Sluggish footsteps resonated on the rotting stairs of His Koreatown apartment. Screeching of the rusting grillage, door cracked open, the green stucco peeling off the exterior wall as the flesh of a week old corpse on a blazing summer day. He had to use excessive force to lodge the door back into its unsymmetrical framing. The single room was empty and denuded. It was a sanctuary of darkness; eternal shadows were vainly persecuted by the light being filtered through the broken, lonely window. It was drawing on a scape of fragmented downtown towers ridden by the dying palms of a decaying Los Angeles street. The single room was empty and denuded; for only decoration the outline of a feeble chair and a dark Mirror lynched on the wall. He dropped on the chair. Old wood cracking resounded but the modest throne still beheld Him, proudly opposing the laws of nature, struggling the offensive mass on its unmutilated twigs. The corroded, aging wood, repulsive as the bark of a dying tree was soft and welcome to his abused fingers. Misfortunes drew themselves upon the fingers, Miseries upon the palms and Ephemeral Summers within the aching phalanges. Sitting his silhouette against the window, he contemplated on the uneven, discolored boards, his shade on the ground. Despite the orange glare of an erased street light, his shape was shapeless. His form was formless, his reflection undefined. He stared into the darkness, only to see his stupid eyes returned by the monstrous Mirror. He challenged it with his contemplation. In the monstrous Mirror, he saw:
Most cringe thing you've written
Luring in the stamina of the campaign, the willows only sifted through a small percentage of the stench of the open sewer main upwind of the conference hall. Many of the staunch citizens approached their seats with a grimace of disgust and a gush of vomit splashing against the back of their throats, wondering what they'll have to agree to that day just to keep their fingers inside. Little did they realize that their hair cuts were in vain, and it was simply an execution of an aboriginal at the expense of the high royal society of Lieught Scleoupo. There was much revulsion at the sight of the blood of the native, which always served to titillate the impressionable revolutionaries, who had so much to prove with so little power to do it, they typically backed down from dissenting parties on a rate of 30% after that, which is tweaked magnificently later on in life when stocks are established to their social security numbers.
Post more, liked it, want to know what happens next
not cringy user, just a bit of an adjective overload
“Have you ever seen a nine year old on fire?”
Marie sighed. She picked up the shot glasses from the table, offering one to Micky “Come, finish this with-”
Micky slapped the drink from her hand. It bounced off the floor, spinning in the air for a moment before it skidded off into the center of the room. In the silence of the lounge, the glass’ ringing sounded like a car crash to Marie’s ears.
Marie turned her head slowly to face Micky, making sure to keep her face neutral. Micky’s eyes were wide, his pupils two black dots surrounded by a web of red on white. His lips were shaking, his chin wavering as if he were trying to speak without opening his mouth. Marie refused to get angry. That would only make things worse.
“Have you?” Micky finally stuttered.
“Have I what?” Marie asked, leaning her head against her hand, her elbow propped onto the table.
“Little girls on fire.”
“Jesus Christ, Micky,” It turned her stomach. How was he able to speak so easily about this? “Of course I haven’t”
“It was this mother and child, in the village about an hour drive from Buenos Aires. Mama wasn’t all that old, but she looked ancient. She looked older than my grandma does now, but she swore that little kid was her child, not her grandkid. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. Either way, they-”
Micky threw up, his puke splattering against the table, overflowing onto the floor.
Marie sighed again.
>Capitalizing improper nouns and pronouns
>It was a sanctuary of darkness; eternal shadows were vainly persecuted by the light being filtered through the broken, lonely window.
I really like this sentence, good job.
>Los Angeles street
How about describing your own setting as similar to a Los Angles street but let the reader imagine it based off your description?
>Misfortunes drew themselves upon the fingers, Miseries upon the palms and Ephemeral Summers within the aching phalanges.
What? You're losing me here. Maybe save this for a later description when it's relevance makes a bit more sense?
Hooked me. Want to know whats going on and why. B++ user
iunno, something i wrote while stoned out of my gourd. it has no follow up.
...
One time I wrote a short story about David Foster Wallace announcing to a room of academic-types in some Ivy League mess hall that Infinite Jest is shit and killing himself and when mass pandemonium occurs with professors burning books the way a feminist would a bra the ghost of Harold Bloom unravels like a genie in smoke and stops the chaos by saying his is the arbiter of objective truth and saying it is fact that DFW possesses no discernible talent and in doing so the room resumes order and nobody comments on what just occurred
This is like more autistic and edgy Faulkner, I like it
>Stirner'sSummerJob.jpg
fucking lol
>I really like this sentence, good job.
I thought it was all quite good, and this sentence is not even intuitively or content wise one of the more interesting or pertinent or fancy or poetic and descriptive ones, but this one really caught my attention, the rhythm of it, and the balance and flow of word choices and their phonetics, ups and downs and nice complex sounds that balance out to be real smooth, and its very strong and forceful, active motive, imagery, poetic/narrative voice real confident and commanding here
>He had to use excessive force to lodge the door back into its unsymmetrical framing.
But yeah, I dig most all of it (even if some of it was purposefully, or all, a bit blown out, or thought you were trying to write cringy on purpose)
I like this too
kek'd
>lets just write adjectives and call it literature
I commented above about OP's opening sentence, and how I thought it was longish. user, your piece is a superb example of not only being concise, but providing an awesome hook. A great opening line causes the reader to want to more. In this case, my immediate reaction was "why is burning a child the enemy?" Great concept, with great contrast, and I would love to read more.
Great prose also has great flow-great rhythm. Again, yours is a perfect example. The cadence is so perfect. Sounds great and feels great.
My friends and clients know me as often being over critical. On the other hand, when I see greatness, I am equally blunt. Your opening line is nothing less than superb.
kek. not half bad user.
I'd say I'd read it, but honestly the kicks in the plot, which you've already given me.
Allow me to reiterate: my writing professor called it "rabelaisian".
A white wind bellows across the top of an ice-encrusted mountain range. On a plane in the distance a collection of small wooden cottages begs observation. A waxing crescent hoists itself above the western sky. The dim lights of the village begin to fizzle and one at a time the candles are pinched out till nothing but celestial light takes command of a black landscape. A howl can be heard ringing high above the mountain-tops.
The villagers hasten to their dwelling places. With sweaty palms and chattering teeth, families assemble behind their doors and begin to barricade the entrances, arming even their youngest with sharpened blades and loaded rifles.
A sonorous silence deafens the ears. In the frozen stillness of the night the creak of a gate door is heard followed by the sound of knocking followed by the sound of an exploding gun shot followed by a painful shriek followed by the sound of a second gunshot followed by a moaning sob followed by the sound of a slice and a dying yelp followed by absolute quiet. The villagers remain in hiding until the early morning.
Don't think I have it saved, wrote a story about a guy in the zimbamby apocalypse who kidnaps a girl and tries to turn her into an amputee sex slave, but fucks up and she dies. Then he gets chased by zambies off a cliff while literally regretting everything he's ever done.
Why'd you make me remember I wrote that shit
It was self insert.
>I only read English language lit from after 1800: the post
You think that's bad? I wrote a story about Kafka haunting a descendant of Max Brod until he can destroy every existing copy of Kafka's work.
but that sounds cool and funny
>I once wrote a story about a hitman. Most of it was pretty bland but this part always stuck out to me as cringe overload
I flicked on the television again, skipped past the talking heads and over to something produced by the BBC. Something natural, with animals trying to murder each other. David Attenborough was even narrating. No commercials on this channel either. Thank God for state run enterprises.
I relaxed on the couch, watched a buffalo get taken down by a pack of brindle colored wolves and felt my heart race at the sight of the blood. The brightness always appealed to me in some basic, primal way. When I was younger I gave blood as often as I could get away with, partially out of some sense of civic duty, but mostly because of the formless, nameless pleasure of watching something so vital flow and drip and fill a space.
I’m sure that there are all sorts of psychological connections between that and my current profession. I can already imagine Herrs Freud and Jung chomping merrily away at their cigars. *Zis fascination vith blood obviously comez vrom your inherent vear ov your own mortality,* Herr Freud might say, doubtlessly suppressing an urge to ask if I’ve ever slept with my mother or something deviant like that.
On the screen the wolves busily dismantled the buffalo, with all the sharp toothed precision of a pack of fluffy driver ants. Some of that fluff had wilted though, matted down with gore, one wolf even had a grotesque garland of intestines draped around his neck like some nightmare-world rosary.
David Attenborough even stopped narrating, seemed to just be watching as well, listening to the huffs of pink misted breath and the occasional yip and growl that rose over the crunch and rend of flesh tearing.
Goddamn. Now that was some fine television.
kek. user thats hilarious. you should recreate it.
nice pepe
The premise isn't too bad, i'm interested in what happened but honestly the writing itself is crumby. The use of followed by three times in a row in particular.
I wrote an entire fiction novella about an aryan boy who makes a trip to fantastical metropolis only to find himself caught there, robbed of his money and 9 year old manservant by pedophiles and ultimately gets thrown into a situation where he becomes an internet God to twchnozombies and child sex slaves as the 600lbs cannibal mastermind plots to eat him. There's also witches and teleportation. I'm not proud but I did write the damn thing.
>Sluggish footsteps
What does that mean...? Like...slow footsteps? Seems like there would be a much better word than that, and why make this confusing thing your very first fucking words?
>Screeching of the rusting grillage
....?
>stucco peeling off the exterior wall as the flesh of a week old corpse
super edgy, bro.
>He had to use excessive force to lodge the door back into its unsymmetrical framing
Kind of stopped reading after this clunky piece of shit.
>most cringe thing you've written
My diary desu :(
post an excerpt, i don't believe you
It is just a wonder the publishing community wants nothing to do with you, i tell ya man.
A short story about a young man joining an internat, being somekind of a chosen one who is more or less forced by evil forces to reproduce with a young girl. The young girl is the child of some otherworld being, able to open a portal to a long forgotten place full of demonic entities that try to conquer the world through intercourse.
Really weird borderline paedophile fiction Im not exactly glad i have written. It should be a 3 part story whiel the last parts never seen the light of day.
>brindle wolves
Retard
I'll never publish it. Too cringy. I was shooting for transmetropolitan meets social commentary in 21st America but it fell flat. I put it down and came back to it 3 weeks later and couldn't come up with any words for it. Yikes
I'm not home right now but post an email and I'll see if I don't have the whole manuscript in an email folder somewhere. It's pretty bad
>I'll never publish it.
Really? I honestly can't see why not.
Is this your submission for the cringiest thing you've written?
>mfw OP submits half-decent work with the old pre-emptive "omg my work is cringey wink wink ;)"
I think the fact that it was written by someone I've interacted with, even f very briefly on a website will make it interesting to read, even if I just skim it.
[email protected]
Ok sent.
This is the first time I've noticed your trip, are you published, what's your deal?
Yeah, first two books of series are up. New book every 90 days through 2018. Book 3 drops around Xmas
"He was 9 years old when his dad commit suicide"
I was in middle school and I thought I was deep and shit so I put that as the first line to my short story. Then I didn't realize the teacher asked us to read the first line of our stories to the class. When I got called up I thought about Changing it but panicked and read the line.
The responses were along the line of half the people laughing and half the people asking if I needed help.
is that the freakin' cover of your book?
A mockup.
>all these fucking adverbs
This was the original concept. The story touches on the sexualization and abuse of children and teens and in no way depicts those acts in a positive or sympathetic light.
You're in therapy, right?
Used local artist to translate style to western but in the end it just didn't work. In the end it got to be too much of a dumpster fire so I trashed the project and kept writing my space opera series.
I should be in therapy if I found those things to be pleasurable which is the opposite of my view. The book depicts all the acts in a deplorable tone. Part of me was like: "what should people NOT write about?" But then again boundaries at meant to be pushed. I'd love to write a banned book.
I'm not even touching your obvious pedophilia. I just mean you're a general fucking weirdo.
I'd like it too! [email protected]
I think the original idea came from a renaissance painting I saw of a battle worn knight being seduced by very real looking cherubs. It was written in 2010 and my niece was all about Hannah Montana and I wondered what it would be like for Miley to be used and thrown aside like Danny bonnaduce was from the partridge family since he was the prime example of how child stars are tossed aside. The main character is deceived and exploited by a guy who looks like Robbie rotten from lazy town with a sinister grin that literally stretches from ear to ear and acts like bob barker on acid, "smiling face" and "master plan" a disgusting 800 pound man who gets around by being pulled on a wheeled golden chair by inappropriately dressed 8 year olds with animal ears clipped on their heads like some kind of fucked up version of Santa Claus.
You ever think of channeling these ideas into a more appropriate and less visible form, like interpretive dance, or crochet murals?
The 40 year old goth DJ who writes 11 book-long series of young adult anime science fiction for an audience of zero is a weirdo? Damn.
It manifested itself in other stories less cringeworthy.
I'm actually more of an "industrialist" but yes there's some goth in there. The sisters of mercy are a favorite. Try "this corrosion" if you've never listened to them or just listen to the album "vision thing" in its entirety and you'll be fine.
It's kinda funny how he's so desperate to say anything about himself, he ignores the fact that everyone is making fun of him and replies seriously.
"Hurr durr he talked about writing books on Veeky Forums!1"
Would you consider the retarded kids who they let run onto the court before game and shoot a few shots to be basketball players?
Sort of the same thing here....
As opposed to those who have never picked up a ball in their life?
I think pretty much everyone has picked up a ball in their life
Then post your work or tell us about your novel.
I have, in other threads
Pics or didn't happen
...
How many pages so far?
That book? It's like 84k words, has been finished for like 2 years. Trying to get it published but on the verge of giving up and just self publishing.
I've written two others since that one that I've been more concerned with.
I think reddit would be more to your liking.
This
this is like a cyberpunk henry darger
>Berates gasbro for talking about books
>talks about his own books.
Kekzozzle
I wouldn't normally, but I was specifically asked. So suck it, faggo.
Who's the artist?
I think I snagged it off of deviantart or something. Without owning the copywrightci had to commission a near identical piece.
Calm down. I samefagged to prove a point, numbnuts. You should continue working hard to push your work to market. And don't shit on others who are accomplishing or attempting to accomplish their literary goals. It makes you look like a prick.
I just do it because I think you're a rediculous, sad person. No offense meant. If you cared what I thought, I'd have an even less opinion of you.
Thanks Coldsteel! I know it's nothing personal!
Of all the things to object to...
Out of curiosity, why?
this is pretty neat user
To me it seems that the first and last parts are from a completely different story than the Middle. Both ideas are ok on their own, a typical genre magic/high fantasy type story and a dystopian story touching on the abuse of children by the entertainment industry could be pulled out of this.
Fuuuuuuuug.
I'm incredibly guilty of this, but I just can't stop. Same with placing commas where they don't need to be.
For example, I'll type something up like
>Hey, Bobby. How was your day? I can't believe you went out, to the Market, when it's already so rainy.
Kill me now.
>CRAAAAAAAWLING IIIIIIIIIN MY SKIIIIIIIIIIIN
>THESE WOOOOOOOOOUNDS THEY WIIIIIILL NOT HEEEEEEEEEAL
I want to read this really badly.
>tfw when this is practically a more humble, less toxic critique thread
good work OP
>“Have you ever seen a nine year old on fire?”
>“Have you?” Micky finally stuttered.
>“Have I what?” Marie asked.
>“Little girls on fire.”
Rather than ask "Have I what?", Marie needs a better dismissive piece of dialogue.
This is awful.
Micky Micky Micky Micky Micky Micky
Otherwise, interesting. Not bad at all.
The corpse, abandoned to the elements, had grown wizened beneath the glare of the sun, and I found with a disgust that soon ebbed into desperate hunger that the fetid rank of death which had a week earlier driven me away now enticed and beckoned me nearer--I could resist it no longer.
That sounds fucking awesome
With the right delivery I can imagine that being hilarious.
I've had integrity throughout my entire life.
Sorry that all of you have never been able to experience that.
I was dying. Strangled to death, tied up naked to a bedpost while the love my life rode me like a mechanical bull. Drool ran down my cheeks, my eyes were rolling further back into my head, my lungs were on fire. My vision was going dark, the color draining out of everything, the edges turning black like I had just stepped into a tunnel. I was going to die.
And it felt so good.
Like a dial being turned, slowly everything began to fade into bliss. The weight in my chest seem to be lifted and I was floating, my entire body lifted from the bed and placed onto a cloud. My eyes looked out lazily from heavy lids, almost blinded by the numerous balls of light that danced around the room.
I dont think so. Imagine in a bar with music playing, she didnt exactly catch what he said, she might have heard, but he couldnt really have said that could he, "have I ... whattt?"
"Have I what?" works perfectly
I like that situation and scene very much, the bluntness of it, and juxtaposition, seriousness of the subject, absurdity, I think its all around very good,
Have I what?
Little girls on fire
it cant be better than that, just the imagery picturing the person, you want her to say "ummmm what the fuckkk did you just say duudddeee???"
nah, the focus is him, and the line is perfect, instead of saying "well, what I said was, have you ever seen a nine year old on fire?"
you can tell he is dejected, despair, despondent, maybe drunk/buzzed a bit already, can just imagine mumbling or looking down at the floor... but author not suggesting any of these things allows us to fill in these blanks, and just "little girls on fire"
'Have I what?' "little girls on fire"
she ddnt even fully grasp the context, and he doesnt bother to fill her in on the context
Its perfect, I am sorry, but I would not recommend your advice.
As long as its the antagonist saying this, it's not too cringy
Wonder when the FBI raid will happen?
When I was 5 years old I wrote a story about a fish whose parents died in a fire. When I asked my mom to read it she nearly fucking died with laughter while I cried in my room