Critique thread bitches

rip paco... u will be missed

He dials his first wife, listens to the regular sounds and when another woman’s voice answers he remembers she is away and he hangs up. What if he were to tell the strange woman the news? Just a moment now; hold still. He smiles as if he is his own oldest friend behaving familiarly. He is bewildered, but he knows it. Some other being is here with him and it comes to him that it is not the angel of death because he doesn't believe in angels. He has to wait here in the apartment, he can’t go out yet; but if he doesn't, he is finished. But outside he is going to be embarrassed by the plain weight of what he now is. He will be thinking about every step he takes. Learning to walk again! That’s pretty good. He weeps. Destination unknown.

He dials his second wife and sees that a child of his might answer and today he hangs up. He feels good. He doesn't need to do anything. He has to do everything. He doesn't need to do everything. He doesn't have time to do nothing. Has he ever done nothing? The buzzer is going to go in a minute, and there is someone or something else not unfriendly but interesting here in the apartment. His girlfriend is going to phone, and he is looking forward to that. He has arranged for her not to know, but though he doesn't think she knows, he has always loved her for knowing things even before she knows she does, and so today when she asks him how he is, she may not mean merely his whole beautiful and beloved being and self. She will tell him what time to meet her.

If you ring in, I'd like to read more about the lighthouse keeper with the girl monster.

You are beautiful. The very definition of it. Your long hair, your perfectly toned face. Could it really be that you are perfect? I had a dream of us holding hands miles from here, breaking free of this world, loving truly, the span of a moment, pure love unleashed. And As we stare into the bright light of the moon and time passes without remorse, I know that this dream has come true. We slowly go to sleep as each of us holds hands. I wake first the next morning, noticing your head on my left shoulder and how your smooth, long hair flows like a river over my arm. You sleep so fair, so quiet. With every breath you take I notice more and more that yes, you are the one. I caress the locks of your hair ever so gently. Smooth like silk. You suddenly awake, and smile to see that I am the first thing you see. We talk about things that don’t matter, but I really could care less. You are the best I will ever have and I think, no, I KNOW that I am the luckiest man in the world. Oh Takara, a maiden so fair. Your imperfections are perfect. Your voice is melodic, like that of an angel. Your beautiful eyes ever so entrancing, your skin as smooth as that of a newborn’s. We are trapped on this island, but neither of us could really care. We are happy, and that is all that really matters. As I stare out into the ocean waves, I imagine our future. Bright, like the sun. We are the perfect couple, and both of us know it. We love each-other unconditionally, and our love is everlasting like the very universe we inhabit. We are never sad, always happy. We never argue, only love. You wish to bear children, but I cannot bring myself to think of polluting something that is so innocent. This does not stop me however, of thinking of how those beautiful beings would be. Three boys, all with the eyes of their mother and the nose of their father. They would be mischievous but we would love them all equally and unconditionally. I would teach them how to fish, and hunt, you would teach them how to love. We would name them; John, Isaac, and Thomas, and they would all grow to be strong and intelligent. As you and I grew older Takara, our love would never wane. It would be as strong if not stronger than the day we both met. With every kiss, every embrace, our love would grow one hundred times stronger than before, and it would further strengthen our already unbreakable bond. I sometimes ask myself if such a vast amount of love could make a human immortal? I certainly hope so, living eternally alongside you would be everything I would ever need. If I could make a wish right now it wouldn’t even be for you to fall in love with me, but for me to get the opportunity to meet you. That alone would make my life already one that is fullfilled….

>this entire thread

0/10 quit while you can

oh shit,hey I'm here. full story is here

pastebin.com/5cpxUxB0

your writing is really dense you could say exactly the same things with half the words. Its just seems like a substitute for style

Amber oak trees stand
around a rusting tarn
and leaden sky.
Atoms scatter
through their spindles,
fall on soil to form
a shattered web of sense
that hides the fact
no shadow knows the sun.

A thick white fog blurs night and day.
Willow feathers fall and rot,
fall apart in toddlers' hands
like smoke.
The thread of self is glimpsed
and lost in garden shade,
tangled with the strings that
shallow faces left to find their way -
blind phantoms haunt the tracks as if
their will were not the maze -

and while the driveway gravel crunches
under fallen leaves,
the Himalayas
shrink to dust and pavements grind
to sand, the car to rust.

It's a part of the pretention, the whole thing's a metajoke on modernism and postmodernism.
It is in need of a cleanup though - I'm trying to get it all on paper before I begin the endless editing. I'm also going to add more grounding chronological elements, especially to the first few paragraphs, to keep it centered on the character and less rambly.

a parody of the undreadable is inevitably even less readable.

for what purpose?
do you even read poetry?

also, bump

I liked the actual story, but your prose doesn't flow very well at times. Try to keep your sentences simpler, and never, ever, ever refer to paper as bleached wood pulp.
If you are wondering why nobody is critiquing you, it's because you copy and pasted your story into the thread, which is already annoying to read, and also you haven't critiqued anyone else in the thread.

Here's mine: first 500 words of a short story I'm working on. Experimenting with frame narration.
pastebin.com/cmH2Dkj2

I'm not very great at crit but it engaged me and I read it all the way to the end so well done, it's hard to judge your use of frame narration because of how short it is so I didn't get to see how the two flow as you develop it

Thanks, and yeah I just want to make sure that it's clear that the dialogue is taking place at a time separate to the action

thread bitches I love no more
those loose and spindly ugly whores
I take my bitches crocheted now
and miss not I do those ugly cows

>never, ever, ever refer to paper as bleached wood pulp
I'll keep that in mind when I go to edit, it seems I may be going overboard on the sarcastic pretention at the expense of the clarity of the humor.
I'll update the pastebin with the next 500 words or so before I go to work, would appreciate more criticism

Good point

Your last stanza was good, but the rest needs some editing, I think, but better than most shit here

>needs editing
how? why?

I need to to send a second draft in a few days

>>
The Direction of the Wind

The alarm clock abruptly woke Jake up. He let out an anguished and desolate sigh and reached over to shut it off. For a few moments he stayed in bed wondering why the alarm clock disturbed his sleep. He read an article the night before about sleep being essential to the body’s testosterone levels. This initial thought was the gateway into much deeper thought that Jake would always get stuck in. While lost in thought, the minutes going by, the reason suddenly came to him. His distant cousin’s wedding was today. He didn’t want to be late so decided to get up in a hurry. After getting out of bed he went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth and took a shower. The neighbor’s dog started barking wildly. “I really wish my neighbor would stop his dog from barking”, He thought, trying to fight back the resentment growing inside of him. At his last psychologist appointment he was told to fight feelings of resentment whenever they came about. This proved hard for Jake throughout the day, as you will see throughout the story.

which alarm clock? how did it wake him? did it tap him on the shoulder? by golly, i can't get into this at all

Reading it again, I realize how choppy it sounds, but that stuff a swell after you mentioned it.

Differentiate between the direct recollection of past events and the rest of the narration by changing tense.

For example, the past events are fine as "he did/I had" etc, while the first few sentences should be "they would/they will" depending on the timeframe.
Just a little change makes delineating the order of events easier. Otherwise, I'd also say work on making the dialogue a tad more colloquial unless you intend for it to feel detached

Now the newborn gasps of a new year,
and still, each day suffers
alongside me a pitiable,
slow death.

destined 2 return 2 de_dust
will i be elided even from the pages of history
will there even be any histories left to forget me
...doom

was well... a swell time when Nguyen went whaling with wicked western wogs, sailing surreal swells at the bottom of a well, he was like a frog... but not french

1,000 word excerpt from a novel I've been struggling with: pastebin.com/BdQduQMv
If anyone critiques I'll be glad to return the favor.

>“I really wish my neighbor would stop his dog from barking”
has an autistic vibe to it. It's more realistic to: 1. get annoyed at the fucking dog, as you're still sleepy and the barking forces upon you an abrupt awekening ; 2. Think of the neighbour.

> as you will see throughout the story.
this is just bad

>be me
>diagnosed severe depression since middle school
>khv senior in hs
>dad asks me who im thinking of inviting to the prom
>doesnt know im an epic loser
>always telling him about all the babes I saly
>"yeah pa, you should have seen me, tearing up that ass, cummin on them tits"
>"im practically Chad Pitt of the school"
>would hate to let him down, and not have a 10/10 qt show up to take pictures and get a beej in the limousine
>"yeah dad, you know how it is the more better options you have the harder to pick: Stacy Mellons, Stacy Asche, or Stacy Fase"
>night of prom
>vomiting multiple times
>wanking multiple times
>no specific order
>nose starts bleeding
>shotgun a 6 pack of natty ice
>pop a molly
>start sweating
>dad knocks on the door, "hey bud, its getting pretty late, your grandparents are waiting in the living room, and the photographer should be arriving in about 10 minutes"
>"dad... theres something I have to tell you"
>afatherlyfaceInaywanttoseeagain.vlc
>"you know you can tell me anything boy, your my only son", he grabs his nuts, "I grew you in here you fucking faggot, you can tell me anything you little fucky bitch, Ha!"
>"alright, can you come in and close the door behind you?"
>he locks the door
>my heart feels like its going to explode, I am getting dizzy, freaking out, stomach hurts, feel like im gonna hurl again
>he put his arm on my shoulder and I do not know what came over me but I punched him in the face as hard as I could and knocked him out
>pulled down his pants and started sucking his dick
>then I fucked him for like 4 minutes
>about to cum, when my stomach starts to feel a sharp pain
>start to shit right as my mum and grand folks pop in to "see what all the commotion was"
>but my question is, is it a crime if you dont get caught?

Cant really offer much critique or advice, and dont have anything to share, but I liked what I read. Nice variety of ideas, nice sensual word uses, nice imagery, nice theme, nice characterization.

Thank you!

Jesus Christ I couldn't make it through the first paragraph

Do you mean you couldn't actually read it or that it just wasn't worth reading? Because if the former, you're either a non-native speaker or clinically retarded.
I'll admit its sloppy and intentionally dense to the point of damaging the prose, but it's not illegible

this honestly speaks to me for some reason and I can't quite pin down why.

I grab the orange
then peel it gently
juice proceeds to squirt in my face

Help me make this less shitty and cliche. For context it's part of a much larger story. The father is giving his son his knife before they battle their way out of a massive superfortress they have captured, and the enemy fleet is closing in. I just want to improve the writing, not change too much about the actual scene itself.

pastebin.com/SYNyKH92

> Foster leaned tentatively back in his office chair, testing the upper bounds of gravitational attraction from a position of relative comfort in the rarely inhabited perch.

You have way too many adverbs and you really need to cut down this shit. Cut out "tenatively" and get rid of the "upper bounds". Write something like "Foster leaned back in his chair, trying to see how far he could go before gravity took over" or something like that. *Then* you can add in the complex words. But right now it is dense as fuck. Readable, but not enjoyable.

> While Scheister & Sons Publishing had found its clientele shrinking exponentially for over a decade

Remove "exponentially." No one cares.

> One thing was for sure - Foster would hate to be the sorry fool submitting this particular fire hazard for review.

This is actually a decent sentence.

You're not a bad writer, just a bad editor. And it's much easier to learn editing than writing, in my opinion.

>You're not a bad writer, just a bad editor.
I actually disagree completely, it's easy for me to edit but hard to write - that's the inspiration for the story. This piece hasn't been revised at all yet though, so thank you for the concise specific suggestions.

When Wallace was born he came out weighing 7 pounds, POP, he stretched his mommys tight little pussy wide open and made afterbirth flow like a waterfall. His first thought was, “Dear me, i’ve turned into the object of my own affection.” Mommy’s head perked up something fast, “Is it a girl?” she asked, “Well,” she wrung her hands, “ is it doc?” The doctor turned his head slowly from side to side, his smirk hidden by his white medical mask, skin yellow like a chinamen with a cool sweat topping. “ARGH!” She yelped, foaming at the mouth a little, same as the ocean on a rainy day. “Cut it off!” “Cut it off!” Her pupils had dilated. “I wanted a little girl, prim and proper. I wanted to teach her how to spread her little pussy lips wide open for money; and how to shoot without a belt.” At this point the doctor’s eyes were wide with delight. He had always dreamed of fucking a little girl’s tight hole. “Well,” he spoke softly, “perhaps...that can be...arranged.” The doctor glanced at her wild eyes, and walked over to his medical table. He picked up a pair of sharp surgical scissors. “With these my dear, anything is possible.” First he sniped the umbilical cord, then with a special precision honed from many, many fantasies, he snipped the little Wallace’s cock right off. “Yes. Yes!” A crack in his voice from excitement echoed through the room. “Now then, onto the main event.” The mother was transfixed, her breath held, as the doctor pulled his 7.6 inch cock out of his wrinkled grey slacks. He positioned it gingerly at the hole where the little penis had been, and thrust with the power of a deprived maniac. Wallace screamed loud, “Ahhhh!” Blood poured from the little hole, leaking around the doctors thick cock. “I'm gonna’ cum!” He shouted, and shot his seed deep in the former little boy. “Beautiful,” said Mommy, “absolutely beautiful.”

Of course it's not illegible. But holy shit it's like those memes that are popping up that turn simple phrases into obnoxious discourses

>yellow_jean_claude_van_damme_performing_standup_comedy.tiff

What’s the bug think
When raindrops fall?
Inundate home
In it’s tote stone

Perhaps in fall
The bug can doze.
Ride upon a leaf,
Visit neighbors’ sheafs.

Fly was it I?
In progeny --
Of my one youth?
Where are my wings?

way too bland.

there's some nice lines in there but... some of those are awful. >as you will see throughout the story

*Time freeze*
You're probably wondering how I got here

Rock that Ass She Goes Again

Black shirt, rocking ass,
rock that ass she goes,
she rocks that ass so fucking hard
and everybody knows
that there is none that compares,
no better derriere
than the one that belongs to her,
that sexy fine figure
coming out of the dark,
black t-shirt hanging
above her naked ass,
face, shirt, ass,
it never stops,
it cannot stop,
as long as you are looking,
the ass is always there,
and when you’re not looking,
rock that ass she goes.

Bumping for this

beautiful

Nightshift

In the store window, you appear,
bent over inventory, placing it well
as shown on a white list
distributed by a bureaucrat.

Something to call your own.
Sturdy to the touch.

Both of these things occupied a space within my eyes.
Wide as a formidable assurance,

Sky holding these things in place,
the handshake before the departure.

Let me chew glass twist bottle bits
Its all needed to sate wits
No more half though lies
All traded in hours for short-night mind dye

Away with your quick-spun lies
Only temporarily I surmise
You, I, are filled with fear
Out of the head!

No next week's tomorrow
Don't wish to drown but float a sorrow
So quiet you, broken record head
I know what you said

Let me soak that new desire
That new flume of hopeful fire
Let it fulfill the needs for now
That looming bottle, yet how!

In this lonely afternoon
and all the others,
do you know our cold progress?
Do you know our labour under the stars?

In the calm do you ever
think of him anymore,
buried under thoughts of thoughts
of sales and careers and wars?

Do you spare any moment to keep him alive in memory?

In the soft afternoons,
in my lonely little room
I always cast back
to my lovely life.

I miss my boy.

>This piece hasn't been revised at all yet though,

Ah that would explain it then.

Usually I try to give it a few days and edit before posting in critique thread but I didn't do that with what I posted so I'd be a hypocrite to really force it as a rule. I think most of my advice still holds true.... if not I will be happy to read an edited piece of yours.

What the fuck? Saved to my copy pasta folder.

holy............

That's kind of what I thought. I'm glad I know what happened to them all. And also I'm not sorry for any of them, since they all seem to end up where they belong. It seems to me to be about the sad nu inevitable process of letting it all go. Linked in my mind to a kind of family of sirens going about their necessary work. The family he never had filling in his last days as a kind of favor from the ocean. Now, it's young, and it's a stage, but it is a story.

Since you don't have an editor or an agent, you are going to have to do the hardest part all by yourself, which, hey, ain't it true for all of us.

You have the young writer's problem of hitting the occasional clunker. It can happen in as little as one word. Like "infant" before.

Here's a few.

84. "creed" is in the right lexical neighborhood, but I think you really mean "chant" or "incantation" or "chorus." Since it's really loud, you need not only semantic accuracy ("semantic" itself does not mean "trivial" - that's an effect of popular media), you also want sonority.

79 "shined in its waxy nature." A case of I see what you mean, but it sounds like you wanted to get to the next line and bailed out on this image. Working writers frequently take moments like this and work them. Like, write ten different ways to express the concept of waxy skin. What are ten objects that resemble the way you see this? List them out. See which ones also fit thematically. Beware the cliches. "Parchment" has been done to death. "like the inner layer of an onion," "like a jellyfish desiccated on the beach" Do ten of them. Then, if necessary, do ten more.

64. howled in fury. There many opportunities like this one to punch it up.You don't want to over do it and become a thesaurus queen, but this is what they were made for. Also, nautical sources wouldn't hurt for this one. Sailors refer to the "shrieking fifties" for example, to describe the sound their rigging makes below 50 south latitude.

64. dregs. Dregs are literally gummy partially dissolved solids or grinds, or residue.

clouds took on a ferocious quality - punch up

"he simply sat down in a leather chair and sunk into its soft embrace." - notice you have him doing the same action twice, just so you can add the feel of it. You can figure out how to get him in the chair once.

You get the idea. Lightning versus lightning bug. Editors will get a tick in their face on every single one, so it's worth the effort to iron out every last one.....

...About the mysterious force that gradually overtakes the keeper, cf 62. I get you want to leave it unnamed, unlabeled, etc. That's fine. It will work that way. But it needs some kind of noun referent to describe it because as is it's almost not there at all. As in it's almost so abstract as to read as forced. You give the girl an aura, but then sometimes its there, and sometimes not. I suspect because you left it out, not because she has on off switch. Maybe the force of mind that is lulling the keeper is related to that, somehow. Maybe it's linked to the weather, which is so important in this piece. Maybe it's linked to the increasing number of ritualistic symbols etched in the sand outside. As vaguely as you want, something needs to be the totem that represents it.

Take a cold and clinical look at the ending. For a big supernatural like this, you need to stick the landing. I'll start you with a hint - what is the temporal sequence in which these things happen...

ocean sealed
gods descended
lighthouse stood empty

...versus the order in which you give them to us? And the last sentence is a fragment. Which is fine stylistically when intentional, but I want a real Dubliners Dead sentence here:

"His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."

That is not a first draft. I'm not saying imitate Joyce, but imitate his work ethic. I would bet he wrote at least twenty versions of that sentence before he figured out he could indulge in that adverb and excuse it to himself by inverting it on the second instance. "falling faintly" then right back with "faintly falling." It has rhythm like a line of poetry.

Do that.

I want to read this again better.

pastebin.com/fqK8Y7ZB

Got inspired to make this poem from this DFW quote

“What if you just imagined that this absent lover they’re singing to is just a metaphor? And what they’re really singing is to themselves, or to God, you know? ‘Since you’ve left I’m so empty I can’t live, my life has no meaning.’ That in a weird way, I mean they’re incredibly existentialist songs. That have the patina of the absent, of the romantic shit on it just to make it salable. . .(but) they’re singing about something much more elemental being missing, and their being incomplete without it. Than just, you know, some girl in tight jeans or something.”

>freeverse cucks think I'm going to read their shit

My try at a Children's Fantasy - again, sorry for the noobishness, I'm just starting out here.

pastebin.com/GLcKFXvh

My most recent short story

The father is having a crisis of identity due to combat fatigue, and he wants to avoid its worst consequences by making a meaningful gift of an emotional totem object. The son isn't buying any of it because his image of dad is a superhero.

So we start with dad:shaken, son:confident; we have to end up with dad:restored, son:sadder but wiser.

To take the easy one, the good luck, you too, exchange. This is a "May the force be with you" moment. I don't mean add a flaky supernatural element to the story, but it's a place where characterization can be nailed down by having them express an idiodialectical phrase that calls back to a previous moment. Something known only to the two of them, and the reader. "Don't let the krillbaggler bite your shoe." So we remember the earlier scene where the younger one almost let the krillbaggler bite his shoe off and ruin the mission to Warfl. Then the son can reply, "and you keep your glaggons dry" so we remember when the son saved the dad at the battle of Fognl. It's a technique for layering on the narrative illusion that the characters remember the story they've "lived" along with us.

The knife hand off. I'm thinking.

The dad's confession needs a zinger. The sentiment "tired of war" is not new, nor for the tenth time. It's about the dad's identity and how he's losing it to another one. Something like "you'll end up with a commander rather than a father." Or, "I'll end up being the kind of father who would send you into a suicide mission without telling you." Jeopardy has to attach somehow. Orion has to be shocked into realization in order for it to play as sincere. Then he can watch, "as his father walked back across the hangar with restored purpose, looking nothing like a doomed man headed for the gas chamber." Or something. Restored, is the point.

Unless you want us to be unclear about Orion's conviction. Maybe your intention was to leave his emotional state ambiguous. Either way, the hinge, the dad's confession, will make this scene. Again, since you have a lot more of this elsewhere, don;t be afraid to look back toward the beginning for what he could say here. "I can't let you watch me turn into [name of tragically lost character from earlier]" for example.

Dropped after the first sentence sounds pretentious as fuck

OK, the knife thing. If you've read deeply in this genre, you already know that there is a fine line between cute and poignant, and that when the dialog lands just on the right side of that line, something special can happen.

So I'm thinking of some kind of play on "knife."

"I'm cutting it loose." "It's your turn to cut people free." Something thematically related to the story that has to do with the knife's purpose or history.

>pastebin.com/5gb6QPDg

^The start of something I am intimate with: the death of DVD rental stores.

Part 2 - if you don't mind to read of course.

pastebin.com/eYK9uBZD

r8? Getting rejected by literary agents left and right but they don't offer any critique or perspective.

I've never written anything creatively before, only ever essays, but I've been given an assignment to write a short story.

Could I get some feedback?

Cosy. Prose might be vaguely pedestrian, but I still like it. If there's the as-yet unwritten potential for a good story in there, then do keep going.

Thanks user, I'm not sure where to go with it honestly, as I only have 750 words. I was considering writing a short dialogue, as I don't think I could get much out of the 500 odd words I have left without it sounding rushed. Either way, cheers lad.

I'd also add, just now having an afterthought: driving on with that kind of exposition might be better substituted for delivering expository points through dialogue (human interaction is one of the most sub-textually telling phenomena I know of) and reactions to those pieces of dialogue (human reactions are the icons of the unspoken).

Solid idea, thanks again mate, I'll work it in.

Well, regarding my afterthought , if you're taking it on, then since exposition and the heart of the story looks as if it has to revolve around dialogue, you should ask yourself: "What is the big question?"

What do I mean by this?: I mean that most good stories have an over-arching question, the answer to which is synonymous with the wrapping of the plot, the deceleration of reader-curiosity, the: Resolution. The question is whatever the reader is going to be asking themselves is the situation, which must be one of conflict, will turn out. think of all your fave stories, and then in reminiscence, ask yourself the corollary: what was I, the reader, wanting to know?

EG...
The Iliad: "who will prevail?"
Titus Andronicus: (christ, what questions AREN'T there to ask?)
Stoner: "Will this sad sack ever catch a break, whether from his own self-trappings or the pure chance events of the universe?"
Candide: "Will Candide ever be free from evil events befalling him purely arbitrarily, and will he ever accept that Descartes' beat-horse-meme of an idea of ~best possible world~ is a stack of shit?"
Gravity's Rainbow: "what the fuck is happening?" (a question like that is harder to execute, but somehow the pynch did it)

From all these questions can perhaps be sifted a commonly denominated nugget ... they all contain, in some way or another, the corollary inquiry, circling around this syntactic structure: "will be ?"

I'd argue some of the best stories ("stories" here can be distinct from "literature"(!)) nurture this central question, given shape by characters, their environment, scenario and overall situation resulting in some form of conflict, so expertly that the reader's inquiry is forcefully evolved into more of a readerly anxiety --- one which YOU hold captive by doing, what?, why of course you are the only one who holds the Answer, thanks to which the reader now has a near existential need to find, literally held captive.

Did I make any sense? I'm hoping that helps.

Wasn't expecting such a helpful response user, thanks a lot. I wasn't sure how to actually weave a story into the writing but you've genuinely really helped me. If I could give you an upvote, I would.

It's fine. If it makes the exchange here any less altruistic, I might say I helped with the aim of accelerating the writing of more stories, since we need them in the world.

>i'm not reading anything that's not a nursery rhyme

Bump. Please friends

No iba ni un párrafo y me encontré con tres adverbios casi seguidos. Tuve que dejar de leer eso.

Quita esas cosas, camarada; te harás un favor.

How do you correct more than 300 pages? I'm sick of rereading my own shit over and over again.

Do you simply... divide everything in batches and resist the urge of rereading and redacting from page 1?

Before going out on his way, Sonic, an extremely fast-moving English Major living in a typical non-conformist neighborhood in Seattle, made a short prayer to a drawing of a clown he had nailed to his bedroom wall.
“Dear Lord, I pray that I have the strength to defeat the enemy. Let my fists and words be like heavy stones that fuck shit up. I’m tired of running away although it’s true I’m very fast.”

In the later years of Sonic’s adolescence, he was placed in the candidacy for the “Nobody Grant”, a prestigious prize awarded to those who were “completely dedicated to being nothing and nobody at all times.” He was denied the grand prize however, after it was discovered he made private statements about wanting to “write something good or something maybe I guess.”

Sonic took the bus to his classes, where he slouched in his chair and tried his best to look uninterested. “What if I’m so cool I could die,” he thought. He raised his hands and asked everyone if they’d ever read Nietzche and walked out of the room.

On his way home from school Sonic wrote a poem in his iPhone’s notes:

I smoked a cigarette
and flicked it
it fell into a void
and I was a void
and have you ever read Nietzche

when he posted the poem to a thread on Veeky Forums that evening, the responses to his writing were moderate to apathetic.
“Your writing is okay even though its sincere,” said Anonymous. “You are weak. You will not survive this world,” said another. Sonic googled “how to kill someone through an internet connection,” then thought better of it and watched a youtube video of a man smashing melons with a sledgehammer and fell asleep.

Later he went on a date and tried his best to act uninterested.

“Just because I wear yoga pants doesn’t mean I’m an object,” said his date.

Sonic grunted.

“Do you want to go to a show I have later?” said his date.

“I don’t have a car. And only if it’s free.”

“So you can’t come?” said his date. She batted her eyelashes and prepared to melt into the ground.

“You’re stupid,” he said. “Stupid and dumb. Why are you such a steaming pile of goo?”

“Date a model then, all I know how to do is buy fast food and cry,” said his date, crying and eating a McChicken. “Touch me,” she said.

“No, you’re too ugly,” said Sonic.

“You’re in no position to call anyone ugly,” said his date.

“It takes one to know one,” sneered Sonic, as an inversion of the usual usage of the phrase. He laughed at all of his own jokes.

“You’re poo.” said Sonic’s date.
“You’re a figment of my imagination,” said Sonic.
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Am not times a million.”
“Are so times a trillion.”
“You act mean because you’re a tiny tiny man inside,” said his date.
“You always go in for easy stabs,” said Sonic. “Fuck off.”

He got a call. He picked up.
“If you keep on taking drugs I will make your life miserable,” said the voice of Liam Neeson. “I’ll go after your family, then your friends, and I’ll keep on going and going. I won’t stop until your reputation on fanfiction.net is completely ruined.”

“How did you know I have an account there? Who is this? Who the fuck is this!?” screamed Sonic (anyone that knew of his My Little Pony fan fics had to be silenced), but the voice hung up. “Damn it.” He looked at the caller ID—“Sanic the Hedgeheg (lmao)”

“Who was that?” asked Sonic’s date
“Shut up,” said Sonic.
“Don’t tell me to shut up,” said Sonic’s date.
in his extremely God voice Sonic said “Nah” and warped into another dimension.

Later that night, while he was trying to jack off, Sonic was visited by the ghost of David Foster Wallace.

“Come on,” said DFW in exasperation.
“I’m trying,” said Sonic, gritting his teeth. He tried to laugh at his own joke but saliva caught in his throat and he doubled over. David Foster Wallace crossed his ghostly arms.
“If you think you’re so clever, why are you alone?” said DFW’s ghost.
“Good line.” A vein was standing out in Sonic’s temple. “The Smiths. Early work better than later work.”
“I wasn’t the one who called you earlier,” said DFW’s ghost.
“I know. You do drugs all the time. You can’t tell me shit.”
“I’m trying to help you.”
“How?”
“Do you anything about the real world? Can you love without making ironic jokes to protect your fragile ego?”
“Huh?”
“Have you ever even tried?”
“Huh?”
“Ever been there for someone else? Looked towards something higher than your own self esteem?”
“Huh?”
“Didn’t think so. I’ll handle the thinking.”
Sonic took his hands off his penis. “Alright, I guess you should. Where did you learn all of this stuff?”
“Out there.” DFW’s ghost pointed towards the door to Sonic’s apartment.
“There’s nothing beyond there,” said Sonic. “This is a fictionalized setting created in the author’s imagination.”
“There is something beyond there,” said DFW’s ghost. “IRL.
“Huh?”
“Reality. It’s a world where you’re judged by what you look like, not by what you say and think. A world where curiousity and imagination are for little babies.”
Sonic sat back in his chair. He stopped masturbating. “I get it,” he said. “This is also a possible world. The world of reality might not be so bad. But! I hate myself!”
“Everyone hates themself a little bit. But if you also love yourself, it’s not as bad, even though loving and hating yourself at the same time doesn’t make sense,” said DFW’s ghost. He began to fade into the air. The effect looked cheap. “Also if you do drugs it makes it easier too.”
“Okay,” said Sonic slowly. “I think I can do it. I think I can exist in the real world.”

Sonic left his room. He then realized he hadn’t finished masturbating. “Rosebud,” said Sonic. He went back inside and closed the door.

hahah i howled at the end

>until the sun peaks over
>peaks

M8!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

also the first sentence is confusing. I've reread it three times and I still don't know wtf it means. what tense is it in?

ya this is hella good, espeically b/c I'm playin CS:GO right now (on dust)

it might be cause I just started listening to music when I read this but good

>poecucks in general

almost incoherent, sorry

dont start with long descriptions of weather unless they're hella interesting

>“Just because I wear yoga pants doesn’t mean I’m an object,” said his date.

this is a little flat strawmanny. like blow our minds man c'mon

>“You always go in for easy stabs,” said Sonic. “Fuck off.”
kek

This is nice dude. I'd read this unlimitedly, don't go too off the rails though.

This is real.

>pastebin.com/5gb6QPDg

^Whoring out this one again, just in case no one saw it. The start of something I am intimate with: the death of DVD rental stores.

Bumping myself again because I'm a slut

pastebin.com/BdQduQMv

Seriously, I'll read and give feedback to anyone who gives me some critique.

it's ok. a lot of your words seem like filter. you need more variation in your sentence lengths/structures. reading one long, descriptive sentence after another after another gets tiring. also
>"The Digital-Versatile-Disk-watching family is out of the plausible picture now, excluded from screen space, deliberately de-framed by our ‘future is now’ idea which has been stuck in a perpetual becoming, committing cyclic suicide like a phoenix for the last decade > an infinitely recurring meme."

get rid of "meme" and this will be 1,000x better.

very bizarre, I like the degradation into primal natural urges

Come,
let me lead you, love, by crook of hand,
with step that soon will fall in line beside
you, through the borders of adulthood and
the boundless no-man’s land.
No, put away your passport, for inside
the customs booth,
your splayed, unchartered palm is paper proof
enough; a spurt of scarlet pressed from weave,
a bruise, a ring of oozing ink; the roof
through dormer oculus observes our leave.
Don’t turn,
but tread in dirt a trail for me to tail;
each wisp of hair is a tendril prising dust
from space, concatenated cells in rails
of air of new nativity, whose gusts
shoot vertical and rend
the span of time and space.
But we, compatriots-in-arms, can pause
and tend to love here as the sun withdraws.

man i read spanish like a dull-highschooler but im getting some weird nostalgia schooling at anglo central now