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The pie was tasteless to Karel. It crushed against the teeth but failed to make any impact whatsoever on the tongue receptors. It felt like cement and plaster, so dry, so crunchy on the tips of those same teeth, so painful to chew on. Karel made an effort to swallow the thing down, putting that dire battle with the devilish dish to an end.

"What a terrible thing to eat!" he thought. And then added with a light touch of sadness. "Can't compare with those apple ones aunt Maria used to give us right after taking them off the oven back when we were featherless boys..."

Ah, Galicia... Isn't that a beautiful name? Charming, warm, dear to Karel's ear... Unlike Strudel or Kuchen, all the Bundesrat and Zeitung -- the petty things Germans cared about most. At this point, however, the young Polish businessman, bearing the name of Karel Polevsky, was all but left alone by the Kaiserreich citizens; in fact, Germans surrounded him, sitting at the tables scattered all over the dining car. Karel stared outside the window into the dark colours of the forest and the light ones of the white snow. The brand new train of the Warszawa-Berlin railway line continued steadily on its path towards the heart of German Empire.

Thanks, that's pretty much what I was aiming for. 'philomites' isn't actually a real word. My intention was to have something that sounded like a reference to an ancient Greek tale of a cursed tribe; akin to Philistines, sodomites, etc.

Also how is my grammar, I don't really know how semicolons work

Holy... I want more...

semicolons separate independent clauses; in place of most of yours, you might want em-dashes, colons, or, better yet, commas

I commented above about OP's opening sentence, and how I thought it was longish. user, your opening line 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 all the constant crashes?" 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.

this is why adjusting your style to pander to a comittee is not a good idea, particularly when there is no bar for entry

I woke up in the strangest of places. I found myself lying in an empty room with a computer that's surprisingly turned on. A webcam window pops up and I see a strange face. It's the worst of all horrors, even the ones that Lovecraft himself wrote about. It's Hillary Clinton fingering herself and begging for votes. "What the fuck?" I asked myself. Luckily enough, there it was, a cure to my troubles. Behind the monitor there was a rope. I quickly set it up and hang myself.

It was hardly what he had imagined. He had seen it in dreams, had thought about it. But now that he was there, it seemed completely different. The wind blew through his clothes and whipped his hair about, and sent the grass rolling around in sheets about the hilltop. He noticed where he was. The field. Rolling hills with no end in sight, bright green grass as far as the eye could see. And in front of him, there it still was. A structure about five stories tall, made sparsely of smooth, cured logs joisted simply together, and fluttering silky fabrics draped between the joists. Soft pastel blue, yellow, pink, fluttering ever so delicately in the wind.

So this, he thought with uncertainty, was love? Before he could complete the thought he found himself leaning towards it, and beginning a step.

>666

>tfw schizophrenic and think maybe your writing is cool and first reply asks if schizophrenic
shit

This might be my favorite. Having the character check to see the scene was still there subconsciously made me less prone to checking myself so I could read faster and it almost just scans like a fluid impressionist painting that way. The inclusion of the structure threw me off my intuitive sense of the color and shape, though. It's interesting. You could really play around with a synthesiac by doing that, but I guess you already know huh.

I'm really brain damaged

Condemned, damning, piercing yellow light; lipuid spectre coddling my interval surveys of the morning's very room in a jaundiced gleaming heat 4:50, 6:20 and a languid 7:00AM my half cooked half raw ataxic eyes frittering to the less-than-neurology of a dry-socket surgery and a codone-or-the-other probed gray matter meshwork soggy with serotonin irrigated from the left side of my head like a blood dump all-in-all lovely conflated tissue octopus gause stuffed down throat. A bit-rendered Vivaldi's Four Seasons ringtone shaking the its residencies' equally misappropriated triplex now Vazquez's Blessed Mess/Southridge transitional youth home/stranger-than-previously-mentioned coalitionary runaways' hangout and the vibrations, the concentric.net dial-up alternative TV and the unrequited tuplas of drug addicts eternally rock forever 21 Stereolab moshing and to their imperturbable palm upward whodoneit hands cleaning the fun tried then and tore me with of this perception pleaded through the murmurs fake snoring and a random dream of a glacier field unrelated. The ignorability of the motions of the older-to-even-older Vazquez family' ritual morning “”rush”” accidentally priming a loving spotlight for the vinegar that occasionally dripped onto the element like an acetic dove wafting utterly divisible, molar sensual attainment. This was one thing. Intersecting Molina as she dragged her mother at dead-muscle-weight up the glossy linoleum stairs I felt like a ghost only just passing through an unfashionable exhibit. A block of meat fried still charring from last night's spritzer, a cockatoo harrowing secrets perched, and still I, still inebriated from meaty-slathered dreams, faced down into pan unsuspected I guess because of the language barrier's co-extension hey. Nothing quite (you know) quenching miscellaneous trauma like meat.

yeah i read infinite jest too bro

i havent

Thanks. It's a throwaway scene I just wrote based on the book I'm trying to write. I have no idea what I'm doing. People have accused me of being too flowery in the past, so I've been trying to find a happy medium.
(more critique pls)

post maor

You asked for it.

A variation of what you just read (I have dozens):

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.

1/2
Cut to Glazier, he's running, chasing after the spectre woman. He saw her keep her composure in the midst of a screamer raid. This made Harold angrier than he would have liked to admit. His boots hit the ground with a ragged slapping sound, and all he could hear was their scraping against the loose gravel road underneath them, his breathing heavy and in loose synchronization with his steps. The chase was leading out of the main urban area of Zone 1 and into the wooded area that surrounded the city. In the distance was a pale human figure, jogging slowly and barely visible through the dense muting fog which now tightly enveloped the road an the trees on either side of it, their inistinct branches forming an incomplete canopy around Glazier and the road. The figure would occasionally look back, often tripping slightly as he did so before stabilizing herself and continuing onward into the soft blankness ahead. Glazier, exhausted, pressed onward, sometimes wiping the dripping condensation from his brow using the hand that clutched his radio. At some point in his pursuit, Glazier almost realized that the road was becoming less and less solid, the mist becoming thicker and more enveloping. The trees had taken on a more lively energy, which gave Glazier just a moment of pause. Just then, something grabbed Glazier and his attention snapped back to the pursuit.As the figure ahead of him looked back once again, it tripped and seemed to fall into nowhere with a muffled yell, straight down into the road. Glazier kept running and found himself standing over the increasingly poofy cloud that had been accumulating under his feet. Looking around him and finding only mist now, the road having all but disappeared, the trees still glimmering but becoming more and more nebulous, distant, and looking down into where the girl had fallen he had only a very vague impression of his prey looking up at him hesitantly before yelling something blurry and indistinct, something that sounded like an instruction. With a crackling squelch, he pressed the call button on his radio and brought it to his mouth, still breathing heavily.

2/2

"Dispatch, I've got a situation here." His voice cracked as he felt himself sink down into the road and away from everything. He scanned his environment with as much focus as he could manage as a voice from dispatch came back through the tinny speaker with a slightly lower-pitched squelch than had been produced before.
"Roger that, where are you Glazier? Do you require reinforcement?" Glazier continued to scan his environment and almost couldn't find his own mouth. Typically and quite reliably sharp, his afferent nervous system now was drawn sloppily in dull childrens' crayon. He struggled to subvocalize as he realized what had just happened.
"Yes Pete, send them..." His prey's eyes still sat in the aimless mist, which had begun to sparkle and shimmer into vague citylike shapes all around him and forms materialized from them; skyscrapers, ancient pubs and slow little buses ambling along the blurry roads like giant cloud beetles. The trees beside him became apparent enough now to show him what was not branches or leaves, but...

Clusters of angels draped lazily over the branches, which were now entirely invisible from how tightly the divine sloths were packed together on it, relaxing and playing at Glazier's eyes with bored amusement. He made eye contact with one, and then another, his intention uneasy, before looking back down at where his prey should have been. The angels made teasing gestures towards him.

"I've got her in sight," into the radio. Another squelch as he could hear key codes being dialed in on the other side.

And with that, Glazier disappeared down through the clouds and into the world around him, his prey still fixed in his mind as the angels continued to lock eyes with him as he fell into the soft white metropolis below.