-entity, and you've written a mildly interesting essay framed in the third person.

I took the liberty of rewriting with an eye for grammar, with some clearing up of prose. I hope you don't mind, and tried my best to maintain your style.

The steel vibrated rhythmically as it turned in the chuck of the lathe, flickering in the subtle light of the early morning. Entranced as he worked, Vespers (either Vesper's or Vespers') mind wandered. As a student of academics, his mind turned quickly to philosophy.
He was an amateur, a student of academics, a “modern day philosopher,” and held his thoughts in high regard. He smirked as he worked, amused at the pretension of his own mind.

A modern day philosopher, perhaps, but he realised how ridiculous it was to liken himself to the greats of yesteryear, and wouldn't dare do such a thing out of the realms of his own thought. He considered himself a reserved fellow, and not without cause. He took a moment to consider his own thoughts - how does the philosophy of the greats apply to him, to the state he's in?

How is a man influenced by his environment as a whole?

Some would argue not much; a man incarcerated in a prison can still read poetry and write his memoirs. He himself - covered in grease, standing in a second-rate workshop - was pondering some of the best.

Seemingly sound, but he wished to dispute it; does a poet who experienced the horrors of war write about the beautiful fields before they have been turned into sod?
Does he write about those flowers which sprouted by chance, fertilized by the blood of Lance Corporal Jackson? Does he even know of the battle of the Somme?

How can a man explain himself, if not as a product of his environment? Here stood a man driven into brainless monotony at work, escaping the lathe and mill into a world of art and thought - but who could say he wasn't a product of his environment?
If he wasn't bound by the shirt he was wearing, he would be in a university or library studying the works, the literature of many and then reflecting upon them - just as he did now, in the confines of the workshop.

Keep at it, user, the world is certainly not overwrought with people who want to add perspective to philosophy. I like the framing of a man thinking to himself in a workshop, and I think you should explore that idea a little more fully. Good stuff, overall.

user, I could kiss you. Thank you deeply for this advice, particularly in regards to building each sentence towards an overall idea. I'm so young such a thought barely even clicked to my mind. For Faizan, I was trying to use the "I'm neither ugly nor lucky" as a way to introduce his looks and the unfortunate results from that.

This purple prose phase of mine must stop, I get carried away and start enjoying myself too much and before I know it I've bogged the reader down with too much of too little. I feel the moment I finish GR I might have a chance.

I have one piece that I was really enjoying but scrapped for that exact reason. I was reading how Camus had tuberculosis and was smoking in a hospital bed, and I wanted to use that smoke as an absurd motif for abstraction. Of course, it wasn't character driven, and there was almost no plot or pacing, so the whole story became very boring, even in my stretched attempts with a dual narrative with a second person reader on a train, and all my attempts to fiddle with it didn't really solve the core issue. I think some people might have seen it a few weeks ago, I called the man "Barnaby Suez" (which I was also told was pretty stupid, and agreed with somewhat, although I was really still rifting off Pynchon there).

Again, thank you very much.

From my time around Egyptians, Indians and Pakistanis, I found they possess a weird contradiction. They're take such a conservative and moderate view of life, that anything that stops matching it makes them barbarically vitriolic. Middle-Eastern and Indian swear words are some of the most filthy I've ever heard, and are largely concerned with sexual dishonour (goat-fucker, sister-fucker, this-is-the-dick-that-fucks-your-mother etc [for some quick Hindi and Urdu ones])

I really appreciate what you have done, I hadmt actually edited the grammar yet, grammar is my weakest point and I end up just fixing it up at the very end

it's quite a story so there isn't much of a plot. It pretty much describes some of my feelings, projected by the main character and it becomes apparent he is mental unwell by his thoughts. Care to have a a look at some more of it?

The dialogue needs work. Try to write with an eye for idiosyncrasy when the work is so dialogue-heavy; if not for the back and forth nature of it, I'd not be able to tell which character was which. You should also either cut the eye dialect or go full bore with it, as it is it comes off somewhat half-assed. Look up people talking in the manner you want your characters to talk, and try to transpose that dialect directly to text. That being said, the actual content of the dialogue is good and feels natural. Just the way the words are written should be changed, in my opinion.

Your grammar, however, is fine (aside from a small quibble - "God knows Dave couldn't have stayed silent for more than a minute" should end with a period). The description of the corpse is also well done, and the excerpt ultimately left me wanting to know more. Keep at it, user, you've raw skill but seem inexperienced. Be sure to read.

Quite a short story
Well maybe a man is defined and sculpted by his thoughts? Which then in turn influences his actions, his thoughts now on the philosophical, a desire to produce not simply consume, thoughts being quite vain, he noted himself as capable, maybe that's why is he currently standing in a workshop watching a lathe spin, he needed the experience of the real world, not the shelter of a library to create something on par with his old friend Socrates. He began to ponder again, on top of this, it wasn't a crazy idea that maybe he was suffering at his current job and in life to make himself well rounded. But a man being defined by his thoughts? He really delved into this, as evident by his current train of thought, he was quite sporadic and bordering on lunacy, at least he realised it, deluded he began to think? Yes a man is sculpted by his thoughts, but what if the premise of his thoughts is legitimate and relatable but he thoughts riddled with lunacy from the tragedy of living such a life as he is, well maybe this is the reason why Plato never worked in a Machine shop.

Ahh Plato? Was Plato simply not bothered by his surroundings? Plato may of worked in a machine shop, but just never wrote about it, he was a philosopher after all, not a hack blog writer, maybe for one to achieve such a level they need to supersede the qualms they have about work, has the young fellow already achieved this? Has the qualms he had with work been put aside to tackle more seriously problems with the modern life? He had passed the point of even thinking about work, work, well his employment was no longer his work, thinking began to be his work. Would he ever be as great as Nietzsche? He didn't have to bore himself in a workshop and had more time to refine himself by not really bothering with the whole nonsense of making a living. But what If the time he spent in the workshop was not in vain, no, a philosopher tackles the problems at hand, and for many men and he thought the most prolific problem facing a generation or two of people was work. What if his great work was not about overcoming the problem earning a living and becoming a great but failing to do so and the constant struggle one was go through to pursue their intellectualism and they way it manifests itself when one must be always chasing a dollar and doing so by being held in tethers in a low caste job. Maybe his thoughts weren't so sporadic and crazy, maybe they are the thoughts of a level headed man, but just that of a level headed man who is bored into oblivion at work and depressed into a sheer terror at his homestead. A man is influenced by his surroundings and environment after all.

I've tired to be a bit erratic and weird, he is suppose to be a bit of a nutter after all

nah

Nice.

(Sorry I have no meaningful criticism).

Grammar is a bitch whom I hate passionately, so no judgement here.

This is all obviously very rough, but I'm still enjoying the ideas thoroughly. I'll take a better look later on, I've been without sleep for a while now.

Fresh cut grass enticed the gleeful sparrows, who in the wake of the large machine bore witness to a sea of delicacies. Beetles, mites, spiders and worms scurried amongst the chaos of a reclaimed habitat; the once tall grass cut to inches or matted low by the wheels’ weight. Eager and hungry, the host of sparrows soared high and low, swooping down to the earth to claim their sustenance manifest.
Frank looked back as his trail of small scale destruction provoked a ballet of flight and laughed. His laugh went unheard under the thundering tractor.
When the field had been entirely cut, Frank stepped out of the craft and gazed upon his work with priggish satisfaction. In a matter of minutes he had quelled nature’s inevitable urge to grow and fulfill. The aftermath had laid a feast before the mooning birds whom he knew were forever in his debt.
“They’re so happy,” said a passing young woman. “I wish it was that easy for all of us.”
She smiled at Frank and Frank smiled back, irked that no clever response entered his mind in time to impress the girl. He knew this field and these birds better than most, yet when at hand, his thoughts went blank. All he could do was smile.
As she walked away he could see the sun beat down on her bare legs, drawing sweat from her soft skin that clung to the dust kicked up by her feet.
Frank slowly became engrossed in the young woman’s delicacy and beauty, his desire to stare becoming ever more insatiate. In reluctance he returned to his motor and with a simple flick it bellowed in glorious power.
On his way to the Southern field he couldn’t stop thinking of the woman. Her face. Her voice. How he had nothing to say.
“I could, uh, I’m sure I could make it that easy,” he uttered to himself in a whisper, imagining the suave tone in which he could have responded. He quickly laughed at himself for such an unlikelihood as he pulled up to the field of tall grass, sparrows lazing in the cool dirt of the main road.
“Me too,” is what he should have said, Frank thought to himself. He agreed with her; if only it was this easy. For him to change the lives of these sparrows so quickly and simply was nothing short of a miracle in his mind. “She probably wouldn’t think so. I sound crazy.” He laughed again at himself to reassure his normality.

All good, I'm mainly getting at wether the prose and theme of some weird guy being a weirdo about philosophy could be workable into an actual story, the plot would mainly be around his shit machinst job

How long of a paragraph could one of you write that stays coherent using trump mannerisms?

No need to thank me, critiquing work is a hobby of mine. When I first started writing, I also had a real thing for purple prose - it fades with time, in my experience. Try reading literature with more stark and rough-cutting style, if you want to accelerate that process (I'd recommend specifics but nothing comes to mind at the moment). As an exercise, try writing an extremely simplistic story - start with a clear idea in mind, and only add parts that work towards that idea. After every sentence, ask "Was that necessary?" The story will probably come out extremely boring, but in my experience it helps quite a bit with cutting down the fat.

I actually like that idea, by the way. Nothing wrong with extremely cerebral pieces; in fact, I'd say drop the pretense of a story at all, and frame it as free-verse poetry. Barnaby Suez deserves a piece. If you can stomach the pretentiousness of it all, of course.

Keep writing, user, and feel free to keep posting your work.

...

>Try to write with an eye for idiosyncrasy when the work is so dialogue-heavy
Do you mean I should add some parts describing the characters' appearance and tone after each of them talks? I hope you could give an example so I can understand.
>eye dialect
I also don't understand what you mean
Yes you're right; I'm inexperienced and not very well-read, but I like to write.

thinking about entering this for a competition this Friday.

I once met a girl who was actually a sun.
Her light, though warm, hadn't the chance to nurture a soul (for very long). A heavy hand of days were spent splashing beautiful lights where most couldn't see, if anyone - but I did. God knows 'I did'. I can see the colors on the insides of my eyelids and I can feel it in my dimples when I smile.
But, like all suns, there came a time when enough became too much. The gift of nourishment lost in the erosion of time, {she couldn't see me enjoying the heat} leaving her expanding to burst.
And then it was gone.
It was gone with the force of a bomb, a thousand bombs, and then it was gone. Who knows how long it will take for everyone to realize the light they've sauntered in has long since been vacated, lost to echo in the remainders of spaces of those who were willing (there) to feel it.

She was a sun and I am blind.

KM

--------------------------------------------

I plan on speaking on gravity and 'knowing only of light'

-

"but what's cold water to the hottest of flames?"
"what's a puddle to a nova what's a hurricane to an ocean?"

these two are from others I have considered throwing in there.
this is a rough draft; please critique

keks all around

Sorry, let me be more clear. And let me clarify that I liked the except, so forgive my harshness.

I mean more that you should add mannerisms and trends to the characters' dialogue that helps differentiate them - eye dialect (See here for examples and a better description: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eye_dialect) is more or less what I described, which is writing how the characters speak. You did this a bit with the inclusion of "shite," which is why I bring it up; basically, write in such a way that if you read it out loud, you're speaking how the characters sound. An easy way to make characters distinct from one another is to give them radically different ways of speaking, and write to reflect this - that way your reader will never be confused as to who's talking.

Don't be discouraged, it's good stuff and you should keep working at it. Have any more?

pastebin.com/RtfmNaT7

would you read something like this?

Ah yes, I see. I tried to do that, and maybe add even more differences which separate the two. For example Alain used 'it' and Dave used 'she/her'. I tried to make Dave's tone naturally angry, it seems it wasn't ever obvious. I think if I add more, the differences will rise since one is vulgar and simple while the other is calmer and seems apathetic. The point I try to show is how two opposite people can have identical end-product in their different train of thought and reasoning.
I'll add more later if this thread remains alive. Right now I don't have a lot to add.

No
and I didn't

>I once met a girl who was actually a sun.

Everything else aside, this is a fantastic opening line. It's vivid, unique, and clear, and I enjoy it thoroughly. It could work as a book title.

A small quibble: our Sun is distinctly named, everything else is just a star. Leading off of that, the line

>But, like all suns,

Should probably be "but, like all stars."

However, another way to take this would be to say that the girl was THE Sun, and rewrite with that in mind. This would help to clarify how important she was to the speaker, and connect better to the last three lines. Saying that the speaker has lost his only Sun, and not one of many, helps add to the air of loss and despair.

>She did not see me, basking in her heat; the gift of nourishment was lost in the erosion of time, leaving her expanding to burst.

Is how I would work that line.

I would also change

>Who knows how long it will take for everyone to realize the light they've sauntered in has long since been vacated, lost to echo in the remainders of spaces of those who were willing (there) to feel it.

To something more along the lines of

>How long will it be before the masses realize the light they took for granted has been vacated, lost to echo in the husks of those who were there to feel it?

>She was a sun and I am blind

Is a very good line. However, fitting into what I said earlier, maybe

>She was my sun, and she has rendered me blind.

It needs work, but it's good. I won't try to work your extra ideas in for you, but once you do I'd be interested to see the result.

tldr; but I do like the vibe you set. if it were my writing, I would explain maybe the walk to work a little more, maybe leave out the Pokemon Go bit, but I like it. would read

I really appreciate this, thank you. I will take these into consideration, but I figured any one star could be a sun? you're right though, if she were the one sun it would make it more personal. thank you user!

You're definitely on the right track, and I agree with adding more. The characters will become more defined the more you write. If you're going for British (shite), here's a good resource to get down how people from around thereabouts actually speak.

dialectsarchive.com/england

>The point I try to show is how two opposite people can have identical end-product in their different train of thought and reasoning.

I'm interested to see what that conclusion ultimately is. As it stands, link back to this post when you post more, I'd like to know how it all turns out.

beautiful

>I figured any one star could be a sun?

The Sun is the proper name of the star the Earth orbits around, but I forgive you for thinking otherwise. It's practically a colloquial term for a star at this point. I wouldn't have even bothered to bring it up, but if you're submitting to competition you never know what the judges will get uppity about.

No problem, anyway, it's my pleasure. Be sure to post the finished piece, I'd like to see it.

thank you user

okay, no, I hear you. you're right with that, I've never entered a comp. so I hadn't even considered something like that.

I can't promise anything! I have bugs to work out with it, but I'd be more than happy to have you read the near-final piece

>This is really well written
Thanks
>but the imagery makes it sound like an advertisement for a walden-themed brunch spot in the hamptons
pahahahaha oh dear

Yours sounds very fairytale-like, like a storyteller is reading it. It seems pretty concise.

>but he was not however the star of this story.
nah mate.

Thanks!

Hmm. I think your descriptions are a little stilted; you have the vision but haven't quite executed it. The first big paragraph should be split - most of it should come before the dialogue; the last sentence of it should stay in place. I think aiming for shorter descriptions would help you.

I like your tone but the scene is kind of laboured.

>and so on
*schniff*

Pretty good. Sounds kind of dissociative to me.

I'm thinking of entering pic to a competion themed "moments" - thoughts?

Despite my inherent hatred of freeform poetry, this is very, very good. You do well with the imagery; I was able to picture the scene you set out in my mind with little to no difficulty.

The verse in which the speaker things about the hibernating bear seems somewhat disconnected from the rest of the poem; it's pretty, yes, but the rest of the work concerns what's physically happening to the speaker and his moment of thought isn't alluded to after it's over. I would try to personalize his thoughts, adding references to what he's thinking about throughout - why does he collapse from reverie? Not from the bear, surely?

But I'm reaching. The poem is good, and I'd submit it to competition.

In a bitter evening wind, a silent figure sweeps across the street, with flickering lampposts casting arched shadows across a decayed ivied house. Approaching the deep oak door, steps muffled by damp gentle leaves, murmuring can be heard within. The door gives, faintly illuminating the hallway, thin strips of light emanating from the kitchen framing him along the hall.

A slow hum of electricity permeates through the house, allowing to quietly usher closer to the door, the voices are clear, one older, one younger. He peered through a small gap in the door and saw a squat worn kitchen table, set on tiles cracked and polished. Two chairs, wooden and simple are sat at opposite ends. The room is clammy with condensation clinging listlessly to the window pane. The man is seen peering into a hollowed out child, carefully departing his thin drink, only to be met with an empty glance in return. His fist slamming down, shuddering the boy, searing dead life into the room. His pale bald head turns towards the door, black eyes melting far into the countenance, sodden, tar-stained lips crumple, forming a pursed envelope from which speaks a voice coated in ash, “I thought you’d never come”.

Very well written. I'd read more of your stuff.

A little too purple. Cut down on your adjectives - try to describe the scene as a whole, rather than each individual part. Remember that not everything needs to be described; anything you leave blank the reader will fill in.

I would also suggest switching to past-tense in the story, simply as present-tense adds unnecessary complication. You slip up your tenses a few times, as in

>He peered

Which indicate that you'd like to be writing in past tense, but are forcing yourself to write present (or possibly just screwed up, but present would make the story flow better overall in my opinion). Disregard this entirely if you're writing in that tense for a specific purpose, but take care to maintain a single style throughout the work.

As an example of what I mean about the adjectives,

>The man is seen peeing into a HOLLOWED OUT child, carefully departing his THIN drink, only to be met with an EMPTY glance in return.

Having that many descriptors back to back makes the story seem unnecessarily flowery, and interrupts the flow of the work overall. However,

>searing dead life into the room

This is definitely a proper use of proper prose, and a good example of what you should be aiming for. It's interesting, and has a point other than just sounding pretty. Same with "a voice coated in ash," good description.

Pretty good, user. Just write a little more stark, a little less pretty.

Hilarious/10. Would raff again.

The wind toyed with her eyelashes, which only made her eyes look even more alive. Dave’s gaze never left them. One can say he was studying them, but he’s probably scared of that word.

“I think that’s a new green,” Dave added.

“What?” asked Alain.

“Her fucking eyes.”

“I didn’t notice.”

The silence Alain anticipated dominated. Questions of no right answers popped in their heads. Questions on whether the questions they were asking are right questions popped in their head. Questions of what is Right popped in their heads. Their heads almost popped on the spot. But they knew they were in the hands of all that is wrong.

“We shouldn’t cut it into pieces.”
“Shame; was looking forward to that,” replied Dave, and then mumbled, “fucking pervert.”
Angry disgust rushed across his face. It was always the case after any remark Alain made, but it fades quickly. Everything about Dave was round. Even his hair was curly. It was golden and heavy, something right out of a magazine. His eyes were perfect rounds deeply carved above his red cheeks. Even though he’s stocky like a bastard Alaskan, he could only shiver. Perhaps it’s the coldness of death. Perhaps it’s the dead eyes She and Alain shared. Perhaps it was the eyes which made it personal for Alain. Nonetheless, he knew there’s no escape from responsibility, regardless of its fragile reasons.

“Bring the tent, we won’t move tonight,” Alain ordered, “and we have a visitor.”

“I hope you two have a lovely night together; I’m not getting in there with a dead body ya filthy minge,” Dave shook his head left and right in dismay and continued, “what type of stuff are you creeps into back in Constantinople or wherever the fuck you’re from?”

“Have you ever considered you’re a necrophile who just haven’t met the right body yet,” smiled Alain.

Dave took his eyes off Her for the first time in over an hour with his jaw dropped and eyes fixated on Alain.

“Just get the tent,” Alain added.

“Fucking Sarmatians,” Dave mumbled again.

I like this. Especially

>but he's probably scared of that word

And the whole bit about popping, culminating in popped heads, actually got a real chuckle out of me. I'll do something more in-depth later, but as a preliminary this except does a much better job of establishing your tone and voice. In particular, your narration is very nice.

>except

Excerpt. I've done this twice, but it is not intentional.

"Weaponmaster"

So, we sat. After one of his students brought out a vessel of wine and a couple of small, round cups, he began speaking.

"Firearms lack conductivity. The real and only gun you need is here."
An arm rose at his side and he craned a finger to his forehead.
"This, your frontal lobe. All you do is point and shoot. Like the firearm," he said. I had placed the FAMAS rifle before him, and he surveyed its contours as he spoke.
"What do you mean by conductivity?" I asked him.
"Consider the difference between the artisan and the machine directed to produce. One hones his attention to his craft. The other has no attention to pour on anything. It is blind, mindless construction of construction. A dead end by itself. The grand artifice of computer-guided manufacturing is nothing without the human element of its creation. Guns, and the men who become guns; they are the same way."
"And yet they are the most efficient at their purpose as weapons. At killing. An artisan creates beauty, but a machine can produce ten times the amount of work," I said back to him.
"Resolution is the aim of war, not death. And this is easily forgotten when your hind-brain inflames itself at the sight of blood, or the taste of mounting fear in the mouth."
"Conductivity," he continued, "is the current of man to weapon. The impulse of electrical thought, the consciousness of timing, spacing, swinging, breathing, feeling, seeing, swording. You practice until your fingers ingrain themselves into the hilt and pommel of the sword as neuronic roots. We wield the weapon, and relinquish our arm, wrist, hand, elbow in the process. We consummate our marriage to the sword, the spear, the axe, the lance."

As he finished speaking, he rose to his feet and stood even-shouldered.

"My sword cuts completely, past flesh and bone. See its masterly steel, and how it hisses as air deigns to clumsily split upon it!"

I endeavored to sit still and straight-backed in the face of this claim. I responded to him.

"But.. you are not carrying any blade!"

"So it is."

Thanks friend. The things which worry me most when writing is not sounding natural (since English isn't my first language), grammar, and not being able to implement what i have in mind clearly. For example when i was talking about dave, her eyes were alive, but when i mentioned alain, her eyes become dead. I hope it's clear that it's not a contradiction but a representation of each character. I do this often and even i get confused.
Thanks again friend.
>except
Forgiven

Thanks! I do have a blog

Thanks. The bear bit is basically the hibernation instinct kicking in.. wanting to get home from the cold. I see what you mean..
I've added the line "of wasted days when time was young" before the reverie line, is that clearer?

pastebin.com/dcfyas5D

Please feedback. Does this interest you at all? Catch your attention at all?

I liked it. The prose was clearand concise, if not a bit stale for my liking. I will infer from your writing that your talent lies in hood plot weaving, and indeed that little segment leaves much to the imagination. I want to know more about Harling's will yo Peter, and the boy's future. Write MORE. Present a longer work next time.

An interesting read, well done user. Was that necrophillia line yours? Bastard Alaskan was a good touch also.

It's an old joke i read somewhere when I was a kid. It was "Have you ever thought you're a paedophile who just haven't met the right child yet?"
The rest I made up.
Thanks friend. Shit'll get tense in the tent soon.

The December sun had hidden its dull rays behind the huge rocks that rose monstrously high west of Dunfern mansion, and ceased to gladden the superb apartment Sir John occupied most part of the day. They had withdrawn their faint reflection from within the mirrored walls of this solitary chamber to brighten other homes with their never-dying sheen.
As the dull, grey evening advanced to such a degree as to render a look of brightness imperative to the surroundings of its sole occupant, Sir John requested that his favourite apartment should be made bright as possible by adding more fuel to the smouldering ashes within the glistening bars which guarded their remains. This being done, three huge lamps were lighted, and placed at respectable distances from each other, when Sir John, with his 14 accustomed grace, began to peruse some of his evening papers.
Though a man of forty summers, he never yet had entertained the thought of yielding up his bacheloric ideas to supplace them with others which eventually should coincide with those of a different sex; in fact, he never had bestowed a thought on changing his habits and manner of living, nor until fully realising his position of birthright, that had been treasured by his ancestors for such a lengthened period, and which, sooner or later, must pass into strangers’ hands, did the thought ever occur to him of entering into the league of the blessed.
The clock had just chimed nine when a maid entered with a note, neatly laid on a trim little tray, which she placed on the table close beside her master, and then retired. It was rather unusual for him to receive letters so late in the evening, nor until he was in full possession of its contents he could not form the faintest imagination of its worth.

started bit blue. cut some 'the's and 'which's, it makes the sentence a bit weak IMO. not bad T B H it kept getting better. Notice how when there aren't lots of 'the's and 'which's you sentences just flow smoothly. gg tho

i wrote this in class today

pls dont be too mean, its the first time im posting any of my stuff on here ;-;

Pic attached is beginning of a piece I wrote. Anyone with Beckett experience have any comments on whether it reads too much like a copy of his?

Feels like big words for their own sake. Not horrid, but not good either.

Too descriptive. Also a bit heavy on cliches.

The conversation and its effect on the characters feels contrived, but not bad writing overall.

Here is some more if you want to read more: pastebin.com/8wL8EcdQ

Also I find it interesting that you find my prose stale.... I was told last time I posted here that there was too much purple prose and it needed to be simpler. I also like simplifying lately anyway because I hate my old style of writing. I will work on adding some nicer description though , to spice it up.

I have 330k words written so far, this is only the very very beginning. Sad thing is I am still nowhere near finished, seeing as that 330k is spread out over dozens of scenes over many years that I wrote to get around writer's block.

Thanks for reading it, by the way. If you reply to this with a pastebin I will try to reciprocate.

Any advice on making it less contrived? Because I agree, it feels like dumb-ass "prophecy" scene, but I want to make it a bit less so. A little more subtle.

It circles the department store’s Christmas tree all day,
Into and out of a tunnel made of papier-mâché.
It’s a passenger train, but something queer,
A freight train caboose brings up the rear.

It’s a freight train with a yellow star,
And has a Michelin yellow-star dining car.
Sleeper compartments under sweeping-searchlight guard towers.
Hissing Zyklon B gas showers.

In God’s department store at Christmastime are many choo-choos.
Chuff-chuffing to their death are many Jew-Jews.
And then there are the Hutus,
And Tutsis vastly murdering them, producing Hutu boo-hoos.

Here's the start of my short story.
>inb4 dead space, warframe, cast away, etc. references. (The names are placeholders.)

Thoughts? And any suggestion on how I can advance my plot aside from Deus ex Machina approach?