REAL CRITIQUE THREAD

>bruised water?

I thought people would see it as the water begin a dark blue/purple. My bad in that case as most people in these threads have picked it out

It is a slow burner but that's on purpose, may I ask how far you got ?

I've never read it. Is it seriously that similar? And if so, should I start over?

bump

When it comes to a first person narrator, who narrates in past tense yet is neither omnipotent nor living in a far off future where he knows the end results of the story, is it acceptable to use present tense for things that are an ongoing thing? As far the current events in the story go, that is. For example: The narrator explains "This is a technique I use to hypnotize people." instead of "This was a technique I used to hypnotize people." The former implies that he is still using the technique to the current day of the story, where as the later implies he has stopped using that technique.

I think what matters is whether getting to "now" happens, and if so how it matters to the story.

The Big Obvious Example is Holden Caufield. He tells his past story in past, but makes remarks on the events in present. Which all makes sense when we find out that the whole story is him talking to a therapist/analyst the whole time.

The other One is Humbert - we discover he is writing his memoir (first frame) while awaiting trial (second frame) which is the document we just finished, whose "author" an "editor" tells us has since died (third frame).

The trick is keeping it all straight, and if there is is ever a reveal of when "now" is. In Catcher, "now" is Holden's "now" when he speaks the last line. In Lolita, one "now" is when Humbert finishes the memoir, and the last "now" is some time after Humbert's death.

Well, as far as the story goes, that line is technically from a flashback. The story starts in "now" and progresses along until its climax, and the protagonist/narrator at no point stops using the technique he explains to the reader during the flashback.

SO something wireframe like this:

I am now walking down the street.

But I remember back when you and I were eating, and I said "This is a technique I use."

But now I have arrived at my destination. I go inside.

and etc.

Do I follow you?

It would be more like this:

I was walking down the street.

When I remembered how I had ended up in this current series of predicaments.

-- Flashback --

*Protagonist uses his technique*

This is a technique I use to etc, etc.

-- End Flashback --

It was awful to remember.

Having arrived at my destination, I put that memory behind me and went inside.

It's a weird sort of narrator, in all honesty. I'm charged with editing a narrator so that he almost always speaks in past tense, yet does not know the future, like I mentioned earlier. Essentially the narrator exists one step ahead of the protagonist, who lives in the "now" of the story.

It looks sort of like this:

Past > Present - Protagonist > Future - Narrator > Future

Where the future the narrator exists in is basically one step ahead of the protagonist.

It's a kick in the teeth to comprehend because often times the narrator will have to utilize past tense terms when the actions that are going currently on the story is persistent in the "now," atleast until a certain point in the story, the narrator does not know that however so he ought to not be privy to speaking like he does.

I'm sure I could pull up some better examples, but I'm suffering from a fever at the moment and have an awful headache.

i feel bad for your mother

What I read there is:

> I was walking down the street [but right "now" I am not doing so. Right "now" I am somehow communicating the past event of walking.]

>Flashback [yeah, that's fine. I get it.]

>Having arrived [back then when I arrived, but "now" I am back to somehow communicating this already happened event to you]

I have to admit, I don't really get it. By what mode is the reader supposed to believe the narrator is communicating? Holden is talking to his therapist, and we are eavesdropping by machina means. Humbert is writing to us. How is this narrator communicating the story?

By a narration of current events that just happened to him or are currently happening, atleast that is as far as I can figure out from this. Mind you that most of this narrative was originally written to be present tense, and now the guys in charge want it to be all past tense. I just don't think that works out as well as they possibly conceived because it doesn't read right.

Mind you this is the first two lines of the script and already I feel like something off by making this past tense:

The setting sun's scorching red light dyes the train station scarlet.
In the midst of a crowd of tired workers leaving through the ticket gate... there I stand.

to:

The setting sun's scorching red light dyed the train station scarlet.
In the midst of a crowd of tired workers leaving through the ticket gate... there I stood.

I think that having it be present tense instead gets the point that it is happening in the "now," none of these things have finished happening, so there is no need to speak of them like it was something that passed. The sun is no longer dying the train station a scarlet, the protagonist is no longer standing in the crowd of etc, this is all happening right "now."

I think I have to agree with you. Now I am trying to imagine the people in charge's argument, or reasoning.

If I were to narrate, verbally, to a companion, the events we are "currently" engaged in, it would be the case that by the time we could speak it, the event would be over. Kinda.

"We are walking down the street right now."

"But we have already walked this far down the street."

"I am buying an ice cream."
"But now you have bought it."

Or, I can imagine a movie voice over:

EXTERIOR:STREET

MAN walks down street

VOICEOVER: I walked down the street.

MAN enters ice cream store

VOICEOVER: I bought an ice cream.

So we view the events as now, but the voice over is simultaneously telling them in the past tense. Somehow I can resolve that.

bump for all

Charls Carrol? Yeah I know him. Hell, I worked with him in Korea. He had a different name, though. Back then we called him 'Gook Gutting' Carrol, because he never came out of a tunnel without a scalp, an ear, or covered with blood.

Most would call him insane, but that is why the green berets trained him. They saw potential. It wasn't until they learned his methods that they truly realized what a monster they created. You see, most guys that go tunnel clearing take guns. Not Charls. No, he took knives, hatchets, sometimes nothing but his bare hands. After a few missions I got a chance to talk to him, in the mess. He was wearing his blood stained hat, sunglasses, and combat fatigues, smoking a pipe and drinking johnny walker black. It was contraband, but you NEVER told Charls what he could and couldn't do.

I asked him why he never took guns with him. He lowered is head and took a long slow draw from his pipe, pulled off his sun glasses and looked me right in the eyes, piercing my soul.

"I do it out of respect. Respect for the white race. These slant eye'd scum bags don't deserve the mercy of an American made bullet, but the slow torturous death of the hands of an American man!"

In a flash he pulled out his weathered, but razor sharp knife and stopped just short of sticking my gut. "The look in their eyes when I slip this baby into their swollen, rice filled bellies is reason enough. To see the last lights flick off in their heads as they see a real killer work."

this was kinda comfy desu

I would remove the quotations on "customers" to make the statement strong in its realism rather than being tongue-in-cheek. Also, I'd change up the wording somehow of the sunlight/dust. It could right now be interpreted as the dust being on the narrator's face.

I think some slight delicacy in the way you introduce this dead skin dust could makes the transition to talking of death even stronger. Perhaps take a look at the way Proust or Woolf use flowery language, to talk about mundane things to really sell you its hidden beauty and symbolic value, before reaching the sentiment "I would not doubt that everyone in this room is dying."

I think the premise is interesting, but the way you introduce the narrator in a switch is what really struck me as beautiful, would definitely read.

Damn son, that's intense. You're really selling the vibe right. Would read, but nervously.

t-thanks

go back to /pol/

You go back to /pol/

Lmao dunno if this is a joke but I found it legitimately engrossing up until the contraband line.

you are right, it kills the flow, thanks for the critiqué

I like it. Grimey. Would read if I was a military tough guy sort

Thanks for this. This is pretty helpful.
Post something yourself?

The flaw with this thread is that there is no one giving critique without posting their own everyone is too everyone to be harsh and truthful in case it causes the recipient to come down on them

thanks for the input

what are you talking about? If there was shit, someone would point it out.

This thread's just pretty decent. Nobody has posted pure shit yet

horry...

Here's a little something something I put together. It's a fairly short poem. I still suck at good meter. But I'd love input on how this reads and how well the imagery works with the thematics.

pastebin.com/U8mkz8V4

This has nice form, has been edited, and was certainly written with care. But being a piece if musicality, you really fall short on what could be a really tight and contained piece. I would highly consider a rhyme scheme. And maybe try paying a little closer attention to the flow of your words. The piece changes voice a lot, shifting in and out of smooth flowing and choppy prose.
Give this a few more edits, really pay attention to how the lines read altogether and not individually. The best way to do this is to get rid of any words that's do not effect the piece while there nor do they help it.
This can be great.

This isn't bad. It's not a fantastic piece of prose. But it reads well, follows character, and invites the mood well. Make sure your use of jargon and lingo is well researched for Vietnam. And with all war stories, please consider the long term goal of the piece. War is a massive tap of metaphorical imagery, but it is well tapped in this day and age.
Keep grinding.

bump

The Universe is my goddamned will...

Blah

The sky be screams and shouts. I am run from everything. I am run from the eyes of angels. I am run from the final forever. I am run to a place where I can shave my head, change my face, and be again a nothing. It need be done true quick, for I know come sunlight the angels will have seen my face, and the angels will have found me, and I will have no haven. These neon monuments and their gutters, the trash roads where the porcelain mannekins walk—this place it be no home. No place in the Saint’s Metropolis where I be gift a bed or shirt or spoon. I rush toward an airy nothing.
The storm be a warm and heavy one, the kind Raj would call a ‘primordial cleanse’ and laugh. Now he be dead forever. I have run all night and end now west of Sunset City, near the ocean. Nearby somewheres be the cracked wall with the mural of the ugly laughing man, and chance be there Comus too. A trash hope. Above me, the sky machine flashes a false lightning with a cold consistency, and its sweaty rain falls slow. I count the time beneath my breath, and every thirty seconds I hide my face from the flash, and it be stay hid until I hear the thunder. Then I run again.
The streets be lonesome and everywhere I see Rita’s face on advertisements for Xamata and KamaDream. E smiles at me, and I tremble. I be a sweat machine and my clothes they be mad heavy. Both feet throb with a painful heartbeat. I listen for the laughing man, but the rain be too loud for me to hear nothing.
All around be unlit buildings, curving over me like cliffs. A lonesome light flickers on, high above me and cyclopean stare. I cower against the wall. I crawl towards an alley. This be it, this be it, this be it. They see me. A rat splashing in a puddle. There be a dumpster in the alley and I drag myself to it mad quick. I hide. I am stay hid. An aircraft rumbles in the heavens.
I stare and stare at the light up in the tower. Then a second light turns on, and a third. Morning comes. There be no time. Soon the rising crowd will be everywhere and the Angels will have their eyes. Under the dumpster I find a pair of broken sunglasses, without the left lense. I put them on. I push the wet hair from my face. No, wait. I change ideas, and instead pull my hair over my face to hide better. This will work. Twenty eight, twenty nine, thirty. A blast of thunder pounds through my chest.
Again I rush into the street. The howl of the storm now be slowly decreasing, and my footfalls are become louder. They echo off the cliffs of steel and glass. I turn a corner. Right. Left. Forward. The laughing man be nowhere. In the distance I hear a siren wailing. They be carrying a body to the Factory. They be take my body soon too.

shit i forgot an edit. should be "A lonesome light flickers on high above me, piercing me with its cyclopean stare.

This has potential. Feels like real story telling. Verbal, natural tone. Remove 'piercing my soul' though, schlocky cliche.

This needs punctuation badly. The vocabulary is needlessly dense in some parts. 'positing oraculars' sounds neither nice nor natural. Your line breaks are arbitrary and the line lengths are all over the place.

gah. the couplets at the end of each stanza just do not work at alllll. You've got spondees fucking up the rhythm hard. Also 'appetizing', stresswise, is /--- . There's no fucking way you ever fit that word into any type of rhythm. It feels like youre trying to force the meter unnaturally. Try to use fewer gerunds and mess around with different verb tenses to change your rythms. For example: "fillling encrusted lowlands" can easily be "that fills encrusted lands". Lowlands being a rhythm-killing spondee.

The last sentence in the first paragraph ends awkwardly, but the hook is interesting.

In the second paragraph, the word "truly" is unnecessary. Switching into second person POV at the end, directly talking to the reader, is distracting. You don't need a comma in front of "but razor sharp" in the fifth paragraph. See...see in the last sentence. Try to come up with something more creative than see, maybe "witness."

My submission:

Dasha’s house wasn’t far from the sinkhole, and the warm draft when Annalise stepped in came as a welcome relief. Photos dotted the walls. The mannequin in the corner had her mother’s latest kooky fashion design pinned. Warm pastel colors and their brick fireplace with wood just waiting to ignite validated the inner peace she’d experienced.
“You’re sure your mother won’t mind? I know she’s weird about me…”
“She can get over her racist attitudes another day. She won’t be home all weekend. Besides, she forgot to lock the liquor cabinet.”
Annalise chuckled.
“I’d prefer a mixed drink to shots, if you don’t mind.”
“Vodka? Jack? Comfort?”
“Vodka. Got any Mountain Dew?”
Dasha grinned. “I’ve got grenadine too.”
Dirty Temples were Annalise’s favorite drink, when she was dumb enough to imbibe. After the commotion tonight, why not?
“Hey, Dasha?”
“Yeah?”
“What would happen if one of us made that deal? It talked to all of us in private at the end, so none of us have any idea what happened.”
“What do you mean, in private?”
“I mean, it can talk in our heads, like you say, but it can read our thoughts too. Like it knows all of our doubts before we can say them. It told me to speak that way after you left. Offered to rig the election for me.”
“Is it really a win if it’s rigged?”
She handed her the frilly drink, vodka still swirling at the bottom of the glass. Annalise stared at the abstract patterns it formed, not daring to meet her friends’ eyes.
“That’s a hard one. On one hand, it’s against everything I believe in about free will and choice. But the chance to effect change?”
“Isn’t it better if you earn it though? Like, by rallying people around your cause? Isn’t forcing your will on people fascism?”
“If it’s what’s best…”
“Careful Anna. You didn’t, did you?”
Fear and concern shone through her friend’s gaze, and Annalise choked back her tears.
“No, but I wish I had.”
“No, honey. Trust me. You don’t.”
Dasha walked over to the fireplace, piled newspaper on top of the firewood. The rapid reduction of kindling to ash before the fire caught transfixed Annalise.
Like inspiration, or rebellion. A flash of feeling, then a slow burn. Inspiration catches, and it’s up to the one inspired to fuel it. Could I fuel a revolution alone?

So, I should just not focus on poetry too much right now. Because each word there is so very keen to painting the desired picture. DESU, what if I just gut the stanzas and line breaks and turn this into a piece of prose:

Peach and pumpkin skies settle into boysenberry eve laid top an earthen mantle -rising ravenous moon's gleam consuming such sweetly glow- who's homely stove fades below. Childish flames lick breathlessly the empyreal delights, clacking whispered recipes about its kindler's guise -unassertive, aimless descants filling encrusted lowlands. Perched, eyeing the savory stars, just before a peripheral frame, a faux dome of delight chars. Copper wire, concrete blades conduct bites cut from the peace-ful treats appetizing dreams and sleep.

Does this read better, and does the imagery still work well even if it's designed for poetry?

It's too dense IMO. You don't need all the flowery language you'd use in poetry for fiction. It doesn't build up to anything, confirm anything, paint a full picture. It just is. Even poems need a point.

If you think this doesn't have or come to a point, then it makes it difficult to accept your criticism as legitimate. This most certainly brings up and states a very clear point.

If there's a point in there, it's buried. That's what I'm saying.

a d j e c t i v e s

this reads like the trappings of imagistic ability without any of the actual ability. past the first sentence, it's just a procession of lyrical words with absolutely zero metaphorical weight, until it's as a mushy and overpowering as a 2 dollar bottle of extra sweet riesling

T H I S desu

It's a scene of a man sitting out in the rural plains. It's dusk, and he's sitting near a fire watching the sunset and the moons rise. In the dark, he sees the light of a city on the horizon darkening a portion of the sky. He realizes how simple and whole he feels watching the night sky, and how detached and removed the city is from it all. Irs why I use phrases like 'kindler's guise', since kindler's literal meaning is of someone who is anarchistic (in layman's). It's why the fire whispers recipes while the city steals slices. The word choice is key for interpreting the feelings here. But interpreting words=/=buried meaning.

one one one
who am I
who are you
touch the sky
kill the dew
who is to know
what we should do
despite we try
to go for you

I can't read
you fucking cunt
get out and go
and smoke a blunt

>zero metaphorical weight
>obviously not well read

>his poetry sucks
>people tell him
>"you just don't understand! i'm a genius!"

Sammy Hydeee/10

i have about a third of a short story based on bluebeard finished, but it's too long to post

this is in blank right? i agree with the other anons it needs a regular beat
it's really nice though
this isn't my type of thing, i think it's clunky (no offence)
i legit thought this was a pasta, like the ones on /mu/ about panda bear being a white supremacist

Work on your narrative sequencing. That very first sentence is confusing, mentioning two different characters and two different locations, but the first ones mentioned are not the focus. You also don't make it clear there are two people there before you begin the dialog, so i don't know who is talking to whom. It would have helped to have dialog tags at the start of the conversation too. You shift into the first person at the end.

The dialog and narrative are fine. Maybe a little plain but thats not a bad thing. It's intriguing at the very least

Nah, I know I'm not good. But I know it's not as incoherent as you lazy readers make it out to be because if someone's writing on here makes you think for a second, it's bad or pointless.
I'm saying its not good. But I'm saying you're underselling it because of its short comings.

It's in the middle of a novel, so I can understand why the first sentence would be confusing. The first person is in italics to denote thought, but I can't do that on Veeky Forums. Thanks for the thoughtful critique though, I'll work on clarifying the first sentence.

last time i post this before revising. i critiqued earlier in the thread and will come back for more in a bit

You forbidden center and puncture
around which many revolve.
You, hiding behind awkward slant rhymes,
broken meter, forced latinisms and clarifying footnotes.
Often spoken of, by others, in terms of reverence,
known by biographical detail,
triangulated by translations and vague appraisals.
Scintillating, decadent, bruise colored and beautiful, somewhat holy.

I have not your structured history,
your dead memories, the limpid pleasures and pains.
More importantly, I was not lain to steep
in past glories of form or bred in taste,
made to swallow my vegetables of western traditon
until my whole consitution contained the rules of a civilization.
When I first drew myself out of my past
and squeezed myself in mind's palm for material
only this came out.

I admit. Often have I wanted and then felt you,
just in a once, a low and far off tone near the stomach.
At night, about asleep
I touch with my fingertips
the imagined taste of rat poison absinthe,
obsidian skipping stone on green water.
All this ungraspable, later, on command.

A journey to know you would drastically undershoot
these violet pregnancies born to your shadows.
They only appear to belong to you. Mine are that damp sidewalk,
that black 2004 Honda civic carelessly drenched in blueing moss,
rain rising around above, poking holes in stormclouds.
These perfect structures of metal and screen, with
Humming and snapping wires beating mystic patterns
sidereally regular. The steely glass in the distance
grown taller than you knew, strangling the dimmer, dimming stars.

those connections that you claim are there just aren't there. you may have thought that whispers recipes/steals slices shows how detached the city is but it doesn't except through muddy layers of signification only accessible to you.

When you say not you're type of thing, do you mean mine in particular or the general style of writing?

>you're
Sorry, phone posting.

my bad really it's unfair to offer you that vague and half assed response, ill try to explain

i dont want this to sound harsh but i also want to explain myself properly

"not my kind of thing" - doesn't work well for me personally but might float boats of others. not sure if the excerpt is from the middle of the work (i hope it is) because i have no investment whatsoever in the character and am not ready for him to be so neurotic from the get go. "hundreds of voices[...]" onwards reads like bad woolf
"place a beam of sunlight upon" - clunky, the word "upon" very often makes u sound like a high schooler, i avoid it unless it needs to be there
"situated upon" again just sounds like u want to be wordy, for me its pointless
fun town / depressing hospital contrast is fine but using "break" is counterintuitive because nobody actually breaks into hospitals
"A broken arm? Check. An overdose? We’ve got that too." is just weirdly flippant i'd modify
"welcomed to" doesn't work
"couldn’t care less about where they are." nebulous, which if on purpose is fine but otherwise slightly confusing. are they patients or visitors?
>She paused to take largest cupcake out of the plastic basket and with a large inhale approached me. “For the birthday man!”
that part i like

i assume ur fairly young and that u speak more than just one language because there are a few little things that stick out to a native

anyway good luck with the rest

>no, it is the READERS who are wrong

This is the wrong attitude to have, user. You made the conscious decision to post in a criticism thread, so be an adult about it. Multiple people have said (and rightly so) that your writing is too dense and flowery. If you're looking for a food analogy, that passage about "Peach and Pumpkin Skies" was like caramel fudge brownies: pretty good for a couple bites, but it's much too rich to make an entire meal out of it. I don't think I could stomach reading more than a few pages of a book written like that, and it's not me being lazy, I'm just allergic to verbosity.

And I'm saying that it's a pretty basic food image that follows theme well. I may be biased, but I'm usually a fair judge of self and am more than certain the point is clear.

Nice trips. The piece could be a bit more direct, even accounting the atmosphere of mystique. Some may disagree, I'm not a fan of being in SO in the dark. Third sentence feels gimpy. More personally, I don't like fleeting references to occasions the reader wouldn't have otherwise known about. 6.5/10 too wide, but for what it's worth one of the better things I've seen on here this evening.

You could have explained all of that in one sentence. These dudes are right; it's not actually stimulating, it's just a task. Arduous at that. 3/10

You're the cunt

Didn't read the whole thing. It's mostly a condescending ramble, but I can tell you were pulling from somewhere in your soul. 3.5/10

r8 my r8

ok carry on being bad then pal

1.5/10 you noticed the trips

You're pretty much confirming the way I felt about every post you replied to, so I think you're a pretty swell guy

Is the Daily Boob a good satire journal?

Well that's just it, I aim to write just sort of short images and stories that paint a 'skit' that which has a clear message. But the scenery of the skit and the images in the writing try and tell and reveal an underlying statement. Like a painting. This is literally all the piece is. It's why I try to write poetry, but I still suck at meter, and hence why it started as a shirty poem.

Aw man I feared this. I thought the tone was executed pretty well but if you think it's clunky then I'm going to seppuku.

It is the very beginning. I'll try and tidy it up but I have 25~ pages of the relative tone and style so this worries me.

I'm native English. Feels bad

forest haiku

the smell of a brook: dirt rubbed between your fingers -- sandy, staining brown.

here's one of mine, pages go left to right obv

this is mainly introductory stuff, the action of the story is the character meeting a witch and being turned into a bull

>it's full of pseudowords you faggot
yes, i like them >:[

i'm not some arbiter of prose man like i said other people will dig it and there are people in this very thread that do, those are just my feelings on it and i'm nobody

just keep writing the only person you need to satisfy with your work is yourself, crit threads just let u escape the claustrophobia a bit i think

When the river falls
out over the bay
I look down the halls
of my new stay.

When out by the door
I see a quick smile,
a triumphent whore,
standing all the while.

With a rasp in her voice
and a glint in her eye
she sounds a rejoice;
we're both really high.

With clumsy fumblings
we get into bead,
we bumble and tumble
and my heart fills with dread.

I wake with a start
and stare up at the celing
with a fluttering heart,
a familiar feeling.

I search to and fro
to my left and my right
when I feel a warm glow
a jolly good night.

Missing punctuation makes it difficult to read. Seems interesting. Does suffer from mistakes similar to most pieces posted in these threads, those generally being lack of brevity, but at least it goes somewhere. 7/10

Doesn't do anything for me personally. Seems somewhat decadent/superfluous. Why do I need to know you're both really high? Why does your heart fill with dread? It just doesn't add up.
3.5/10 at least the shitposts are becoming more readable.

I refuse to post in these threads because I don't hate myself enough

>fears outside opinions
>doesn't hate himself

These are the best sorts of threads because everyone's honest and can be as shitty as they want. If you have a good work, you'll know. If it sucks, you'll really know

2.5/10

You're not wrong

>I don't hate myself ENOUGH

what's worse? being told youre shit, or getting zero responses?

it depends on how funny the criticism is

Wow a real thread for once, free of memeing and one word responses. bout time.

I'm not sure if this is an excerpt or the first line or anything. I like the simpleness of the POV's words, and you made it so that they didn't come off as really confusing and they didnt kick you out.

After reading your edit the cyclopean line fits better.

It raises the question of who is this person, and who are the Angels they are running from? I'm getting a feel of a more futuristic cyberdark feel, of a city at night with the blare of neon lights, and the main character fleeing from anything that would reveal him to the Angels that are hunting him. He feels like a renegade cyborg or something artificial. It does make me want to know more.

The thing is, I read some of the lines in Heavy Weapon Guy's voice from TF2, mostly after the "I be a sweat machine" lines.

So, the Factory and the Angels are one and one, correct?

36 "his focused was stolen" slight error here, On the part between 35 and 36 when he goes underwater, I'm not sure why he went down there yet (maybe you explained it already but it didn't click in my head yet), and if 36 cuts off abruptly, or you just didn't put a period. And on the data sphere object, is this a modern piece of equipment or future object?

"He hoisted her onto his should" and "he away parts of his usual proportion" are other typos? I think. You should capitalize on the development on line 48 with the knocking at the door. There isn't that much attributed to it, and it seems like it was swiftly addressed and the feelings and reactions of the keeper and girl are skipped over. So after reading the whole thing I realized who the little glowing girl, the pureblack fish-eyed boy and the wife were meant to be, kind of like Sirens who tempted him from his duty, enchanting him into forgo his duties as the keeper to acquire the family he lost? I think in the beginning you should dig into some more of his normal routines and flesh out his loyalty to the old gods that the sirens dislike, and his loyalty to his role as the keeper. So eventually, when he does give up the lighthouse for them, it makes a more dramatic impact.

Yeah spot on with the siren/temptation.

Also thanks for the input and massive thanks for pointing out the typos.

>a more futuristic cyberdark feel, of a city at night with the blare of neon lights, and the main character fleeing from anything that would reveal him to the Angels that are hunting him. He feels like a renegade cyborg or something artificial. It does make me want to know more.

Awesome! yea that's exactly where I'm going with it. It's the opening. The Angels & everything else will be explained later or thru flashbacks. Basically, the angels winged agents that work for the Department of Birth - the Factory is where people are born/reincarnated. Our protagonist knows too much.

Reminds me a bit of Lovecraft. Not sure if that's what you're going for but it feels like this is the setup for something dark.
I honestly don't know if I like this or not. It's well written but the setup seems really ham-fisted
This reminds me of comfy midwest autumn nights so if that's what you're going for I'd say you've got it.
Good Characterization
Feels a wee bit melodramatic, but genuine

Here's the intro to a short horror story I've just started: pastebin.com/2FYZ8kGh

This is all so fucking shit.

Not really, there's some good work in here.. You're heads just shoved so far up your own ass

one thing I'd say is you should decide on a firmer narrative voice. Or at least double check it.

Because sometimes its not clear if its the grandchild narrating or if we're in the the grandfathers past.

I like that it's sparse of too much verbose language keeps it feeling like a story you'd tell in the car. And I'm intrigued to read it in full

I wantu moro...

This is a translated short story, I think it's good but my english is not perfect. Took time to translate, hope you guys appreciate it

docs.google.com/document/d/1yNjMymqgSwhuzXQ-NxzzRmJ_dq5AVVYfxj4skdV29nc/edit?usp=sharing

I like the rhyming, but one could, with a little imagination, replace the "dew" with a more historically and culturally interesting word. Think of the context, where we are right now, and how it could get some laughs out of lots of folks around here.
Otherwise nice meme

I like this, I've never been to Spain, but this reminds me of the mediterranean sea
Only thing I'd change is when there is the part where the man "stamps his feet song-crazed and love-crazed", wouldn't it be better "stamps his feet crazed by song and love"?
But yes, it made me very nostalgic, wish I could see the sea again

kek'd at this being the post with more (You)'s

pastebin.com/KDsYJ3Gr

muh crappy purple prose fan fiction
if you don't like warhammer most of this won't make sense to you

>You're heads just shoved so far up your own ass

oh dear. The phrasing is convoluted, as is the vocabulary, and it is not at all musical or nice to hear.
>saying squall-words in tweeting tones
>Positing oraculars upon the sparrow bone
>the girl against the self in glassy splendor
>Hanging like a globular plum from the skies
who the fuck told you this was ok?

Read some Lorca, Keith Douglas, Ted Hughes, Borges, Auden, and try again.

I think the conversational style here is a little cliche, like it's how you think people speak, but you've seen too many action films.

>Charles Carrol? Yeah I know him. Hell, I worked with him in Korea.

Charles Carrol? Gook Gutting Carrol? I worked with him in Korea. Guy never came out of a tunnel without a scalp.

This is great. Reads like bipolar maniac's thoughts.

What distinguishes this from prose?

The rhythm here is awkward.

Elegy to a Blossoming Danseur

Glissading brusque youth; in autumn’s garland of bay,
Proudly prances and struts, with the lithest of hearts.
But in the fainting of stars, it withers away;
And with one last pirouette: – He gently departs.

My tears will not rain; they shall not fall on the pall,
For all has but vanished in one wasting breath.
I shall strew it with petals of spring’s finest fall –
Let the fragrance of flowers dance twain with thy death.

stop me from writing purple prose lads PLEASE

The screen sears my eyes and it hurts like a fire but trapped inside me and it hurts and he abandoned me again but I know that if I can fix this then it will never hurt me again and so I call him again and he doesn't answer so I call him again and leave another message and I forget now how many times I have called but I know that he will pick up and then he will come back to me. He is my perfect seraphim, my angel, my precious baby and I love him more than anything and everything in the whole world and the world is big and scary and wants to rip us apart but I know that nothing can come between us because our love is stong and sometimes it feels like it isn't but I promise you it is strong but when he is confused or sad it feels like scissors. He is unblemished and sheerly and I wish that he would message me back or answer a call or something to show that he is there and he wants to make things better and maybe I could wait until morning but by morning I will disappear into smoke and ash and bubbling tar and I will sink down into a deep and dark hole that I dug with my fingernails. My fingernails are soft since I took a shower this morning and I fell asleep in the shower thinking of you but I bit my fingernails tonight or last night or both and I remember swallowing the fragments. I call him again and he doesn't even hang up this time it just rings and rings and rings and rings and the tone of the ringing is screeching at me with hate on its voice. I would never hate him. He can fly on his perfect angel wings up into the blue sky and I want to fly with him in the blue sky but I am tethered to this pit by a chain or a rope or nothing at all in a fetid pool of my mistakes and if we can't fly together I can clip his wings with my scissor feelings and use the feathers to build a house in Oregon with dark oak floors and a cozy fireplace. We don't need kids because we will have each other and our love is strong tomorrow but today I am sad and scissors and empty like a big lake but without water and the fish in the lake flip and flop and flap on the arid lakebed but they can't bring the water back and what I mean is the water is our love and the lake is our love and I don't know why you haven't picked up the phone. You know that I love you and I know you love me but it is really easy to be confused sometimes and other times it is hard and impossible like when you know something like I know that I love you. I know that I made a mistake all that time ago and I still think about it every night. My mistake is snipping scissor feeling and I'm so sorry that it snips and snaps you too. My fingernail is too short now. I am sorry. I want to be pretty for you but it is so hard when I ruin my body like this. (Continued)