Eternal Critique Thread

Try to rewrite this.

pastebin.com/kGXrDcEk

it is about rape

I liked it, but some things sound forced

>again and again
avoid this repetition

>finger-pointing dog
it sounds bad

the rest is fine

Part of a story, will post the rest if there is interest

Elmer watched him breathe his final breath. His fur glistened in the sunlight as blood gushed from his small frame. He seemed to bake on the asphalt as the life drained from him.
“Do not let my efforts perish in vain…” he said, before his closed in eternal slumber.
Elmer rested on his hind legs in petrified silence, in disbelief at the images his beady eyes detected.
His name had been Roger. He had arrived at Pete’s Pet Store earlier that day. From the moment Elmer locked eyes with him from the confines of his cage, he knew Roger was different. There was a spark in his eyes. A vitality he had never seen in any other rabbit brimmed from his movements, his exuberance, his fiery rhetoric. All new rabbits had a certain sense of enthusiasm that was inexorably crushed, but Roger was different. He was awake.
It had been a slow day in the store, and the rabbits lazed about their cage. Life in a pet store was devoid of all meaning. Eat. Sleep. Shit. Wait to be bought by some snotnosed kid who would simply use them as their plaything and discard them when they ceased to be entertaining. And so they spent their days, as was tradition, as had always been done, in aimless subsistence, dreaming of a freedom they would never experience. Their only solace was their mercifully short life spans.

Thinking about just doing a paste bin but here's something quick. Any critique would be wonderful!

She awoke, with fever induced excitement -
but unwilling to leave, her land of fantastical dreams

Dimmed orbs of dark, squinting at the winking light of a newborn sun -
Drowsy fingertips grasping at sheets, flinging them off her naked form

The soft whispers of robes, sliding, covering clammy, goosebumped skin -
A one dimensional protection against the unquenchable thirst of the wind

Seeping, twisting and slipping through cracks of a frozen house, as the world changed around it -
An electrifying shock as bare feet pressed against the icy chill of marble tiles

Soft padding of footsteps down an empty corridor -
Guarded by painted eyes, unblinking as time passed by

That looked away, from the door that led -
Out, out into the outside world.

The whispers of ghosts following her trail -
As she flings the heavily ornamented doors open, yet weak as they crack and bend

Down into her fragrant gardens she goes -
Toes digging into the soft vibrant soil, bursting with life

The tender touch of petals -
warms her blood

As the prick of thorns -
bleed rubies down her once unmarked hand

A blissful smile turns into grimace and sadness -
a head turned in question

Her life secluded -
to the eternal building, she called home

A dainty form, vanishing in and out -
discovering a new thing here, and here and there

The delighted laughs -
and muted whimpers

Always quick to run back to the heavily ornamented doors -
their hinges creaking, quivering as their form weakened

Until one day, she left -
She left, left too far that allowed for no hurried escape

Ending in a shy face, hidden behind a vine covered pillar, among rubble of ancient civilizations -
As a stranger, beckoned

With answers, and questions -
That he freely gave, and whom she freely went with

Years went by -
When she finally visited the house, with corridors of painted eyes

She slipped back into robes from her youth -
Snuggled under the sheets that had warmed her in the coldest of nights

She closed her eyes -
And as she did, fire was birthed into the house that had stood frozen, as the world changed around it

The chorus and singing of flames with their suits of red, blue and orange, reverberated in the home -
their contralto and soprano tones creating a symphony of scorch and ruin

Leaving a skeleton wall and blackened faces -
And the form of a sleeping maiden

As vines and trees creeped in and all other forms of green took root -
Growing and twisting, bathing in the warmth of the sun

A shelter alight with the beating heart of life -
A mass of roots and shyly peeking tendrils

Allowing for gentle breezes from the tenderest of winds -
Yet shielding from the mightiest of tempests, as their leaves shook, bending and turning but never breaking

Stirring in her slumber -
She woke, to find herself laying in a bed of grass

And never went back to sleep

I was getting a watership down vibe from it, it's not exactly bad but the tense and morose atmosphere seems especially forced and unnatural. I'm not sure what you could use, but instead of using darker language, perhaps push that dark environment through the actions of the other rabbits, perhaps quivering in fear instead just outright saying "this is bad"

Use more behavioral language?

Just my thought though. Wouldn't mind reading the rest.

eggy/10

docs.google.com/document/d/1QG_OTC9o1ePXheJGlyiNr001j3P2mpMPuFrYWI_q3Ao/edit?usp=sharing

English is not my first language, grammar has always been an issue so any errors in it please point them out!

Hello my name is Mitko but my friends call me Mitkosa. I'm not sure how it's pronounced because it has never been said out loud (it's my nickname on the Plane of Battlecraft East European server. Anyway... Today I woked up at 6:30. It's a school day. I don't need an alarm clock - my neighbour (he lives below us - we're on the 13th floor of an apartment building) has set his expensive hi-fi sound system to play loud music at that exact time. He doesn't even go to work then - he wakes up to jog in the morning. Nobody complains because his dad is one of the 'big' cops in my small town. And also everyone needs to be up at that time anyway. He has shitty taste too - every morning it's the same old thrash metal songs. I put on my school clothes to the sounds of a track from the band 'Slayer'. I know that because my dad told me. I don't listen to much music. Usually when I sit down at the table to eat breakfast the music has stopped. Now it's the other extreme - it's super quiet. Mom looks upset again. Dad looks at both of us with judging eyes. We're eating toast and white cheese, with mineral water for drink. I don't feel like eating though, so I just stare at my loaf. I need to get going in a few minutes anyway - school starts at 7:30 and I need to catch a bus. I get up to start getting ready to leave, but my shitty dad tells me to sit down and eat my toast. I hate this guy sometimes. I sit down and quickly eat it up. ....
...
There's my bus stop. I can barely get out from the packed bus. I smell like sweat and what's worse - it's other people's sweat. I don't really care though - my mind is too busy dreading the worst part of my trip - the walk to school. As I cross the road and take the turns I need to turn, I see the big walkway that leads to school. You can see the other kids here - everyone with their group. The walkway is big enough so that it's not packed dense. I don't really belong to any group though. I'm really bad at social stuff. I try to join with the weirdo/outcast group, but when I'm there I notice that conversation stops and they're just waiting for me to leave. So anyway, I enter the road and just keep walking forward. Suddenly I hear a shout directed towards me - 'Heyyy look dudes, it's the jelly!'
Yeah I forgot to mention - my nickname is school is 'Jelly'. I don't know why. Everyone laughs at this. It's never not funny. Just as I was invisible before, I'm now the center of attention. I turn around. The group of kids who were fucking with me then was just behind me. As I turn around, one of them pushes me to the ground, saying 'Watch where you're going, jello" everyone laughs again and walks around me. I get up. As I was patting myself clean of dirt, someone slapped my neck really hard. It really hurt me. It was stronger than usual. The kid who did this is called Petar. He loves slapping my neck. Everyone else loves it too. (from here on out it's pages of more bullying screnes)

i am gay
you are gay
we are gay
we're Veeky Forums

10/10

Critique related:

How can I ensure that the pacing of my novel is good? I don't know shit about pacing.

Currently I have an outline I am working on. In summary.

Set in a medieval fantasy world. The son of an aristocrat has been lifelong friends with a girl who commands the elite guard

of the army and another boy who wants to become a leader. They are at war with a kingdom of beastmen, but the real enemy is

the corrupt high council of the kingdom. They are looking for a constant edge on the beastmen and it appears, in the form of

a message. The message is that the near-mythical lost city of Under Heaven has been found, a last bastion of ancient

technology from thousands of years before, when war spread green fire throughout the planet and the world's advanced

technology was lost. The leader and the commander are sent to go get whatever weapons they can, specifically a legendary army

of metal soldiers.

The aristocrat decides to go along, wanting to prove to his father and his friends that he's just as tough as any of them.

They journey, and the aristocrat is forced to kill bandits and begins questioning himself. He doesn't want to become a

killer, and wants to be a hero, but finds himself under pressure to change his ideals. They eventually reach a monastery

where a tunnel leading to the lost city is located. The local religious group warns them that the army of beastmen led by the

general himself his already gone through the portal. And so the party hastens. Inside, they find themselves in a dead city

encased in a giant stone sphere. The city is mostly intact and empty, shades of the dead lingering around with no reason but

the ignorance of their own death. In camp, the aristocrat discovers the leader is secretly working with the rebels against

the high council. He tells his friend the leader that they'll deal with it when they return to the kingdom. The group reaches

the castle and defeats the beastmen. But in order to use the iron army, souls must be bound to the iron soldiers. And so the

commander and the leader sacrifice most of their men to control the army. The aristocrat takes this as a sign to show his

heroism and attempts to stop them, not because he disagrees with overthrowing the council, but because his disagrees with

their methods, but is killed.

20 years later, he awakens. He finds himself in a prototype artificial soldier, more organic than mechanical. He dons a

jester costume from his youth left behind and leaves to take revenge. He is consumed by hatred for his former friends and

plots to destroy the monarchy.Eventually he gains a group of rebel followers who shared his hatred for the monarchy. In this

new kingdom, the council is no more and absolute power is wielded by the king and queen. The rebels hate this, yet somehow

mirror the rebels from 20 years ago. Some big plan is concocted to break in and assassinate the king and queen. They go

through with it and the aristocrat ends up in the throne room with his weapon to the throat of the king. He realizes that his

friends have improved the kingdom and that he hasn't been fighting for his fallen comrades as much as he has been for himself

and that he wanted it to be himself up on that throne. In his moment of suddent clarity, he's a kid again like he was before

the journey. The king comforts him briefly and the aristocrat escapes, the rest of the rebels having been easily slaughtered

by the Queen.

He realizes that his hatred has compromised his heroic ideals and wanders, seeking redemption. He hears tale of a wish-

granting item deep below the lost city and, knowing where the city is, heads to look for it. He goes with intent to wish that

he had never gone with his two friends on their journey. But when he reaches it, he can't bring himself to wish for it. He

knows that experiences, no matter how horrible, have made him a stronger person. He instead wishes to be a hero. But nothing

appears to happen and he wanders off to find his destiny. I've unintentionally done a sort of Jesus thing with the main

character.

Now, I haven't finalized the details of each character thus far I have: Marche Montresor, the Aristocrat. Wields a bardiche.

Faris Nightshade, the Leader. Wields a magicircle and a sword. Aela Aquilla, the Commander. Wields a greatsword.

In addition there are lots of world-building details I haven't included in my post, such as how the magic works and the

magic-based technology, religions, etcetera.

Any more oh talentef one?

What.

I would like someone to read this short story in full.
pastebin.com/ZTyy6Tvj

I'm assuming English isn't your first language so I'm not gonna spend too much time on the grammatical and typographical errors.
In the end you switch tense from present to past
>"As i was patting myself clean of dirt..."
Also the lonely kid who gets bullied story is very trite. Why is what you have to say different? That is what you should focus on.
Don't tell us that the character's dad is shitty. Show us.
Why does he smell like other people's sweat when he exits the bus? Interactions?
I also doubt someone doesn't know why they have a nickname. You need to change that to make the character more real.
Why is the walk to school his least favorite part?

You need to work more on developing your characters and writing with intention.

Since I don't think I should critique without posting something of my own I'll reply to this with an exercise I did recently

Here it is:

We sat on the cold sand of the beach, our heads looking above us at the starlit sky. I turned to my right and whispered in her ear. It doesn’t matter what I whispered, I don’t remember what it was, but whatever I said made her giggle and give my shoulder a push. The abrasive smell of salt spread throughout the air around us. I got up on my feet and shook the sand off of my back and onto Vanessa before pointing at her and the horizon in front of me. Then I took off running. I looked back and saw her lying on her side, waving at me with those tiny cream hands of hers. I looked down at the footprints that trailed behind me and I felt like I was leaving my mark on the planet. In thousands of years, anthropologists would look at my footprints to discover some trait about their ancestors that we think arbitrary. Then the water rolled onto the shore and washed everything away. There I stood, transient once again. Maybe when I die, I thought, my body will be fossilized; that’s the best anybody can hope for, really. I realized that I’d run so far from Vanessa that her body was just another grain of sand in the distance. I got down on my back and stared at the ocean. It must be wonderful to be a fish: everyone cares about them—except, I suppose, other, bigger fish. I decided that I would lie there and wait for Vanessa, and when she got to me I would tell her about how I’d decided to become a fish and how I loved her and how I wanted her to join me. I knew what she would say. I knew that she would swing the strands of wheat atop her head across her face and purse her lips and, in the way she always talked, ambiguous between asking or telling, say, “But I’m already a fish.” My thoughts began to dwell on her lips. I wanted once again to press them against mine. My chest began to burn the way it always did when I thought about kissing Vanessa, and I decided I wanted to see her at once: to proclaim my love for her and kiss her the way she would never let me: with full control. With every step I took I thought about her. Her bright blue eyes that could drown you if you looked at them for too long. Her small rounded nose that looked as though it had been perfectly stitched into the middle of her face. Her large breasts that strained against the swimsuit top that she was wearing, and her generous thighs that slid a bit against each other like satin sheets on a late night. Vanessa would tell a joke and then laugh softly; her voice cracked with every word she spoke as if she were in constant apology. My face could feel the buzzing hum of her allure with every inch I gained closer to her, and soon enough Vanessa was back in sight. She was lying at the edge of the sand, half in the water. Of course, I thought, she was practicing for our future as fish. Then I was just feet away.

Vanessa was lying at the edge of the sand, her head and arms in the water, her swimsuit bottom pulled around her ankles, and her body still.

>Andy knocked on the door of the house with a tin of red paint. A woman opened the door and greeted him and quickly showed him to his task. It was a wall of bare beige plaster which she wanted red. He was excited to paint and stared off out the window imagining the many great strokes he would assert in the near future and the fine detailing he would carefully apply along the skirting boards, He imagined even longer the pleased look on the woman's face, and her thank-you's, and her hair in the red sun light bouncing off the red wall. She was standing behind him for about a minute in silence waiting for him to paint.
She asked him if he was ready to go and he snapped out of his thoughts and said a single yep. He started thinking where to start, measuring up the wall with his eye, taking care to note that he would need extra paint on the filler where the plaster boards were joined, considering how he would need to wait for a while in between coats and considered how he would spend that time, perhaps with tea and a cigarette. Could he smoke in here? Could he drink tea in here? With her, I mean, She would expect conversation and what if he had none to give. "This wall is really great, I cant wait to start painting." he said. "Ok, well I'll just be in the living room if you need me." and she smiled and she left.

>That comment was inappropriately eager for a man whos' job it is to paint walls. He walked into the living room. "The wall is fine, I mean. A good surface for paint and an excellent drywall job by the man who did it. Give my compliments to him." He said, and considered it even more inappropriate that he was so aloof about the wall. "It's alright haha, its a bit of an eyesore if you ask me, can't bloody wait to get it covered over." and she smiled and he died and he looked at the floor scanning his empty head, which had had Michael Bublé - Haven't Met You Yet's opening lines on an ungraspable, idle repeat all day, for a good response. When he looked back up he said, a little too loud "It's a damned eyesore i tell you, and this paint here-" He winked "-She'll do the job i tell ye!" She did a little laugh and looked into the tv screen. "I'll Get right back to it then." He returned to the kitchen wincing his eyes. He thought for longer than he should have about how stupid what he said had been and then he looked down at his paint.

...

I enjoyed this. I was definitely able to connect with it, and I would definitely read more. I have a couple of comments, but take them with a grain of salt.

>I looked down at the footprints that trailed behind me and I felt like I was leaving my mark on the planet. In thousands of years, anthropologists would look at my footprints to discover some trait about their ancestors that we think arbitrary.
This didn't feel as thought-provoking or unique as I think you want it to. It might help to explain why he feels this way. What about this moment makes him consider leaving his permanent mark on things? Are we supposed to read into it like he's thinking about the permanence of his relationship with Venessa? If so, you could connect it a little more and it might feel stronger. Just a thought.

>strands of wheat atop her head
This image makes me think her hair is stiff and stale, rather than just simply wheat-colored. If that's intentional, maybe you could tell us it's stiff earlier so it doesn't seem strange.

Also, if it's nighttime, why can he see so well? Maybe I just missed something.

I definitely felt a bit of second-hand embarrassment, so good job there. The dialogue works well. I don't know if it's just a stylistic thing, but I disagree with a few choices made in the first paragraph. "It was a wall of bare beige plaster which she wanted red." Well, it's obvious she wants it red because the tin is red and you say it's red again in just a couple of sentences. "great many strokes" I would cut the great. "Assert in the near future" Assert is just a strange word here. Also I'm pretty sure sunlight is one word.

Really iffy about a few pieces of this, but not really ready to refine it anymore. Please tell me everything you hate about it.

Heretical
Blasphemous

>Christ, I’ve made a habit of way overdoing these stories, huh? Well, the point remains: I suddenly remember Jesse. I decided not to jerk off, and laid back down. Thinking back, I probably should have gone ahead and jerked it. Sleep would have been better than lying in bed brainstorming all of the reasons that I’m a hopelessly romantic loser with zero conquests of any particular note. In fact, I lack any conquests of a romantic nature whatsoever. I suspect it’s because I’m a beta, but even that feels like a poor. I feel that I lack the naivete and submission that most betas seem to cling to and even wallow in. Maybe that's the naivete talking. Or maybe I’m gay, but who knows? Either way I'm still hopeless.

I don't like it from, 'romantic nature whatsoever,' on, but I'd like to here some crit regardless.

I can make no excuses. My 'book' was basically going to be a bunch of high-school torture scenes. I had to shorten many things out so it can fit on Veeky Forums, but generally, yeah. It was supposed to read like a blogpost, but I keep forgetting to think about it.

Why did you just copy and paste this out of my pastebin? i dont understand.

The better question is: Why shouldn't I?

what does eggy mean?

>pastebin.com/kGXrDcEk
its a meme word for edgy.

Holy... I want more...

good :)

Edgy poetry/10:

An honest man sits
Alone beneath a tree,
And the whole world dares to listen.
A man whose words
Are bittersweet,
But the world does not dismiss him.
In fact, he feels,
With every sin
The world begins to miss him.
An honest man, here, once sat,
And told the world so much.
When on this tree he hung his hat,
The grass forgot his touch.

Kind of like it

The three of us moved stealthy under the cover of darkness, save the only light coming above from the gleaming moon, with it's asteroid belt surrounding the pale white disk I could not help but think it was a skull grinning down at us, baring teeth like a chesire smile already knowing the outcome of their fate. I neared the mouth of the cave with trepidation, my breathing growing slower and quieter until I wasn't even making a sound save for the crunching of stone and gravel against my hard leather boots. I was always told by my masters to be cautious around these parts as rushing into something out here could very well cost you your life.

objectively bad:
>grammar mistakes
>"save" used twice
>confused similies, metaphors, imagery
>needlessly complicated descriptions and sentence structues

pointless posting such a short excerpt that is just navel-gazing

>ambiguous whether "a filthy street dog" is the narrator or "her" (I'm guessing it's the narrator, but the sentence is still unclear)
>"insecurities overflowing like foam from my mouth" does this simile work for you?

And then too many images and metaphors that don't really have a point?? It gets a little better in the last paragraph or so (imo) but you still need to cut like 50% out

ehhh this is kind of like the stories you'd find in an mfa workshop by a (sorry) white cismale

>some mundane task plot aspires to higher/deeper themes but never goes anywhere close to it
>characters thinking and visualizing mundane things
>stale prose

so yeah, it's really boring/pointless imo

pastebin.com/ZTyy6Tvj
Some anime fag posted only half the story idk why, heres the full

Still doesn't change anything.

>pastebin.com/ZTyy6Tvj

I saw this when I was scrolling up and skimmed it, and imo, my comments are the same

there's nothing to attract or engage the reader (who cares about Andy? Who cares about his task? It seems like Andy doesn't even care) and the prose is not nearly good enough to carry it along

ask yourself who your influences are and try to imitate what makes them attractive to you

pls

>gushed
I personally don't like onomatopoeia. Especially in a grave case like this... makes me think of gushers, gushing praise! Not blood pooling from a dying kitty :(

Just read it. I think A/B switching is pretty good, seems to work (you write the A plot and switch to B right before the climax, then you keep doing that, can be done with up to infinitely many plots to fuck with people).

such a cruel meme!

Common diction for opacity, nice. Spanish is the L1, so don't take me seriously much

Should I keep going?

The man wore the entire garb. Tattered canvas tunic, prickled thorn crown and splintered wooden cross. His feet were mangled and charred and his face sullen and scarred. He carried the cross on his back and sometimes adjusted it to one of his shoulders. He journeyed through the heart of the city each day, rain or shine. The monolithic crowd was unkind to his undertaking and would spit on him and throw food. They protested his cause, especially during the holidays and would hit him with bike chains, snow, and bird seed. Metal pipes were uncommon but not unseen. He had learned to keep his head down and grew a thicker beard to catch the saliva. He never said a word.
He lived in a smokestack building on the outskirts of the city where people dwelled in underground drains and sold themselves into rope collared slavery. The homeless gathered outside of the wide brick building he lived in and massed together like ants to stay warm. The man was returning from his work when it began to snow soot out from a granular sky. He barked demonic coughs and his nipples were fully erect, shriveled and purple. He couldn’t feel his feet. The bottom of the cross’ corner dragged on the ground and he nearly buckled under the weight of his bludgeoned knee. A feathered homeless man turned away from the pack and watched him struggle home. The homeless man picked at the gap in his mouth and scraped out some dirt and sludge and motioned toward another member of the pack at the man. They moved toward him cagily like two midnight thieves.

>Using handtalk he responded.
I have never heard sign language reffered to as "hand talk." It strikes me as very awkward wording. Kind of subjective, but I would consider revising
.
>the suit, it’s purpose designed only to withstand the heat

First, you mean "its" not "it's" (which means "it is").
Second, The suit is designed to withstand heat, not the purpose of the suit. In other words, either remove the words "its purpose" or remove "designed" and move "only" before "purpose".

>The technology rebuilt his body as he slept, two hours meant a day of sleep in the suit

This is a run-on sentence. You need to make that comma a period or semi-colon or else add a conjunctive like "and" or "so".

Overall, you're English is actually fairly good.

My little abomination: pastebin.com/KHC73cHz

>you're English
Qualifications.

The fact that a fourth grader could point out a run-on sentence and the wrong usage of its vs. it's?

>pastebin.com/KHC73cHz
pretttay prettay good

"Common diction for opacity"
Mind explaining this a bit further but thank you! And spanish is my first language too desu

Thanks for the tips, I appreciate it very much!

obviously keep writing but there is not enough context in the excerpt you provided

I have no idea what's happening - that said, some of your metaphors and descriptions are very strange (possibly nonsensical?)

also

>either commit to the oxford comma (which you should) or don't

Trying to into Ekphrastic Poetry how'd I do?

Ernest’s paddle dipped quietly into the water and as he let his little dugout canoe glide peacefully downstream, he became suddenly aware how extraordinary alone he was at that moment. It frightened him a bit. The canoe floated, as if on air, through a wondrous silence; the sort of silence you might find only in a timeworn cathedral. The swallows that darted through the canopy of trees above him could be seen through the thick, morning mist. Apart from them, it was a world undisturbed by life of any kind… it was an eternal world and Ernest felt himself flowing through it like one flows through a current of dreams. What sort of dreams, Ernest knew not. He only felt himself fatigued and numbed-- his threadbare coat barely kept him warm but it was all he could afford. Despite all this and despite the tranquil river, he would not allow himself to fall asleep. For here indeed the quiet also meant caution, and like a watchful old Indian chief, he held the paddle idle across his knees and with his back bent, he leaned forward and peered downstream with a torpid gaze for any sign of life, especially human life-- the only kind that meant real trouble. But the small sandbanks on the shore were empty except for the fog that hung over them like apparitions. “Stay awake,” he muttered to himself. After a few more strokes he would pause and look-- sniffing the damp, soft air till a cold chill would steal over him again, then he would dip his paddle into the water and exert some energy. “Come on now. Stay awake, goshdarnit…”

Wanted to kill some time with a Fantasy Draft of mine.

What'cha think?

Was thinking of naming character only address by their title. It goes with the Overall Theme of the novel. Would readers like it or hate it

No

First sentence is a comma splice. The third sentence should have a comma instead of a semi-colon. In the fourth sentence, the swallows "could be seen" is redundant. Bringing up the swallows implies they are seen. Say something more interesting about them. Is it common for indian chiefs to hold paddles on their knees with a bent back? This seems like a strange simile.

Your second sentence doesn't have a verb. Commonly people would say a person's legs are spaghetti, not their knees. I can't envision spaghetti knees at all. "The Golem rusting to its axles" should be "was rusting to its axles." "A strike of thunder, the flash of god" God should (probably) be capitalized and there is no verb in this sentence."Goldanna cut through the iron like cutting through jelly" sounds very strange. It cut like cutting through jelly? Would be stronger if you just said it cut through the iron like it was jelly.

That's not even everything in those first ~200 words. Biggest thing you could do is learn some grammar.

Thanks for the tip fampai. Grammar ain't my strongest suit, but that won't stop me from learning.

Did it paint an image for you though? Like, did you know what was going on story-wise?

Any Germans here? I'd need some advice.

Blame everything on the Juden. Heil Hitler

Utilization of common and familiar words and concepts to the reader to amount to a fresh, new inscape. And you've developed a clever one for the girl as subject, too. Seems she's a sad dole indeed.

Me encanto, user. De veras.

I kept imagining Futurama.

What makes poetry good poetry?

If contemporary society derives pleasure from it, and its appended to all modern conflicts and stigma

No fucking meme, 'non. Look at Rupi Kaur (modern feminist) and then some Pound or Rimbaud. If you're anything like half of Veeky Forums, then your poetry will never make it, but then again, the other half doesn't set themselves on same.

FUCK HOW IS POUND SO SIMPLE AND SO GOOD

1/2
What do you guys think of this. I'm experimenting with a new style. Before any of you guys start BTW the story ends up being an affirmation of religion so no edge-lord hate please.

The Religious Person
In their mid-twenties the Religious person became wholly un-well mentally, spending much of their time constructing elaborate dialogues with their friends and family, mentally, which advanced certain very personal themes which they feared were totally unintelligible. It was in fact the unintelligibility of these themes which frightened the Religious Person most because serious consideration of unintelligible ideas seemed as clear a definition of madness as they could think of, although, secretly, they believed that these themes or ideas were actually just abstractions of very universal things, dressed up in abstraction so as to make them less painful to consider – but then here they would get going again because secret from who exactly?
From a young age the religious person had been told that they must love God and they had tried very hard to do so. Nearly everyone they knew in any kind of authority or advisory position opined that they must love God and the religious person did not stop to question the mandate until much later. Sometimes the religious person conducted these dialogues and advanced these themes to a God figure or their childhood Vicar, who they’d not been close to in the conventional sense of interpersonal relationships but who they’d felt a kind of intimacy with akin to what they felt with a few of their favourite authors, or even certain songs or musicians.
The religious person was also a fiction writer and tried abortively to commit these dialogues to prose, often finding them too unintelligible or horridly revealing even after just a few sentences.
The religious person lived – in their twenties – with a few people whom they no longer considered close friends.
The religious person – T/R/P from here on – considered rather that like their Vicar and parents and members of their congregation the people they currently lived with were trapped in a horrible kind of narcissism and concurrent self-loathing which they themselves must free themselves from.
For example, one of T/R/P’s flat mates, also in their mid-twenties, believed themselves to be part of a certain select group of people whom were terribly worldly and well adjusted and as a result very personable and hedonistic, the logic in this following that once all viewpoints had been considered there was little left worth doing but being vaguely scornful of most things while being incredibly kind to other people of this select group and having a huge amount of fun with these people for as much of the time as was feasibly possible.

Yeahh, that's why he's praised in Veeky Forums so fucking much

2/2

T/R/P sometimes sat with this flat-mate and their certain select group in the dining room of their shared flat. Here what would happen would be that the group would all say things that obliquely developed the idea that they all knew each other extremely intimately and that they shared a very deep understanding of the world that bound them together and revealed to them the fact that, everything considered, there was nothing better to do than what they were already doing. The problem for T/R/P and for the group was that they did not know each other well enough to pick up on each other’s oblique thematic advancements and so often had to feign understanding with very strict attention being paid to the idea that they actually understood the oblique advancements totally naturally and with great depth, so much so that what would eventually happen was that each member of the group would eventually obscure themselves more and more from each other member and end up totally isolated and alone. This upset T/R/P so much that they became extremely angry and disgusted and while sitting with the group would often end up feeling totally isolated and alone. T/R/P would often see a smoke cloud drifting very slowly accosts varnished Balsa wood.

Is this you? If so, Could you post some stuff you've written? I'm pretty fascinated by poetry being measured against contemporary society, because its a kinda of more visceral form. I really like reading and writing poetry, but in light of what you've said, its pretty mediocre. I'd really like to learn how to grow

Oh shit, thanks user. That means a lot! Do you mind if I ask what you think it means? It always interests me to know what people think it means to them.

Muchas gracias hermano, tu ingles es muy bien por cierto

Seems a lot like DFW. only skimmed it, but ya. interesting

I posted this earlier in the year after a major setback with my ex. We broke up a month ago or two ago. I've posted it since but I haven't been able to get much feedback.

This one was at some asian-fusion retro bar,
She sat with her legs crossed hands in lap.
I asked her if she had the time
When she smiled and looked down she saw her watch had gone missing!

My face surprised painted a destroyer–
‘Let’s find it! We have no time to waste!’

A small child running in circles,
Als das Kind Kind war

Just like everything I think,
My feelings were disjointed
The minute hands on her clock flew,
But we were yet to find it

Do you know that feeling at the end of the night,
When everyone parts ways with hugs,
Or maybe just a wave and exclamation,
Or maybe just dismissal without eye contact?

Oh god, and the next day,
When you lay in bed criss crossing the ways she existed there
The way she smiled? The way she felt?
Do you lay in, lazy sundays, the thought of her,
Pure, innocent thoughts that only lead way to
The destroyer within us all

But this one lost her watch,
And I hadn’t the time nor intentions
To keep her from looking,
So so simply,
I let her on her way.

Just a quick questions friends, is there any distinction between Pathos and simple literary technique (power of 3 etc.), or is the latter a sort of subsidiary of the former? Cc.

My Hope, The Dream

It was like a fire burning inside me
in those last moments it raged and crackled
and then fizzled out
but i don't feel cold
I'm warm and at peace

be sure to consider meter and syllables. seems this is like a free style poem, but it's too long for that to work.

pastebin.com/QBxiU0rF

Here's my first piece.

English is not my first language.

Just some shit I wrote recently

Imbroglion:
As if by dybbuk their bodies trembled in the August breeze.
- Cigarette?
- No.
Lanky hands retreated the pack into the waistcoat’s tattered shabby. Giuseppe intoned, hesitant: – Your pupils are dilated.
- Yeah?
- Yeah. Know why?
- No... Religious passions?
- Dominus vobiscum.
- Pfftt.
A pause took hold.
- How far back was the straight path?
- Probably a kilo or two, trust me I know this detour and…
- Where was it?
- I don’t remember, we’ll probably…
- There’s nothing to track by out here.
- Sure there is, we’ll be fine.
- The town?
- About three kilos, through the valley there… gesturing nondescript to an illuminated ridge.
- Up through the west and then we’re home free, no?
- Right.
- A solis ortus cardine, sheperds and their lot.
A snort obscured Roberto’s further comment. In step:
- Ravenna O Ravenna!
- From your cradle…
- Subterfuge! Pataphysics!
- Merde.
Twilight passed, eventless, in alternating tones of mockery.

Tatterdepygmalion:
The arrival to Kars came in a fervid noon.
- Three kilos my ass.
- Lucius he shall be called…
- Do you think we could get a line to L’Araldo out here?
- Not a chance.
- Letter?
- Post is shaky at best.
- I don’t know if I can do this.
- Why not?
- Assignment’s three odd weeks, no?
- About. Two if the Cumhuriyet doesn’t pan out.
- Long time away.
His thoughts lingered on the comfortable corridors of his home, free from the obscurities of hinterland or disarray.
- It’ll suffice, Ankara is within a week anyhow.
- Who determined me fit…
- In a country with ata and apostle…
- Perhaps I just need to gather my thoughts and relax.
- …Aeneas a dark sea.
- Hmm?
- Yizhou what you need to, aether of us can go to the governor’s office to clear the matter.
- I’ll find our host.
- Card?
- Have it on me.
- Passport?
- Mmmhmmm.
- Attenborough’d?
- Of course.
- Alright. Get some rest, I’ll let myself in if you tell them I’m with you.
- Later, then.
The color of day departed with the hours, and as the minutiae-flurries of the two men ceased, they released themselves in collision from their fatigues and slept the night through.

Although I see the DFW comparisons, some of the vocabulary (a la "extremely angry") is a bit weak and deprives the story of the cold clinical style. Try reading Bolano's novels for a better idea of how to do this style

cool

Looks like what I'd whip up in imitation of Joyce, and so rather difficult for me to read personally, but it flows well and the sound is good. I feel it belongs as part of something larger with strong characters, or else it's just lanky & wanky, superficial.

It's just a small part of a novel i'm working on, so I hope to do character building a bit more later on

Thanks for the aesthetic comments though, means a lot.

looking for critique
The Stalker looked over the sullen, grey landscape he called his home. It was a land of grey crags, mossy forested valleys and old ruins of the previous civilisations that lived there, now only inhabited with rooks and rats and all kinds of beasts.

The Stalker was clad in a long cloak of a green wool, thick and heavy, and under that he wore furs, and under that he wore a tunic of linen without sleeves. His feet had simple buckskin shoes, and oftentimes he went without them, and as a result they were calloused and rough. On his legs were breeches of grey wool.
His red hair was tied into a ponytail as to not get into his eyes, and he had a short beard.
On his body he carried many things, a pouch for fire and for food, a fur blanket, and twine and rope. He carried a bow across his back, and a sword was at his side, and a short seax was strapped securely to his belt.
The Stalker was not a civilised man; he did not live in a stone house surrounded by great walls, and did not engage in petty arguments or visit brothels and drinking dens that the depraved inhabitants of the cities did.

Instead, he was a man of a lost race. He hunted game, he was skillful with a bow and light of foot, and ran for many miles a day. He carried an air of lost wisdom about him, and he was proud. Like the rest of his people, he was often grim and sad, but he could be happy at some times. He was a proud man, and viewed himself superior to the decadent city dwellers he despised. The Gods he worshipped were queer to foreigners, they were gods of tree and stone and river; often uncaring and often kind.

Across the land the Stalker saw a column of smoke rising, and saw tents being set up and his ears heard the happy shouts of men and the chopping of wood with axes. He knew that these people were outsiders to his land, and they were perhaps a group of mercenaries travelling through his land. He knew he could find knowledge there, and so off he bounded. His feet made no sound as he ran down the grassy slope, into the sunlight trees.

>certain very personal

I try not to nitpick people's writing, but don't do this. A lot of people add seemingly unnecessary words, and I understand if you're applying meter, or a voice, but this line crosses the line for me. Not using "very" is a commandment for me, and I'd like it to be for you, too.

Ah, you did it again... very universal things... very personable and hedonistic... very strict attention being paid... extremely intimately... very deep understanding... extremely angry and disgusted. I'd hold emphasis words in reserve. They lose effect like this.

I think you're too clinical with your approach here. These psychological details could direct a dramatic story. Too horridly revealing? You're admitting that you're too scared to do your duty as a writer. That doesn't give you a pass.

>would all say things that obliquely developed the idea that they all knew each other extremely intimately and that they shared a very deep understanding of the world that bound them together and revealed to them the fact that, everything considered, there was nothing better to do than what they were already doing

I'm afraid you're going to have to give an example here. I can't imagine what this dialogue would sound like.

> each other’s oblique thematic advancements

ditto

>T/R/P would often see a smoke cloud drifting very slowly accosts varnished Balsa wood.

What?

I get what you're trying to do, but I think it would be better if you added more detail with regard to this protagonist's friends.

This comes across as someone who's 1. complaining about his friends for not being spiritual, and 2. struggling with faith and existential questions.

Number one is strongly dependent on the characters and plot to produce an interesting story. Number two, similarly, is only ever going to be interesting if you link it to characters and plot, because this shit is some seriously well-trodden ground, and if you had something definitive to add to the conversation (unlikely), you should just write an essay instead.

Otherwise, you're gonna waste everyone's time- most importantly your own- building a story around some redundant navel-gazing.

The middle two paragraphs belong in your character study, not in your manuscript.

Start with the last paragraph, but punch it up through editing, and add elements of the first paragraph. You need to introduce the conflict early to engage the reader. How about something like:

"Across the sullen gray landscape of his broken homeland, the Stalker saw a column of smoke rising. Tents were being pitched in the woods there and his ears heard the happy shouts of men and the chopping of wood with axes. These people were outsiders. They did not respect the gods of tree and stone and river.

The Stalker gripped his bow tightly and checked the fletching of his arrows. His feet made no sound as he ran down the grassy slope, into the sunlit trees."

Noch da?

Live.
For life means nothing.
Die.
'Cus your writing is shit, Veeky Forums.

Thanks for the feedback, I'm going for a similar vibe to Suicide as a Sort of Present, have you ever read that? I think I'm just going to go on as planned but I appreciate the result might be disastrous. It does end up with a full arc and not just a list of complaints. And the dialogues do end up being described in detail; I'm trying to develop the idea that everybody communes with an abstract sensibility, and that this is something you do a lot as a fiction writer and a lot as someone who believes in God. The flatmate communes with the abstract idea of a kind of easy belonging, which ultimately makes them lonely, and other characters emerge who do similar things, i.e project the religious impulse in ways that do them ironic harm. The constant meter supplying adjectives I think are a lost cause as this point but I will endeavour to explain the dialogues themselves.

It's shit. You go over old ideas and feelings without any sort of hook nor any fresh language or way of telling it. Cliche and without any deeper meaning which it seems to striving for.

triggered/10

>pastebin.com/QBxiU0rF
It doesn't seem very original or well crafted, kind of interesting just in that documentation of a somewhat believable idiot type way though

is that the piece you meant to comment on?