Critique

Drip.

He farted hard, and so he did.

Yo, your narrator here. I'ma be taken you on a fucking rollercoaster of a ride so you besta buckle yo seat, and strap yo retard helmet on and make sure yo momma who's reading this to you gotta a cup of coffee cause you ain't gonna wanna sleep until this shit is over. You ready? Alright here we go. Three. Two. One.

Today, through a reflection in an eyeglass on the table adjacent ours, I saw a man die: sucked up under an inattentive towncar ferrying powerlunching stockbrokers back between Houston and Broad.

It was the first day of my real life, it also was the last of february.

The haughty prose is uncomfortable to read. Not very grabbing. 3/10

Gay 2/10

5/10, 5/10

4/10 Edit that shit at least. Also,
>first sentence

6.25/10, quite a mouthful

Get on with it. 2/10

Finally, I can see professor Bloom across the quad. Loudly I scream, "GUESS NOW WOULD BE A GOOD TIME TO STRETCH MY LEGS!".

Her pee pee went around his pee pee, hers was wet and warm but his was cold like ice but not anymore because they were inside each other, her ass now inside his cock.

Aw shit, the landlord's got his dick out again.

There was nothing else left for us to do.

On hands and knees up and down the grim and beautiful coast of Montauk, he sifted the salt and pepper sand for a carcass of jewelry--hearing something being trumpeted awfully back a few, the whine of broken backed lobsters, a soundtrack of screaming flirtatious girls picked up by their fleeting lovers.

If waking up at 3pm every day without regret were an art, then Jasper Holiday was a first rate forger at the height of his career in his prime of sleeping technique, wasting no stroke, whether he was painting the day away by reading comics or jerking it to his non-existent younger sister.

0/10 generic as all fuck.

CRASH!

"Height of his career" and "in his prime" are redundant, pick one.
Otherwise, I liked it and would keep reading.

this is dank

In the he died as he lived, aroused and upset.

[.]

At dusk, Kevin shifted gears and up we went into the mountains, watching the kudzu laden trees and distant tendrils of wood smoke fall away.

Here it is in Spanish and the translation:

Caminaba por sobre la llanura gris, al tiempo que el sol le escocía las pestañas.

He walked past the grayish plain, as he felt the Sun chafe his eyelashes.

Not actually writng a novel just came up with this. feel free to shit on it.

If waking up at 3pm every day without regret were an art, then Jasper Holiday was a first rate forger at the height of his career with hundreds of beautifully rendered classics of sleep, wasting no stroke, whether he was painting the day away by reading comics or jerking it to his non-existent younger sister. It all started with the best and worst day of his life. The day that would set the canvas for his way of being. 6th grade march 15 1985, the day of his 13th birthday in which he lost his virginity to Erika, the prettiest girl in the class, it was also pizza day at lunch, but alas the pizza was gone once J. got to the line and all that was left was day old lasagna. Ok he said to the lunch lady while avoiding eye contact, he'd never bothered to learn her name or any of her kitchen mates, they were just there serving up gunk until Pizza Thursdays. After handing out the 75¢ and slipping away he stood at the edge of the tables and scanned the dank hall, with hanging fans and all, it's wide windows near the roof couldn't do enough to make the vacuous carapace feel less like an old hospital ward. Crap he thought, Blocky and Mike have second lunch, I'll have to sit alone again. Walking by the running and laughing kids was a memory that would always paint it self in Jasper's head, especially in institutionalized facilities, wards and cafeterias, auditoriums and theaters, they all had a sense of utility that he wasn't used to, everything too clean, too organized, it would be much better to spread some color around, bring in a few couches instead of benches.

The beef in the lasagna had a sour taste, he closed his eyes and told himself he'd be early next time, screw Erika, she would find someone else to hold her books while she walked down the stairs. There wasn't much he remembered about Erika except her voice and looks, looking back at her now from time to time whenever he thought of girls past, he would congratulate himself but banging her, his first crush, but would immediately feel inadequate for the horrendous city moving, school changing memory delegated to that fateful day. The lasagna rumbled, his stomach made noises and pirouettes as he walked up the old ceramic tiled stairs, the pain started and the sweet smell of piss and weed from the 8th grade side of the school he used as a shortcut made a lump in his throat, the stairwell started to spin, he would throw up and everyone that was there racing to class would look down at his convulsing body shooting out yellow slime on the floor, but he held and on a merciful cue the last of the drilling footsteps crossed the door and banged it shut sucking the air chunks from his stomach. The pain was unbearable, he closed his eyes tight and heaved again over the railing onto the janitor closet below him. Shit why why why he managed to blurt out with a thread of spit before his stomach gave a final twist and shot out the last of the rotten mess. This was not however what made this day the worst and the best of his life.

Also, in the Spanish version, I'm aware "por sobre" might seem a little off, though I'd rather keep it

what the fuck, eyelashes dont get chafed. that's bad. Just say the sun hurt his eyes.

One fine morning in the month of May an elegant young horsewoman might have been riding a handsome sorrel mare along the flowery avenues of the Bois de Boulogne.

This wasn't what I meant, when I asked for a serving of pea soup.

>reads a book once

Does chafe imply rubbing? That was what I was fearing

I was making the sidewalk my left foot's bitch (and then my right's, and then left's, etc.), when I bumped shoulders with some hasty lil nigga clutching a leather bag.

The black stud looked straight into her eyes and they both knew that the consummation was confirmed, so I heard from my wife.

Smeared across the wall was this bureaucratic milktoast's cells and laundry

Without a thought, he clicked "Post."

At 10:57, it was decided by unanimous vote that the Birch family was going to die.

>/pol/: a novel

this is a good one

Like a fruit, his asshole puckered and tingles emanating from his lower half traveled upwards, steadily increasing in intensity.

samefag scum

Try again.

I would have liked to see more painting puns desu.

yes, and if it's the same in spanish then it sounds weird as well.

how does an asshole pucker "like a fruit"

It was another sleepless night in which I was debating whether or not to cut off my other leg in order to pass all the lines at Disneyland; the first one apparently wasn't enough.

The man is like a fruit. Because his asshole is puckering. Presumably from a faggosexual experience of some kind.

i thought it was a funny beginning go away autist

a butter plum sat gregariously on the wood grain stove awaiting to be plucked like the fruit of stars and tree horns in the forrest of evermore, dropped into a bucket of sauted stew. Nathanial Pettonspre was just exiting the shower when he heard a shout coming from the white kitchen, and at first he thought it might have been his garlic water simmering over the pan, the steamy liquid hitting the metal like a tea kettle squeal, as he prepared his meal before he entered the shower, and it was almost all he could think about, between operatic belting groans, quarter edging cock cleaning, and the soothing drifting thoughts of dark blue sky going on for miles with the cloud colors, the open expanses of barbarian armies trolloping on psycho horse, with the hot water god love blanketing his back and head; it was his roommate Delilah. "NATHANNN!!, what the fuckk dude... what the fuck did I tell you about leaving the stove on while your not in the room, especially if you're taking a shower. Fucking, retarded man, you lazy fucking cunt, I just spent all last weekend scrubbing that place clean, and you just spray and stain wherever you please, mr fucking fantastic, clean".

"ummm, i'll clean it bitch, chill the fuck out, my hunger is much more important that harmless not-even-dirty-dirt, and what is more valuable than efficiency, chill your shits and lack of giggles you fuck wagon, turn the temperature down, i've gotta take a shit".

lel

>Then he unleashed the wrath of his mg42 upon the unknowing catamites for a full thirty seconds before noticing yusef's shouting off to his left.

YOU'RE A FA9

Yuo is höm0 mor

Thus she farted loud and clear, putrid odor filled my nostrils and I screeched loud and clear as my testicles emptied themselves involuntarily.

TEST

If Gregor could be a bug, then why couldn't he chop his dick off and call himself a girl?

Do you feel nervous?

No two ships in the Terran Fleet are exactly alike.

two gods remained one if you counted the golden retriever's arse full of william gass that night, my diary desu was to intelligent for publication, again the moocow down the glen he spat ye for ye see the kid, tortilla yecarthy and DFW [1] write better than any god damn woman, it is
the death
of art i will never understand
why you held me
if you were afraid of
the legacy of
totalitarian dreamscapes in a tundra
like a rolling stone.

[1] Wallace, David Foster (1962-2008). Novelist known principally for writing about passing an intro mathematics class viz. every other hack in America.

Don't listen to those scum, I like it, its very nice (if its really your opening line, or if its not)

Dig it much, really good

Got me hooked bro, keep writing

Oprah: "So what made you decide to write this novel?"

(You): "Well, I was really struggling with my graphic novella e-zine, actually to tell you the truth...I hope my moms not watching.. I was considering suicide" (crowd gasps, camera pans to a woman in a green turtle neck tearing; as Oprah reaches back and hands you a box of tissues)"but then, there was this thread online, that said to post the first sentence of your novel, and I dont know what came over me, it just poured out, from the deepest depths of my soul, that most poetic truth, I kept bottled in me all those years" (crowd collectively sighs)

*Oprah jumps on the chair* "You get a copy of this New York Times Bestseller, you get a copy, you get a copy" *crowd going wild*

Oprah: "Before we go to commercial, what was the name of this forum, so we can make sure to give them proper congratulations?"

(You): Oh, its nothing really, just this Ethiopian peanut sniffing factory called Veeky Forums

*crickets... a pin drops... the cameras turn to emergency broadcasting*

*Oprah clenching her teeth pointing her finger toward the door*

Oprah: "You get up...and you start walking toward that door...and I dont EVER... want to hear your name again...do you... hear me... you fuck..."

Good

"Why did I do this?"
He sat in the small dinghy for endless hours, rocking back and forth on the sea. The sky grew clouded, more rain was to fall. There wasn't enough wind to get to his destination in good time. Nobody. Nobody in 2 months. The boat glided slowly in the the general direction of a woman he wasn't sure he loved anymore. A single drop of rain landed on the back of his hand. He sat outside, surrounded by infinite sea and nothing, nothing. Perhaps she was just a placeholder for him to have a purpose in his otherwise meaningless life, he wondered. He would go to her, not sure if she would even care, not even sure if he would either, but still having achieved the goal of sailing halfway around the world. So much time, so much water. He began to sing

Raggedly, the nigger drew his last dying breath.

I'm slowly starting to accept that Veeky Forums has zero talent and only dilettantes expecting praise post in these threads. This is hardly better than the Reddit thread.

After work, Buddy decided to stop by Eddie’s place to see what the guys were up to. He parked and let himself in; they’d all be down in the rec room watching the game, no doubt.
He walked down the stairs and found everybody sitting around, watching the game.
“Hey, guys,” Buddy said, and helped himself to a beer from the well-stocked fridge.
“Buddy!” Ralphie called out from across the room.
“Good to see you, Buddy,” said Eddie, looking his way.
“Hey, Buddy,” Billy said, holding up a hand, without taking his eyes off the TV.
“Anyone need another beer?” Buddy asked.
“I’ll take one,” Ralphie said.
“Me, too,” said Eddie, and caught the one Buddy threw his way.
“Yeah, I could use one, too,” said Billy.
Buddy settled in on the couch…another weekend had begun.

Mike hit him with a metal bar and the man fell, dead. Mike left hurriedly, realizing he was going to have a murder rap. Getting in his car, he drove away fast, heading for a hotel. At the hotel he sat and decided what to do. He called his girlfriend and told her to pack his things. The police found the body and identified the killer as Mike by fingerprints on the bar. Before the police could track them down, Mike and his girlfriend got on a plane to Europe. In Europe they went to the countryside and decided to buy a house with money the girlfriend had. “I need a gun, too,” said Mike. They bought everything, food too. Then they settled down and lived under European names. That was the past.

Interesting approach, I don't know if a general audience will get it though

GENRE FICTION but id read it

6/10, but that's two sentences.

If it were up to me I never would have touched a sausage in my entire life, but nobody exists in a vaccuum.

Life is fate. The world is one—and many. No one can tell when our world will end or even if it has an end, a beginning, or a middle. We can only go with the flow and hope for the children.
A man is born. He creeps through life on his metaphorical hands and knees, seeking—ever seeking. Seeking. Only to die with that question still on his lips: what is it that I seek?
In the ages since Earth was formed from the sweepings from the Big Firework that made our so-called universe, generations have risen and been consigned to the scrap heap, all straining to become themselves without ever truly knowing if those selves were selves or simply the clowns or dreams of space and time. Will the mishmash of eternity ever be unknotted by the laser of consciousness? Only we hold the answer—if we do.
But as Niestchze said, “For every thing there is a season.” Thus begins the season of Harry Carruthers: insurance salesman, father, lover, and seeker, ever seeking.

>dilettantes

*tips thesaurus*

Of course it started off with me having fun.

>he thinks Veeky Forums is one guy

The twittering of birds at daybreak sounded insipid to Francis.

Read this as:

The twittering of birds at daybreak sounded stupid in France

I can see it. Thanks.

Not bad but it kinda goes off on the kid and I was left waiting on the first part. Who is this Jasper guy, how old is he, what does he do, where is he etc.

The two main obstacles are that posting here is considered "self-publishing" at least under the US rules, and as such uses up "first world-wide" rights, which means no one with any serious chance would ever post here; and second, anyone with any kind of serious chance would never want it later revealed that they were ever in any way associated with Veeky Forums. As adequately captures.

fucking LOL is this reads like bad 19th century pulp.

The brilliant cerulean sky was shining bright blue above us, and in it was the yellow speckle of the sun pouring a golden shower of radiance, sparkling coins of light, and I had just convinced my girlfriend to get an abortion.

Nevermind the pins and needles up and down his arm, it was the clock's ticking which worried him.

>You little faggot! I will floss your teeth with my pinworms and you will thank me.

Little did he know that he just sealed his fate, it had been a long time coming.

I'm surrounded by memes and jokes.

The clouds prepare for battle, in the dark and brooding silence.

Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed.

>The snow burned as it touched my cheeks -- rosy from the alcohol early that night.

The protagonist is an alcoholic if you didn't catch it from the start

The crippled guns around Triena moaned and squeaked as they cooled, barcoding the silver dawn for miles in every direction with pillars of smoke.

that's two sentences follow the rules fagmo

It wouldn't be in english

Tommy couldn't stop crying.