/crit/

Waking up to a loud crash rarely means something good is happening. It’s never “CRASH! Mom made pancakes!” or “CRASH! We decided to adopt a Golden Retriever!”
So when I woke up to the sound of my car crashing through the wall of my second-story bedroom wall, you could say that I was pretty irritated. Granted, it was a crappy, hand-me-down Toyota Camry, but I still would’ve preferred an alarm clock.
I wasn’t sure what had thrown the car through my window—in the Philadelphia suburbs, tornadoes and severe hurricanes were out of the question, even with global warming—but it was clearly bad news. I leapt out of bed and rushed down the hall.
“Mom! Dad! Jessica!” I yelled. “Something weird is going on!”
I poked my head in through my sister’s bedroom door. It was dark except for the dim light creeping in around the edges of the window blinds. Her bed, positioned across from a Taylor Swift poster on the opposite wall, was empty. She hadn’t been gone long, though; her head had left an indent on the pillow that was still visible.
I ran upstairs to my parents’ room. It was the same story—they had clearly slept in the bed, but they were gone now. Had my family run from whatever was wreaking havoc outside and left me behind?
My self-pity party was interrupted by a low growling behind me. No, it wasn’t that new Golden Retriever I talked about. When I turned around, I saw what looked like the result of crossbreeding an angry wolf with an even angrier lion. It was pitch black except for its blood-red eyes, boring into me so vehemently you’d think I had just said something rude about its mother.
Before the rational part of could process what the hell this thing was, it started walking slowly towards me. This was somehow scarier than if it had immediately decided to pounce on me; the demon dog was so confident it could tear me apart that it didn’t bother to rush.
I raised my fists and locked eyes with it, trying to look more like a boxer circling his opponent in the ring than an average-sized teenage boy who had never needed to throw a punch.
But all of my false courage fell away when the demon dog pounced at me. My heart stopped, and, next thing I knew, it was pinning me down on the floor, snapping its maw inches away from my face. Ordinarily, its bad breath would have been enough to make me pass out, but thankfully my adrenaline was overpowering my disgust.
I writhed around, trying to throw my canine attacker off me. My skull accidentally bashed against the dog’s. It reeled back, enabling me to scramble out from under it and get back on my feet.
For a split second, I felt accomplished; maybe I wasn’t going to die after all! But the dog recovered, and it stared back at me even more furiously than before. My brief hopes of living evaporated.

(1/3)

dont

It shifted its weight onto its back legs, ready to pounce again. Then, it jumped at me, and I did the one thing you should never do in a fight—I closed my eyes.
I know, I know, not the best move. But when a giant, murderous quadruped is flying at you through the air, common sense kind of goes out the window.
I clenched my jaw, bracing myself for the worst.
A low thrum sounded behind me. The demon dog yelped almost pitifully and thudded to the floor. I opened my eyes to see it splayed on the carpet like a ragdoll, totally unresponsive. A golden arrow stuck out of its eye socket.
I turned toward the source of the arrow. In the doorway stood a guy who looked only a couple years older than me holding a bow. He wore tight fitting, white clothing that looked like it was reinforced and padded in some places. He was annoyingly handsome. If I saw him chatting up girls at a concert, rather than saving my life from a monster in my parents’ bedroom, I would be beyond jealous.
Barely acknowledging my presence, he walked over nonchalantly and pulled the arrow out of his target’s skull. When he wiped the tip on his shirt, I realized that it wasn’t your average, everyday golden arrow. Its surface shimmered and glittered, less the color of fine jewelry and more like a ray of sunlight. Just looking at it made me feel warm.
He finally turned around and met my gaze. His mouth crinkled, as if my very existence offended him. “You ought be here,” he said.
“What do you mean? This is my house,” I said. “You ‘ought not’ be here.” Looking at the red-eyed dog on the floor, though, I was happy he was.
“This should no longer be your home. Judgment has come and gone, yet you remain.”
“Judgment?” I asked. “Is that what you call hurling a Camry at my bedroom and siccing a demon dog on me?”
“Hellhound,” he corrected. “And these things were not my doing, nor were they part of the Judgment.”
Before I could verbalize any of the questions rattling around in my head, he said “Come” and walked out of the room.
I followed him through my house, too shocked to say anything. There were no other cars sticking out of walls, but it looked like an earthquake had hit. Paintings hung crooked or had fallen off their hooks, and one wall had a giant spiderweb of cracks running through it. Still not wearing shoes, I had to tiptoe carefully through the kitchen—glassware had tumbled out of cabinets and shattered on the ceramic tile.
Good thing my parents had homeowner’s insurance.

(2/3)

...

I agree with the other comment, but this line stuck out to me
> Slouched over her childhood home dining room table she sat, patiently.

This sentence sounds garbled and the comma before the final word completely doesn't work.
Read it in your head and see if you can hear what I'm talking about. Keep practicing user.

This is a joke, right? If not I find it hard to believe you're actually proud of this. Keep writing.

It's funny you pointed out the second line because it initially turned me off. Not bad at all, I'm not that into it and this piece might be a little overwritten but you're not a bad writer at all. I loved this line:
>tombed a hammer deep into the skull of a Sikh

I think the end of the fifth line breaks the flow. And "hole of an aperture" is redundant. I like it overall though.

Eventually, Conall had to stop. He groaned. “Ahhh. Hold on Todd. These bunnies are done. I've got to let them out.” Moving as quickly as he could behind some trees, the wolf boy, once out of sight, let out a whine as he squatted, lifted his tail, and pushed his rump out, leaning on a tree for support. He knew this was going to be rough.

Conall groaned, feeling the massive log inside him, the remains of the seven bunnies. Together, they were heavy and, for a moment, he couldn't even move them. He pushed, he strained, but nothing seemed to work. A terrified thought filled his head that he might never get these bunnies out! Then, he forced himself to relax. The huge, heavy log strained his rump, so, rather than fight it, he let the bunnies push against his sphincter. They pushed, making Conall wince, but then they pushed through.

Conall gasped. He'd never had a meal this big before; his tail wasn't used to being stretched like this. Still, with him relaxed, the thick log slithered out and wound down between his legs. It was so heavy that it spooled from his bottom without pause, but so thick and so tightly packed that it never tore. A long, fat, brown snake of digested bunny slid to the forest floor at the wolf boy's feet. The soggy loaf piled up and coiled over itself as more and more of it piped out of Conall's butt. A little steam rose off the pile; it was still very warm from his insides. Conall's sensitive nose wrinkled at the stark, bitter odor of it all.

The first log flopped out. Now Conall could push and he felt more slide out of his butt and onto the pile, dropping with a flat, wet thud to the ground. As he pushed the bunnies out, his stomach began to flatten. He put one hand against it, feeling the firm ridges of his intestines softening again, the pain of a packed gut sliding out of him. The thick pile of ex-bunny behind him turned into a small mound, still moist from its trip through his body. Only a few white hairs here and there in the dense brown, or the occasional, yellowed chip of bone, showed the pile for what it used to be: seven very excitable, but not very wise, bunnies. Nothing remained to distinguish where one sibling began and the others ended. All seven were swirled together, just a few brown lumps on the forest floor.

Conall could feel the end of his waste. He groaned, pushed, and felt the last slide out, flopping down onto the pile beneath him. Conall fell against the tree with a long, heavy sigh. “Ooooooh....” He rubbed his rump; it felt sorer than after any meal he'd ever had. But... it was so worth it. He'd proved he could eat seven bunnies at once. He'd proven how good a predator he was. Despite how much his bottom and his belly were complaining at having been overused, Conall smiled.

>chunky brown red pool

sounds like period blood. was it supposed to be period blood?

rape this with (helpful) words thank you
pastebin.com/FnEF7iw4

reads nicely, keep at it

maybe rethink that cheated lover analogy, seems a little cliche

it's ok, but not really great
though i'm shitty at judging poetry

I'm trying to start a story but whenever I begin writing I start crying and become terribly afraid. Just this one particular story. I'm not like sobbing, just tears running down my face. I am really confused as to why this is happening.

Send help. Seriously, does anyone know what my deal is?

literally autism.

Fuck you, I'm a functioning human. I'm emotionally stable, sober, and a somewhat accomplished writer. And when trying to write this story my eyes water up and overflow, like an allergic reaction. I'm wondering if this has ever happened to anyone else, because I am disturbed by it.

Its called Autism or Aspergers

>he comes into Veeky Forums to bait

Can someone tell me if this is complete garbage?

I keep trying to rewrite this opening but nothing seems right, I think I'm just going to power on and hope it comes into form

This is not badly written, not over written - but not spectacular either. Small flashes of inspiration in "blurry impression soft fingers", the use of "dusting" and "marroon", and a competent juggle of several characters.

Certainly, if you had the right plot, you'd have a nice story in this.

Thanks for the feedback man, I'm working on the plot, right now it's just about a kid from Catholic school wandering around a city on his week off, not sure where I'm taking it, just felt like writing something.

Think of a character and a motif. See if there's a plot between that.

Sounds like Catcher in the Rye.
I kinda like your writing style though. The one thing is that I wish you introduced Hugh better. I can't really tell which side he's on. If you had him interact with the other kids just a bit somewhere in that last paragraph it would seem more coherent.

You're scared deeply by failure.

Seeing the damage throughout my house made me even more anxious about my family (as if my experiences since getting out of bed hadn’t already clued me in that something scary was happening). Had they gone to hide in the basement, hoping to wait out a natural disaster? Had another hellhound—I think that’s what my mysterious new friend called it—chased them off? Had a white-clad stranger, after criticizing them for being in their own house, led them somewhere else? And why hadn’t they taken me with them?
I had to ask this guy if he knew anything. “Hey, where’s my—” I began.
But I followed him out the front door, and what I saw rendered me speechless.
Of all the houses I could see, ours—car hole and all—was the most intact. A huge oak had fallen on the house to the right, splitting it down the middle. The entire second floor of the house to the left was nowhere in sight.
The worst, though, was the house across the street—or, well, what remained of it. Since we moved in, two elderly people, whose names I could never remember but always smiled and waved hello, had lived there. Now, there was no evidence a house had ever existed except for some blackened pieces of rubble scattered on the scorched ground.
“Stay behind me,” my laconic guide ordered, proceeding cautiously onto the lot.
After a few steps, I discovered the focus of his attention: a body lying where the living room used to be. He also looked to be nineteen or twenty, although the cuts covering his body prevented me from being too sure. A crater ringed around his body as if he were a meteor. At first, I thought he was dead. But after a few seconds, I saw his chest heaving, drawing a painful-looking breath.
He must have heard us approaching, because his eyes flickered open and locked on to my companion.
“You fool, Michael,” he spat. “You should have seen the Host becoming too rigid, too vindictive. Long ago they ceased cultivating goodness in favor of mongering their power over the sinners. And now, under your watch, they have ushered on the Judgment long before it should have come. Because you have failed to remind them of their purpose. ”
My companion—Michael—flinched like he had been slapped.
“I know I have erred, Raguel,” he said, “and it weighs heavily on me. But punishing me will not restore harmony, as you think, but create greater discord. We must stand together and quell the dissension within the Heavenly Host. Since the Last Judgment has taken place, we must ready ourselves for war.
“Now go, and heal. We will need your strength.”
A flash of light engulfed Raguel’s body, and when it dissipated, he was gone.
Michael sighed. He turned back towards me and looked surprised, like he had forgotten I was standing there.
I fumbled around for words. “You’re… an angel,” I said.

When I was almost out of cash, I flew home to Melbourne. The plane landed at dawn, and I managed to find a removal company available to work that day. The truck pulled up beside my father’s house not long after I watched him leave for work. Parked in the shade cast by a great suburban tree, I got out of my car and let them inside.

After a while I gave up and just sat back to watch. They were talking about alternate realities, from sci-fi shows to superheroes, moving on to the next world in a desperate rush. We always ended up here somehow, lost together on far away worlds.

Is this the sequel to The Catcher in the Rye

First paragraph of my short story

There is no scatheless rapture. Love and time put me in this condition. I am leaving soon for the Nightland, where all ghost of men and animals yearn to travel. We're called to it. I feel it pulling at me, same as everyone else. It is the last unmapped country, and a dark way getting there. The belief I've acquired over a generous and nevertheless inadequate time on Earth is - you never know WHAT is going to come through that door.

Tried a different style to spice things up

The mobster's daughter lies in her bed in a tower above the medial park. It is dark out, and in the city unsleeping the stars of the sky have been bound to the earth. They dance and they flicker in cages of curly black metal, evenly spaced upon sidewalks of gleaming mica. Their glimmer is refracted across concrete geometries and polished brass statues and cobblestone benches paneled with green-painted wood. Ava has hair like curtains of india ink and crystal clear eyes like two orbs of quartz. Her quartzine gaze watches the river of time, and she and she alone can divert its path. She thought she had seen all futures, but she did not see this, not until she woke to gunfire and smoke.

The men in her living room smash tables and vases, and her shiny new phonograph has holes in its wood. Her mother is riddled with tommy gun stings, and rich ruby blood flows through linoleum channels. She sits there in silence in shock, and confusion and asks herself whether this is real or a dream. Something raps at her window, almost silent in the bedlam of her apartment, but just loud enough to draw her out her linens and down.

There is man outside to greet her, handsome and young, with a pigeon on his shoulder and a pair of round shades. Each lens is carved with a four-ring bull's eye, each ring has been circled with identical dots. Two at the inmost, eighteen far outside, and the inner two scored with 8 orbs each. His voice grim when he tells her there is no time to explain. If she wants he can save her, no questions asked, but she must do as he says or she will certainly die.

“Okay,” she mumbles, in the haze of her dream, and pitches an ink well through the glass of her window. It breaks on her hand, mixing shards, blood and ink, and she is acutely aware that she is fully awake

“Now,” he says, with a showman's proud flourish, “I'm afraid I will have to ask you jump.” Ava obeys his command and leaps into his arms, recalling at the peak of her arc that she lives in a penthouse.

well written but a tad too generic in concept and voice. Tell your own story, not someone else's

that last bit ruins it. Switching between formal and informal is a risky manuever, and I would not advise using it for anything other than humor. Even then do nothing in halves. Switch between a cultured tongue and blunt vulgarity, and do it quickly enough t give your reader whiplash

Is that a bad thing?

“An archangel, technically. You must be very confused. In these times, few people truly believe, and even the believers never expect to encounter divinity directly.
“As you have probably gathered by now, the Day of Judgment has occurred. That is where your family is,” he said, gesturing to the sky. “Or…” he trailed off, gesturing to the ground. My heart jumped down to my stomach and settled like a ball of lead.
Michael continued. “Somehow, you have been passed over. But while the earth is devoid of other mortals, you are not safe. This world has become a battleground, and invaders are already arriving.
“I am sure you have many questions, but presently I have few answers. Raguel’s words, although harsh, were true—my control over the angelic armies has slipped, and I do not fully understand what is unfolding. But now, I must go and rectify my mistakes.”
As he finished speaking, white-feathered wings unfolded out of his back, stretching out to twice his height. His feet pushed gently off the ground, and he floated a few feet in the air. But unlike all the other crazy, inexplicable things that had happened to me since I woke up, this made me feel oddly reassured. Hovering above me in his divine splendor, Michael looked truly angelic. Whatever “invaders” were coming, he seemed powerful enough to handle them.
“Oh my God,” I said, awed by his appearance.
“I would not use the Lord’s name in vain if I were you,” he chided half-whimsically. “Look around. He is all you have.”
His final words rang in my ears as I watched him shoot up into the sky.
My guardian angel wasn’t very reassuring.

(4/3)

> kid from Catholic school wandering around a city on his week off

Maybe. It's a pretty known plot

pastebin.com/3XvX9wPq
This is just a little prose experiment
>quartzine
just don't
It's decent. The sentence before that bad word is actually very nice. It's mostly the constant reiteration that bores me. Do you read a lot of Tim Powers? The detail feels like him more than Tommy P.

Never read him. Good to know though, I'll stick with the I was using before

Here's something I just wrote. Needs a few rewrites, looking for ideas.

“Sometimes I feel like you're the only person I can talk to.”

“That’s probably not good.”

“Why?”

My eyes open, and I know that this is the last day of my life. I sit up, feel the mattress beneath my bare ass, and put on the same pair of pants I've worn for the last two weeks. I step out of my bedroom.

It's dark out here.

I am followed as I move down the hall. My thoughts are hazy, my eyes roll from side to side on their own initiative. Open doorways stand, ominous - I want to close them, but can't find the courage. I can hear its footsteps behind me as I cross, trembling, to the bathroom. I enter, and slam the door.

Nothing happens when I flick on the light. It's even darker in here.

I stare into the mirror as I wash my hands. The water burns. He stands across, painted in shadow. Pretty blue eyes flash in the light from the window. Pretty white teeth stand out in a Cheshire grin. His hair dances subtly as I watch, mesmerized. Somewhere, a girl laughs - my gaze skitters down to the sink, having lost its nerve. I'm careful to remove the filth from under my fingernails. Steel wool glides. I look back up, but the other man is gone. The mirror stands black before me, its surface rippling like a living thing. I reach out and

My hands are bleeding again. I watch the water run red, and faint.

We're lying side by side again. You had moved from the floor, but I followed, using the blanket as an excuse. My arm rests - delicately, hesitantly - on your shoulder. Your foot is pressed against my thigh under the covers, and I relish the way your toes twitch against my flesh. You pass the pipe and our fingers meet - a jolt of electricity fires into my chest, sending my heart into a frenzy. I smile at you, and you smile back.

“When you said I was one of your closest friends - did you mean that?”

“Of course I did. Why?”

“Don't worry about it. Just thinking.”

1/2

It's darker now. As I sit up, it becomes apparent that the bathroom door is open. It's hard not to run to the kitchen, but I manage somehow. The blinds keep out most of the light. I know that there’s nothing in the pantry, but check anyway. A rat stares at me. I stare at the rat. It shifts, and it occurs to me that it's probably terrified. I reach out, cooing softly, and it bites my hand.

Your eyes stare at me. Your jaw works up and down, up and down, up and down, and I tell you I'm sorry but I don't think you understand. My fingers worm into the hole I've opened in your stomach as you thrash and squeak, and I feel my guilt returning to me. I reach in - hesitantly, delicately - and pull.

The rat’s organs stand out brilliantly against the kitchen counter. The stench is overpowering. Blood drips slowly onto the tiles below, where a small puddle has began to form. I am washing my hands. I have been washing my hands. I watch the water run red, and decide that the day is over.

That night, I see her face as I pleasure myself. Her mouth is open, and her eyes stare blankly into mine. I say I'm sorry, but I don’t think she understands. I watch her jaw move up and down, up and down, up and down...

“We’ve been fighting a lot lately.”

“Yeah? Sorry to hear that, man.”

“It is what it is. Too much work. We'll be fine as soon as she gets out of school.”

My eyes open, and I know that this is the last day of my life.

depends on how you write him

this is good

Rate my shit, e/lit/ists. Translated it from my uncompleted shitty novel.
===
>Four bandits surrounded Nerdasks. All of them are dressed in sand-like gold color with their face covered in headscarfs. There are spears on their hands, meanwhile, Nerdasks is tightly grabbing his shortsword. His body is trembling and his eyes are covered by fear.
>The bandits gets closer and closer with some strange words filled with joy come out. Clearly, their are not human with the yellow insect-like eyes and their green skins, exposed from gaps of the headscarfs.
>Nerdasks slowly release his sword. It disappears, replaced by a loaded-up crossbow. He points it straight ahead and grasps the trigger.
>sound of a bolt when it hits something.wav
>sound of someone falls on the ground.wav
>(I do not know what the fuck are they in English)
>A few red drop appear on the yellow smooth sand.
>Nerdasks rushs into the newly-created-gap. He hears some angry voices behind him; however, he does nothing but reload the crossbow.
>sound of some chainmails moving bigger and bigger because they come closer.wav
>Nerdasks puts the crossbow on his shoulder while he is still running and do a blind-shot. He hear the sound of the bolt when it hits something.
>Two pointy things hit Nerdasks' back, but it can do nothing because he is wearing full plate armour.
>sound of some chainmails moving, smaller and smaller because they are fleeing.wav
>Nerdasks turn back, reload the crossbow again and aim at the back of the nearer bandit.
>The other hear the sound, slowly puts her hands on the air and turn back.
>Nerdaks grasps the trigger again. She tries dodging. The bolt hits her arm, but she still falls on the sand afterwards.
===
Some stupid shits to fill the plot holes if you can find them:
>Nerdasks has a "storage-ring", which he can use to put something in and out of his hand accords to his will.
>The bandits are female trolls or lizardwomen.
>The bolts are poisoned.
===
Sorry again if my English is too shitty.

The cat was a nuisance. It was gone now. It was noisy and orange and he didn't want it in the first place. He tried to talk her out of it. She wouldn’t listen. Her orange bangs bobbed when she told him she doesn't ask for much so he'd better give her this. Now they didn't sleep. It meowed and mewled all night by their door. The blue-white pulse of the computer screen in the dark throwing light on the bed sheets from across the room. Across the hardwood floors he paid extra to have installed when they moved. She was fine with carpet but he insisted. For her. She was his princess. He really did love her. He was angry and impulsive and did things he regretted. She was sweet and sad and never talked over anyone. He half-seriously suggested throwing it off a bridge. She shocked him by saying yes. He was almost fired for screaming in his boss's face. Crazy from lack of sleep. Then it had to go. He put it in the cat carrier and fired up the Jetta and drove it into the woods. The black plastic grip of the pistol was cold in his hands. Cold from the morning. He walked far with the cat into the black and green woods. He let it out. He let it eat grass and feel the dirt under its paws. The first time it had been in the woods he knew. He shot it in the head as it turned away, a flat crack under the roof of the boughs and leaves. She was sad for a while. She was happier now. She smiled with her eyes at dinner. She laughed. He loved her. The cat was a nuisance. It was gone now.

wattpad.com/299524755-the-robbey-the-robbery

Are there any tips on writing third person limited

I don't really write much, at all really. But I wrote this for some reason

It wasn't until months later that I could admit I was in an abusive relationship
They all told me so for a long time, but I wouldn't listen
"You don't know him like I do" i said
They would tell me what he did to me, but I wouldn't listen
"You're covered from head to toe in scars" they said
"He took all of your money from you" they said
"But you don't know him like I do" I said
"You're withering away because he doesn't let you eat"
"You can't sleep when he isn't with you" they said
"But you don't know him like I do" I said
"How can you not see how horrible he treats you"
"You're an absolute wreck when he's gone" they said
"But you don't know him like I do"
I would tell them what they didn't know about him
"He always came back when I wanted him to" I said
"He always knew how to make me feel better"
"He would wrap me in a warm blanket of smiles when he came"
"He would tell me everything was going to be okay"
"He he would make all my troubles disappear"
"He would leave when I needed him most, but he always came back" I said
"I don't like what he's don't to you" they said
"You aren't the same person you were before you met him" they said
"But you don't know him like I do" I said
"You don't know heroin like I do"

[I will critique after I post, in order to keep it neater]
The tired warrior trudged along the beaten path, bleeding from his left shoulder every breath grew thinner and thinner. On the corner of his eyes a crackling fire revealed itself in front of a colossal tree, his feet were drawn to the light, as if through no volition of his own his body moved towards the fire. A man sat behind the fire, dressed as a storyteller around the same age as he, in his hands was an old lute, he began to play a melody of sorts, a sullen, beautiful, and calming melody. The warrior sat across the storyteller behind the fire, and thought to himself this is a fitting place for rest.
“O tired warrior, hero with an untold story, bearer of history, what song would you like to hear next?” The storyteller spoke with flair and grandiose, his gestures were extravagant yet controlled, there was a shimmer in his eyes and though his jolly facade could fool most, the warrior had seen enough despair to spot it directly in front of him.
“Just the same melody should be enough,” the warrior managed to utter. He was clutching his wounded shoulder, occasionally grimacing from the pain.
“My hero, it is hardly the time to hold back on wishes,” the storyteller smiled knowingly.
“Why do you insist on calling me your hero?”
“You won the war did you not?”
“We won the war, I am but a measly warrior, not a general nor a captain.”
“Ah, and therein lies your tragedy my hero. You have played a great role in the future of the planet, your sword has united Orbis, and yet when they tell of your story they will tell the stories of generals and captains, and not the brave story of my hero,” the storyteller began to play the same melody as per the request of the warrior.
“And how do you know of my story,” the warrior asked.
[1/3]

“You insult me my hero, what kind of storyteller would I be if I did not know one of the greatest stories in history,” the storyteller said matter-of-factly.
“What do you mean? The war had just ended, there is no way for you to know of my story. Who are you?”
The storyteller struck a powerful chord and a smirk formed on his face, “I am a mere storyteller.”
The warrior shook his head as he decided to give up his questioning, “I must seek medical help before I die.” He stood up and began to walk away from the fire.
He only saw darkness. A shiver went down his spine. He thought he couldn’t see past the fire only because it was too dark, now he knew it was because there was nothing around them. Nothing at all. Only a tiny circle, with a tree, a fire, and two men in the middle of a void.
“I already have, haven’t I?” the warrior said in a whisper.
“Yes, in the battlefield,” the storyteller ceased his playing.
“Why are you here?” the warrior turned to face the storyteller.
“Finally, an interesting question,” the storyteller’s face lit up. “I am here to give you a choice, a choice between yes and no, between the sky and the ground, unity and separation. My hero, would you like an opportunity to redo the war?”
“Redo the war?” the warrior said aghast.
“Correct,” the storyteller snapped his fingers. “Redo the war.”
“Why on God’s hell would I do that?”
“You will be given an opportunity to fight for the other side, to change the outcome of history.”
[2/3]

“Fight to keep Orbis separated?”
“Indeed.”
“Why on God’s hell would I do that?”
“For that, my hero, I would need to tell you a story,” the storyteller gestured for the warrior to sit.
The warrior sat, “what kind of story?” he asked skeptically.
“A story that takes place three hundred years in your future, an eternity in my past, one that tells the tale of the inevitable result of your pursuits, a story about the rebellion that fought to overthrow the very country you fought to create,” the storyteller began to play his lute again.
The warrior sighed, accepting the fact that there’s not much else he could do. Perhaps a story wouldn’t be so bad, he could imagine worse afterlifes.
The fire drew his eyes, the warmth lightly touching his skin, the smell of burnt wood permeated in the air, and inside the crackling flame he saw blurred visions of friends, of drinks, of battles, of love, of her. The warrior relaxed as a small smile formed on his face, he made eye contact with the storyteller and he had one final thought before the storyteller began his story, that this was indeed a fitting place for rest.

me

I like this, it's pretty straightforward and a bit boring but I enjoyed the prose by quite a bit. Good job.

Lots of grammatical errors here and there, also reads awkwardly on a lot of places such as
>Nerdasks is tightly grabbing his shortsword. His body is trembling and his eyes are covered by fear.
But english isn't your first language I'm assuming so other than that it should be fine.

It's definitely not complete garbage by any means, I enjoyed it quite a bit despite it not being anything special. A bit more work and there's definitely something there

>Lots of grammatical errors here and there, also reads awkwardly on a lot of places such as
>But english isn't your first language I'm assuming so other than that it should be fine.
Thanks for the critique.
Did you find anything else, like were my depiction and pacing good, or was the fight too boring?
Sorry because I gave you that, but really, in my country, it is damn hard to find somewhere to critique my writing online, so I have done a shitty job translating it to English and posted it here.

It's pretty bland. I don't know if its just me or if its your writing.

Try to tidy up your grammar.

decent, absolutely, boringly decent.

Rude but thanks

This is the kind of dialogue that plows a permanent 3rd rail into the reader's brain I mean, I'm totally spinning right now do ye have more? Is this part of the sum of some bigger project? Nabokov said too much dialogue = fat stupid garbage (dot com) but what the FUCK does he know? Right? Y not go full 'logue?

It's like you took advice from somewhere and jerked it expecting moloko or a hot load to come out but instead we have this DOA! 1st 9 words!

But ok let's shift gears you need to work on your writing don't give up. But Ima be honest wit u right now, it's bad & believe me I want to browse the shit in these threads and be wowed this is not wow.

Rolling my eyes across this was like having my benis worked up into an erection and then have a Bowie knife forced down me pee pee hole. Not the best. The worst? That would take an architect of disaster, some kind of magnanimous talent of shit shat, which you did not prove with yr shat shit.

>In the idle moments between conversation in the waiting room, Roberto thought about his father. Vague impressions of evenings spent between warnings against the written word and embitterments of Beefeater manifested at random; despite an entire career to the contrary, his father had commonly spoken ill of writing and journalism, rambling acerbically far into the sickly summer evenings. Perhaps, Roberto mused, it was rather out of personal spite than goodwill: by all definitions, his father enjoyed over the course of his life only brief respite in any sort of considerations of talent or excellence. Years upon years were spent slaving over scripts, papers that rustled and shied at the signs of curious approach, not for secrecy but insecurity. His writing was composed of mediocrity and hard sells of prosaic registry, tethered to the company by little besides endearment and pity. Even with the thoughtful efforts of superiors (family friends of many generations as they were), success treated him as a leper: in numerous opportunity-laden social gatherings, he had remained a social nonentity, an eidolon skirting tangent to the actions of mingling. He stayed comfortably numinous to several a benefactor, his branches lofty having already long taken root in a career spent solely in and through weary corners. The sole moment of glory in his life had escaped him as well, scathing not only his pride but an intermittent penchant for wit as well: his one (admittedly mundane) interim stint as a cultural writer was brought to an abrupt halt in the wake of a colorful article containing a phrase in reference to Boulez as "a prominent conductor only in the sense that he has been responsible for several tragic train-wrecks". The aftermath had been unforgiving. For a measly crime of slander, he suffered through about eighteen odd months of penance: drawn out accusations of mistrial and repeat hearings that culminated in what amounted to a sort of torturous auto da fe of public reputation. Although ultimately insignificant, the results had marked an impasse in his professional life. It was soon after the incident that he quit, bought a gun from a pawnbroker, and shot himself in a dirty back alley on his wife's birthday. The official conclusion was that he had forgotten the occasion.

Could be effective with more length and perhaps being a bit more "cheeky" for lack of a better term. It's tough to write good stuff with a dramatic punchline at the end

Enjoy your descriptions but trying recording dialogue to see how it sounds. Better yet, read Gaddis.

I'm having trouble understanding what you're saying but I'll try to respond.

This is part of a bigger project yes, the beginning of one.

I'm assuming you're saying that there's too much dialogue, and I can see that, I'll work on it.

Thanks for your input

And as the car follows instructions, and behaves predictably, so, too, do the sirens, whose voices are loud, whose pull, for some, is great and undeniable - "Safeway Next Exit" one screams, and another, and another - and they refuse to be unheard, even in silence, even in absolute deafness, they wait; and they wait with voluptuous eyes and an aura of cheap friendliness. Only to the car and its inhabitants are the siren's wails invisible; after all, they're busy following instructions.

Basically my point is don't stop writing. You have to burn off endless notebooks and legal pads of shit before you start getting lassies sopping wet.

Prolixity only looks good on bitches talking at you across two double margaritas. Throw it out & write it from memory. Well... don't throw it out, but y'know, try writing it from memory. Then take out each big word that is currently triggering my erection. Compare it to the original. You'll be surprised! :D

I would have to agree with this sentiment, actually.

Just look at the free section, until the first pawprint.

amazon.com/dp/B01AO9DNBE

‘Iconoclasm,’ he stated. ‘That is an emotionally charged word that holds too much bias, retaining an inherent vexing power to the true revolutionary, such as myself, for it contains within it a lie, not just a negative connotation but a meaning that is altogether untrue. Were it so easy I would coin a new one to replace it, or better yet keep iconoclasm, while the new word would simply illustrate what it is that is actually achieved by what our critics dub as iconoclasm. Therefore we would separate the two, and the truth would be preserved. Irreverence is another example. It implies were are naught but childish imps throwing stones at the cottages of the establishment, and thus treating us as immature, and undermining our credibility. For the word does not pretend to understand us; instead, it takes an action that we perform and applies a fallacious motive behind it, such that an entire ideology can be mislabeled as an irreverent reaction and the tenets of its thought completely ignored. Is this unjust? Sure, but only to be expected from enemies. It is, however, important to continue to acknowledge these manipulations of syntax, lest we let our image of ourselves be in any way corrupted by the lies perpetuated by the smoldering husk of the Never-State. Even from the grave its ideas continue to reach out like suffocating tentacles, eager to latch on and fill the heads of our citizens with the dangerous mendacities that have plagued civilization for so long. And our judgements need not be fair; let them be severe. Doubtless critics will use language such as bloodthirsty to describe us, to paint a falsehood upon a transitive canvas and call it truth. It is not iconoclasm to remove the symbols of the Never-State, it is an artistic necessity in order to give way to new creations, to make room for the correct artistic expression. Language must not be used to hand-wave away genuine complaints that represent the will of the citizens. Do you agree, prophet?’

I don't even try to be verbose or wordy; it just happens

:(

So you shit out shit? Maybe y'oughta sift through it before wasting everyone's time?

I didn't just write that impromptu, I'm just saying it's something I struggle with commonly

I don't know how good this is. I hope my English is good enough to understand

bad

I gave a closet personality.

How so?

Just not interesting. But mainly I think it comes from the poor sentence structure. You gotta see the scene in your mind and then try to word in that order so that the scene will play in the readers mind as well.

Any point on hiw I better my sentence structure

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA WHAT

I do not Agree child

A creature walked in, no, a man. He was a Mr. Hyde, a hulk of a man, his arrival convinced me that the giants of lore weren't so far from the truth. He held a curved cane, covered with a winding strand of black electrical tape, as i went from the curve to the rubber cap, I noticed his shoes, as large as a loaf of bread, and the same color. His plaid shirt bulged on his massive chest, and the sleeve was ripped down his arm, as though he had crushed a man that day, and his muscles had rent the fabric in the process. His hat, a ruddy trucker's bill, and his eyes. Never had I been so intimidated, he paid me no mind, but still I could feel a surge of fear knowing this beast was out and could just as well be seeking throats to throttle. He slowly made his way up the line to speak to a woman with a cat shirt on, and she welcomed him with his name, "Hey Earl" she said, with no sense of this living titan, this mythological being in front of her very eyes, typical women, never can appreciate the rarities of man, the antiques. I mused that the man was well over 50, and sensed he was the last of his kind, sad, dangerous, monstrous. Perhaps that is a good thing.

trash. fucking trash.

...

For reference, this is an attempt to tell a story without any specific character, including narrator. Part of an 8-part attempt to tell a story, progressively shedding those involved in telling it and specifying, ultimately concluding that a story, however it be told, cannot be perfectly told.

trash. fucking trash.

I'd have to say that just because an idea sounds cool or experimental, doesn't mean it will be interesting to read. I don't mean to be rude, but this looks like it would be mostly insufferable. To be honest I don't think there's any way you can salvage this idea, as it seems to guarantee ugly prose. Unless you can find some way to break from the "he did this, he thinks that, he wants to do this" routine, I'd say scrap it and try something else.

It's specifically that section (1 page of 12) which reads like that. Intentionally, too. The idea is that each section becomes progressively less readable/intelligible/efficient at conveying the inane storyline, thus dooming each perspective and requiring a new one. Only that section uses the neutral he present, single sentence form.

But I agree, I'm worried the concept has the potential to completely overshadow the piece.

judge

How good and/or bad is this ? Probably not good, but this is a writing style that I've never done before and I'm not sure whether to keep exploring it or go back to my comfort zone. Taking the safe option is boring as fuck and I'd rather make myself laugh. Or tamely chuckle, to be more accurate.

That's a bit grandiloquent, but fine prose. I like the reference to Finnegans Wake. I don't understand what you mean by the following statement, though :
>He stayed comfortably numinous to several a benefactor

>crystal clear
Don't use platitudes like that. If you've seen a description somewhere before, then there's no use using that same description in your own writing if it isn't intended as a direct allusion.

>like two orbs of quartz. Her quartzine gaze
That's redundant.

>there is no time to explain. If she wants he can save her, no questions asked, but she must do as he says or she will certainly die.
This is a generic trope and really doesn't need to be repeated. I'll bet quite confidently that this exact sequence of words has been written by someone else in the past, probably numerous times.

>and pitches an ink well through the glass of her window. It breaks on her hand, mixing shards, blood and ink, and she is acutely aware that she is fully awake
I'm pretty sure that if someone did something like this, it would be enough to warrant a psychological examination at the least.

>“Now,” he says, with a showman's proud flourish, “I'm afraid I will have to ask you jump.” Ava obeys his command and leaps into his arms, recalling at the peak of her arc that she lives in a penthouse.
Didn't the Matrix do something like this ?

I didn't know Jack London browses Veeky Forums

It just means that he never even registered on the radar of anyone of significance but I just realized I was using the wrong word so thanks, I'll fix that. Mixed "numinous" up with another word. Gah

please tear this apart as much as you can, thank you

i think that is a legitimate fear- the concept itself is more interesting than the writing
though this could provide like a skeletal framework for something if you want to be fancy with the writing

it's meh. nice imagery, but boring in general. exploration of form with sexual imagery is sorta overused, and i think it's a little vague in terms of tone it wants to convey- exploration of the form leaves little room for non-sexual passion to be found, and it leaves me a little confused at the ending which shows disappointment and disgust

though i'd have to see it in context to judge fully

it's fun. not my style, but you write well enough to play around with words and get the point accross and convey an image

keep going

also, to note- i was considering entering this into a short story competition

i don't particularly think it's very good enough, though

Usually in a piece like this one you'd expect the meaning of the repeated sentences to change, but because it doesn't this is just boring.

thanks for the input, user
there is no context, i just wrote it after masturbation i was mainly putting my experience into word, both my guilty pleasure at the amorous, and the euphoric disappointment afterward.

I think you mean "a lot -more- like dirt".

Your style of narration is contrary to the era you are writing of, in my opinion. It's jarring.

>keep going
Wish I could, but I rarely ever think of something to write about. Thanks for the encouragement, though.

i felt like there's a contradiction between the image you want to set and your voice. you forced emotions upon images which really made me as a reader not imagine or feel anything. nice description, but exhausted. i suggest you show less and imply the feels instead of laying them out. take it with a pinch of salt though t b h

pastebin.com/ZHqXBCEi

is this worth continuing? i posted some of it on a similar thread before i think

thank you, I'll try that out.

Your writing is really good, honestly. It's more enjoyable to me than Nabokov's, I'll give it that. Sorry I can't find any concrete criticisms. It isn't remarkable prose, but it's certainly at the point where you're capable of telling interesting stories and intriguing readers, and that's a point that not many people reach. I'm being honest when I say that I'd want to read a book by you.