Critique thread

ahh, okay. Thanks user, I appreciate the help.

Even when she slept she thrived. Her hair, flame and curl, strewn about and dancing. Breath, singing in whisper, calling me.
Shifting, vibrating, thumping and pounding.
She hovered above the sheets, the fragility of her presence teasing me. I was terrified, and for that reason, I knew I loved her.

I really liked it, OP. Nice imagery, but yeah it was a bit hard to read.

This is good.

These are very appreciated words.

I wrote this fanfic weeb stuff to gain experience as I make my way into writting actual erotica.
>fanfiction.net/s/12225657/1/The-School-Idols-are-doing-Yuri-Sex

Anyone who can leave me any review?

wooow i'm a retard with low iq and i don't really have great criticism but usually when i drop by on these threads nothing catches me, but this did and i really enjoyed reading it. its so aggressive and the words used seem so inevitable and deliberate.

Nice effect but strange in a bad way metaphors. You're not good enough yet to experiment with tense and form, but maybe you'll be one day. Reads a lot of mccarthy I bet

Th-thanks

I am an amateur, but thanks. Would you mind clarifying which metaphors were bad and in what way? If you don't mind, that is. I was trying not to go too far out with too-pseud-for-u things like I always do.

If you're going to boss me around, you can, like, totally fuck off?

Are u writing a fukin scat mystery bud?

2bh I really liked it though

One thing I never really liked about therapists was this quasi Jewish aspect of them. It's 1967 and at this point you would think Prof. Shlomo here would be off killing camel jockeys in his quote un quote homeland. They way he approaches each conversation and question comes of as a bolshevist rapist who wants my stocks and social security number. I don't much like his attitude either. He comes off as a snob from what he calls "a better generation". He's got art on his wall he calls Dada. I myself being a postmodernist find his work to be pure shit. Whoever this Dada was has no idea of the influence he subjects others to. Where's the pizzazz? A true beatnik has no need for such simple art forms. All is subjective to me and me alone. I am the all and the all is me. Well not quite all. My creator is more of an all. He's subjected me to this shit. I've had a few attempts at true christianity. Not for a religious aspect but to be counter reactionary to my friends who live in the aspects of Evolan east Asian metaphysics. I don't get the appeal. It has nothing more than bald guys chanting and samurai. At least Christianity has an artistic and physical aspect to it. At no point in time can Christianity not be workable. But with Buddhism you have to have constant selflessness and compassion. I'm not to keen on that I like the idea of a personal deity who i can talk to at random. The idea of collective consciousness or whatever the hell Jung felt is completely bogus. There is nothing beyond my consciousness that concerns me besides what can cause concern to my consciousness. I am an adaptive creature intelligently designed ton be an apex predator.

My therapist refuses to grasp basic ideologies I adhere to. I explain subjectivity to him and he stands shocked. He says "If I say 2x2=5 would I be correct?" I explain that if he perceives the answer to be 5 then yes. He goes on rants about pure uncut truth and how everything can be explained through logic. I never liked the idea of logic. I like the idea of impulse. Through impulse I will fail at my task in fascinating ways or achieve my goals in breathtaking ways. Logic is for the insecure and infantile. I want nothing to do with such emotion and moral based people. I hate the idea of a common good and humanism. They provide nothing more than ammunition for the machine gun that is virtue signaling.

This would probably work better in present tense. Your sentences use a lot of filler that can be replaced by pure descriptions. You say her arousal heightens and then say she races for breath but if you leave out the first half the reader can still tell what's going on and has a clearer image. Smut benefits from less ornate and much tighter sentence structures.

Here's something I've been chipping away at over the last month:
docs.google.com/document/d/1tEVemZgHzcv9x4Eoc9hd7n7CZDVqyDbzCwUQyd24qBM/edit?usp=drivesdk

Strong start on the first sentence. It seems like you have a very clear idea in mind and somewhere to go, which is the hardest part, I think.

>Strewn
>Dancing

>Shifting, vibrating, thumping and pounding
It seems like everywhere you're trying to mix very kinetic imagery with very static imagery. If that's the case I get what you're going for with the whole thriving while sleeping thing. But you haven't connected the images in a way that each detail or metaphor adds to the overall impact of the scene, they just confuse each other.

>I was terrified, and for that reason, I knew I loved her

This line makes the speaker sound inexperienced and confused to me, and I just wanted to share that response in case it wasn't what you wanted.

The speaker definitely evokes a strong response. I'm curious as to how you're going to work with that so that anyone will make it all the way through the piece.

The language all seems very cohesive and seems like it fits and complements the work nicely. I wonder, though, if it needs to do a little more in a handful of places. I'm only a little way in but it seems like you use sort of an in-joke to do a lot of the work of introducing Bradbury's character, which kind of demeans him, the passage, and the work as a whole. The intro doesn't do enough to get me engaged, and the strings of pranks don't seem to really threaten that anything interesting will happen.

By and large the language seems to do what it's supposed to do. I just think the larger structures aren't really pulling very much weight at the beginning.

Sure. Well first off you begin by saying "even when she slept she thrived." This has potential but I'm not sure if you ever come through with the metaphor of "thrive". Like it sounds nice but wtf does it mean? You go no where with it as the rest of the language of the paragraph doesn't "thrive" or swell and neither does it thematically. I know it's probably a short throwaway sample but that's beside the point. Next you say "Her hair, flame and curl, strewn about and dancing." This is really just bad grammar. It's also a cliche comparison. Flaming hair that dances. Need I say more? Say something creative, be more sensuous and inventive, have fun. Next you compare breath to whispering and singing. Now, I have no fucking clue how breath can whisper and sing at the same god damn time. You need to keep track of time within the frame of the sentence. Breath is kind of a gross word when you think about it but that's just must. Anyway breath calling and singing and whispering. One breath doing all of these things? Not only can breath reasonably not be able to accomplish all of this at once, even if it can just listing it off isn't going to convince me. So far you're just throwing actions at me. Then next line is a list which actually isn't bad if you read it quickly. However these are just actions. You're giving me a document of things happening. There is nothing cognitive nor thematic nor human developing. This is a pale representation of human sensuality. Also pounding and thumping and blah blah make me think of sex. If your character is thinking about boning her make it more explicit and develop it more. Lists are tricky and usually should be avoided unless there is a good reason for doing so. Now the woman is hovering above the sheets, which is fine but you don't follow up on what this means. You follow this up with telling me she's fragile and teasing you. So we have gone from thriving and flaming to fragility. This is okay but it's never really clear why. Really I'm never sure what exactly is going on here because you're throwing too much at me without any other dimensional development. I guess he's still watching her sleep and wants to bone her pretty badly? Is this really the best way to represent that? Couldn't you be more clear and show me something personal about these people. You can still do this while keeping them at a distance btw. Really you need to keep track of what you're telling the reader and really think about word choice. Right now it's really lazy and masturbatory and not even in a good way. You're really not saying anything and every metaphor you've used has little to relation to the rest of the piece. However I think you do some things well. The rhythm of the paragraph makes sense and fits whatever feeling you're trying to convey. I also buy the last line, which is fairly impressive given how cheesy such confessions usually are. I hope this helps, you have potential

Also the grammar and tense aren't consistent and you need to control how shifts in time more carefully in general. There doesn't seem to be any adherence to time at all desu

Not the poster but I don't understand this. I see sentences in the perfect; present participles; and one sentence in the past imperfect, where the action is ongoing with the perfective aspect actions of the past (she slept). What, specifically, is the problem?

I've learned a lot from this. I've always had a bad habit of sacrificing story potential with pretty imagery. The last line was rushed, I type one of these every time I see this kind of thread.

I'll begin with an overview of what is happening in the story:
A man is lying next to his sleeping wife/gf/whatever. He's simply appreciating how intense her beauty and being is, even as she sleeps. From her curly red hair (flame) to the beat of her heart (thumping and pounding). He then gets thinks about how lucky he is to be in her presence, and how the thought of her not being there terrifies him.
>Thrive
I tried to carry this throughout with dance, shifting, pounding, etc. Must have failed.
>hair, flame and curl
I just meant flame as in color, but yeah, I should've been more creative
>breath singing in whisper
I was thinking of the hushed lullaby of a mother to her sleeping child
>Shifting
Movement in sheets
>Vibrating
I admit has no meaning, I'll change it to rumble instead, which carries on with these next two
>Thumping and pounding
Her heart beating
>Hovering
He sort of imagines her being abducted because of how lucky he considers himself to have her. Like, 'what if that thing never happened that lead me to her'. It's hard to explain besides, "the fragility of her presence".
>Teasing
It wasn't her, but more the idea of losing her.

Cool, I like what you're trying to do with each line. Very ambitious. I think from a technical perspective, maybe one thing that would help the different images come through more clearly would be to spend a little longer on each one, so that you have a few more words to make clear what you mean - spend a little more time on her heartbeat, and then when you allude to each of your images with one word at a time, they'll not only be a little more clear but hopefully also stronger.

I'd write these out before I came here, but you guys play a massive role in them. To be honest I don't know shit about grammatical structure and tenses, I just like to write. You're all a huge help and I'd like to thank you for that.

I'll rewrite it in a bit and see what you guys think.

Back again (), different work.
Much shorter this time around. I'm trying to get into at least a 100 or so words a day while on break

>doesn't rhyme
>rhyme has to come at the end of a line in couplets
>no rhythm
I guess you can't read.

>thematically weak
What am I talking about, then?

Are these supposed to be poems? They're rather prosaic.

Thanks. How come it was hard to read? I don't find that it is so an explanation would help a lot.

I enjoyed this. Hard to tell if you'd keep it up with longer pieces though. It teeters on the brink of cliche, and seems to put sound over meaning.

No, but thanks for asking.

...this isn't a critique. Why write this out, besides to pull a "I was only oretending to be retarded!"?

Why would I waste my breath on a poem that is prose? I can't critique it as a poem, because it's not, and I can't critique it as prose because it's a poem.

The other one is three sentences long. I suppose I could say more about it, though much of it has already been picked up on.
>strewn about and dancing
This sentence is too listlike. _ and _, _ and _. it's a bit draining. "dancing in chaos" or "her hair, curls and dancing flame strewn about her sleeping face"
>vibrating
no
>thumping and pounding
tautology
>she hovered above the sheets
what are you trying to convey? demonic posession? sheer lifeblood? either way, this jars.
>fragility
This also jars. You have made her seem the opposite of fragile. In fact, she thrives, even in her sleep.
>I was terrified
Why?

I was being lazy before... too concise

I just feel like it's prose in form of poetry. Sort of like if you cut out strips of a book and laid them out pretty. That might not be what it is, I am just an amateur, remember.
One example of something that stopped me was:
>You are their
>antithesis

This is why I don't usually critique, I don't know what the hell I'm talking about.

I've addressed all of those, mostly in

I think I use too much assonance for it to be prosey prose, though, and it doesn't exactly follow a narrative.

I guess I can see how that could stop you, but to me it makes sense. life/death, past/present, failure/potential, rotting/growing. In another sense, you represent a different thesis to them - you live in another society, have different goals, are the embodiment of a different hypothesis of life, have had different experiences altogether.
Or was it the rhythm that stalled you? I figured there was enough assonance to carry you through the shorter lines.

>I've addressed all of those
Well, I'm not sure you need "thrives" in the first place. The dancing, shifting imagery illustrates the point well enough.

You still don't need both thumping and pounding. Decide on one.

The idea about hovering does not come across at all in the text. You have to put in something like "at mercy of abduction", but this is a fear of loss, rather than a fear of what never happened. You'd have to have some reference to the past.

k I decided to be more helpful with this.

The scene is rather jumbled, and it's hard to draw up a clear picture of what's going on.
It's rather ambiguous when you refer to characters - "the friend", "the officer" - I suppose you are referring to Eris and Bones respectively, but the structure of your sentences makes it seem as if you are introducing new characters.

>lithe
She's dying, so this doesn't exactly make sense.

You could do with more description; as it stands, the piece is a list of events.

>uncharacteristically stammered
I think "uncharacteristically" is unnecessary here, and it's too long a word. Also, what did she stammer? It's strange to see a reference to speech with no description of what was said.
>as if one side was preserved while the other was divided
what did he mean by this
>thorough * ly

>venomously pleaded
wut

>no agent of death
but she killed Eris

I was trying to work with anapestic pentameter. I'm not too happy with it; it's unsatisfying for the long hours I spent tuning it.

Black is the ink that, consumed by the night, now pervades and chokes
breath, its membraneous viaducts drug with a morsel of
charcoal, its slithering subtlety lacquered carbonic, and
lightness in ocean submerged. By thumb-streaks of roseblood on the
curtain of amber, which brushes the ocean and roils its discreet
flushes a littoral green, an insurgent cabal is gathered
to drop it, to smear ink-black its furrows against the glistening
skin of night, expelling a tenebrous smog, clogging gasping pipes.

>k I decided to be more helpful with this.
Thanks for the help user. Like I said, I forced it out so I expected it to be shit. I might have done better with giving a bit of background info since some things like
>"the friend", "the officer"
>but she killed Eris
because Eris and Bones are well established characters at this point who the reader knows their relationship. We also know Eris survives but her face is fucked up and she has a serious chip on her shoulder

Also, I thought
>as if one side was preserved while the other was divided
was pretty blatant about one side of her face getting fucked with the other was fine and
>thorough * ly
I was just trying to be cute since having -ly words in close succession sounded like shit. Guess that didn't work out

>Are these supposed to be poems? They're rather prosaic.
Its my "style" though it was originally just poems until some user told me I was shit and to use more prose.
As long as it gets the point of the scene across I think it should be okay

>was pretty blatant about one side of her face getting fucked with the other was fine and
yeah but you said "as if", and the way you put it was pretty unevocative.

>Its my "style" though it was originally just poems until some user told me I was shit and to use more prose.
As long as it gets the point of the scene across I think it should be okay

>It's my "style"
no

I don't think you should pretend it's a poem. Your piece has nothing of the form - it's all narrative, has no rhythm, and uses no alliteration, rhyme, or assonance. The line breaks are not important; you've literally just put them there to make it look like a poem.

Responde mis cartas nacidas en vientre de fuego
Plasmadas estarán imágenes de mi consciencia
Por si el tiempo fuera a perderlas en su polvo si no piensa
Cuando mis cenizas estén tomadas de mano tímida
Con la arena de la playa de pasiones rígidas
Donde mojan las olas de ruego
Disipan la vida que fue y fue mi pañuelo
De piel encantada, piel pasmada
Habré caminado en ésta, cada temporada
Mis pies se hundían en el húmedo suelo
La anchura del horizonte desangraba mis venas
Caminantes en mi compañía estaban las penas
Y pronto lo abandonaré sin saber
Qué me hizo ver
El final del tierno
Por qué las cadenas fueron cuento.

No sabré la respuesta y su llegada
Pero estoy seguro de que será sol.

Whatevs

Poem Regarding Muse

‘Ear Baboon, says I,
I’s got two fish to fry:
Who is you, and why are you grin?

His ‘ol tongue slittered fort’,
‘True his smile, o’course,
An’ he hisst’: absolutely nuttin’.

Now ‘e hang ‘ere all day,
‘e keep lookin’ my way
From ‘is tree that’s as broad as it’s brim.

‘Ear Baboon, says I,
I’s got two fish to fry:
Who is you, and why are you grin?

Reads like prose...maybe work on your word choice ("uncharacteristically," for example, is abrasive).

thanks user, it felt weird putting it in there so I should have followed my gut.

I've spent too long
Venerating icons
and dropping coins
down Coleman's well

I took you there.
It was after raining
and the sky was thin
above our heads.

The moon, a golden egg
hung low enough to touch
but I dared not to
for fear of a curse.

If I were ever to see
the face of our lord
It would have been then
but all I saw was you.
Wrote this just now for this thread.
Any potential?

I know it's kind of shit at the moment.

I'll critique in a moment

Funny how that works lol...I've done workshops and people always pick up on exactly what I'm uncomfortable about...

I've been going back over the story and I'm starting to think it's all shit, not just the beginning.

Eve thought this over for a moment made up her mind. It was a painful question but it needed to be asked. “What happened last night? Why did Luca kill my parents?”

“It's not really complicated. Money, power, jealousy; these things are always pushing us one way or the other. In our business that push is stronger than anywhere else. Give it enough time and high enough stakes, even old friendships can go south pretty fast. All it takes is a little nudge.” He took another drag and continued “I don't know what it was exactly it was that knocked him over the edge, but once he started talking to me about 'the future of our relations' I started to realize he was making early plans for when your grandfather died.”

“I knew your father pretty well. Since I was a kid really. You don't get many people in this business with enough principle in them you'd trust them as well as your own right eye. The guy always seemed so proud of you, I figured I owed it to him to watch out for you in case something like this ever happened. I was hoping I'd be able to hide all of you, but I guess it just didn't work out that way.”

Eve wiped the tears from her eyes. She didn't hadn't noticed she was crying, but it was getting hard to see. She took a breath to compose herself and asked him one last question. “What happens now?”

>The moon, a golden egg
>hung low enough to touch
>but I dared not to
>for fear of a curse.

this is the weak point. it just sounds kind of dumb. The other parts are a decent start but this one section is full of bad comparisons and nonsensical curses

jesus christ the edge is sharp here. There are certain things you shouldn't spend a whole poem musing on and darkness is the big one

>this is the weak point. it just sounds kind of dumb. The other parts are a decent start but this one section is full of bad comparisons and nonsensical curses
Yeah, it's a reference to local folklore around the well. I was trying to slip it in without it sounding too shit but obviously failed.

It would work if you presented it as a myth but since it's not commonly known, making just a passing reference sounds kind of dumb.

I'm . Thanks for the critique. While I'm curious as to why darkness should be off limits to poetic rumination, what I'm more interested in whether or not the poem is lucid and technically sound. What do you think?

"Scat-Cop"

It's incredibly opaque. I have no idea what you're talking about, only that you're a depressed teenager with a thesaurus

Right, thank you. I only take issue with a third of that appellation: I'm not particularly depressed. I simply find darkness fascinating.

>I simply find darkness fascinating.
>I'm curious as to why darkness should be off limits to poetic rumination
>I'm not too happy with it; it's unsatisfying for the long hours I spent tuning it.
Try graduating high school before coming back here. Seriously, I'm not even being mean; you don't realize how embarrassing you sound. In a few years you'll look back at how "cringey" your writing is, as you redditors say

I've been cringing at that poem since the moment I decided I was done with it, but for very different reasons.

Bumping I need confirmation this is shit, that I've wasted my time on it and can toss the whole damn thing in the bin

A mind had escaped a dream. His eyelids were weary to open, and his body had to break it's stiff form it had settled into through the night. Cars went by the back of his house, flashing through his window and casting crystal forms of light, speeding around the corners of the ceiling. It was still dark, the moon was soon to yield to the dawn. As it did, the sun slowly peaked past the mountain tip, and it's orange light blessed all with it's color, even the grey subdivisions, and the trash that lay in the muddy snow. Shadows strewn through the cul-de-sac from all that stood in the wake, pointing towards his destination. Fire of the engine puttered in his icy drive-way. As he heated up his little moving junkbox he dragged one last puff of his smoke and blew it towards his feet. The flowing exhaust flew into heaven, and he got in and took off for work.

pastebin.com/QRZ0A8am

Any crit welcome thanks

>V2
Even when she slept she thrived. Her hair, flame and curl, burning against cool light, raging against the calm. Her breath, singing in whisper, calling me. She was a storm, heartbeat thunder and pulling wind, shifting, rumbling, thumping and pounding.

She hovered above the sheets, the fragility of her presence teasing me. I was terrified, and I loved her.

is this an excerpt ? Because i really love it. Attach it to a photograph and I think you could do something with it

Don't know if you read the rest but I'm grateful for the feedback.

I'd like to know what you think of the entire chapter, the only feedback I ever got was "it felt like reading on LSD"

Pure unaltered loud noise
invading our ears and taking over
our perception
assaults most of our senses
as our eyesight is subjected
to the most intense and vivid
instance of red there ever was

The long garden
takes through a path of rocks
large and naturally decorated
by pink flowers growing
here and there

The wall in there
indoors
is pure red
and there are chunks of flesh
dripping through it's entirety
covered in fresh blood
clots of darker blood
and lighter splashes
of vivid light red

A hole in the skies
screams and the noise
takes our ears over

A fireplace burns
and the figure of a person
tied to an human-sized wooden stake
is burned alive
screaming

There is a shining hole
in the dark night sky
of charged heavy dark clouds
and it is not amused

There is a throat cut open
and blood gushing over the wall
as the head falls back

There is a dog lying on the path of rocks
taking a nap with his head over his crossed paws

There is a masked man observing
the shining hole in the sky
screaming down on us

The first stanza started strong but after it the imagery just left me feeling indifferent

It's a revised ramble, but I'm glad you like. What do you mean by "Attach it to a photograph"?

I meant as a sort of response to an image. Just a short blurb or description to accompany it

Oh okay, thanks.

It's pretty edgy, but I like it. Nice syntax and word choices. Some of the ways you describe things are odd but I still like your style.

***

pastebin.com/cKPz5fGQ
Here's mine.

Also, some of the sentences in here are the character's thoughts. They're supposed to be italicized but Pastebin are a shit, so they didn't format it correctly. Take it with a grain of salt, kind of like Faulkner's dialogue style.

-Third Dimensional Universe #240 Date: 1520/12/615/12005

Welcome to the official steam-group of the IAS for 3d Universe #240, Planet: Earth

You must be a natural dimensional traveller to discover or be invited to this group. We allow and encourage all forms of dimensional travel and do not descriminate those who are less skilled in the art of travelling dimensions (The IAS was created by a mere Second-tier Sucklord.)

------------------
Welcome, we are a small group of about 20 trillion dimensional Sucklords, Hole Divers, and D-Grinders. All of us dedicated to the timeless tradition shared by 78% of all living organisms: Slapping asses.

We travel all of the 7 dimensions to slap unsuspecting asses. It's our hobby, our passion, our way of life. It requires tough work, dedication, and skill. Slapping asses has been a tradition handed down to us by the elders of negative reality, and has been forgotton by many. We even go to the lengths of travelling to the 6th dimension to slap the asses of the ethereals, so you can trust we are dedicated in our craftsmanship.

"The hardest thing in life to do is to slap asses." -Micky Rourke, legendary ass-slapper of the planet Vernauax, 4D Universe: #192

fuckin' rad

Retrying this one once more, I've put a bit more time into it this go round

-----

And then, she saw the opening; a chance to end the twisted dream. Bones shouldered forth, a vertical that would render Eris unable to continue. But she underestimated her opponent’s anger, the blindness that drove Eris’s blade towards her center in a fatal strike. Bones could only throw herself to the right, altering her swing's path. Instead of crushing the girl’s left clavicle as intended, the Bat’s mark jerked Eris’s cranium in a sickening manner. Bones watched in horror as her friend careened into the sand unmoving.

Bones finally inhaled, nearly collapsing from shock. Only her legs, feeling heavy-as-iron yet aching as an elder’s articulations in the winter time kept Bones from staggering forth into the never-ceasing desert.

The Bat fell from her grip, returning the bits of torn flesh and grains of bone to the earth. She barely registered its departure, caring even less of its destination. Though the skirmish’s duration was short, the ensuing battle would be the longest of her life; fought not with her trusted instrument but with her capricious mind.

The crumpled figure before her stirred, attempting to rise in an excruciating effort that left her in sobs. A guttural cry escaped Eris. She spit blood and shuddered before cursing angrily. The knot of self-loathing swelled in Bones’ breast, threatening to suffocate her. Soft, melancholic words were severed before Eris’s glance. A visage contorted in abhorrence, as if the right half was preserved while its counterpart was sundered and forcibly reassembled in a chaotic manner.

Through a crushed and half-hinged jaw, Eris venomously pleaded for release. And through tears Bones reminded her former friend that she was no agent of death. Not even for someone who deserved such mercy.

"The Domestic" -- short character piece.
pastebin.com/9DL0fKTY

My pleb tastes would prefer this be written a little simpler so I could understand it better. I feel there's a lack of context for this, even for a short except of your work. Shouldn't I be able to get a little into the groove of where this is going from reading mid-way into a character's life? So my recommendation would be to try for simplicity and clarity so the context of the situation can be better grasped within a few lines.

I'm terrible for posting and not critiquing later so anyway.

You're trying way too hard and your writing is awkward af.

>A mind had escaped a dream.
Get rid or modify.
>His eyelids were weary to open, and his body had to break it's stiff form it had settled into through the night.
Simplify
>flashing through his window and casting crystal forms of light,
Get rid.
>speeding around the corners of the ceiling.
No.
>the moon was soon to yield to the dawn.
Get rid.
>it's orange light blessed all with it's color, even the grey subdivisions, and the trash that lay in the muddy snow.
Get rid or modify.
>Shadows strewn through the cul-de-sac from all that stood in the wake, pointing towards his destination.
???
>Fire of the engine puttered in his icy drive-way.
Not working.
>The flowing exhaust flew into heaven, and he got in and took off for work.
Awkward. Wooden.

Simplify and shorten the fuck out of everything and don't try to be clever unless you know how to pull it off. Remember, prose is just the icing on the cake when it comes to story telling. It's HOW you tell the story that really matters.
This could do with a faster pace for the type of story it is. Some of the sentences come across as long winded and dull. Reduce comas.

Something about the atmostphere in that corridor in particular felt dark and sinister. Perhaps this was dew to the limited amount of light, or perhaps it was caused by the way the thick rug on the floor smothered the sound of my footsteps as i walked across it. In fact every sound appeared to become swallowed up by it's surroundings and the echo of any noise lasted no more than a couple of seconds before it disappeared for good.I was young and i never felt uneasy about the thought of being alone so i didn't sudder at the morbidity everything around me seemed to hold.
The sound of a grandfather clock that lingered in the air originated from an antique, a wedding gift to my parents years back that now stood against the wall abandoned and forgoten. The one source of illumination in that corridor came from a lightbulb at the very end near my mothers music room that could only be turned on after walking all the way up to it. I advanced slowly and carefully marking my way with my fingers brushing along the wall. In the half light i could distinguish a couple of paintings on both my sides, one of a landsape and another a portrait of a bundle of different veriety of flowers in a vase. Like many of the paintings hanging in the rooms and the hallways, they'd been made by my grandmother who had died some years before i was born. They where beautiful, for their rawness and the simplicity they held, in a way that i couldn't bring myself to care about at that age.
I put my hand where my memory told me the switch for the light should be and an almost instantaneous transformation from grey black to intense bright exploded at my eyes like a sun. Instinctivly i squeezed my eyelids shut, rubbing them and trying to get rid of the peircing stabs the shine had delivered, seeing paterns behind my fingers of colour and grey.
I observed several moments later with a suprise that was reflected into a mirror that lay oposite to myself, someone i still recognized as a familiar stranger. It took the brain matter some seconds to catch up with what my eyes where looking at.
The mirror, at a guess over a couple of metres tall, hung at the very end of the corridor covering the wall from the floor right up until it almost reached the cealing. Contrary to it's grand size the design was a fairly simple one, with a paternless metal frame holding itself around a smooth and polished glass that despite all that held a dull shine to it, although that could have been dew to the cheep light the lamp on the cealing was emiting. I stood watching my reflection, with the red and brown of the moth eaten carpet below my feet, concealing the floor vehind me and acompanying the faded cream color of the paint flacked walls.

These are my critiques.
And this is a scene i've been working on.

Awesome, just awesome. You might dig the book Victory Chimp.

Some of mine:

I had never heard a sound so empty as Oscar’s voice-box rumbling, like a rusty dagger scraping across frozen dirt. I trembled.
“Once visual that was classic got the bubbling… the vessel was a six side I think and full of creatures with armoury, it was a long mass transporter in hyperspace, four of them got the attention and it was empty! Long stay in cool-house worlds that is relative to our organic neighbourhoods.”
Jimmy put a hand on Oscar’s shoulder. Oscar looked up at him, his face streaming water, his mouth pulled downwards into an exhausted expression of fear.
“What happened then?” Jimmy asked.
Oscar twitched and spoke with a new intensity. I struggled to keep up with the words.
“I cannot understand how it is possible," Oscar said, "that… television is us too! I was melted to television, to pipe, to board, to chair. What the others anyway? I shouted I AM NOT THEM! I say, anyone, what are they?” He leaned forward, grazing his lips against Jimmy’s ear. I stepped closer and strained to listen, catching a faint crackling sound and then the tiniest whisper from Oscar's mouth, “We want to communicate now.”
Jimmy pushed Oscar backwards gently. He crossed his arms and stared vibrantly. “Is that so?” He asked loudly. “Because you’re coming through scrambled.”
Oscar yelped quietly and nodded his head. “I can get a cure like that!” He said, “It was a dirty sage anyway. As totally cluster parts in nose and so on. Runny nose and quite a purified feel, also tears but no sad cry.”
He shook his head glumly, staring into the grass with eyes wide open. When he spoke again it was incredibly raspy, and I heard a strange white noise buzzing from his chest, “You promised… more willing… more capable… What they were trying in the television… is that the space is somehow in there… when they come. Some kind of molecule is what should be the affect. And is that my mind is so messy that it is all around me, pressing in. That… religious weird communicative buzzing! But…” He strained and a low-pitched groan pushed out of his throat. I felt a chill run up my spine.
“They are doing their best,” Jimmy said. “Please continue trying, just get him out of the way. I can repair him later.”
“What are the others, anyway?” Oscar spat, “It is not the person that inhales it first!”
He turned and stared through the doorway at the others in the house, who were trying to enjoy the party despite this strange interchange.
“Anyone?" Oscar shouted, "Is that it? Anyone?" He turned to Jimmy. "You promised more accuracy! If communication under influence only, can it be own personality that communicates? I don’t think so.”
“It doesn’t seem like it to me either,” Jimmy said.
Oscar fell to his knees and began to weep again.

Go easy on the definite article

- I like how Tom really sounds like a 14 year old
>Tom’s face seemed to contort in ways she didn’t think a boy’s could.
that doesn't paint a picture of his face in my imagination desu
- Maybe you could describe Melanie more, i don't really get a picture of her personality from this text

my text (short story):

he opens his eyes, looking at the sky. the stars are shining bright but in an unnaturally strong white. the temperature and climate in general don't seem very welcoming. he is a big guy, but there's some kind of exhausting feeling that affects him.. he can't tell where it comes from.
a few metres above him there is barbed wire and torn clothes hanging from it, looking around he sees old computer technology, probably from the early 21st century.
it looks like some very old, abandoned computer-lab. after examining the strongly damaged and definitely defective gadgetry, his glance lands on the distant horizon.
around him, outside of this old room with broken windows that he woke up in, there's only desert. it doesn't remind him of any deserts he saw in his life, it's something surreal.
the ground is covered not in sand, but something that looks like salt. frequently the wind carries clouds of dust around for a few seconds and then vanishes again.
in the far distance he sees lights flickering, it seems like fire but he can't tell exactly from where he is standing. suddenly a group of humanoid aliens appear materialize behind his back and anally rape him.
he dies in the most extreme agony.

This is a big incoherent mess. Straight off why not say

>He looked above. Stars shining a brighter white than he believed natural. While he looks at the heavens he wonders where this exhaustive and ever present discontent spews from. Is it the climate? Maybe. It didn't seem at all welcoming.

I just broke it down and reformatted what you wrote so I could make sense of in line to line, moment to moment.

pastebin.com/ZSuKFriL

Whose mouth are you putting these words in? Whoever they be are a very strange and distant creature: can't put a face on them. Goes back to veneration after guilt - very petty move. Strip it all, start again.

I'm at a loss what the fuck is going on in your pastebin? Is that some kind of poetry?

no i know that, i want it to seem like he's really standing there a long time before anything happens. the purpose is to really feel like youre standing in the lone desert for a long time.

Okay then you're not conveying that.

What would your character really be thinking about standing in the middle of a desert? Is it a familiar place or strange land? Because I know for sure if I found myself standing in the middle of a desert for a long time I would already be well aware there is plenty of sand and silence, and the vastness of nature all around me. But then I would have to filter it through my own life experience; images that seemingly have no relationship would swim back at me. Who did I think I would become, and what kind of person am I now I stand amid the sand? I'd imagine the weight of my life decisions would hit me with such painful clarity it would be impossible not to be overcome with emotion.

I hope this helps.

Range
a whittles lousy
layout whistles
halites lust yow
a hemstitches unholy rot
Technocracy Fumes a Troop
A Occupancy Fresher Motto
drafted whom lorn
Dreamworld of Nth
Reattached a Inept Thorn Nit
A Ed Euhemerises Worsts Yurt
Bed Louring a Polity Yowl
By Rec Roof

what the fuck is this in your pastebin

Fuck yeah, I want what you're having.

Trying to get better at writing more believable and realistic dialogue and have been throwing around some ideas of differing conversations and the like

This is an example between a man, who is disinterested in the conversation because he was forced to come, and a woman who is interested because she holds a certain emotional connection to him and is overly excited to meet him

To me it seems a little cliched and expository, I dunno, I need feedback

pastebin.com/BcCwaeFi

Try to hold off on the purple prose, it detracts from the overall writing and is a bit jarring. "sudder (shudder?) at the morbidity" just seemed to come out of nowhere as an example. And this might just be me, but it sounds a little too literal, a little too expository and detailed in its description, like a school textbook, and you really don't need to go into such detail describing every minute thing and how it got there, unless it's essential to the plot. This is just a nitpick, but "like a sun" should really be "like a star" or "like the sun". And I'm guessing the spelling errors are just because english is not your first language? In all I personally think you take too long to describe the scene in itself, your character is only walking down a corridor and turning on a light, and I know you're setting the seen to be murky and tense, but you don't really need two paragraphs to do that

Thanks for the critique. It's taken out of context but the scene has some weight in the narration later on so i didn't want to hurry it along to much. I was hoping the reader would realize the main character is experiencing an important moment. But maybe this doesn't work? And yes my spelling can be terrible at times and i write on paper mostly so i don't have spellcheck either.

Don't go easy on me
Writing for the 1st time.
SciFi in cyberpunk world

...

...

I'd keep readin this for a WHILE, its very funny and honest, esp. as the main character is an ass. Go on!

stopped after the volkswagen farting. that kinda thing aint my bag, baby

man everythings gotta be so violent and reddit...

this sounds a LOT like a Joanna Newsom lyric lol....

commas are fucked up

what's the point of this little excerpt? it's not a poem...

"There is not a single poet who, as minor as he may be, hasn't sculpted (the verb tends to figure in his conversation) the perfect sonnet, a minuscule monument that safeguards his possible immortality, and which the novelties and effacements of time will be obligated to respect. It is usually a sonnet without curlicues, though the whole thing is a curlicue, that is, a shred of futility."

^thats obviously too savage but the point still stands imo

hehe

>Melanie turned the lights off for class 2B but stopped, the sore muscles in her back tightening for the briefest instant, she’d seen a figure standing in the middle of the classroom before the light went out.

bro this sentence is hella run on. I stopped there out of natural maliciousness desu

>dew to

>he is a big guy

I enjoyed your story more than almost any other in the thread.

intredasting

from what I read it seemed good but I don't know who is who.. I know you said above who is who, but I was still confused. Maybe make this a play dialogue or something... just so I can know who is who. And if you do that, I will read it all, thanks.

your control is above average. but you need to re-read everything slowly. the rhythm is sort of weird and abrupt sometimes. also

>incandescent lambs
kek

Lamb guy here
Thanks for the critique could you elaborate what you meant by control ?

you don't fly off into random flights of fancy much

>what's the point of this little excerpt
Made up on the spot with no goal or set rule. It was for fun.

what the fuck

Eve thought this over for a moment made up her mind. It was a painful question but it needed to be asked. “What happened last night? Why did Luca kill my parents?”

“It's not really complicated. Money, power, jealousy; these things are always pushing us one way or the other. In our business that push is stronger than anywhere else. Give it enough time and high enough stakes, even old friendships can go south pretty fast. All it takes is a little nudge.” He took another drag and continued “I don't know what it was exactly it was that knocked him over the edge, but once he started talking to me about 'the future of our relations' I started to realize he was making early plans for when your grandfather died.”

“I knew your father pretty well. Since I was a kid really. You don't get many people in this business with enough principle in them you'd trust them as well as your own right eye. The guy always seemed so proud of you, I figured I owed it to him to watch out for you in case something like this ever happened. I was hoping I'd be able to hide all of you, but I guess it just didn't work out that way.”

Eve wiped the tears from her eyes. She didn't hadn't noticed she was crying, but it was getting hard to see. She took a breath to compose herself and asked him one last question. “What happens now?”

you start too many sentences with "I" it sounds forced

Noted.

Now it comes and now it goes,
There seems to be no more worthy a foe,
For a minute it sings, the next it springs,
Pouncing on the helpless scores.

Yet it lives within us all,
Biding its time to destroy our lot,
Its greatest strength - the thoughts it makes us see,
The human mind, how worse could it be.

1/5
W więzieniu na Skamilnej, nadeszła comiesięczna pora na przysyłanie więźniom prezentów. Strażnicy mieli za zadanie sprawdzać, czy w niewinnie wyglądających ciastach, lun książkach, znajdują się przedmioty mogące umożliwić ucieczke nierzadko groźnym przestępcom. Jedna z paczek była zaadresowana wyłącznie na placówke, nie posiadała zaś żadnej wskazówki co do określonego więźnia, do którego miała zostać dostarczona. W środku znajdował się (jak łatwo można było się domyślić) tort. Strażnik był już zbyt doświadczony, by łatwo się dać zbić z tropu – więc gdy po pierwszym przekrojeniu nie znalazł w środku niczego podejrzanego, postanowił przyjrzeć się bliżej temu małemu dziełu sztuki cukiernictwa – w kolorze jasnego fioletu , z fantazyjnie poprowadzonymi, kremowymi ścieżkami na wierzchu. Odnalazł tam wreszcie wiadomość zapisaną na małej żółtej kartce. Od razu rzuciło mu się w oczy, że wiadomość nie była napisana grypsem. W pośpiechu przekazał wiadomość naczelnikowi więzienia, który po przeczytaniu, będąc w równie nerwowym nastroju, wydał odpowiednie, zgodne z tekstem zalecenia. Mineło kilka dni. Do celi zamieszkiwanej przez dwóch przestępców o podłych twarzach, i nieprzyjemnych fizjonomiach, przybył z polecenia naczelnika nowy więzień. O jego zbrodni zdawali się być poinformowani jedynie jego nowi znajomi z celi. Ta zbrodnia musiała być o podłożu seksualnym, można było to wywnioskować po losie nieszczęśnika, losie przesądzonym od pierwszego dnia, od pierwszej godziny jego pobytu.
Architekt zajmujący się wyglądem ogólnym tego miejsca, musiał żywić najgłębszą awersje do zimnych murów typowych placówek tego typu, ponieważ zdecydował że więzienie według jego planu, zostanie wybudowane z drewna. Jeśli jego celem było ukrycie za murami legendy głodu, przemocy i zła; jakby chciał udekorować pułapke na myszy najwykwitnięjszym serem, by skusić ofiarę na smakołyk, którego ceną jest życie, to na pewno mu się udało. Z zewnątrz bardzo łatwo można było uznać przeznaczenie budynku za pewien hotel, bądź po prostu lokal do wynajęcia. Dach i okna były w stylu orientalnym, drewno sprawiało przytulne wrażenie, zachęcające do wizyty. Budynek znajdował się na wzgórzu, osadzony był mocno na palach, oferował interesujący widok na domy, ulice i latarnie na dole. To pewnie ten zwodniczy wygląd spowodował że jedna z cel, ta do której trafił pedofil, notabene o stosunkowo dużym rozmiarze (około dziesięć na dziesięć metrów) została wybrana jako miejsce na nasz półmetek.