Write thread/critique thread

A bouquet of finger-less hands was delivered to her house, courtesy of Robert. The package was surprisingly light. The hands were de-boned and dehydrated. After signing the receipt, Fresca went to her room and stripped off her clothes. She yearned for pain, and now she felt worthy.

One of the hands belonged to an aristocrat - the left - fleshy handlebars for his throne-rings. During his thirtieth birthday, he decreed that this particular hand should never do the same action twice, and that the gesture should be indicative of his absolute prestige, wealth, and power. His checklist ran with the usual fare of hand movements, along with a corresponding direct object.

Sign a memorandum: de'Fleurs Royal Company should supply financially-challenged families with a standard-sized box of chocolate each week.

Tickle the Queen's rectum. I insist on really knowing the Lioness from the inside.

Conduct Levitsin's sonata that took him 40 years of composition in arboreal seclusion.

The aristocrat ran out of verbs. Curiously enough, the last hand the aristocrat shook was bundled with Fresca's gift. A small hole was drilled at the center of its palm.

While she was smelling the bouquet, Fresca noticed a note that says one warts, four leprosy. She never specified any precondition, but this should be better than nothing. Improvising on the melody, she mouthed an aria out of a Chicken Soup book: consider that all things happen and people come into our lives for a reason. Release feelings of anger, hatred and thoughts of revenge.When that love is not reciprocated or sustained, it can be devastatingly sad, like a death.

She noted each desiccated hand carefully, and smothered their flaking skin with her palm. After an hour of examination, Fresca chose the drilled hand purely for it's proportions. Even in it's pickled state, it suited her ideas of an ideal Grecian beauty.

An exquisite corpse, she breathlessly muttered.

When her father died, she inherited his bag of stones that he used to carry everyday, from and going to work. Lately, people seem to be generous with their gifts of pebbles. Although she's nearly bent double, carrying the stones somehow became a pleasurable chore. She's unloads the contents of the sack and makes a neat circle from the smaller stones among the collection.

She plays with the perfectly dead hand, sitting at the absolute center.

Superb

What language

A forsaken stallion lay astrew the newly agglomerated pile of men with dawn reaping the losses.
With a gallop, a cavalcade of grey and a mellifluous harmony of horns approached the wetted battlefield.
“It shan’t be continued, m’ sire. The Olrils have already set camp amongst the coast, and we cannot afford to repeatedly send these brave men to--”
“Hush”, the commander yowled at the sire, ceasing the symphonic horns of victory. The squadron of the Royal Vanguards began to dismount their steeds, placing the red and dusty brindles they carried with them.
The commander unsheathed his own blade. A panabay glimmered, embroidered in golden echelons and elvish scripture. The sky ahead was mournful, but of seemingly an ensorcced enchantment, the air was plenty dewy, leaving humectation upon the elve’s brow. As far as one could seize the mixture of muddled shapes and mountains, a lowly fog concealed the squadrons location. Most of them soldiers were taking rests and scavenging the fallen orcs of the Olrils kingdom’s pile. “Do you not reckon the Olrils would know we have just slaughtered a brigade of their elite men in the midst of their own country? How foolish, Egthow. . . You’re putting our lives in danger--your own mens’. To sally forth like this and to leave behind such a mess is not a mere statement, brother. It is a damned suicide note!” Tanyl protruded amongst the inebriate discussion of the high browed sinuous men. Of what started as galimatias out of frustration, Egthow eventually alleviated his anger, and replied, “Brother, I know what I am doing with my own men, my own life, and my own plans. This is no suicide, this is a conquest. There is no room for compunction whilst the ancestors we have proven worthy of progeny are being scoffed at by the Olril Kingdom.” For a brief moment, the chatter had ceased. The silence allowed the trees to imitate the rain, whistling with the small bit of wind the land had offered. The sand beneath the elven boots was of fine black sand, with skinks crawling about and insectoid inhabitants scouting the land. A small island offered diversity in both the ecosystem and war.

Starting a fantasy novel. Any constructiveness would be wonderful

I like it. I think the amount of adjectives can really jut an atmosphere, but with the first lone-line, I would ease off so it doesn't seem clunky.

Please tell me you're not serious. I mean I know you're not. But just tell me. Please.

thanks

Dude you need to relax your language a little. Every sentence is way too heavy and you're using words with no real meaning in-context.

"A forsaken stallion lay astrew the newly agglomerated pile of men with dawn reaping the losses."

That could be a compelling image. But you need to make it starker. Why is the horse 'forsaken'? What does that mean? Never mind. Just tell us it's a dead horse.

"There was a horse at the top of the pile of corpses."

Simple and effective. You're trying too hard to be grandiose.

Pretty good. Whatever is going here I could go for more. But I'm a little confused about your tense shift at the end. Is that intentional?

Anyway, the start of my novel about sexy tank girls: pastebin.com/RHdxCYbm.

Start of a short story.

Down the dusty path four great femurs with feathered loins pedaled in meticulousness as a machine. The palanquin,gleaming brighter than god, moved as the heart of a mile long convoy; the damask vulva sighed here and here, exhausting wisps of perfume, cleansing the heat in way of her concealed prize. The boom a boom of a guiding bongo drum lured the great beast forward and the four broad shoulders padded on to the rhythm of the whispering silk curtains and the pulsing heat melting from their golden yokes. The earth, splayed bare in nearly unfaltering brownness splashed with whites and tans and already browning greens. Perhaps a stalking lioness hid her bearded fangs in the plain openness but the hoard trampled by unaffected by whatever majesty

>A street magician does tricks for a gangster. Scene one.

“Do it again, without the jacket.”

The kid paused, unsure of what to do, his smile frozen for a moment before becoming natural again, as if he’d been caught in some elaborate lie that he had no recollection of fabricating.

“That would expose my secret sir...a good magician never shares his secrets.”

A bemused smile, the man watching the routine shook his head.

“Don’t give me any of that kiddy bullshit.”

The kid still seemed uncertain and the man looked at him closely, unsure of why exactly his associates had seen it fit to send the poor kid here. He looked like he had been a legal adult for maybe all of a week and a half...perhaps he was still in high school.

Leaning forward the man carefully extracted something from his jacket pocket, giving the kid plenty of time to ogle a wallet fat with bills.

Taking one away he showed the kid the unsmiling face of Ulysses S. Grant.

“Would you really turn down a former President of the United States?”

The kid eyed the money for a moment, then took off his jacket, a stiff black Victorian getup that all the hucksters and quick fingered conmen calling themselves magicians wore these days. Underneath was a white dress shirt, but it was too light and the cuffs too tight to conceal any secret pockets.

“There you go," the man said, "now do the apple again, I’m curious to see that.”

The kid let his jacket fall to the ground and picked up an apple from his little pile of supplies. The man set the fifty dollar bill on the arm of his chair, watching the kid carefully.

“For my next trick,” the kid said, “I will make this apple disappear.” He made a complex motion with his right hand, flicked it in front of his left hand, where the apple was held, and just like that the fruit was gone…as though it had never existed in the first place.

The man smiled, more to conceal a growing sense of unease than anything else.

How had the kid done that? He had no secret pockets to stash the apple in, and he hadn’t put his right hand behind his back or anything, he had just made an open fingered twirl and vanished a piece of fruit.

It made no sense.

Good

Spotted the Sexual Deviant

So what's the story about

An idea for a short story:
There's an ex-military guy in a city and he slaughters gang members because he sees it as serving his country.
The police give him tacit approval since he's reducing their workload considerably.
He gets captured alive by a crime boss and endures several hours of torture before being shot in the head

So...Punisher with a sad(?) ending?

Sometimes he had to assure himself that the night sky was nothing more than a flat, painted image spinning inevitably away above him.

To ascribe depth to it, even for an instant, inspired a wild, helpless terror that he felt powerless to quell.

With a realistic ending

Christof readied his gun, pulled the trigger, and a bullet struck the snout of a large moose. The mountains towered ahead, casting long shadows on the verglass. A contrasting green and white made Christof stand out. The moose moaned, and a bevy of Quail immediately circled over the downed creature.
“A grim day, it’s been.” The sound of striding feet approached Christof. A young dominus, Lucith stood proud, a coat of fine furs and stockings that revealed a rather muscular figure. His hair was short, yet with coils that fell to his eyes.
“Nice shot you have there. Would you possibly be interested in a dinner tonight at the royal hall?”
“Lucith, do I look like a drinker to you?” A smile formed on the right side of his mouth, with the chilly air being seen in every exhale. “Besides, tomorrow is another mass hunt. I must be a good role model, for the kids, you see.” Christof reloaded his small musket, with gunpowder spread about his rough face.
“I insist, please, it has been seemingly such a long time, don’t you think?”
Christof hesitated and said, “I’m afraid I have no royal suites, vaults of gold, or barracks of men to flash anymore.”
“And that should be of no matter. Times are becoming difficult.”
A slight flicker sparked in the hands of Christof, and a pipe was revealed.
Christof gave a whistle, and his horse came galloping from the near steppes.
“A dinner it is then, Lucith.” His brow gave a slight wrinkle, as if deep in thought.
“Do not lose such dignity in yourself. Some battles are won, some are lost. A title, however, cannot be lost. Sclava.”

Lucith almost clenched a fist, feeling a push of anger make way to his eyes. Lucith was turned to him, calling to his own horse.

“Are you still alongside the Klan, Lucith?”
Lucith had been looking at the ridge of the mountains that were strayed in front of him. He lowered his arm that shielded his dark eyes, and gave a brief snort as if mocking the question.
“And what is this to you, may I ask?”
Christof felt the tension within the small radius they stood in.
“It is only a question, do not be so alarmed.” A grim silence struck, broken by the slight unsheathing of a blade from Lucith.
“Lucith, what are you doing?”
A finger rose to his lips. Both men stood in silence looking around. Christof slowly wielded his rifle. The two were back to back, making slight turns in all directions.

I like the idea of a story centered less around the violence and more about how the characters within the story convince themselves to commit said violence. Whether it's out of patriotism (like the veteran) or simple anger and economic necessity (like the mob boss who kills the vet in the end). Could be really interesting if done right.

I'm currently outlining a 6-part military historical epic centered around the life of this exceptionally long-lived soldier.

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean_Thurel

While his individual exploits aren't that notable, he was a part of an incredible expanse of history, offering a worm's eye view of the decline and implosion of the French empire.

The writing style will be the literary equivalent of the Starz Spartacus series, aiming for 1/3 plot/history, 1/3 gratuitous sex, and 1/3 over-the-top violence. There will be tons of historical embellishment, since most of his life is unknown.

The first book deals with his early life and extensive peacetime training, leading up to his first actual combat at the age of 38 in which is he dramatically shot. (book 2 begins with his convalescence)

What would really set this book a part from other attempts? I'm considering including some supernatural, but in general I avoid bandwagons, and don't want to be percieved as being a part of the whole "Muskets and Magic" thing that seems to be happening right now.

I currently have a project on writing a series of books , a magnum opus on which I intend to spend almost all my career, about the life of Roman Von Ungern Sternberg. I also have an idea about a short book which is basically A Fistful of Dollars only set in 90s Yigoslavia and with an Italian Gunman as protagonist.

Peter Stamm wrote exactly the same story as you did, but with a woman and a lamp in the other window. Look it up.

>Roman Von Ungern
Looks fun. What drew you to him?

Sternberg is definitely a good person to get a magnum opus out of. I mean, Jesus, the man took over Mongolia at one point.

And the guy who eventually captured Sternberg and had him shot was none other than Konstantin Rokossovsky, who would go on to smash Nazi Germany with Operation Bagration and contribute to winning the battle of Kursk.

A lot of historical richness there.

Not a writer but did this today on the train. I am aware it's a bit over-the-top, I was having fun

My eyes widen.

I have been noticed. Trapped in their accusing gaze.

My chair is a bed of cinders, yet I am a solid block of ice. As my predator gradually prowls towards me, I can feel my body melting.

No time to prepare. I find myself facing my reckoning point-blank. Drenched, I stare helplessly up into two desolate black voids, searching without hope for a speck of light. At last I force my eyes downwards to register the command.

With trembling, bloodless hands I present my paltry offering, silently pleading for mercy.

A glance, followed by a slight frown. It is not enough.

A terrible, insatiable glare nails me to my seat as I writhe, drowning in trepidation. The mouth opens again and I vaporise, braced for that awful, inevitable question:

'Can I see your rail card please?

So ambiguity it was,
That itchy, sanguine liar,
Whose wayward speak the dead leaves burned
And set the woods on fire.
My Scylla and Charybdis now
Are faith and hopelessness;
If you love me as I love you,
Let faith blaze fatal bliss.

Dogs who bark at me never bark again.

My first try at a short story. I'm really new to literature and my inspiration for getting into writing, if you couldn't guess, was DFW. I'm still trying to find my own voice but until then, I really like his. The '1!' is the footnote that's listed at the bottom.

On a gray and lifeless Tuesday afternoon She sat at Her computer desk composing an e-mail for Her son. She, our protagonist, seldom used a computer in Her day to day life. The day prior to today, Joanne, who we assume to be Her next door neighbor, assisted Her, Her being our protagonist, in setting up an e-mail address which was to be used with the sole intention of communicating with Her aforementioned son (But also extended family, I.E., Grandson, I.E., Daughter-In-Law, I.E., -Etc., which She made a point of to Joanne so as not to seem as if She would be only sending messages to one person.), not, under any circumstances to be used lackadaisically on, and we quote, “Those G.D.'1!' HSN Hyenas, though but they most definitely have not heard the last from me for damn sure, Joey”. (Joey, we should mention, was the pet name that our protagonist gave to Joanne.) And after crossing herself, she would mosey on to the kitchen to fix Joanne and Herself a cup of coffee. Two cream and one and a half sugar; the usual concoction so as not to over do it and give Herself the jitters, as She would call it; She would then spend the remainder of Her afternoon learning and threading the cybernetic ropes that bind and connect Her to a distant nuclear family.

'1!' Raised in a household of devout Catholicism, our protagonist tried to shy away from using blasphemes as best she could, with the exception being the utmost frustrating or strenuous circumstances. It was the HSN Summer Savings Event 2009 that had provoked her to break the third commandment not only on this specific instance, but also anytime her memory recalled the countless hours she spent on the phone with the technical support number listed on the product she received but did not know how to effectively use. Though a story you would have to ask her in person, she would always prefix the event with what we interpreted as an ironic gesture of repentance for her misuse of the name of The Father by enacting the signum crucis.

The dead air lingered until the driver, granted bravery by his guilt, finally spoke. "Look, uh... I understand why they're upset. I can't say I agree with them. But still-- the way I see it, I have a job. I'm going to do my job, and not worry about the people. That's just how I like to do things. And I feel as though if I do my job, and do it well, they're going to have a hard time getting rid of me." He forced a chuckle on the last syllables to lighten the mood, but nervousness bled through and the trainee didn't buy it. The trainee, concerned look on his face, sat in silence and wondered if his partner was human or some sort of paranoid robot.

The girl of my dreams changed, the night I skipped sane pills, the night I figured out the key to dream lucidity.

I learned how to fly, and how to move anything tele-kinetically, and how to adopt and talk to manatees.

A pale and cleopatran catgirl skated circles on the open ice of my old schools cafegymnitorilobby.

A place lucidly known to be made by only me, yet I'm glad I knew that the only one controlling the girl was she.

Familiar eyes ... fur makes the lines... But, appointed fiction... made all finishing diction... not easy.

Peripherally there was nothing left but her, and I approached with tenacity I had never felt amass in me.

She knew full of her scent and mine and what we did to we, and gazed at me as if we weren't both moving so distractingly.

She asked me who I was, and 'fore I was standing on ice, I fell, avoiding gaze, and said, "An asshole, apparently."

To get the permission to find out what entails| being one with a tailed| girl with just hair where human ears should be.

To swallow your throat and despite frightened, the girl losing her mind as you clutch where her real ears are's enlightening.

I gave away that I'm a god when I'm clever, after that we were together, and when our bodies severed, agony.

I tasted her mouth and it tasted like memory of a thing only dared of me or perhaps repressed and forced on me.

Before then it was simple... I'd recall very little. But I knew when it when would get ridiculous I would just call in nukes.

I Accidentally thought of it, and looked around for it, and couldn't warn her before needing to kinda make dimensional soup.

Her ears rightfully pointed backward in decline- as she knew she should've died and was instead floating in regular space.

I looked the girl, in the slanted pupils of her eyes, and told her why we didn't just die, and saw terror transforming her face.

I swallowed my throat and despite being frightened, nearly losing her mind, I made her assured that her thoughts were only hers.

My face alight with fear for her clarification, understanding changed her face, and now I can't forget embracing...

For we did a whole lot of traveling where my thought's would unravel and never before have I been as scared for not just myself.

But by the time I felt lucidity escaping, I should have woken up in a bed, and in this new world I was enveloped.

My sight went white to bright to not where expected, a princess sobbing, and peasants sharing what remained of strength of their souls.

Some kind of excuse was needed to keep my head from retreating, and in a world she made herself, her wish was treasured the most.

Obvious eyes... my first 'her' in disguise... and she'll be more than confused when she feels like I called her out on a dream.

We shared the gypsy's syndrome of wanting no kingdom, so the throne room gets distorted when two lucid minds are trying to leave.

Her soul was stripped of it's limits with time and space; she didn't start anthropomorphic but never the less collided with me.

Her one attempt to stop me leaving made reality fluid; and our abilities stupidly blew out more than logic breathes.

To think you've finally blown your top because a presence clutching tightly shouldn't be among reality and riding it.

To treasure that oneness despite being frightened, her spine will just tighten as you master the ears you had some practice with.

Sorry for everything, she promised we'd not meet again, just stroked my hair and disappeared, effectively erasing the fling.

I know we could've raised a thing that ruled the planet, but... The fact she cares too much for life lived out as human just...

i like it. a lot.

Doran woke. He was hungover, and mentally mutilated. He rolled over. An empty spot next to him.

Right. Of course.

The kitchen was equally empty. Same with his coffee supply.

Fuck, whatever.

He was still wearing jeans. He put on a fresh shirt and stumbled out. Twilight.

What time was it? There are people out. Must be evening.

City bus roamed by. It rumbled Doran’s brain. He clutched both ears, shut his eyes.

Fffuck fuck! It hurts.

Starbucks gloomed into sight. The siren called. It was busy. It was always busy.

Its so noisy. My head hurts.

This store moved slowly. Slow minutes of agony ticked away.

Gimme the large dark roast.

Another minute. She almost had to force the cup into his hands.

Still too hot! I guess I’ll let it cool.

Doran shuffled to the outside door. It opened into him.

Jesus Christ! Fuck!

Coffee spread pain across his hands and a surprised stranger. “I’m sorry sir!” he sputtered. “Let me buy you a new one. I’ll make it better.”

Nothing can make it better.

Languid breath poured from rose-pallor lips into longing palms.
To warm them was the test. The wind cut coldly to and through him
in a sheet of pins. The tree to his left, of some type he didn't know,
had largely let it's leaves leave it by this time, this November.
The Sun sung an uninterrupted amber light half past North at half mast.

He was waiting for the bus to come and beckon him, "Morning," he'd say
to the man. Behind him, enclosed by a glass-plastic composite and under
the arched advertisements of a bus shelter, was a woman of such mass that
he did not trust the integrity of the bench that she had mounted her and
her multiple folds upon to carry his small self on that tiny shelf as well.

Soon he found himself finding a hatred for her. It came suddenly and unfiltered.
She looked the type of woman who is "very healthy thankyou very much," and this
was the mindset, he concluded, of the egotistically obese.

Stalking on boardwalk
black foam reaching red clouds, never touch
the sun’s fallen, and I’ve spun every angle
Without Looking
until I’m dragged too. The snuff of seaside echoes between each ear.
Will you let me fall?
…I’d like that.
Crashing again, rocks jagged, and me: asleep.
Elsewhere from beating hearts
that I could feel in my neck
and ice that the brawling sea lets flow.
Am I in your arms now?
On a peak’s edge.

Here's my opening write up for my new villain 1/3

Phillip's has slipped into insanity slowly, like tipping a tentative toe in a hot bath before carefully submerging oneself inch by inch. Most would have realized they were going down a dark path and clung out for something to grab hold of, to keep their head above water. Instead, Phillip felt he was glimpsing the truths of the universe and, instead of shying away from them, was deliberately running further and further down that rarely taken road.
He first glimpsed what eventually came to think of as the Real Reality in sophmore math class. Phillip had been half asleep when the teacher loudly called his name, startling him to attention. His head jerked up to face Mr. Langdon, the middle aged tightwad who had been trying to teach him algebra all year. Only he was not greeted with the sight he was expecting.
In Mr. Langdon's place was a large spider. It was humanoid in shape and even wearing the tweed outfit Mr. Langdon usually sported. It's eight eyes were all focused on Phillip. Spider limbs protruded from the coat's sleeves and Phillip could see the bulge of other concealed limbs beneath the jacket.
“Phiiiilliiiip,” hissed the spider.
Phillip shouted in astonishment and jumped to his feet, startling the students around him. But now that he was on his feet, the image of the arachnid man had receded, leaving him facing the visage of plain old Mr. “You need to study harder” Uptight Asshole Langdon. Everyone was staring at him, their concerned thoughts evident on their faces.
“I need to use the bathroom,” Phillip had declared, fleeing the classroom.
Anyone else would have either dismissed it as a half-asleep hallucination or flight of fancy, but Phillip was a different type of child. He had never had a close friend in his life, unless his mother counted. More than that, he was cured with an eternal ennui. Everything bored him to tears and he was always infinitely jealous of the characters in the books and comics he read who were able to shed to boredom of regular humanity to go on magical quests and become friends with elves and superheroes. To Phillip, this spider-man he witnessed was his first chance at finding something better, something more, something grand in this bland landscape of plebeians and drones.
The more Phillip searched for signs that there was another reality than his own, the more he found evidence of it. Initially he only caught quick glimpses of it. Some things he saw out of the corner of his eye. He would walk past a student in the halls and see centipedes crawling over their face as they went by. When he would turn to look directly at the bug-covered child, they would look normal again.

2/3

Sometimes he would feel things, like short legs skittering over his own face, or hot breath on the back of his neck, breathing deep and harsh, growling, spraying spittle on him until he was almost ready to piss himself. “This is what I wanted to find,” he would tell himself as he sat paralyzed in fear, imagining what unseen beast was waiting behind him, possibly preparing to pounce. “There's more to this world.”
Phillip had taught himself to stop acting terrified when confronted with the Real Reality. He knew that society was constructed in a manner that would lead to those who could see the other side being hospitalized for “insanity”. It was a global conspiracy to make sure only those in Power knew the Real Reality was there, a way to make freaks and prisoners out of the rare, enlightened few. Phillip had long ago learned to suppress shrieks when the walls would bleed thick sludge the shiny color of spilled oil, or when worms would crawl out of the nostrils of the student sitting next to him in English class. As long as he was aware of the conspiracies existence, he could avoid falling into its obvious traps.
Now, Phillip had moved past seeing Real Reality in drips and drabs. He now lived there 24/7, and it was the false reality that he only would occasionally glimpse now. Phillip would walk down the street on a summer day and see dark, gelatinous, veined monstrosities where the rest of the sheeple saw mere trees. The blue sky to him was a violent looking shade of purple and the sun was a menacing red eyeball. Phillip had come to realize the red eye was the God of this world. He knew this was no Christian God, and he doubted it cared one bit for the fate of the species that crawled this planets surface, but he still made sure to drop to his knees and pray to the angry eye in thanks for his salvation. It never did more than glare back, but Phillip liked to think it could hear him.
He kept his eyes trained on the ground all day, not wanting to look at the faces of his fellow students. Everyone around him looked rotted or deformed, like victims of heavy radiation poisoning. Flesh felt melting from their faces and he often wondered how they could keep from noticing. Phillip had not looked in a mirror in months now, knowing that he would look just as pitiful as the rest of the sorry species. That was the one thing he almost missed about the false universe, the pretty girls, but now he realized that he couldn't pick and choose which parts of the world he wanted to keep the fake sugar coated pretty wrapping paper on. For indeed, he had ripped the skin off reality and now saw the bloody underbelly of it all, guts and entrails and bubbling bile in full view.

3/3 rough draft full of errors but just critue the general style

Phillip was growing to regret his descent into Universal Truths. He almost never slept these days now that he could see the snakes crawling around his walls, immune to gravity, slithering the ceiling above him, waiting for him to drift asleep before dropping down upon his chest and startling him back awake. He was severely dehydrated now that all water took on a piss-yellow hue. Food all looked like rancid meat. Sandwiches looked to have human turds and live baby mice in them, still pink and hairless and squealing for their mothers milk. When he saw others eating these mice sandwiches, he would hear those mewling cries cut off in sharp crunches as the students ground their soft mouse flesh against their hard human teeth, pink skin getting caught in gory chunks on teenage braces.
Phillip's sanity was long gone. He still presented a sane front to the people around him, but that facade was destined to fall, like a house of cards facing a hurricane warning, a storm of insanity brewing on the horizon to blow all barriers away.
The ultimate downfall of Phillip was his fear of being touched. He hadn;t liked human, skin on skin contact even when he still believed all the lies his eyes told him. But now that he had opened his third eye, he saw skin for what it was: sticky and rubber-like. When he saw people who were holding hands let go of each other, thick, glue like liquid would stretch between them, dripping loose skin all over. When couples kissed, chunks of their face and tongue would come apart when they dislodged from locking lips.

My soliloquy about how society punishes the pursuit of hedonism as the meaning of life

Ok, this is ABSOLUTE fucking bullshit. I went to see Cars in the theater yesterday, and when Lightning McQueen got HOT with Sally in Radiator Springs, my boner engaged. When Lightning McQueen said "Ka-Chow!", I couldn't help it!!! I closed my eyes, and I TORE my dick to shreds, using whip like motions and pulled with great force. That was one of the best nuts I ever had, just thinking about it now gets me riled up. Thing is, I nutted all over the kid sitting right next to me, and his mom got all pissed at me, screaming at me for jacking off on her son. I told that bitch to shut the fuck up, and that jacking off is a natural, artistic, and beautiful process. You should BE HAPPY that my semen is all over your son, maybe he can learn a lesson or two about the culture and art of jacking off. HOWEVER, the movie theater managers didn't agree with me. They KICKED ME OUT of the movie theater, and I didn't even finish watching the Cars movie. Not only THAT, but they made me clean up my semen after it already dried out and solidified on the seats. THATS TORTURE!! Do you know how hard it is to clean semen after its dried out? You CLEAN semen after its FRESH out of your cock, not an hour after you fucking nutted. This is a fucking OUTRAGE. Do you really expect me to not whip out my cock and jack off when i see a HOT sex scene in a movie? Either don't ban sex scenes in movies, or LET ME jack off in your theater, assholes.

I'm somewhat reminded of J.G. Ballard's Atrocity Exhibits. Especially the one about Ronald Reagan.

It's about the most beautiful woman who has never been seen by any living person. She's being married off to a king halfway across the world who will be the first to see her. I don't have a lot more but I'll post the next bit if you're interested

Description of a monster

As I looked up, the salty air buffeted me once more. But I barely registered any other fact than the sight of what I have been referring to as the beast. I know not what it should rightfully be called, and little do I care. That thing deserves not a name nor existence, but yet it does.

It stood in frame of the door, not yet within the building. At first many details eluded me, besides the basic shape of the beast. It bore the silhouette of a man, but with many off putting peculiarities. The hands too big, the head flattened.

Then I gazed upon the eyes. To call them deformed was to understate the vast bestial nature of their very existence. They were unblinking orbs of an amber yellow. The pupil the smallest of pinpricks. Thought they were foreign to my sensibilities and soullessly leering, there glimmered a cruel intellect.

By the time I tore myself from the hollow depths of its eyes, I discovered what truly made this beast not a man, let alone an ape. Firstly and foremost was the skin. Sore ridden and tumorous, it bunched and rolled over its thighs and stomach. It seemed to excrete a thick slime, either that or the bunches of seaweed and mosses that clung to its skin were rotting off the beast. I don’t like to dwell on what the truth in this matter may be.

Its thumbless hands extruded like flippers. The thick sausage like fingers bound together by a greenish film. It had no nose, but a triangular slit that parted even the lips. Its teeth were browned needles with great gaps. These doubtlessly had rotted right out of the beast’s mouth.

In the flickering silence of the landing we both stood staring at each other. Neither of us moved trapped in awe of each other. Though I wish not to humanize this monstrosity, but I do wonder if he thought me a grotesque invader as I did to it.

I'm 18 and this is the first time I've written more than a sentence in years and the only time I've ever written a poem. How do I improve my basic literary/grammar/punctuation skills? Can't even define what an adverb is or use a semi colon correctly. Is this the right place or will I just get laughed at?

I take a step
a leap a bound
The first of many,
how profound

sun brings play snow brings presents
I knew, or at least I knew they knew
My favourite this my favourite that
Nothing is expected when everything is new

He sees

I kiss I love I lose
the laugh the cry
if the world is mine
perhaps I may even try

Stub your toe no longer tears
for pain is greater once you feel
thoughts of Venus, abyss divide, terrify
I'll stare and wait, hoping to make it we'll

He watches

I take a step
a creep a crawl
Uncertainty looms
but on I trawl

Impatient to anxiously excited
dare I say now simply anxious
do it for them, but say it's for me
once praised for being, now left so thankless

I see

more to say less to do
now that thinking's easier
What if? If only?
Would I have been happier?

Nothing's perfect, now I'm learning
Expect no big, build from small
This is the constant compromise of
Bittersweet nostalgia times

I watch

I see the picture now
rough and ragged
no form or meaning
finally ready yet no paint can be added

Head full, body empty
The sand's movement signals his coming

We go

i like this.
more?

I really like this, user

Anyone want to talk about Thomas Pynchon books with me in person? I have a Bee Gees record (Size Isn't Everything, 1993, Polydor Records) and some hermetically sealed French fries from the local PBurger that need a one-time PB pin code to unseal and will remain hot and fresh for up to 24 hours. Also we will be meeting in a busy public library (during high traffic hours) where we will identify ourselves to the library staff before sitting somewhere in plain view so they can alert an appropriate government service if risks occur. I have two sets of unopened, sealed-in-box Sennheiser HD 800 S headphones with which we can listen to the Bee Gees record or others from the library's substantial collection. I am HIV negative, HPV negative, and have received the full range of vaccinations recommended by the World Health Organization as of November 2016. I am well-known in the community, of good reputation, and the consensus of a character study undertaken at my behest by the thoroughly independent Truthmirror Psychological Company using its esteemed ReflectMetric® attitudinal questionnaire system describes me as a 'reasonable, circumspect, and responsibility-oriented citizen well-armed to contribute to the contemporary interconnected world.'

i dont know why or how i write

short story I'm working on. All critique welcome, friends

pastebin.com/8rh0s1FT

The image of that dog dying is very detailed. Very dark... it reads well

>voyarism

The great
trees losing the small dignity they have left
everything taken, everything taken
the world doesn't change,
equal input, equal output
gray is the day, the cold creeping
we live vaster, we live in desaster
let the trees be coated, and my belly be bloated
death is coming, my friend.

>whose wayward speak the dead leaves burned
hmm.. is this supposed to be ambiguous?

>let faith blaze fatal bliss

clumsy.

started good but I lost interest as I continued reading

Good, but I can't imagine reading a lot of this.

Imagery is a bit jumbled

Keep trying... and read some bloody poems

I've been sending a few poem-texts with my new JCB (drop-proof)

while the raincloud drags its grieving head over greying heather on stern cliff faces upon which fragile mirrors shatter, grim reflections of seconds past swell rivers with urban decay and drops patter through namefree recollections, fictions, steel.

time is relentless like sunday boredom. lying in the garden with a pile of nettles beside me and mud all over my hands and knees, shower broken for a ray of the day’s name, no-one to call mine, to pull me towards meaning from drifting. because when you only know yourself you know nothing.

Rain on tuesday is perfectly mould-grey, expansive cerulean covered by patches of polluted lichen, phosphor-boned trees snatch drops to feed their addiction until they fall, and lightning may strike the same place one day or two.

thoughts lie unopened, cover-to-cover unread, gathering dust bedside beside an absent mind long left for dead. but this is how it always seemed. inspiration mutely seethes behind waste and utter failure.

Tu sonrisa me escapa del pozo
La curva exquisita que mis ojos recorre y de la que mi corazón se adueña
Que sin hablar te escucho decir esas palabras
Apaciguando mis colores, invitadas al festejo de mis sentidos
Y aún, no puedo ver tu rostro más que en imágenes vacías
Mi condena es ser ajeno a tu perfume
Admirar de lejos tu agraciado cuerpo
Morir de sed sin el sereno rocío que tus mañanas me daban
¿Por qué ha de ser el tiempo tan cruel,
Cual abandona nuestro lado en la cima de la montaña,
Y cambia nuestras alas por pesadas manos,
Que apresuran el descenso inminente,
Hiriendo el alma al tocar suelo?
Me queda de tus memorias un triste deseo
Y solo buscar nostálgico el calor en máscaras de papel
Quemando la verdad que febrilmente ocultaré.

Jeje

pastebin.com/30b6S2Vk

First time writing something and finishing something in English. I haven't revised it, and some images and phrasing do not convince me, but let's see whay you guys think.

Were you to ask me now, I would not tell
The road I took to go from Primrose Hill.

Instead, I could tell you about its sky,
The blue behind the grey, the hasty clouds,
Impatient as the rain that came and went,
Announcing itself as it left the stage.

Indeed, I could tell you about the road,
The other one, that leads to Primrose Hill:
The riverside that outlines Camden Town
And extends the hubbub of its market;
Tunnels, bridges, graffiti on the walls,
And boats resting on water black from dirt.

And even more I could tell you: the church
In the corner of a street, made of stone,
Its frame as bible black as solid cloud.

And I could tell you about Primrose Hill:
The green darkness of the grass, moisty earth,
So soft it yields under the children’s feet
Yet budges not to hawthorn or foxglove,
Nor to the oak with the weight of the crows,
The shadows of its leaves, another cloud.
Nor to the Hill itself, whose mighty bulk
Supports the stony sky, and grants a view
Of London’s skyline, limiting the earth
To the perspective of the horizon.

And as it gently rains I hear the crows,
The roaring wind, the voice of William Blake,
The graveness of his tone recalls his talk
With the spiritéd sun at Primrose Hill.
Yet I remember not the sun, but night,
The night of New Year’s Eve, my first night here
In stranger’s land, among far stranger tongues.
But Primrose Hill distinguishes us not;
It shoulders all: the sky, the clouds, the rain,
Three hundred people there, a bench, myself.

But were you to ask me what road I took,
I wouldn’t tell, I could not tell, for I forgot.

posting on pastebin because too much of this story is already archived here and I want to get it published. Don't worry, it's short.

pastebin.com/L2Z6a4up

This is beautiful. some of the best writing I've seen here. In the interest of constructive criticism I'll give you a few minor tweaks but this is great!

>The road I took to go from Primrose Hill.
"to go from" sounds a bit clunky. It works, but I think "out of" is a bit smoother

>Its frame as bible black as solid cloud.
the first "as" might be unnecessary, but the "solid cloud" needs to go. the first thing you think of is white clouds, which causes you a moment of confusion before you remember storm clouds are a thing, even then, you have the disconnect between hard stone and fluffy clouds. it's just a bad comparison

The bad news is this is awful poetry. There's no rhythm to it, no pulse or haze. The good news is it's terrific prose. Keep at it. Not every good chef is a good baker, and visa versa

I'm gonna disagree with , it isn't necessarily the ideal grammatical choice but I think your original "to go from" sounds far better than "to go out of" and is a better fit for the poem

not "to go out of", just "out of"

Emptied words,
Forbidden trust,
Who can say
You are one of us?

Write a verse
Behind the other;
Dungeoned light
Will damp and smother.

Sight and sound,
Sense and smell;
What joys are these
May you we tell?

Iron clapped
From nature's chain;
Here's a ring,
Your bond to name.

Thanks for reading it! I agree that "go from" is not the best choice, but "to out of" does not convince me either. I tried using depart or leave from, but the do not sound as good.

As for "solid clouds, I'm gonna defend the image, since there is a previous mention of rain and grey skies, and storm clouds are usually bulky and black, that's why the church seemed to me a solid cloud. Since it creates a contrast of hard rock and ethereal clouds, it is not commonplace and further develops the idea of earth and sky being extensions of one another (the crows in the branches of the oak are another instance of this).

I read your excerpt. I rather liked the narration in the first paragraph, the "catalogue of nuts" was very well written, but the dialogue seems affected, and some of the narration of characters' actions too. As it lacks context I cannot tell anything else, but I would read more of it.

Also, the last paragraph ith Ava's inner turmoil could use more subtlety, that is to say, do not put is so plainly (I think).

Thank you for help, it felt a bit fake to me too. My idea was that Ava was supposed to be a bit of a mad scientist, but it doesn't really get worked into the context of the story so I had to shoehorn it in. The entire time she's an angsty doormat with very few redeeming traits, so I thought making her at least seem brainy would at least make her slightly endearing, but I guess not

actually, I'm sorry to ask this but could you clarify which lines and actions seem affected? I want to know which ones to fix

Say something

The dialogue in general, though I understand why. In context it might not sound affected, but as a fragment it does. As for actions, it's mainly Ava's inner turmoil.

Afectado y sentimentalista, muy florido sin decir nada, lleno de lugares comunes.

Gracias por la opinión. Ese era uno de mis poemas escritos no mucho después de empezar con a poesía. No sé si habré mejorado

Did the scientific explanation stand out as a major example of that? It makes sense at least for the guy since his speech patterns are in fact affected, but for her I need some frame of her intellect. Maybe this will work better:

pastebin.com/JjVK2UJw

When I’m woken in fireflies’ wings of mist,
the cold dresses me in my black sweater with the white trees and jerusalem crosses,
and I trolley into the gloom, as the train pushes clouds around.
No one wants to say anything at all, but the trumpets play and the guitars
are shocked, wet, and distorted.
Carried away

warm and electric

static faux rain hovers outside every window
no one needs anywhere to go.

fuck, just the other day my writing felt so good. Now it feels like badly written cartoony crap, and many of the things I want in there just don't belong.

What do I do?

Realize that now you're thinking like a true creator

It's no comfort. I want to feel like I've gotten better over time

>pastebin.com/JjVK2UJw

That's much better in my opinion, though I would recommend using more free indirect discourse instead of just putting the characters thoughts like that. Again, just my opinion.

>Her friends of her own would not take it well. Will the sodajerk would not take it well, though if he knew from miles away his unappreciated culinary aptitude was helping her make small talk it might give a brief moment of peace from frothing at the mouth.

Her friends of her own sounds weird and obnoxious, was it intentional? It sounds off considering what comes after. The last sentence is very weird too, perhaps you were in a hurry?

You're right, that was pretty awful. Here's my final crack at that last part. also yes, that guy is supposed to be obnoxious

Ava blushed. “Not really, no. I just had a friend who liked to test recipes on me.” A chill ran down her spine as a thought dawned on her. Had Luca realized she was there that night? She wasn't exactly quiet, and Luca was nothing if not thorough. If he had known she was there last night he would come looking for her, and he could suspect anyone she knew of being a refuge or confidant.

Maxwell seemed to notice and remained silent until she finished. “Anyway, enjoy them while they're warm. Let's see if we can talk somewhere more private.” As the two walked back in silence to hanging train yard, Ava thought of all the people who she would probably never see again. Her parents certainly, but their associates and their friends: most of whom were now willing to kill her. Will the sodajerk would not take it well, though if he knew that miles away his unappreciated culinary aptitude was helping her make small talk it might give him a brief moment of peace from frothing at the mouth.

No, no, I meant the phrase "Her friends of her own" SOUNDS obnoxious, not the actual friends.

Forget it, I just realized that "Will" is a name. My bad.

Apart from that, it's quite good. Keep up the good work, user.

By the way, what do you think about my reasons for keeping the "solid cloud" image here?

> Out of curiosity I looked up who was listed as owner of that apartment, but it was listed as vacant.
ofc it was

Thank you. In regards to your work, the fact that you have a strong internal logic to it is something I understand entirely and appreciate. That said its often hard to see that internal logic from the outside. It might be better discuss the idea with someone else and see if they can wrap their head around it.

I'm posting my junk again. I've posted it a couple times in the past, some months and months ago, and have extensively revised and edited it.
It's the first couple chapters from my novel about space bunnies(and rural poverty/drug use).

pastebin.com/kJV6yAWC

Sorry if the formatting is a little fucked.
Please tell me what you think.

In the whorl of ancient spires, in the core of Duragh Sin.
As a sparrow's beak on the mount of eternal day,
the Knife whispers on thought made flesh made thought made stone—
to pare what need not be from that which must cohere.
And Heaven's withered eye shall stare a thousand times
as it goes to one who must be, from one who has become,
In the whorl of ancient spires, in the core of Duragh Sin.

Slightly updated version:

I take a step,
a leap a bound
The first of many,
how profound

Sun brings play, snow brings presents
A time when I knew, or at least I knew they knew
My favourite this, my favourite that
Nothing is expected when everything is new

He sees

I kiss, I love, I lose
The laugh, the cry
If the world is mine
perhaps I may even try

Stub your toe no longer tears
for pain is greater once you feel
Thoughts of Venus, abyss divide, terrify
Stare and wait, and soon the kneel

He watches

I take a step,
a creep a crawl
Uncertainty looms
but on I trawl

Impatient to anxiously excited
dare I say now simply anxious?
Do it for them, but say it's for me
Once praised for being, now left so thankless

I see

More to say less to do
now that thinking's easier
What if? If only?
Would I have been happier?

Nothing's perfect, now I'm learning
Expect no big, build from small
This is the constant compromise of
bittersweet nostalgia times

I watch

I see the picture now
rough and ragged
no form or meaning
Finally equipped but unequipped

Head full, body empty
No time for shame or blaming
No time for much at all
Unexpectedly, more predictably,
The shifting sands herald him

We go

pastebin.com/0D1huVF7

Someone posted about how confident they were that they weren't crazy so I got the guts to write this letter about when I lost my shit completely. Hope you enjoy

Good stuff. Be proud that you're writing, and be proud that it has Meaning

Shit, thanks man. Hoping it's not sarcasm haha

derision

That was mean

chuj

oh

falling

If what I show my love to be
In your hands burns like scalding iron,
Release me; don’t hesitate for a moment.
For in that distance between your heart and ground,
Falling is but a recourse for me.
Had we stayed much longer
Those mad, mad winds of mine
Against those stone, looming walls of yours—
Which one would first fall?

Writing for Nano, a bit worried that my writing is leaning into purple prose territory though

There is an unnatural darkness hanging over the small town of Hillbury. A darkness that lingers in every corner, every pond, and every street. It lingers deep within the darkest recesses of ones mind, yearning for you to go deeper and to explore fathomless knowledge of perverse obscenities that only those with a sanity far beyond the reaches of humankind can possess.
I write this, illuminated by an antique railway lamp, in fear that I have delved too deep into that which I should not know. The antique lamp being my only safe haven as torches and electrical based equipment are but mere trivialities to what malevolence stalks me. Who would have thought, that candle light would provide a most stable light source in the twenty first century.

This is a really good piece user, I'm glad you had the guts. I loved the eels imagery and the breast jiggling, and what you wrote struck meas dark and funny without sacrificing honesty.

Every woman and man has a price, it's just decided in hindsight.

Not crazy about your last line, it lacks a lot of flow when it should be hitting hard.

I rather like this.