Critique General

Post some of your shit and get feedback

>translation from spanish:

I like to remember.
Even if it hurts.
I know that what I'm about to say might sound too romantic and cliche, but it's true: unfortunately, memories are what hurts the heart the most. And my heart is hurt, a death wound, a terminal illness. Although I am perfectly aware of that, and it hurts, and I wish it had never reached this point, I refuse to forget. I don't want to. I have heard other people who suffered from the same telling me that the best thing to be done in these cases is to forget, and in case that is impossible, to block. To block each memory. Each smile, each look, each hug... each tear. No, I don't want to forget. Even though the memories kill me, burns my insides, it has become unthinkable for me to replace all that for a simple black box. No, I would never do that. The memories, in my opinion, are the most precious things that remain after everything ends. In my case, it was certainly better to end it. Continuing with more of the same would have killed me faster than the damn memories do. If it hadn't finished, I would still be a slave, though perhaps I wouldn't be aware of it. I don't know.

>original:

Me gusta recordar.
Aunque duela.
Sé perfectamente que suena demasiado romántico y cliché lo que diré a continuación, pero es la verdad: desafortunadamente, los recuerdos son lo que más lastiman al corazón. Y mi corazón está lastimado, una herida de muerte, una enfermedad terminal. Pese a que estoy perfectamente consciente de eso, y me duele, y desearía que nunca hubiese llegado a este punto, me niego a olvidar. No quiero. He escuchado a otras personas que han sufrido de lo mismo decirme que lo mejor que se puede hacer en estos casos es olvidar, y en caso de que eso sea imposible, bloquear. Bloquear cada recuerdo. Cada sonrisa, cada mirada, cada abrazo… y cada lágrima. No, no quiero olvidarlo. Aunque me mata el recuerdo; me quema por dentro, se me hace impensable cambiar eso por un simple cuadro negro. No, jamás lo haría. El recuerdo, en mi opinión, es lo más preciado que queda luego de que todo termina. En mi caso, fue mejor que terminara. Seguir con lo mismo me hubiera matado más rápido de lo que lo hace este maldito recuerdo. Si no hubiese terminado, seguiría siendo un esclavo, aunque tal vez no estaría al consciente de ello. No lo sé.

Other urls found in this thread:

literotica.com/top/NonConsent-Reluctance-13/alltime/?page=1
fanfiction.net/s/12268815/1/Sky-of-Towers
docs.google.com/document/d/1mWb_R6AgItqa6a9sFVw9CS5UuL1s0nk_CJE18NbNxQ8/edit?usp=sharing
pastebin.com/raw/FEtHJJPc
youtube.com/watch?v=55DHrOeqwcA
twitter.com/AnonBabble

Suena demasiado romántico e cliché...

>otras personas que han sufrido de lo mismo decirme que lo mejor que se puede hacer en estos casos es olvidar, y en caso de que eso sea imposible, bloquear.

would they really say that....

I'm not spanish, but it's not poorly written, the theme you pick—and I don't know if you're writing from experience or not—is the typical heavy-emotion a new writer would force into their prose, to get a forced emotional response from the reader, but truth is the reader likely won't respond much to it and just keep reading, somewhat detachedly, I think, at least that's me.

If the spanglophone world doesn't have a John Green yet, be that John Green.

>part of a short story i just wrote
It is said that when two opposing equal forces meet each other they neutralize. What happened when Mark went to live with Susan was a slow process of sculpting, of erosion. Much like a blade is diminished as its sharpened, both of them molded the other into a more sophisticated form by virtue of butting heads. And in the end their flaws were blunted whilst their virtues were polished. They became gentler people, their reserves of bile and spite, though considerable were not infinite, and greater still was the motivation that pushed them to get it out and get rid of it all. Once they threw at each other everything they had to throw they could finally start to pick up the good things. He learned from her to be more considerate and empathetic for those who had it worse than him, and she learned from him to not get caught up in her own indignation and resentment towards those who didn't have it quite as bad. They grew up, as people does

"Hurry," Hermione cried, holding open the portrait of the Fat Lady.

Ron, his cheeks bulging with half-chewed toast, shoved on his shoes and ran over to the portrait.

"Uhh, just a minute," shouted Harry from the male dormitory.

"Really Harry, we're going to be late!" Hermione complained, tapping her foot against the flagstone.

"I wonder what the bloody hell he's up to," said Ron. "I haven't seen him since he snuck in late last night!"

Suddenly a figure appeared on the stone steps leading down from the dormitory, and both Ron and Hermione noticed who it was.

"Ginny!" they both cried. Ginny blushed violently and bit her lips before moving slowly down the stairwell. Behind her Harry appeared in the midst of buckling up his trousers.

"Oh gosh, you two!" Hermione exclaimed.

"Harry, that's my bleeding sister!" Ron angrily bellowed.

"Sorry," Harry attempted. "It's just, well, I've learned this new spell. The one Hermione used to make her quill a little longer. And well-"

"That really is quite enough Harry," Hermione interrupted.

Ron stood aghast, mushy bread falling from his mouth.

It was time for a duel.

Midnight mass at the local church came to an end; the mothers flocked outside to discuss politics and argued over whether pink or red lipstick was in while the fathers eagerly started the cars. Carlos Diaz, teenaged son of Jennifer Diaz, dashes around to the back of the church, where his friend Damien hands him a cigarette. “I can’t believe you got me hooked on this shit, now I look and smell awful. Samantha will kill me if she finds out I started again.” Damien pulls a lighter from his jacket and forks it over. “Don’t worry man, there’s no trait a women finds more attractive than self-loathing..” “This coming from the one of us that is a virgin?”

1/4

I like to picture society as a big human body. We all occupy particular roles; academics and certain corporations might be neurons, consumers might be a kind of stomach acid. Lawyers may be a cluster of cells in the forebrain. Street criminals and conservatives might be somewhere in the amygdala. Blood might be delivery people of all kinds, and homeless folk must be somewhere in the rectum. The police force, though: the police force is a muscle. A fleshy, taut muscle that can both lift and smother. The flick of a cow's tail in response to an itch caused by a fly landing on its ass. The twitch of your eye as the last straw breaks. Hypertension as the lungs stop. The police force is white blood cells, it's the stuffy nose saving you from the flu, but sometimes, you know, muscle is the crushing death. Sometimes white blood cells replicate uncontrollably, causing your lungs to fill and your cells to die and everything to turn black. Regardless of that though, the police force is a muscle. Whether, though, they twitch or crush, tense or snap, coil or are entirely relaxed, individual police officers can be said to possess their own muscular feature. Some wear it on the outside, visible to all. Others hide it, resenting their existence as a muscle, a white blood cell.

A twitch.

Henry Glazier walked into the police station. It was 6:54am. It was chilly. He could see his breath as he walked up the concrete staircase with his hand on the brass rail, opened the heavy front door, and began to cross the glossy marble floor with echoing steps. The night guard gave a bleary smile and nod as he approached. "Hey Glazier. You on goon squad today?"
"You bet." He walked past stiffly, turned to the reflective elevator door and thumbed the button for UP. The elevator lurched slightly as he stepped onto it. Floor 7. His destiny.

______

Henry felt a lot of things after waking up from a dream. He felt confusion, in the moment directly preceding waking; little men behind the scenes pulling at ropes, setting the stage. Pulleys whining somewhere in the background as he rises from sleep.

Henry was a cop. He became more and more aware of this as the elevator numbers lit themselves up in sequence, his dream-haze falling off of him in great heavy sheets. The doors opened, revealing a bustling cubicle forest; people spilling in and out of cubicles, shuffling to and from photocopiers and fax machines, and producing people sounds as they did so. The din would have been disorienting to most, but Henry strode unaffected past the maze and towards the office at the far end of the room.
An orange-haired woman's head poked up from behind one of the cubicle walls. "Hey there, sexy," bleated Maeve, whom Henry knew as being from accounting, as well as heading the department's rumor mill. Henry chuckled by reflex and turned without breaking stride. "Morning, my dear," he said with exaggerated pomp.

2/4

Maeve feigned a swoon and dipped back down behind the cubicle wall. Henry hadn't been able to see the artful piece of slapstick, as he had already disappeareed into the monolithic glass-walled office at the end of the room. Heavy, smooth click as the door closed into quiet. The man sitting before him behind a frosted glass desk was none other than Jan Hobbs. A man whose rough appearence seemed softened somehow by the delicate and expensive-looking glass ornaments surrounding him on all sides. On his desk, in the glass cabinets on either side of the room: the cabinets themselves were tall, up to the ceiling, and quite ornate. They were covered in complicated leaf-patterned inlay and raised bits of gold wire throughout. A delicate-looking glass pear sat onthe desk in front of him, appearing as if it had shared a maker with the cabinets, and had, Henry would muse later, likely cost a similar amount as well.
Jan would, Henry knew from experience, look very much more at home in a patrol car working the midnight beat and swearing loudly at minorities than he did sitting in that office. At least that's how Henry had known him before he had moved up in the company. "Take a seat, Glazier," Jan extended an open yet still vaguely claw-like hand towards the blocky glass chair that sat awkwardly in front of the desk. Glazier took the seat. "So, brute squad today, eh? Think you're ready?" Jan continued with a wink and a couple of nudges in Henry's direction.

It was a joke because they both knew it was. He was more than ready. It was an open secret that most cops relished crowd control and couldn't wait for their turn. It was an open secret that the military-style regalia, the chanting, the sheilds and masks and thumping of knight sticks did well to serve up that little bit of excitement to an otherwise boring work week. Not least of all, Glazier was excited to use the force's newest riot tech--a nonlethal superweapon that was said to enable near-perfect crowd control.

Henry could feel himself nodding and agreeing as Jan began speaking and gesticulating emphatically over the details of the coming raid. THe local resistance had spread to the surrounding suburbs and beyond in recent months, and word had gotten out that a brute-force takeover attempt of the city hall was about to take place, the looming spectre of which, as Jan put it, was a black smear on the city that needed desperately to be cleansed. He found himself staring at the pear as Jan's debriefing turned into a tirade. The edges of his visual field softened and Jan's voice receded.

3/4
Perception now becoming as glassy as the chair he sat on, Henry focused on the pear. It was beautiful. Frosted glass, delicately formed with the finest lines of gold swirling about the contours of the little fruit. Breaks in the frost formed lines that ran along the edges of the inlay, all perfectly terminating at some spot or other on the pear's surface. Jan's rant now was lightyears away, arriving through Glazier's ears through several layers of thick wool. Harold almost thought he could trace Jan's grand agenda for the city in the organic whorls and curvature of the inlay, sitting on the surface of the fruit like a road map to providence.

"Glazier."

He returned to the world to see Jan no longer gesticulating, his hands folded neatly on the desk. "So like I said, you'll be on the front line. You fine with that?" Composing himself and feeling a smile pass onto his face, "Yes Sir." Jan gave him one last cursory glance, as if trying to look under his skin. "Get yourself some coffee," he said as Henry stood up and was about to leave; "you'll need it." With that, Harold gave a final, crisp nod before swinging open the glass door and going back out into the cubicle maze. Passing Maeve's station again, he looked over to see her winking in another absurd imitation of endearment. He lifted a corner of his mouth and gave a polite nod as he exited the cubes and went back out into the cavernous belly of the building.

As he stood in front of the elevator to go down he began to picture Maeve naked, and promptly shuddered. The doors to the elevator opened, spilling out cops and bureaucrats, receptionists and suited men. Harold squeezed through the throng into the now empty elevator. He turned around to face the front and scanned the panel of smooth, new buttons. There, he thought. Basement. He thumbed the foggy LL and checked his teeth in the mirror as the elevator descended smoothly and silently into the bowels of the building. Doors open to a fresh chaos as officers in various states of dress and undress crack jokes, fiddle with their equipment, comparing shield techniques, gun calibers. The changeroom was a combination highschool locker room and armory. The perfect storm, Harold thought to himself as he nodded to Rob, his old partner from the day beat. He walked past to the back where he would find a set of fitted police-issue undergarments, leg warmers, waist tensor. This was all the soft under-layer to be worn underneath the more shell-like exterior of the riot uniform.

4/4

He disrobed, suited up as he heard someone fart loudly to a burst of laughter from the other cops. Harold chuckled to himself as he slipped on the last of the soft layer. He walked up to the front of the room where the more substantial elements of the riot suit were hung up. Everyone had mostly suited up and were all now joking about smashing hippies. They always joked about performing wanton acts of police brutality, although it rarely happened in actuality. No one liked the paperwork involved, and most did in fact have moral reservations, Harold knew, but this type of humour was to the police force what suicide humour is to prison inmates: humour kept the desires at bay.

Harold had gotten his lower half dealt with. His boots, shin guards, knee pads, cup. The other cops were now stomping the ground, testing the fit of their boots, readjusting shoulder straps. They began swinging their knightsticks calculatedly against invisible enemies, knocking them against their shields, testing the sturdiness of their gear and getting into character. Harold watched all this and saw the men turning into immovable rocks. It was an elaborate ritual. Soon, satisfied with their new status as supermen, they began clanking their night sticks against their shields. The energy of the room reached Harold, who was now fastening the upper elements of the riot uniform, kevlar, elbow pads. The clanking intensified and became a solid, rhythmic chant as he snapped on his gun belt, put on his helmet and joined the throng, stomping into his boots, joining the tribal chant of the knightsticks. Today was going to be a good day.
_

The policemen all tumbled and spilt out of the main police building and into the van, frolicking. Once secure, they drive into Zone 1. They all put on a calm, vigilant air as they sit shoulder to shoulder in the bumpy metal box. No one makes eye contact. They look at the floor of the van as the head man briefs them one last time about the situation. It was a peaceful protest, but here had been threats of violence. They weren't sure what kind of crowd they were dealing with, so they were to be amicable while the peace was maintained. They arrive at their destination and the doors open to the final bit of bleached-out daylight with the dusk quickly approaching. A solid wall of humans faced them, muttering to each-other through cupped hands. The officers paid no mind, spilling out of the van and fanning out ten feet away from their vehicle.

They disperse slightly but stay within arm's reach of each-other. The first goal is to get the riff-raff out of the goddamned road. A few moments passed as the officers set up a small antenna, Joe, the man setting it up muttering very serious-sounding incantations. "Alright boys switch 'er on."
A button was pressed, and suddenly everything became red as the antenna started, for lack of a better term, screaming.

>desafortunadamente
Are you for real, spics?

10/10 would fap

Not bad. Your introduction got me to read on further, and I kept reading, so you have a good format and some good ideas. Of course it needs heavy revisions, your wording can be awkward at times, a few sentences were structured nearly the same as the sentence preceding it and I find that annoying.

You also appear to lay a whole lot out there that needs more content or explanation. If Jan and Henry are supposed to have a deep relation then we need more out of the two. Are these cops really pieces of shit? Or are they also victims of a flawed system? Stuff like that. You don't need to directly answer it in your writing, but as the author you should know the answer and use it to dictate your writing.

Also, who is narrating the first paragraph? Or whose thoughts are those? Henry's? You seem to have an omniscient 3rd person narrator. If it was the narrator speaking that part, well now your narrator has thoughts & characteristics.

Pretty decent though, overall.

Awesome, thanks! That's pretty much all stuff I'm actively working on, so it looks like I'm not /too/ delusional about being able to do a good job on this. and there are a couple of other character arcs that help give context to this one.

About the narrator, yeah. He's either an ethereal meta-character that makes embodied appearances in the story itself or I'm going to have to work that out some other way...

Really, thank you though, I appreciate the thoughtful critique.

While I'm at it I may as well see if I can get a bit of feedback on my approach to the other protagonist. This is a tentative first page (actually occurring at the end of the story though). First sentence needs to be changed, etc, but I think I've got the descriptive style to do what I want it to do.
__

So it had all come to this. It was all I could think of, standing there in that big green field, wind whipping about my clothes and hair, the sunlight shining down onto the hillcrests above and grassy meadows below. The air was fresh and danced freely through the bullrushes in the marsh and flattened great sheets of grass in a directionless cadence. I watched, intently, a beautifully organized storm of dark geometry lined with neon fluorescence
cycling pure primaries against a very old and very dusty darkness that seemed to take up an infinite amount of space and yet almost none at all. At the center, was her: Penelope. Perfect penelope, eyes shining like pools of liquid obsidian, her expression one of perfect, ancient calm. A
perfect representation of the void, the hantavirus, the thing behind it all whose hunger is endless, Penelope stood perfect in her
dress, beckoning silently and without movement for me to come closer. It was in that moment, as I began walking towards her and that
strangely shining light coming from nowhere in particular that I realized that I was in love. In love with life, with love itself, with the
destruction of humanity and of any illusions of bondage that had previously plagued me. I knew then that I was free, and that I had
unwittingly become Patient Zero in the intertwining dramas that were my own life and everything in it. Now
all I had to do was inhale the crisp air around me, look straight into that slow, syrupy smile that had begun to spread itself across
her pale face like an egg yolk being burst with a fork, and to take that first step.
And in that moment we were all rainbows. Rainbows, screaming through the void.

Is it okay to post ebook published stuff here? I want to post them but I'm not sure if it's against the rules

"Don't you want to be clean?" From the doorway her captor sets down a bucket. Soapy water slops to the floor. Now a hose, green and with a garden spray nozzle, being pulled in, groaning from the friction, coiling next to the froth like a snake.

She doesn't answer.

"For fuck's sake." And with a heave, the vault is shut: on flicker the lights, artificial, flourescent. It hurts her eyes. She presses her face up against the concrete to escape it. "I don't think I've ever seen a sadder sack of shit." She hears footsteps approach. Pristine white sneakers appear in the sliver of her vision. Her captor crouches, sniffs. "Disgusting."

A prod, stiff and rude, into her naked ribcage. She pulls into herself. Ignores the next one.

"Just disgusting," mutters her captor. "Look at you. You know there's a sink in here, right? Is that just too base for your tastes? "

"Don't care," she whispers into the floor.

"You know what I don't care about?" A yank of the hair, wrenching her head to the side. The light is blinding. She squints and sees only a silouhette above her. "You know what I don't give a shit about? This little pity party you've got going here. Rotting in your own filth." Her vision is adjusting, and she finds her captor's face. "I have to clean it up, and I'm starting to think you're doing it to fuck with me."

"No, ma'am," she mumbles.

"So you'll cooperate?" A cutting smile.

She nods.

JKR is that you?

All lights are gone, veiled by trees that spin a web of black. We ride into the mouth of the beast, into the heart of the country, where the moon and her friends come to bleed. The one eyed cabbie speeds down the dirt, clanking his chassis against the earth. In the sky, thunder, like abaddon’s trumpet, ringing into the night.

“This is far enough,” I tell him.

With innocent orbs I hand him the five dollar fare. He smiles and reaches to grab the bills, but instead, grasps my hand, not with aggression, but with tenderness, a sad and miserable tenderness like that of an abused wife. His other hand turns off the car. The rumbling of the engine ceases, the air is still. I am the light of his eye.

“Do your parent’s know you’ve come so far on your own?”

Ice forms in my blood. He licks his lips and brings them close to my face. His breath smells of alcohol, and from up close I can see that he is old and foul, his face an ocean of grease. Hundreds of acne scars span across his face like islets and his empty eye socket, pink and purple, glares in the moonlight. It does its best to blink in accordance with its counterpart.

He eases the grip of his hand on mine, placing his fingers on my head. A whisper in my ear,

“Dios lo bendiga, muchachito.”

He heads back to the city, his machine and its noise fading back into the lights. Lemongrass and noni compete amongst the green. I see their outlines for the night is black. Hundreds of stars flirt and flaunt their light at me, trying to reach my eyes with their dim glow. Hanging from strings above, an empty sky and its sickly moon, their maker concealed in the cloth of night. Winds swirl on the colorless orb, blowing synchronously in some ecstatic concierto.

Or rather, there is no wind.

the best option is to kill yourself

This is by far the best thing I have seen posted in a critique thread. The grammar is stellar, the metaphors are tight without being too in-your-face, and its funny as fuck on top. Somehow you managed to scoop up a glittering handful of that stream that gurgles behind the faces and words of our generation. But not just the human aspect, there's a pinch of that meatless light that whirs untranslated outside our direct experience.

What a wonderful lift it was to run my eyes over that.

The most amazing part is how easily we swallow compliments. Makes you wonder about the black deep contempt behind them.

what about it

enough mind games man jesus

Jevandy
He strode swiftly, weaving through the scatter of bodies. The miracle of perambulation. One foot in front of the other, forever.
Jevandy was vexed by the mental image of a man who fell to the side every time he attempted to take a step forward. With some effort, he banished this man from his mind and overcame his frustration.
“This isn’t how aliens would get around.” He usually imagined them being brightly colored blobs--amoeba the size of bathtubs. Impossibly intelligent gelatins that roll around, speaking in perfect English, using abstruse vocabulary; their voices underlaid with some low electronic hum. They traverse a perfectly round and grey planet, moseying from one conversation to the next. At the end of a 335 hour day, they stagnate next to their Ideal Mate and refocus their energies for 70 hours. Jevandy spent a non-negligible amount of time crafting, honing, and ultimately envying characters in his mind. Internally, he sought praise and status for his technological savvy, but he merely coasted by in his computer science courses. Above all, he valued the abundant comedy of life. He believed that of all existing love, the best of it was found in that abundance.
On the brink of perspiration, he arrived at the door of his Sociology class 24 minutes early.
“Jevandy, you’re early! An auspicious occasion, to be sure,” called out Mr. Garfoyle. An adjunct lecturer at Reed College, Davis Garfoyle was Jevandy’s uncle. He had worked there for 17 years, but various transgressions kept him from a higher academic rank. Facebook messages of yearning to female professors. Performing behavioral studies on his pupils without them knowing. Fierce invectives directed at unlucky students--these were particularly unsettling, given his usually sunny disposition. Notwithstanding his more troubling quirks, he was an excellent teacher with a fierce intellect. His pedagogical verve simultaneously endangered his career and staved off his termination.

tfw i don't know if it's good or not

“I’m always early, I just usually wait in the hall.”
“Well it’s perfect. Let’s go to my office, I’ve a matter to discuss with you.”
A vague nervousness came upon Jevandy. Being Garfoyle’s presumed favorite relative--most others in the family were mystified by the 41 year old divorcee--he wasn’t worried about the nature of the meeting; he was daunted by the task of maintaining normal eye contact throughout the conversation. Garfoyle closed the door and urged Jevandy to have a seat.
“Listen closely, my boy. I’m coming to you with this first because I know you can understand it. I might not tell anyone else actually…” He trailed off. Usually an efficient and elegant speaker, he seemed troubled for a moment by an apparent inability to broach the subject. “I’ve been approached by some very nice Northern Neighbors! Thats right, Canadians! The details of how I came into contact with these people… well it’s frankly none of your concern!” He laughed eerily for a long time. The cadence of his speech was oddly fractured and truncated. It sounded like someone had spliced together various recordings of his voice to create these particular phrases.
An overlong pause followed the guffaw. Jevandy’s extremities were cold and rigid in the air conditioned office. Extremely uncomfortable, not knowing what to do or where to look, he cracked some of his knuckles, satisfyingly. Garfoyle did not notice.
Looking slowly around the room, a pall came over the man. His face communicated that he had lost everything he loved. When he started up again, he sounded like an actor rotely reciting a line that had become meaningless from repetition. “There is a compound in Vancouver. Some very nice gentlemen are there and they want to help us.” The walls became dark and the ceiling seemed to disappear. Jevandy initially wanted to believe that the whole ordeal was a joke or an experiment, but he could not ignore the gravity of the situation. This was not the same man anymore. The figure behind the desk stood up, and its face began to vibrate and crackle horrifically. Utterly dismayed and unable to move, Jevandy knew this being was deeply evil, but strangely, he did not feel he was in any danger. The fear lived somewhere far beyond the physical world; it extended into a distant atmosphere that could not be understood. A dream of blackness and infinite falling. Everything was rearranged and decided anew. There was enough space for all the tragedy of humanity to pass through. The face rippled and pulsated. Words emanated.

“It’s going to happen to you too. You will always have your body. You can control everything. Flying is painful. Sleeping is small. Everyone is here. I have you. We know your kindness. Make an offering. You are infringing on multinational issues.” The voice was no longer human. Jevandy saw himself screaming and running down the hall.
In his next conscious moment, he was on a sidewalk at the corner of an intersection. Everything was light and soft. He felt his socks against his feet, but he did not feel the ground under his shoes. Birds hopped by silently. The sky was impossibly far away. He was aware that trees were alive and growing. Empty space shifted and stretched loosely around objects. Wind could be seen but not described. A bird was driving a car. Red light.
“Who are you?” Jevandy asked the small yellow bird. Its feet could not reach the pedals, and its wings never touched the wheel. It sat on a stack of books so it could see the road.
“I’m a she, not an it,” the bird chirped.
“What?”
“I’m a female bird. I’m a woman. If you want to talk, get in.”
Jevandy did not hesitate. He did not trust the reality of his new environment, but he felt safe with the bird. She laughed when he buckled up.
“That’s rich! Safety first! You see, there are no accidents here. Everything happens on purpose. Not always for a reason, I’m not saying that. It’s just that we have things mostly figured out. And no, you’re not ‘dead.’ I hate when people ask that, it’s so boring.”

“What’s your name?”
“Cabinet. Nobody ever ‘dies’ here, so everyone gets to know each other eventually… it’s easier if we all have different names. You have to be creative.”
“How do you drive? Is everyone a bird?”
“You seem very calm. It’s kind of weird.”
“...Did you hear me?”
“Huh? Oh yeah, sorry, I lost track of who was talking. It’s pretty hard to learn, but you kind of just picture yourself driving… like for example, how do you move your hand? You just do it, right? And no, there are humans here. Birds get along with each other better than humans though, so most of us are birds. I have a lot of money, but I have even more friends. I’m driving to a party right now. Good music will play. We’ll read poetry.”
The light turned green. The bird drove very fast, as there were no speed limits. Jevandy was silent for a while, thinking deeply. He felt he was in a safe place, created by a benevolent force. He never had to strain to make sense of it; he knew that no evil would befall him, but he could not help thinking it was too good to be true, this new plane of...existence? Imagination?
“If no one dies, how does it end?”
“‘End?’ Are you thinking of time, or life?”
“What? There is no end of time, because time isn’t real. And there’s no end of life, because no one dies. So is there any end?”
“...Look. You escaped, okay? You escaped fear and danger, life and death… isn’t that enough?”
“I just want to know. I get why that stuff happened with my uncle… it was worth it. I get it… but can’t you answer my question?”
The bird sighed. “That’s what you want to know? Not ‘Why am I here?’ ‘What are those numbers in the top right corner?’ ‘Why aren’t you flying?’ Why can’t you settle for something like that?”
“Because… I want to have fun here… make friends, get married… have a podcast... but if it all stops existing one day, that could mean that it never existed in the first place. And I can’t live with that.”
“What?!” Cabinet braked hard and pulled the car over. “What do you mean… That’s not possible! This is real! All of this is forever!”
“You don’t know that. The whole point of this place is that anything is possible. That’s what’s so beautiful about it! We don’t ask what everything means, because making our own meaning is what makes existing fun… there is meaning, and there is love. That’s all we know about existing. There is nothing else… unless there’s an end. The end is the only thing that isn’t ‘something’ or ‘nothing.’ That’s why it’s so dangerous. That’s why I have to know.”
“No… nothing is dangerous! We escaped from danger!”
Jevandy had to take a few minutes to consider the conundrum. Cars raced by on the highway.
“Cabinet…”
“Yeah?”

“How do you know no one dies here?”
“My mom told me. She’s very old.”
“Where is she?” asked Jevandy.
“I don’t know. She flew away 41 years ago.”

The End

i didn't even try on the ending

>thunder like a trumpet

I dreamt of the aurora again. Lasted longer this time, managed to reach the overpass. I saw the Capitol out west, jutting from the prairie like a great scab, and the ghost lights loomed over it. Their presence clashed with the rusted sky menacingly, and I feared they would take shape at any moment, swallowing the city whole in some great maw. But they held there, luminescent tendrils streaking through starless infinity.

I always just get high and masturbate after essentially retyping those few sentences.

Its time for a fap

>write something shit
>say you translated it because you know people will say its shit otherwise

or

>be spanish
>write something shit

either way really

Just a snippet that popped up in my head when I was remembering something, and I wanted to catch the feeling of it. I was intending to just write the feeling down, but it came out like dialogue, so I went ahead and used it for one of my characters that it would fit with. Obviously, it's not very much, and heavily lacking content, but what do you think? Should I save it and build on it, or put it in some chapter in the future? Is there not enough here to really make a good assessment?

>“Some little word or phrase from a song, and there it is. Cuts you deep and consumes your thoughts like Shell Shock, and all of a sudden your chest is hurting and breathings a little hard. You remember can recall every detail little detail. From the tint of the light, to the way their hands shook as they broke the phone in half then through it on the ground and told you never to call them again. Then the slam of the door. Laying on the ground.

>Then, someone else says something and you have to drag yourself out of the feeling and back to reality even though you just want to give in and relive that moment for a little longer, cut yourself a little deeper in that satisfying self hate. Ya, it's hard not to give into something like that, but don't ever think you can just rid yourself of it. It's a scar now, and one that you should be grateful you have.”

>Shayla laughed a little bitterly at that last bit about the scar and looked up into Ellas eyes.

>“Why the hell would I be grateful for a scar?”

>Ella could hear the impatience in her tone and knew Shayla probably didn't really care what she had to say, but she also knew she had to say it nonetheless.

>“Because scars remind us of something that needs to be remembered. Either a time when we we're being really god-dam stupid, or when we were trying to protect something we love.”

personally I thought it was kind of over done.

that's pretty good though, isn't it? I just think you should back up and not concentrate so much stuff in such a small space. try to be as normal as you can, and slip in crazy lines where they'll come as a surprise. it's not as hard as I think you think

When she had first driven through the streets she had been awed by the new world she saw through the window. The towers of cement were taller and wider than she had ever seen, and every inch was sculpted into eagles, crenelations and geometries, or plated with smooth panels of bright silver and marble as black as the night sky. The park was an ancient woodland which surely held things that were old when humanity had left the First Garden, and whom were held only at bay by a wall of mossy brown stone and the light of a thousand black lanterns.

Even from a tower which scraped the clouds the city was eternal and boundless beneath her. Streets crossed horizons while horses shrunk to ants. Steam boats flooded rivers as cars and carriages did streets. The medial park formed a column from below to beyond, and workmen sat on steel beams and whistled wolfishly while they ate.

She spent the day exploring, visiting booksellers and bakers, and gawking at glassblowers and performers. She shared soft pretzels with pigeons, then shopped wandered and looked, then returned to her penthouse with a armfull of books. As day begot night she returned home to rest, and took out her telescope to check out the view.

The night sky was empty, bleached orange by lights. The stars were all missing and the nebulae too. The girl felt something in her heart shatter, and with a heart full of sorrow she retired to bed.

>Lasted longer this time, managed to reach the overpass.

this is a bit ambiguous ambiguous. Did the aurora reach the overpass, or did you?

Also, no offense, but your vocabulary is a bit cliched and/or nonsensical. Speaking of tendrils in horror is overplayed and I can't sympathize with the idea of seeing the borealis as a "maw" as you put it.

It's not bad mind you, really it's quite palatable, but using more original descriptions will help move you forward

user, you're probably not going to appreciate the metacriticism, but you've fucked up three different ways without requiring me to read anything

1: you pasted the entire story, which not only makes it unpublishable, but also challenges the human capacity to give a shit
2: you didn't critique a single other person, so people won't even critique you out of gratitude
3: your paragraphs are poorly space, making the it look like a dense block that even survivors of error 2 won't care enough to dig through.

Post short excerpts, comment on others, and try to format your text to be easily readable.

It's alright, but I'm more of a 'show me, don't tell me' type person. However, if the whole narrative is like this throughout your whole book, then it's not bad. Needs a little polishing though.
Opening got me hooked in pretty good, but it could use some polishing. That last sentence in the first paragraph felt a little unnecessary, but that's just me and what I like in text. Like I said, needs a little polishing.
Not bad, I can't really see much wrong with it at this point. If I might, I suggest looking at some of these:

literotica.com/top/NonConsent-Reluctance-13/alltime/?page=1

Even if you aren't writing literotic stuff, some of those authors are really good and have a similar writing/story perspective style, and it probably wouldn't hurt to check it out.
GOD-DAM, did you steal that from another book or is that actually yours user? Fuck man, if it is, PLEASE let us know when you get that shit published and I will buy a copy.

>to replace all that with a simple black box

A black box, while something that doesn't have accessible interior parts, is still something that is functionally the same as the thing you replaced it with (input -> box -> output). You want a thing with no output, or else you're implying input -> box -> sadness for some reason you can't access. This is going to grate on certain readers.

I wish I could remember it all.
Every last bit in perfect detail.
I want to press rewind
And live it all again from the beginning.

But I catch only glimpses of it now.
Snapshots of street corners
Fumbling quarters into vending machines.

I remember drinking an aloe vera drink
From a can in the onsen lobby.
A documentary on Japanese screen doors
Muted on the telly.

I remember being cold, so cold,
And I want to go back.

They say not to live in the past,
To focus on the present, to focus on the future.
But I can't break this heartbreaking yearning.

I catch only glimpses of it now.
Isolated bursts of emotion.
Experience compressed down over time
Into a perfume.

A whisper of a fragrance.

I remember us now in the garden,
Me, hidden by the foliage,
You, perched on a bridge to nowhere.

A description of a house:

I grew up in a house big enough to make my young body and mind forget the heat of sunshine and what it felt like to go outside. The intire structure of the building was caotic, as if the person who had designed it had a general concept of what a house should look like and then had just added bits as he went along. In fact my grandfather was the one who built it over a period of two decades when he came back from the war in Corea, starting initially with a plan for a small structure which over the years had become more and more ambitious and excentric.
Our living room had a grand fireplace, rarely used, that held above it a military uniform dressed stern black and white photograph of my grandfather, died when i was three years old and who i never got to know. The rest of the first floor was divided into a kitchen, the dinning room, a bathroom and a huge hallway with a slightly grotesque, cheep and charmless chandelier hanging from the cealing above.
The second floor held my fascination the most. There where a seemingly endless amount of rooms and corridors that turned into my personal maze and allowed my imagination to break through the walls of my reality and bend the rules of impossibility. The bathroom on the second floor became a distinguished landmark in my childhood memory. When my parents shared moments of unsupressed anger with each other i would hide in there for hours and through water socked balls of toilet paper at the cealing to supress the boredom.
On the third floor there wasn't too much to explore. Just a bedroom where my parents slept with a bathroon next to it and above both our attic.
My grandfathers house had known better years. The painting flaked off the walls and the floorboards growned every time anybody walked across them.
I remember the smell of old oak wood and pine. The smell of new varnish my father plastered into the wood like a sickly face mask trying endlessly to give it a youthfull shine. The furnisher where relicks, captivating over the years a musty scent made out of dampness and aged tobaco smoke that remained like a time capsule of the memory of my grandfather.
But still the house held a charm, of the kind that lays in beautiful things that grow old and still manage to stay beautiful.

Oops this was for

It will probably continue to exist in temperaturelessness until it's good enough to bother reading.

He could sense the beat of his heart slowing down, each dull thump delayed more and more from the one before it. Chipped gravel mixed with coagulated blood feels like a well-earned last meal, can someone pass the salt? No salt here, but the sight of his innards, slowly trickling their way between the rocks, does sour the taste. He gladly realised that all pain is gone, courtesy of the brain getting ready to turn the lights off. What's left is the sharp awareness of the bodily functions, like never before. Leg's gone, can't feel it no more, now another, stomach, well, absent. Nerve impluse lurching hurriedly back and forth, reports nothing. He feels shriveled, like a fruit left to dry in the Sun. Tries to think of them, while the thoughts are thinkable. Black murk covers the eyes, and the sight of gore. Good, he thinks, it was damn nasty. He ponders about the guts. While the brain allows. It always goes last. Next time without. Guts, please. Thump.

>From the tint of the light, to the way their hands shook as they broke the phone in half then through it on the ground and told you never to call them again.

how can they see them breaking the phone if they are in front of them
also threw not through

Ah, I didn't explain that right. Meant to have it in the perspective that they are standing in front and facing the person in the door. I also went back and edited the typos and cut the last sentence out cause one of my friends pointed out that it took them out of it a bit.

Thank you user. Do you want me to look at anything for you?

Haha no. I don't think you would know how to critique.

Why's that?

There are times, and this is one of them, when even being critiquing feels wrong. What do you say about a post that has everything that might rain out of a poisonous genius's mind—sex & death & nerve & heat & ligatures of insight? If reading might be fatal and if a wet summer night can turn into a threesome—crystal blue eyes in a puddle next to her hot tub, black bathing suit a poison memory right in my frontal lobe, in front of your eyes, there is not much left to say except eat shit and die, you talented pen hack—thank you for providing for the ugly ink fish!!!

*BBBBBBRRRRRRRAAAAAAAPPPPPPPFFFFFFFFLLLLLLLLLPPPPPPPPPFFFFFF*

Oh yes...very good!....very sloppy and wet my dear....hmmmmm...is that a drop of nugget I see on the rim?...hmmmm.....let me.....let me just have a little taste before the sniff my darling.......hmmmmm....hmm..yes....that is a delicate bit of chocolate my dear....ah yes....let me guess...curry for dinner?....oh quite right I am....aren't I?....ok....time for sniff.....*sssssnnnnnnniiiiiiiiffffffff*.....hmmm...hhhmmmmm I see...yes....yes indeed as well curry......hmmm....that fragrance is quite noticeable....yes.....onion and garlic chutney I take it my dear?.....hmmmmm....yes quite.....

*BBBBBBRRRRRRRRPPPPPPFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTTTTTTT*

Oh I was not expecting that…that little gust my dear….you caught me off guard…yes…so gentle it was though…hmmmm…let me taste this little one…just one small sniff…..*sniff*…ah….*ssssssnnnnnniiiiiffffffffffff*…and yet…so strong…yes…the odor….*sniff sniff*…hmmm….is that….*sniff*….hmmm….I can almost taste it my dear…..yes….just…*sniff*….a little whiff more if you please…..*ssssssnnnnnniiiiiffffffffff*…ah yes I have it now….yes quite….hhhhmmmm…delectable my dear…..quite exquisite yes…..I dare say…*sniff*….the most pungent one yet my dear….*ssssnnnnniiiifffffffffffffffffffffff*….yes….

*BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP*

My darling…why…that was…*ssssnnniiiiffff*…the biggest one yet my dear….*sniff*..if you are….*sssnnnniiiifffff*…yes….if you are not….*sniff sniff*….completely out of exquisite gas…*sniiiiffffff*….my dear……then you….*ssssnnnnnnnnnnniiiiiiiiiiifffffffffffffffffff*….dare I say….have the intestinal capacity….*ssssnnnniiiifffff*…of an elephant!....yes…..*sniff sniff sniiiiiffffff*….and the pungent, yet extraordinary stench of one too…yes…*sssssnnnnnnniiiiiiffffffffff*

The house still comes across exactly like when you're really sick, high fever, stayed in bed sweating, watching daytime TV. And as we ALL know, TV—let's say Wheel of Fortune—starring Pat Sajak, you're reaching down to spin that wheel, small-town you—or w/e yr from 'the city' or w/e—it's THAT show and wounded you is playing, filling in the blanks w/yr best guests, guesses, all out of that skull of yrs that has full maps of Ocarina of time inside, well we know the rules for description and here you are w/yr severed words piled together in a heap of boring blah blah blah, not thank you, try harder.

WOW

What kind of critique was this? This is embarrassing. I can't think of a single review worse than this.

And just like that, darkness, so final and absolute. Emptyness, a void, and suddenly you’re thinking about survival, about where to get fresh water, about hunting and fishing. You remember every knot you ever learned to tie, you remember how to make fires, you remember that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. But you remember you live near a city, near places that still have power, and that your city friend, nice guy, might let you borrow his generator. And you don’t need to think about hunting or fishing anymore.

And you wonder what would happen if power were cut to the whole city, the whole world even, and we had no generators and no gas. Maybe everyone, maybe even the people in the cities, would think about survival too. Maybe they would rush around in the darkness, trying to find candles and matches, grinning ear to ear. And now you realise that the power being out is the most fun you’ve had all week, that without a computer you can feel, feel the whole world breathing, in the emptyness of your dark home.

Time ceases to exist in the darkness, and it could be seconds, minutes, years before you realise that you are just sitting doing nothing in particular and everything at once. Time no longer shackles you to deadlines and meetings. You realise that simply existing no longer takes a conscious effort, that you can just sit and rest and just be. And you want power to be cut to the whole world so that they too can sit in the emptyness and listen to themselves thinking.

You realise you’ve wanted this, a loss of hope, a loss of all things normal, you’ve wanted this for years. You’ve wanted this long before the power went out, wanted it in the back of your mind as you photocopied resumes and typed up word documents. The only thing that matters is this moment, this very instance, the way the candle flickers and the wax drips down. And you are free.

Then the power comes back on, and it’s over.

One afternoon, about halfway up a jagged, limestone spiked hill, I encountered an old man walking a dog.

They were going the opposite way and so I stood off the path to let them pass. However, the dog, preceding its owner, just stopped a few feet short of me and proceeded to stare.

It wasn't an extraordinary looking creature, just a dusty brown something or other with floppy ears and a wet, black nose.

"I think she likes you," said the old man cheerily as he caught up with his pet, "usually she blows on past most people. Doesn't pay them any mind."

I nodded vaguely, keeping a careful eye on the dog. It didn't look like it wanted to attack me, but there was something about that steady gaze, its unblinking yellow eyes, that felt wrong.

Wasn't staring supposed to be a sign of aggression in dogs? I couldn't quite remember.

"Oh." I said.

"You can pet her if you'd like," the old man continued, "she doesn't bite."

"Not usually," agreed the dog, "and not unless you want me to."

I made a formless, vowel less rattling noise in my throat but stayed right where I was. My limbs didn't seem to want to move.

"Do you want me to bite you?" The dog asked, and managed something bizarrely reminiscent of a smile. It's teeth were small and perfectly white.

"No thank you." I croaked, and force myself to turn and stump, stiff legged and panicky, back down the hill.

When I looked back up after a few paces neither the old man or his dog were anywhere in sight.

My midnight ass fuck at the local church came to an end. The mothers flocked outside to discuss politics. Then they argued over whether pink or red lipstick was in. The dads started the cars. Me, the teen son of Jennifer Lopez, I dash around in my white robes to the back of the church where my friend Damien hands me a cigarette. 'I can’t believe you got Father off during the service, now I look like a prude. Father will kill me if I can't pull that off next weekend'. I pull a lighter from my jacket and hold it to a curtain. 'Don’t worry man, there’s not going to be a Father next weekend...' 'This coming from the one of us that isn't a virgin?'

pretty edgy desu, going for a palaniuk vibe with this one.

One afternoon, about halfway up a jagged, limestone spiked hill, I encountered an old man with a dong.

They were going the opposite way and so I stood off the path to let them pass. The dong, preceding its owner, just stopped a few feet short of me and proceeded to swell.

It wasn't an extraordinary looking dong, just dusty brown with floppy skin and a wet, black head.

'I think he likes you,' said the old man as he caught up with his dong, 'usually he blows on past most people. Doesn't pay them any mind.'

I nodded, keeping a careful eye on the dong. It didn't look like it wanted to attack me... But there was something about that steady gaze, its unblinking yellow eye.

Wasn't staring supposed to be a sign of aggression in dongs? I couldn't quite remember.

'Oh.' I said.

'You can pet him if you'd like,' the old man continued, 'he doesn't bite.'

'Not usually,' agreed the dong, 'unless you want me to.'

I made a formless, vowelled noise in my throat but stayed right where I was. My limbs didn't seem to want to move.

'Do you want me to bite you?' The dong asked, and managed something reminiscent of a smile. Its teeth were small and razorous.

'No thank you.' I croaked, and force myself to turn and stump, stiff legged and panicky, back down the hill.

When I looked back up after a few paces neither the old man or his dong were anywhere in sight.

Sent out a terrible vibe.

Yeah I agree, way too edgy user. You're trying too hard.

4/10

Generously

Here's an excerpt from my Halloween book, let me know how it reads:

Megan was struggling but her limbs were stretched across opposite directions. Bound she lay inside of a candle wax pentagram. Her fearful eyes could see she was still in the den but it looked nothing like from before she fell asleep. All of the furniture, photos, and decorations were gone. The room was dark, only illuminated by red candles sporadically placed all throughout. She could see four figures in front of her holding candles and one behind her gagging her mouth.

"Let us begin"

The voice sounded familiar to Megan. The five figures approached the pentagram and each stood at a different corner of the symbol. Megan could see them clearly now, they were her friends. They stood erect and in the nude, their hair was no longer braided and the make up was washed away.

its vs it's
there vs their
missing punctuation
Horrible adjectives

It's not a copy and paste job so some stuff may be missing, but I still don't see any grammatical errors, could you point them out please?

I just did, dummy. Nail down English before bothering us for critiques.

No I'm saying I don't see any it's vs its or there vs their mistakes in there and if you could point out where they are

He's just an idiot. The one time you uses "their" is correct and you don't even use "its" or "it's."

That being said, you are missing punctuation on the quote and there are a couple of places you should use a comma. "Bound, she lay inside" is one of them. Also, he's write about the adjectives.

Come around darling,
we’ll stay for a day.
I’ll try to be charming,
if not, I’ll like you anyway.

I’ll try to avoid a trite cliche,
such as going to a cafe.
Instead I want you for myself,
but stay away from by bookshelf.

I take it the antagonist is John Podesta?

She smelt like a corpse, because she was one. Her name was Leonarda di Caprisun, and no: showers didn't help. The gangsters hit her with the crowbar, denting her skull, but she didn't even flinch. Her autonomous reflexes were broken, actually. She kicked the crowbar out of their hands and spat a horrible mixture of liquids, eliciting melting and shrieks of terror. She death rattled aggressively, and the thugs began to flee.

"Fuck it," grunted Leonarda. "I just wanted to do my damn shopping."

CORPSE JAM -- ONE

"That'll be nine dollars," whispered creepy DethSuplyz proprietor Chuck McJones. He had round glasses with dark orange lenses and teeth that looked like they were made of gold, but were in fact just rotten. His skin was tanned and gnarled like the bark of an unpopular tree.

After paying, Leonarda spun around her new Cytotech Neo-Egyptian Brain Acquirer, that looked exactly like a shotgun but could painlessly remove the brain from a targeted cranium without damaging it. Since hers was in a near-constant process of decay, she needed new infusions of brain matter just to stay alive.

"Saw you fighting again. Very ladylike," he tittered. "Got a job for you."

"What is it," snapped Leonarda, her flat eyes unable to convey irritation well.

"Same guys as before. Rotwood Consortium. Want you to wipe out some zunchers."

Zunchers were people who hunted zombies. This was a popular occupation now a solid 15% of the population had turned. Popular fear was unquenchable. Leonarda tried to sniff but couldn't because she was a corpse. "How much they paying?"

"Said they'll cover your rent and introduce you to a Mr Sleaze."

"Oh."

"Don't know who *that* is. Methinks 'twould be a liability."

"Can it, McJones. Gimme the dirt."

"Sign here and find yourself in the Lost Lagoon apartment complex parking lot, B2F, at nine sharp tonight."

"Right."

>cont.?

Thanks, yeah I agree about the adjectives, it was a rush job I had to finish before Halloween so some stuff is questionable but I could always go back and fix it, same for the punctuation. Thanks again!

Look at this monkey. Did you even read his post? Such lame advice. Sad!

This wasn't me, but thanks for the advice!

fanfiction.net/s/12268815/1/Sky-of-Towers
I wrote up a small blurb about the first part of a D&D campaign that happened. I may or may not show it to the other party members if I get really autistic and write it all out.

I won't argue against the quality from the supposedly 'worked on' succession of words, barely and lamely considered and shitposted, for a reason which willll be speculated presently: if we consider such an sad progression, as one entire endless series of inherited and unexpected symbols and can have no cause from within, of its existence or use, because in it are supposed to be included all things that are or ever were spoken or written in your immediate experience: and its' plain it can have no reason within itself, of its existence, because no one being in this infinite succession of life is supposed to be self-existent or necessary (which is the only ground or reason of existence of any thing, that can be imagined within the thing itself, as with presently more fully appear), but every one dependent on the foregoing, and where no part is necessary, it's obvious the whole cannot be necessary, absolute necessity of existence, not being an outward, relative, and accidental determination, we have you with an inward and unessential property of the nature of the thing which so exists as your garbage, and no, don't continue, fuckface.

And you, you're messing around with the wrong people.

9/10

Una parte de la novela que empece.

I laffed.

Spanish is my native language so any corrections greatly appreciated, especially in grammar! Thank you!

docs.google.com/document/d/1mWb_R6AgItqa6a9sFVw9CS5UuL1s0nk_CJE18NbNxQ8/edit?usp=sharing

this wasnt me

“I don't understand why you insisted on carrying the telescope,” Ava remarked as she propped open the door to the roof.

“Because,” Will grunted, stumbling up the last few stairs, “the power of testosterone compels me. Mark my words, I am going to get this extending tube of shit up to the roof or get a hernia trying.”

“It's not a 'tube of poop', it's a 1928 Razdow 161-1. It has the lowest spherical aberration of any commercial telescope produced in New Netherland in the past decade, and can make out an O-class white dwarf from half way across the milky way. It also weighs as much as a folding chair. Please don't fall down the stairs with it, I don't want to have to replace either of you.”

“Don't tell me what to do.”

Ava huffed and began setting up the tripod and counterbalance. The autumn breeze was at it's peak high above the streets and alleys of New Amsterdam, and even with her hair cut to neck-length Ava had to stop several times to spit out her own black locks. Will pulled his wool coat tighter, and then thinking better took it off and tried to figure out a way to drape it over her shoulders while her arms were in motion.

“I don't have to be psychic to know where this is going.” She smiled.

“Oh, good,” Will grumbled. “Can we skip the formalities then and get right to the part where you say no? I'm starting to look like a plucked Muscovy with folliculitis”

“Nope! We have to see if this new filter works first.”

“Will it?”

“Nope!”

“Then why did you work so hard to make it?”

“Because I can tell I'm supposed to.”

You say "dog" too much. I think people will know what you're talking about if you refer to it with more implicit nouns. Also, try specifying a breed. It just sounds a bit awkward.

That said, you got a good chuckle out of me. good work on that.

Honestly, this wouldn't be so bad if you didn't open with describing darkness. It sends up warning flags the moment you start reading

Huh, maybe I'll rework it so that it doesn't start with darkness. Perhaps that will make it less edgy

To clatter down a craggy side street towing
a razor, lateral incision along the heart of suburbia
cardiac-arrested in closing claws,
is to inject into a solemn soul liquid proof
of misanthropy. The people you will meet
beneath the sun,
bone-masked, molten, oozed,
re-ossified into a grimace veined choleric-amber,
hold a nihilist's indifference to human life.
Hunched, wheezing, disdainful,
with a pungent glisten on slippery skin:
if you roast it on a pyre, it will ash and recede
and slither away into the pores
it sprung from. Nothing will remain,
neither bone nor grain,
when the earth is running down
the cosmic fist. Who will have been
the wiser then?

¿Estás seguro de que eres español? No se parece que hay expresiones que son traducidas del inglés. Te escribo lo que tienes que cambiar si o si:
> "Pese a que estoy perfectamente consciente de eso" debe ser Pese a que soy perfectamente consciente de eso, sin ninguna discusión.
> "otras personas que han sufrido de lo mismo", suele utilizarse para enfermedades, yo pondría que han sufrido lo mismo o que han pasado un sufrimiento similar.
> Y de nuevo "no estaría al consciente de ello" debería ser no sería consciente de ello.

Aparte te diría que es un tema que mucha gente ha pasado y sinceramente todo el mundo puede escribir lo mismo, te lo digo porque yo mismo escribí algo similar. Más que para un libro es para un diario personal creo yo. De todas formas tendría también que revisar como utilizas la puntuación, hay alguna parte que quedaría más fluida si la utilizaras de otra manera y escribieras frases más cortas, incluso aportaría más dramatismo.

He de decir que aunque te "corrija" me pareces valiente por escribir aquí y esperar que la gente te critique, y por otro lado te digo que todo pasaos alguna vez por lo que describes y todos lo sentimos, quizá por eso algunos te han criticado, pero es bonito a su manera. Un saludo!

>literotica
Good shit, spent all last night reading a good one. Took a while to find but oh well.

>Not bad
Thanks. I don't write too often so I wasn't sure if I could make anything passable.

...

Just cram as many abbreviations and made-up event names as your can, pham. Doing god's work

Thanks booboo. Just FYI tho most of the jargon isn't made up.

It is sad too see that most shit posted is truly utter shit. Not that I write any better, but it seems with writing you either have that spark, that innate talent for prose and/or story or you have shit and no matter how much you read or follow courses your writing will always be stale and shit

But user I post my stuff here and I've been published multiple times. Not in rinky-dink college mags either.

Gonna keep postin this until I get a response (no matter how hasty)

pastebin.com/raw/FEtHJJPc

>Bound she lay

m8 what the actual fuck lmao

extremely awkward Korny rhyme scheme. No lie it feels like riding on the back of an autistic kid who takes alternatively huge steps and very small steps and you have no way to be sure what's next

>She smelt like a corpse, because she was one.

epin. Ok j/k. But this seems like an edgy opening lol. This isn't my kind of story so I'm not gonna say whether its good or bad. Good luck on gettin the judgment of others though.

I can't read this. Is this English??

Ok to be honest, this seems at once smart and dumb. The things the characters say seem kinda Korny to me, but I appreciate "Muscovy with folliculitis" (though perhaps you meant Muscovite?)

youtube.com/watch?v=55DHrOeqwcA

jk jk. but this seems a little TOO dark to me man

>with innocent orbs
no

little piece of advice ... put it all in a pastebin instead of doing a four part post

>flattened great sheets of grass in a directionless cadence.

bro wtf does this mean?

Also sorry but this is g*y. It's a gay story man. Sorry

The yolk metahpor is nasty and RAINBOWS SCREAMIN THROUGH THE VOID IS GAY MAN... PERSONALLY TO ME.. it strikes me as hella gay. I'm sorry

>We ride into the mouth of the beast, into the heart of the country, where the moon and her friends come to bleed.

this sounds like something that'd get posted in an edgiest sentences thread

>With innocent orbs

>clanking his chassis

>Ice forms in my blood.

all these things just strike me as bad. like you're over-extending yourself

dude nobody talks like that ...

dont be so gross man. nobody wants to read about big fuckin scabs and rust. gag me man. ok maybe that's just me. but that is just a gross metaphor imo

>re-ossified into a grimace veined choleric-amber
not great imagery, in fact, it's rather unclear. I quite like the tone of the poem though.

Corny. Wolves don't whistle... you're maybe mixing up "wolf-whistle." Also horses shrink to ants? WTF MAN!!! That's not evocative at all.

Stop playin so much dishonored and browsing r/art and get some TASTE!

Ok I'm bein too harsh. But just randomly typin an epic scene aint gonna cut it man. Stories are stories they need people in them. The places are secondary.

stop bein so edgy man. just personally I find this completely unpleasant and unneccessary.

It would be good if it wasn't so fuckin gross. Wow some hardcore gore... I don't even know this guy so I can't feel sorry just disgusted. And it's easy to gross people out.

batman sayin what he normally doesn't/10

yes thats right, I'm ratin critiques now. noone is save, except perhaps me, until such time as a critique rater rater comes upon the fold... ;)