Opening paragraph to your last story

"This wasn't the first time Alyssa had been left high and dry by a guy. First Alex (nose ring), then Marko (wheelchair), and now Tyrone (DUI). She locked herself in her bathroom and thought about everything. "Suicide?! No. this cannot be. But maybe if I choose to get back at Tyrone..." Alyssa evilly chuckled and set down her glass of wine.

Only one enemy and so on.

CRASHcakes, golden retriever, etc.

The weather beaten trail wound ahead into the dust racked climes of the baren land which dominates large portions of the Norgolian empire. Age worn hoof prints smothered by the sifting sands of time shone dully against the dust splattered crust of earth.

This marks the beginning of my diary Tbh.

Hey, I'm a YA fantasy publishing agent and I like the cut of your jib. Any way I can get in touch?

i swear to god i found this guy on tinder

kek

Is this person's face photoshopped?

The Simolean Imperial guard brandished their glaifs, their hardon blades gleaming beneath three of the five Increduleon suns - it was the last hour before all the suns would set and end the twenty-ninth Boblonian cycle.

Sarah’s foot crushes the brake pedal and tyres scream against tarmac as the car lurches to a halt. Her body is rigid, fingers clamped around the wheel. Blood creeps through the web of cracks on the windshield. Sarah watches it slide over the glass for a moment, then lifts her gaze to the rear-view mirror. The girl isn’t moving.

no

It is told that there was once a mighty river which ran south into the sea, and at the mouth thereof was a great and rich city, which had been builded and had waxed and thriven because of the great and most excellent haven which the river aforesaid made where it fell into the sea. And now it was like looking at a huge wood of barked and smoothened fir-trees when one saw the masts of the ships that lay in the said haven. But up in this river ran the flood of tide a long way, so that the biggest of dromonds and round-ships might fare up it, and oft they lay amid pleasant up-country places, with their yards all but touching the windows of the husbandman's stead, and their bowsprits thrusting forth amongst the middens, and the routing swine, and querulous hens. And the uneasy lads and lasses sitting at high-mass of the Sunday in the grey church would see the tall masts amidst the painted saints of the aisle windows, and their minds would wander from the mass-hackled priest and the words and the gestures of him, and see visions of far countries and outlandish folk, and some would be heart-smitten with that desire of wandering and looking on new things which so oft the sea-beat board and the wind-strained pine bear with them to the dwellings of the stay-at-homes: and to some it seemed as if, when they went from out the church, they should fall in with St. Thomas of India stepping over the gangway, and come to visit their uplandish Christmas and the Yule-feast of the field-abiders of midwinter frost. And moreover, when the tide failed, and there was no longer a flood to bear the sea-going keels up-stream (and that was hard on an hundred of miles from the sea), yet was this great river a noble and wide-spreading water, and the downlong stream thereof not so heavy nor so fierce but that the barges and lesser keels might well spread their sails when the south-west blew, and fare on without beating; or if the wind were fouler for them, they that were loth to reach from shore to shore might be tracked up by the draught of horses and bullocks, and bear the wares of the merchants to many a cheaping.

He saw the sculpture as it was. Wooden, awkward with polished curves. The striations in the grain served as irrigation lines drawing eyes across the sloping land of the piece. Henry Moore saw the goddess couched in luxury and carved into the universe this one warped vision. Plaster, as whet as its vision, formed the breasts(?) of this dionysian form. The way the sun glances off of it overwhelms. O form! O form! How can I pass through the veil and touch you! Soft touch of sloping, and breathing hard, hard breaths. Like that of a runner each step puffing out that locomotive chug. Breath, breath,breathbreathbreabrebrebreeethe until the dash is over. He stood panting at the thought.

There I was resting below that bridge whose umbrage was only ever seen by the fishes and earthly inhabitants alike, listening to the cars up above hazily hurrying for their parking spaces, watching those old waves dance with their dresses of kaleidoscopic luminescence gifted to them by their tall cement companions who too donned the very same illustrative illuminations, only they sat still like suitors standing silently before the satisfaction of their soon-to-be spouses’ stipulation. Such a shame then of the smoking ships sailing shamelessly slow over the aquatic dancers, its black hue tearing apart the ballet. It was there that I chose to avert my eyes from the reminder of civilization's horrendous indifference to nature and instead ponder on the next course of action. She was still holding on to that sandy color that beamed beautifully under any source of light. I had forgotten how accustomed I became to it. But in that perfect spot of shade and light it shone more marvelously than in any other moment accompanied by my presence. For every inch I moved, the glistening beam across her grainy yet silky skin smoothly slid in unison. I must have spent hours entertaining myself with such a simple dynamic that by the time I regained my contemplative composure the dark apparitions of postponed slumber began to take form. Pressed forward in my ponderings by the impermanence of that tranquil moment with the fishes and the ballet and the dire urgency for a solution to this dilemma I again considered my next course of action.

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 to be an apex predator

McCarthy already beat you to this punch. Try something else I guess

Pretty good, great rhythmic prose

Here’s my current predicament. The dishwasher's broken, we’re out of soap, and the manager's out of town. The towers of dishes stacked in the sink basin –they look quite formidable, and the only option’s to rinse them off with water and do a quick once-over with a dishtowel.
I sigh. With arms crossed I lean on the counter, as I usually do, and stare out the window. It crosses my mind that this stance isn’t a natural one. The cavemen never found themselves standing like this. I think for a moment about how this practice must’ve affected my posture over the years. But what does it matter?

On any given weeknight, Nick Langston could find himself spending hours browsing social media. There was something beguiling about this new cohort of internet posters who birthed an endless stream of flippant quotes and image memes, and Nick could not have been gladder to live in a time when these products—for instance, a frog riding a unicycle named simply “dat boii”—commanded more respect from his friends and acquaintances than most world leaders, celebrities and public intellectuals. The fringe mentality of archetypal internet nerd, loving everything, holding everything in contempt, had permeated the vast center.

This is really shit friendo and you don't even know how to use em dashes so stop trying.

Holy....I want more.....

Thanks bb

I must admit that I, Richard Goodman, endeavoured to conduct myself like the name suggests. I lived in a time when troubles were plentiful and wages were scarce. My wife, Nancy and I had a young boy of four months, and another on the way. Times were tough, to say the least. My life, you could say, was one big gamble. With this in mind, was it so wrong that I, with the cards stacked against me from day one, decided to try my own luck? To roll the dice? Not a soul would blame me. I was only looking out for my family. Yet, as I write to you, I find myself pondering whether I ever truly believed that notion.

first sentence is cringe, the rest is ok though

There exists a piece of singular understanding or knowledge that has come to me gradually over the past few weeks. It seems to always come to me in gradual pieces during long periods of sleep. Each morning I woke up, heated and flustered and with a feeling of unsated tiredness and with the accumulation of sounds, images, and realisations from which I cannot provide a viable source nor make much picture of.

his eyes and nose are fucking MASSIVE

All of these are AWFUL. You should be ashamed to think yourself worthy of even browsing /r/books

I feel this board is getting tired...

sounds phony, like you weren't paying attention while you wrote it

I remember the first time that the mystery-talker came to our clan. I was still a child then, and had not even seen my first summer. It was the season of the midnight sun. The strange creature came out of the west, from where the Long Fingers held sway. Even the little ones among you know about how we drove those sons of dogs off the good grazing lands for stealing Red Hoof’s women. Well, at first, our speardomos mistook the mystery-talker for one of the Fingers come to take some of our womenfolk, as was their right. But it had been some time since they had done so. The famine had taken many of our women, and we could not afford to lose any more. So when the mystery-talker came tattooed with the Long Fingers’ mark and wearing a dyed fox fur as was their custom we hurled spears at it and warned it we would eat it if it came any closer.


It's a neolithic science fantasy short

The pale green waters of Lake Ontario sparkled beneath an early morning sun and horse-drawn milk wagons creaked through tree-lined streets as the city of Toronto wakened to another day. Times had never been better, and in the maternity ward of a down-town hospital, a teenaged mother cheerfully nursed her day-old son.

Three times Randolph Carter dreamed of the marvellous city, and three times was he snatched away while he pause on the high terrace above it. All golden and lovely it blazed in the sunset,with walls,temples,colonnades,and arched bridges of veined marble,silver-basined fountains of prismatic spray in broad squares and perfumed gardens,and wide streets marching between delicate trees and blossom-laden urns and ivory statues in gleaming rows; while on steep northward slopes climbed tiers of red roofs and old peaked gables harbouring little lanes of grassy cobble. It was a fever of the gods; a fanfare of supernal trumpets and a clash of immortal cymbals. Mystery hung about it as clouds about a fabulous unvisited mountain; and as Carter stood breathless and expectant on that balustraded parapet there swept up to him the poignancy and suspense of almost-vanished memory,the pain of lost things, and the maddening need to place again what once had an awesome and momentous place.
-The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath

that's the most punchable face ever

Light snow fell on my nose and melted and he wondered if there was every any way for Mr Smith, himself, to leave his life behind and travel for away. But I realized that his place was here in the church and that John, I, couldn't leave until God, Mr Smith, had told him so. Such was life for me, him, John, Mr Smith and God.

Read "high and dry by a guy" and tell me you want to be taken seriously. Too may rhyming syllables.

Why are there speech marks around what seems to be internal monologue? Is she talking out loud to herself in the bathroom?

"[E]villy chuckled" is terrible and I don't get why she would have wine in the bathroom.

I have no clue what the fuck is going on, and sure, I may be stupid, but if you haven't made it clear as a writer then you haven't done your job. Needs work.

Not enough to give any meaningful feedback.

If this is a joke then I don't get it. If it isn't then I don't get it.

Too many adjectives. Every single thing you mention gets some modifying descriptor. It drags the pace down and makes each of your sentences unweildy. You also slip into telling us about the Norgolian Empire instead of showing us. Just say it's a barren land. We'll thus associate barrenness with Norgolia.

The overuse of description makes it sound formal and boring, like an old man I hate has cornered me at the supermarket and is now telling me about his time in the Korean War when all I want to do is buy some milk and go home. Needs work.

If you were writing a diary would you put desu in it? Would you say that to yourself? Maybe you would, or more importantly, maybe this character would. This isn't a problem but I think you'll need to establish the character's voice quickly if you don't want that to seem weird.

I'm pretty sure you're mocking the guy you replied to, but "hardon blades" made me laugh.

This is mine. Roast me.

The first sentence is awful. It rambles and is unfocused. Also "builded" and "thriven" don't sound real. They may well be, but they sound like illiterate garbage.

I'll be honest, when I see a first paragraph that's massive, I assume it's going to be bad. This is not good. Personally, I don't get anything out of an overtly formal, archaic voice, but whatever, that's style. What I will say is that you start on the river and splice it with the city, then go on about ships, then the river, then the people in a church, then the ships again. Essentially, the whole paragraph suffers the same problem as the first sentence. It's unfocused and rambling. You're trying to introduce us to this river so stay on target. Let the next piece of information follow logically. The river, that is trafficked by ships, that sail through a city, that is peopled by church-goers.

Generally, break this apart more. Shorter sentences would make a world of difference to clarity here. Chop it like onions. It might make you cry, but your stew will be better for it.

The biggest problem here is that you're talking about a sculpture I can't picture. A "goddess couched in luxury" makes me think of a naked woman lying down. So why all of the landscape language ("irrigation", "sloping land")? You're getting wrapped up in what you know. The reader needs to be on the same page as you in order for this to work.

Also, the "breath, breath, breath..." thing doesn't work. I can see what you're going for but it's cartoonish next to the grandeur of everything else. "[T]hat locomotive chug" is enough to get across the idea.

The first sentence (which is far, far too long) made me picture V in an alley twilrling his knives and chatting shit to Natalie Portman. This is so self-indulgent that I feel as though I should put some tissues on the desk beside you and leave as quietly as I can.

Sweet Jesus, this is like an archetype of what I dislike the most when Veeky Forums shares original writing. So many people think good writing needs to sound grand and important to have any kind of depth or meaning. If I were in a bookshop, picked up a book, and read this I would not only put the book down immediately, I would take note of the author's name and never even consider another thing written by them.

Some guy is standing under a bridge. He doesn't like how urbanisation is ruining nature's beauty. There is a woman nearby who he is connected to in some way. That's what's happening here. That's all this is. Some guy is stanidng under a bridge and being an edgelord. That's it. Instead of communicating that and giving me a reason to give a shit you're just pissing me off.

If this is your style, if this is what you like writing, then whatever man, spread your wings. It's not for me. Personally, I would legit scrap it and start again.

This is decent for the most part. My only criticism would be do we really need all of this right now at the very beginning? Most of this could be spread out as a first scene so that we get the same information but also learn a bit about the character other than his judgemental self-righteousness, like his circumstances, hints at why he's in therapy, how old he is and how he moves.

There's a strong character here (or seems to be) so pull back a little and let him act.

"I sigh" should be a capital offence.

You seem to have a line break there. Could it be that this is two paragraphs? I ask only because the rest of your punctuation gives me reasonable doubt. "[P]redicament" should be followed with a colon, it'll work better. That aborted em-dash is a personal insult to my favourite punctuation mark (yes, I am that sad).

I also don't care. You've got a lot of dishes to do. So what? Why the hell would I ever care about that? This is a bad opening. It would not make me want to read on more.

First, kill the whole "dat boii" aside. Kill it now. Then kill yourself.

After that, take a step back and have a talk with yourself. Is this the result of you feeling really clever after a twenty minute conversation on Discord about how people care more about memes than news? Because you're not clever. The idea isn't without merit, but don't for one second think this is an original thought, which is the vibe I'm getting from this. Is the story itself about how social media has affected people? Because the idea works better as a theme to a story. It doesn't work at all as an author-insert wank to congratulate yourself on your 'so deep thinkur, i go to Veeky Forums and bitch about philosophy' ideas.

Third, seriously, kill the "dat boii" reference. The world has moved on. It's time to let go.

First sentence is you trying to make a pun and it doesn't work. Kill it.

"I had a young boy of four months". Well he's not going to be an old boy of four months. Save me the time, kill "young".

My biggest gripe here is how many parentheticals you have in almost every sentence. Our boy Dick can't seem to start a sentence without beginning at the end or the middle, or telling us something else after the first word. He doesn't sound like a down-on-his luck guy pushed to a limit, he sounds like a left-wing sociology prefessor from the 70s in a turtle neck nursing his rosé and worrying that he won't be able to have the new conservatory installed in time for yuletide.

This knowledge comes "gradually" in "gradual pieces". No shit. Tighten this up.

"[A]nd with" is used twice in one sentence. Seriously, get the wrench out and tighten this shit up.

I'm gonna guess this is a first draft. Work on your sentences. They are not well put together at present.

"[I]t" four times in the last half of the last sentence. Sounds cringey.

"Even the little ones among you know" suggests this is an old guy telling a crowd a story. Might be worthwhile to start there, establish the framing of this story off the bat.

I'd be wary of overloading the reader with too many of your fantasy elements. This is your first paragraph and we have "mystery-talker", "season of the midnight sun", "Long Fingers", "Red Hoof", "speardomos", and a general idea of some historical conflict and established traditions. It's a lot to take in for one paragraph.

Similar problem to the guy above with too much description. "[P]ale green", "early morning", "horse-drawn", "tree-lined", all in one sentence. What am I focusing on? When you describe something it's because you want me to pay attention to it. When you describe everything I don't know what to pay attention to and the sentence becomes unclear.

What your first sentence is trying to do is convey the idea that Toronto is a wonderful place. As it is I'm being asked to pay attention to the water of the lake, the sun, the milk wagons, the street, and then the city. Why start on the lake? Why bring up the milk wagons? Stay on target.

I legit tuned out while I was reading this. Your second sentence gives an exhaustive description of this wonderous city, but you're not giving me time to focus and form the image in my mind. It's all one sentence moving from one item to the next like you've got to catch the next bus or you'll miss The Chase.

Slow. Down.

You see what I did there? How I made you read that slowly? Punctuation, motherfucker. Sentence variation, motherfucker. Writing, motherfucker. This city is important to the character so it's important to us. Let us linger on it so we can grasp it in our minds as clearly as you want us to.

The speed it moves at right now doesn't give me time to form a complete image so my head is empty space and it gets filled by whatever, which is why I tuned out.

Randy feels a sense of awe when he sees this place. I don't so I don't give a fuck what Randy feels. The difference between me and him is that he can see this city. I can't. Slow down and let me see what he sees so that I might feel what he feels.

Call me stupid but I have no clue what's happening here. I feel like this confusion of characters is your intent and I hate it. I hate it because I don't know what the fuck is going on.

John and Mr Smith. Right? And Mr Smith won't let John leave the church. Yes? Why not just say that, then? I don't give a shit about word games. I give a shit about characters. I don't know who the fuck is here or what they're doing.

I waited for the Raxhaul Express to Varanassi in mango sunshine, shaking with fever. I was looking for death here and I had decided death would be in the oldest city and I had decided right. But I didn’t know that yet, what I knew then was I was ill; that E was still dead; and my train was still late. I knew these things and I knew them like they had dug weights into my spine that was a scaled pound for pound rig of flesh, guilt and late trains and I tried to sweat out these thoughts as a cow crept into the glittering tracks and looked at them hungry. There was a bindi pierced to its forehead. The police stood opposite, shaded, glaring not moving. Then a girl tucked at my sleeve and showed me her jasmine eyes that gleamed brilliant, because in the mango sunshine they were the cleanest bits of flesh she had. I walked with her to a stand and bought five packets of crisps and tried to open one so as not to be rude, but felt my stomach and gave her that too and I watched the girl run happy to a bodi tree and hand them to a long man who slapped her. So I felt helpless and sun was glaring at me from the white tar. The cow was gone. My train was still late. It was late right up until it arrived, in a crawl of peeled green galvanising and letters which were pictures to me.

holy shit kill yourself

It was the last time she asked me to drain my testicles onto her salad, right before I snapped and yelled at her to just break down and pay for salad dressing.

He told Me to randomly Capitalize letters of words throughout my Novel so that I came across as Intelligent and Witty on the Pages Of Literature.

Pynchon, however, was a hack, so I refuse.

It's not bad, but it's long and slightly redudant in some language. For instance, "Sarah's foot curshes the brake pedal and tyres scream against tarmac as the car lurches to a halt" could easily bee, "Sarah slams the breaks, tyres screaming as they grind to a halt." and that's still not particularly gripping. I know you should start off a story with a conflict or a goal, but what you're doing it is way too sudden. It's the equivalent of a shock scare for people we don't even know. What you should do is build up a scene more before jumping right into a dramatic moment, and do it with a slightly more economic focus avoid sentences that add words without adding meaning. Anyway, I'd be happy to see what you'd write with this scene if you pulled it back, just my advice.

This is me, by the by: And I'm particuarly unhappy with the weights metaphor, unless I want it to be delirious.

tfw see everything wrong as soon as you post

James while John had had had had had had had had had had had a better impact.

Randolph live in the walled-off house at the top of the hill, and boasted to anyone who would listen that he had once – by choice -spent three and a half years consuming only skittles, bitter shandy, and anti-anxiety medication. He inspired a heady combination of horror, abject confusion and endearment in in all those who encountered him, and was a regular guest at local parties he hadn't been invited to.

>Transphobic

Why should I care what made up thing you want to call yourself because you're too trendy to just be gay or effeminate?

It was a cold Thursday afternoon when Frank arrived home after an all night cocaine binge at the strip joint. Standing outside the front door of his rundown appartment, he jammed his stubby fingers into his trouser pocket, and took out his front door key. He clumsily worked the key into the lock and opened the door. The usual foul stench of urine and cat food greeted Frank as he entered. But there was another oder in the air - fouler still - and the distinctive sound of a bed creeking. Half blind without his glasses, Frank could only make out a blurry figure thirsting backwards and forwards. "Charlie," he said. "Is that you bangin' some broad?" There was no reply. The creaking got louder and louder, and Frank could make out muffled screams. He quickly took his glasses out of his inside jacket pocket and put them on. To Frank's shock, he could see that the thrusting figure was indeed his flatmate Charlie, pounding what seemed to the anus of a giant bird. Frank turned away in disgust. "Jesus Christ, Charlie!" He cried. "What the hell are you doing?" At that moment Charlie thrusted hard and deep into the bird, and with an almighty, high pitched roar, emptied his seed into the animal's behind. Charlie turned around to face Frank, giving him a full view of his still etrct manhood and of the creature he had desecrated moments earlier. Frank then looked down at the panting turkey-like beast on the bed, which was wearing a ball gag and ties round it's wrists and ankles, and realised that it was Dee. Charlie put his hand on Frank's shoulder and pointed towards the video camera in the corner of the room, behind which sat Dennis Mac - both donning peak caps. "Frank, my friend," said Charlie, "the gang is making a porno!"

I can’t remember precisely when it happened. It may have been a moment ago. A lifetime? I was soaring, and there was a great heat. An expanse of cobalt. That I recall. Was it sea or sky? They seem indistinguishable now, yet the difference was so clear before.

It was both a happy and a tragic thing, Morgan thought, that this was the first time in so long that everyone was together. Given the years of war and turmoil, the very survival of the family was nothing short of a miracle. And to be gathered then for the purpose of celebration was still more radical a notion. Between the clink of glasses and the eruptions of laughter at opposite ends of the garden, a strange mirage coalesce. It was as though the party has been swept up by an ancient memory. All eyes were a'glow with the dreamlike quality of long-forgotten happiness. Scarcely could Morgan remember another time like this. (Never would there be another time like this.) And for once, she found herself contented.

Thank God this is your last story.

It's ok actually

Lose those semi-colons, they slow the pace down. That sentence reads better if it's a little quicker.

"I was looking for death here and I had decided death would be in the oldest city and I had decided right." This is clunky and could be reorganised to make it smoother. "I had decided death would be in the oldest city and so I was looking for it here. And I had decided right." Food for thought.

My main note here is to break this into more than one paragraph. Use your opening to set the scene and tone, have the whole thing with the girl as a second paragraph so we get a clear sense of one thing at a time. Set the scene, then flesh it out with the girl.

We'll do it together, user, Jim Jones style.

Almost perfect. Lose "break down and".

Lose "letters of" and "on the Pages Of Literature".

Bit of an odd opening but I can't find much to fault. If I were reading this whole story I would be hoping for some context to follow soon after this.

Thanks man. Good call on the shock scare. The reader can't feel what the character feels because we've jumped in too late. Good notes.

You use "had" too may times. It's repetitive. Needs work.

You fucked up the second em-dash there but whatever, that's cleanup. I have no notes for this beyond that. It's p.good.

I think you should redo this in a teleplay format. Look forward to seeing it in season thirteen.

Saying that you "can't remember precisely when" this thing happend is one idea. Saying "They seem indistinguishable now" brings in the idea that you can't remember what happened, which is a different idea.

Does this character remember what happened or not? If they don't then I wouldn't lead with not remembering when it happened. "[P]recisely" implies they have a general memory of when, and this is not as important as what.

The last sentence suggests the memory is fading and that alone gives us the idea that they don't remember exactly what this memory is or when it took place. Have a bit of a reshuffle and see if you can form these ideas into a clear line of thought.

I have no notes for this. It's p.good. Anything I said would purely be personal style changes and it's not my story so fuck that noise.

I was shitposting, all the characters are the same character. John IS Mr Smith IS I IS God. Pretty deep huh.

10/10

It had rained the night previous, all day the ground had been thick, viscous, clinging, and the sky had not brightened from it's early morning drab, shifting stripes of grey melding and splitting to give a fleeting patch of white, though no sun, no blue or yellow, no happy shades.
“Heaven!” Marcel pointed and shouted, his tools slung by his side, the first light he'd seen painting the dirt on his face and his bloodshot eyes.
“Any day now!” a sarcastic reply, from an unknown voice.
In the mines, one of twelve or so spread across the countryside, there had not been a reported death for five years.

Swinging a gentle arm across the canvas, the brush ripples at the edges of the stilled water, a trail of natural weakness expressing itself in the trembling motions of a young boy. Should've used a darker palette for the sea really, looks like the sky is invading through the horizon. Maybe just a few touches of foam to patch it up? A little white, a little blended grey in the shade of the arches... And there, a great surging way out at the fringe of the bay. Not exactly what I had in mind, but I suppose storms are rarely intentional. This one at least is a safe distance away– so why am I hearing so much thunder?

This is the part where I would describe the beautiful sunset, but after he pulled my shirt over my head to stare at my breasts, and then proceeded to strike me in the ribs repeatedly with those brass knuckles of his, I wasn't in any condition to paint a scene for you all. The world around me was shirt colored, bloody, and fucking painful.

I...want to know more, for some reason.

A really disgustingly captivating hook.

Blone’s City had filled the river valley. Eighty-five million people in post-industrial sprawl. Skyscrapers and smokestacks stretched up in blocks carved by curving multilane highways. The City spread up, down and across the planet’s only continent, as a copied urban conglomeration. Tall palms in rows along roads silhouetted in yellow pallor morning haze, opaque air hung still above, as the whole foul contraption hurtled through space. The river was on fire. The mayor was at large. Children were wearing red. The Stream flickered and panicked. Protective postured soldiers careened around corners. Criminals were quiet. Fast movers boomed above. Cruisers gleamed from orbit. Parliament fortified. The Internal Security building had blown up. The Palace was dark. Rumours of rebel brigades, two days away, moving through mountains. The executive press conference had not yet been rescheduled.

Edgy. You could redeem it with the rest of the story but the sex violence combo with the YA feeling is slimy. The "shirt coloured" gag doesn't really work because it's YA in tone, and you've just had someone be bloodied with brass knuckles. The self aware narrator (IE "I wasn't in any condition to paint a scene for you all") is also done to death. Sensational trash.

nice digits

damn nigga no wonder you niggas like shit fucking garbage lines nigga

It was the blest of times, it was the blurst of time [...]

Excuse me lads but does any one have tips on how to write a story/opening paragraph? any suggestions would be good.

topic sentence. body sentences. conclusion sentence. connection to next para sentence. final statement summing up purpose of para.

Mix and match how you end it depending on context of para.

Subvert as required.

Anything I can do to make it more edgier then? I like sliminess. I'm not worried about anything being done to death, i'm writing this piece purely for money anyway.

>Tbh
How did you do it?

Only one enemy remained. Two if you count God

Only one enemy remained; two if you counted Trump.

No

First time posting. I think.

I sat down, rubbing my numbed hands together pitifully. I’ve done this multiple times today, the day before, and since the day I was sent here. I’m pretty good at it, I can rub my hands real fast now, making the blood flow in seconds thus regaining warmth far more quickly. True, the inside of the station wasn’t cold, it was at least a toasty sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit (or eighteen degrees Celsius in our preferred unit of measurement), but when you’ve been out in the snow and ice of Antarctica, it tends to be difficult to just warm up right away.

Did I do good? I'm a severely dyslexic writer so it's always hard for me to tell.

That's pretty cute, user. Is the narrator supposed to be gentle and very humble? Because that's how you perceive him based on the paragraph.

Only one enemry remained. Two if you're counting.

Somewhere, a lazy, depressed, drunk, divorced, and unemployed old man laughed. He was most likely clutching a bottle of rum, and lazily looking at the content of his local newspapers. At night, he only slept. Aloud, he wondered why his pet (and his wife, and his daughter, and his son) had abandoned him.

She's just out of college, and her Prof took him to do research in Antarctica. She's in their station, blanket wrapped around her shoulders as she waits for the microwave to chime with his hot soup.

I love how I wrote it, but I think it might be /too/ comfy for a book about being stuck in the Antarctic with a 105 foot tall monster thawed from global warming.

But yeah. She's pretty humble. Even apologizes for every joke she makes with a cute little laugh.

She * is* pretty cute, user. Also, you should reduce the amount of exposition in the first paragraph; let the story unfold, there's no need to rush things.

For most people, pointing guns into others faces isn’t apart of a daily routine. Of course, It’s not a part of mine either. I only do it once every month or two.

Thanks for the legitimate criticism. I never noticed the flaws you pointed out.

Read your first sentence out loud and tell yourself what it's about. The rain, no, the ground, no, the sky, no, the grey, no, the misery. You're asking me to look up, then down, then up, then think about how it makes me feel. I feel dizzy.

Marcel sees light for the first time (your phrasing means this could be literal) but you draw attention to his dirty face instead of the light. The light is what's important here.

You seem to know what's in your head but you aren't effectively putting it into mine. You're trying to be too grand. Separate your sentences more, trust that simple doesn't mean shallow, and focus on the important details.

I'd cut "Swinging a gentle arm across the canvas", "natural", "expressing itself", and "of a young boy." A gentle swing and a tremble are two different things so you shouldn't use both to describe the one action. Telling us it's a young boy feels at odds with the free indirect style of the rest of the paragraph. The other cuts are simply words that don't need to be there. Food for thought.

I'd change the em-dash at the end to a full stop. Terminal punctuation will give the last line more weight.

I have no major notes. I can see the other user's point about sliminess and "done to death" but, personally, I like this kind of thing. I would read on.

P.good. I like the short sentences, gives us only glimpses of this city that would be too big to possibly take in as anything more.

The only thing I can think to say off the top of my head is maybe give us a little more about the overall size of the city, another 'overhead shot' sort of thing to awe us. Sixty-five million people live in the UK, which is a federal union of four nations. This single city has 1.3x the population. It must be fucking enourmous. Awe me with it a little more before delving into it at street level.

In media res, I like it. Would read on.

Anything by C.M.Burns & his One Thousand Monkeys is an instant read for me.

It's fine, if edgy. Following paragraph would need to be strong to carry this off.

Utter garbage. Semi-colons are for queers and Samual Johnson, and I don't see you writing a dictionary.

Mostly fine. I'd lose "thus regaining warmth far more quickly." Diverts attention from how good he is at rubbing his hands, and you mention why he's good at it later on when talking about the heat.

Keep it up.

Sensational work. I think we're getting there, lads. Perfection is within our grasp.

You're trying to paint this old lad as a mess so we know why his family abandoned him but you're too blunt about it. Instead of telling us in such an overt fashion have him behave the way you see him behaving. Even just a short 'scene' of him buying the booze and newspaper and stumbling home, people avoiding him, him being rude, etc.

What you're getting at is in there but it's jumbled right now. This doesn't flow quite right for me. I think "For most people" is forcing you into a syntax that isn't punchy enough for such a start. Have a mess about with it and see if you can construct that first sentence differently and how that leads you into the next one.

No worries man. The only way is up.

>Telling us it's a young boy feels at odds with the free indirect style of the rest of the paragraph

thanks for the crit, useful stuff. as for the above its partially because in the next paragraph the distant 'thunder' turns out to be the father's footsteps on the stairs and his violent door slamming. The first line is supposed to be his own observations of the boy from the doorway. I'm trying to blur the narration between the two characters so that its never entirely clear who has the dominant perspective

An endless stream of black ties and blue shirts. Belts - some a darker brown, some grey and shiny; opaque glamoury suites, matched pants; smiles and concerned faces. Some happy. Some drunk with fatigue. The yellow teeth of an older one, his expressionless, relaxed features; shoelaces and shoes, many with that wide, short heel that feels uncomfortable after five or six hours. The inaudible sound of rolexes and patek philippes’ clicking aligned, not a millisecond apart. Combed hair - all brown and black. The sweat of one bringing a short bang over his eyes. Heat. Combed body hair, up to the last invisible line perpendicular to the cutis. Five out of the twelve unofficially approved government's haircuts. Not that individual freedom would have created a greater variety. Polished nail, short fingers; the clicking of feets against the blacktop floor. Eyes focussed, all black. A pair not quite staring with both pupils at the same object. Loud and orderly at once. The miracle of eastern-asian discipline. Men. All came down from Orchard road and stopped at the traffic lights before Grange road.

i think the cliche you're looking for is 'sHifting sands of time'

At first she thought he had her in a passionate hug. Nice change, she thought. Then she tried to roll over and his arms were rigid. His legs too. Fully awake, she realized that his skin was cold. He had died in his sleep hours ago and she was trapped in his rigorous embrace.

I've got a lot of reasons for killing my wife. Granted, they aren't great reasons. I know this, my lawyer knows this, the judge knows this and the jury knows this. If the look on Dick's face is any indication, a life sentence is the best I'm going to get.

Quentin woke up this morning with a hangover, and a revelation. It would all end, this nightmare, this pain, he would finish it today. But first, he had to find that dame with the red hair, the one with the twinkle in her eye, only she could help him find the Dark Hat Man and settle things once and for all.

"how do fax machines work? I mean, you put the paper in at your house, and it comes out miles away from another fax machine. Its like magic" the teacher spouted bewilderingly. The girl in the front row turned back to see if anyone else found this outburst as offbeat as she did. She locked eyes with a boy who had a comically frightened look in his eye. If this wasn't the start of a relationship, it would at least be the start of an interesting french course for the high school sophomores.


[first thing ive ever written, please be nice in your criticism.]

if trolling i kek, if serious i kek

He lay in his hospital bed counting the moments between the beeps on the life support machine...the pulse slowly weakening as a man in a cucumber costume chased a woman across the stage of some talk show left on the television in front of his sterile tiled room. The nurse with the malignant breasts came in she pulled out his catheter for the last time and smiled vainly. She had done this many times before to the other old men and his shriveled dick always awoke like a Pavlovian dogs spittle when she opened the door. "It's time Mr.Daniels". He looked one last time at the overcast Cincinnati skyline outside his window and saw nothing but a sad lonely clerk in a brick building across the hospital. There was no one around him except the supple nurse but his time had come the pain would be over soon as would his antiquated existence . Eyes focused back on the nurse as she heads for his life support machine...he tries to utter his final thoughts as she pulls the plug, "I l-love...."
The beeping stops. Time of death 6:04 pm. The nurse flicks off the television and goes to the next room. Unaware. Uncaring.

Was that an ending paragraph or beginning? Confused about some of the prose but pretty bleak in a good way I suppose. Don't really know where you would go from there thought

Whoops...drunkenly misread the thread...wrote the ending paragraph instead. Thanks for the feedback tho

Nobody cares that you exist, unless you are beautiful. However, there's a certain kind of beautiful you have to be to merit more than a "she's so beautiful" comment. Thanks to my clear white skin, my crisp eye liner, my beckoning hips, perky breasts and perfectly shaped eyes, I am not just a girl. I am a goddess, and my saints are introverted men, bitter girls and hormonal boys. I can have anything I want, because simply being seen will make people want to do what they can to help me succeed. I have it amazingly easy. I like to pretend I don't but I really do. So, what possible conflict could I have that I can't just solve by ensnaring another poor soul into trying to appease my will? I've made an enemy. Not just some jealous or covetous person, something worse. Oh, so much more worse. Something that loves my face, adores it, and has made its mission in life to have my face for itself.