Post you work, and critique another posters work. Simple. Help the Veeky Forums, get help from the Veeky Forums, and so forth.
If you don't rate another anons and post your own shitty writing, you probably won't get a rate or any sort of constructive criticism.
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There were two chickens left in the place where chickens are kept.
I do mean to imply that two is a number lower than what the space had been used to previously. And I do not intend to call it a coop.
This is the tale of an encounter that changes nothing. When the sun shines on a snowy day, the whole world bursts and gleams and everyone must think that the snow will melt. But it doesn't. That night, the snow falls again, and nothing has changed.
Meeting Olivia should and could have changed everything, but it didn't. In a few months, she would be dead and forgotten and I would be back in Alaska, transcribing young adult novels for John Green to steal from.
This tale changes nothing.
-
Is that it?
[scottish schoolboy discussion] probably sounds shit with the slang
"I dinnae like Daniel. He looks like a council estate Harry Potter. One ta many chip butties", said Mark.
We all laughed around the table.
"He couldn't buy chip butties with Gringotts money though" said Fat Alex.
"Aye, but, why could he no' magic them?"
"I don't think magicking up a chip buttie would be on a wizard's agenda." I said.
Mark sat astute, thinking it over.
"Nae fat wizards".
"What?"
"Nae fat wizards. Crabbe and Goyle were like the only ones. They didn't even have P.E, did they? When they did, they sat on brooms. Could you imagine me, Fat Alex and David at one of those main hall feasts with no Dumbledore to tell us to put down the fork? Muggle food as well. Dinnae tell me those wizards werenae pure gaggin' fur a kinder egg."
"Aye, but they had that sweet shop in the wee toon near Hogwarts mind? Why hae a kinder egg when you can hae a chocolate froag?"
David said, "you had to chase them..."
"What was that Davey lad?"
"You had to chase the chocolate frogs, they didn't sit still. That means they didn't need P.E because they were too busy chasing those frogs. That was their exercise." he said factually.
"David I think you just cracked it you wee genius!" Mark beamed, "I doubt they had wizarding weight loss DVDs in the owl post either. Big Man Goyle couldnae just wave his wand and say 'kebabis disappearus!" fat bastard!"
We all laughed.
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For you Veeky Forums
His, my, our room cluttered with boxes
and stale air particles that smell like grandma
Gertrude's ashes, clog the noseholes like
yo dawg when is we gonna unpack this shit:
the meaning of that *namedrop* treatise we just read
publicly ofc to ensure the action was not in vain
hahahah I'm fucking hilarious—in vain—get it?
I don't NOT get it if you know what I mean heheh
At least my samurai sword came in the mail
just like that one dude's dad who was the mail man
Troy, that's the one; he loves Stephen King
and expensive bicycles for some reason
I'm really hungry and this stream really needs to dry up
like Grandma Gertrude's ashes that still talk like Grandma
when's that bitch gonna die I want her maroon Jag.
I once went on a boat tour in Belize
through the marshy brackish waters we went
my family and friend till the ended end
where waited a chicken and rice shop
that I still when hungry think of today
by which I mean everyday I don't eat
which is every other day for me
metaphorically speaking that is boy I'm poetic
and when I'm on heroin boy I'm frenetic
because opposite day it isn't so forget it
the color of the sky is that of a dead apple
no it isn't, it's the color we perceive as you know who
the man who godlily placed himself on a pedestal
and kicked it out from under him before hanging
on the edge of historical relevance, a t-shaped cross
the initial owner of all a certain type of progeny
a seventh of the world claims silently as its own:
the Oprah Winfrey Network, where dreams are bade—
I'm a genius said the balladeer
before he ordered me a beer
and said, "Oh no! He's here!"
The rhyme scheme is pretty awkward, reads like a jimmy buffet song. Also are not all crosses t shaped? Not the best, would re-work most of it.
here is a short story i wrote. all critique welcome.
Her death this year approaches
her soul still lit but fading
the mind a forgetful husk
she tiptoed around their lives
shaping their future bright
avoiding her walker’s rust
impossible it seemed in hindsight
she sits the days in memory
what little is there is frothy and flies
mother still lives
sisters still laugh
horse hooves pound the earth
first loves blossom and ripen
the crops green in her hand
rocking chair creaks and wakes present pain
children in denial cling to stories
strangers speak freely
they know all about her life
it trickles from familiar faucets
forming a soggy puzzled past
the missing mouths
the blurry blackouts
the dying son
milky eyes cascade and cloud
atrophy drowns the long hours
an air of expiration dances
it abounds
only on humid nights she laughs
when back home in the fields
the dust with her life resounds
every morning a confusion
each it’s own struggle
trivial spaces fall out of time
baby faces now grown and bearded
her rosary the only constant
her purple veins a source-less river of time
turning rapids into delta
she’s done her duty
she’s lived
she’s loved
she’s raised
she’s hated and scorned
any day now peace will come
the mourners will come undone
I'd cool it a bit with the scottish spellings, make it a bit more subtle
The sun beat down on the highway in the Arizona desert. The flat expanse of land went to the edge of the horizon. Two riders hurtle down the road on a dusty blue motorcycle and an equally dusty blue sidecar. The rider was obscured by his helmet and leather jacket, but this was not the case for the side rider. He was Sidecar Sam, hurtling down the road with a mission, a mission of life and death and love.
What does dinnae mean? I read most of it in the Demoman's voice to help, and there are good parts where the dialect didn't impede, and others did, although my experience with Scotdialect is low.
Its a nice discussion. I didn't realize there were 3 people talking until I re-read it though, as Mark, Fat Alex and the Narrator blended together mentally. Doing triple-dialogue does get cumbersome but can work with the right blocking and in-between lines.
You've got the setting, characters and goal wrapped up in just a couple lines. I like it.
It's a short story
“Well I don’t plan on dying, but I suppose they all say that. Guess I’ll just have to hope I’m a bit more clever than them. I’d say lucky, but if I had any of that I wouldn’t be here. Perhaps I should head down to Goren’s Hall, kiss the old man’s feet and hope I can steal a bit of luck.” Ariann did not so much as answer him, and instead turned to leave.
On days he had been too stressed out from work to hardly think, he had gone to the hall. The great bronze statue stood tall in the center of a wide plaza. Instead of being cast in a single piece numerous metal sheets, poles, and brackets had been hammered together into a rough form. Most of the structure was twisted into a wicked piece, with dozens of sharp points sticking out in every direction, save for its left foot. Goren held the title of living saint, one of the Hopeful whose history had died but legends endured. He only vaguely knew the story. In the darkness beyond the chamber groans leaked from below the enormous iron doors.
For the hopeful did split, disappearing to the corners of the earth to find their fortune. Gorem, the young, had traveled for many a day beneath the beating of the sun. Loudly he would complain that his feet bruised from the stones, his head burnt from the sun, and that his heart hurt to be away from his brothers. Only after long travel did he find the rock, a sight to behold with its bulk looming over the great river Mott. Gorem basked in the shade it cast down, and his skin was soothed. He dipped his feet into the river, and they too found relief. And atop the stone, far away, he saw a shade. Against the setting sun he saw a woman, and so too, was his heart soothed. In this moment he vowed to build the great switchback tower and find the woman who had stolen his heart.
Men and women, mostly poor, would come and kiss the feet of Gorem the young, and hope that their ills would be soothed. In their absence clouds had come off the bay, piling above the rock into great thunderheads, brought by the breeze he had felt. Only the breeze had grown into a storm.
Dear fucking christ this feels offal to read. This is the last thing I wrote, months ago. I can barely fucking stand to look at it. Should I try and return to it?
This is mine. Now I am reviewing.
It feels disjointed, and not in a good way, particularly the third and fourth stanzas. I would address them first as they feel awkward to me. I can't put my finger on a particular piece that feels awkward, but the feeling is there.
This room’s walls close in on me every night. Each time the sun leaves the sky, long shadows dance on the white plaster canvasses that envelop me. Darkness creeps out from its hiding place when light leaves the windows, and takes hold of me. Where darkness used to lull me to sleep, I know feel that it is no longer as comforting. I find darkness to be more of a nuisance than anything else. It distracts from the important things in life, but who am I to comment on life, as close to death as I am?
My bed has become my prison cell. It holds me hostage as all of existence passes me by. My bedside table is littered with cards wishing I would get well, a pile of good intentions wasted on an undeserving person. I haven’t read any of them since November. It’s February now, I think.
Cobwebs have built up over the past few months. They decorate the corners of the room and my peripheral vision. The room’s main attraction is the large flat-screen television. The only thing that ever plays is the news, and while I’m normally one for a good classic tragedy, current events aren’t my cup of tea.
If you’ll grant me the opportunity to whine, I’d like to tell you exactly how I feel at the moment. Let’s begin with my body, shall we?
My bones ache like they’ve endured some lifetime of hard work I’ll never know. Each time I move, searing hot pain shoots up my spine and into my skull. Every breath in is agony. Every breath out is torture. My head feels like there are hundreds of drills boring into my brain. Bright light triggers a headache like nothing you will ever experience in your lifetime. My jaw feels like it’s unhinged each time I open it, and chewing the hospital food is unbearable.
My appearance has deteriorated as well. My hairs abandoned my body long ago. My skin is scarred from burns long ago and my lips are chapped and faded. My body has withered away and in place of my old form, there is a skeleton.
Worse than my body is my mind. All I can think about is how guilty I feel. Self pity is a vicious cycle and I’ve been trapped for a year. I don’t think I’ll ever escape.
Do you want to know the best part? I deserve all of it.
a cross is technically usually x-shaped but I appreciate your input my internet-going friend
I read your short story (a few lines to be exact) and verily believe its overly melodramatic nigh obfuscated chaff that requires much grounding like an erratic live wire cut from the highest of telephone poles in Nebraska
Thanks, I expected it to get shat on. Dinnae means 'don't know', like 'dinnae ken', sometimes it's dunna. It changes with region, I'm from the west coast .
sorry 'dinnae' ' don't' as in 'do not'
I'm enjoying this thread thus far.
I remember it clearly, that night as a child. The first fireworks display I ever saw.
It was the fourth, obviously. My mom and dad, my sister and I, we stood there on a hill overlooking the football stadium, the only place in town that could seat all the people who wanted to watch. We chose this location because my mom hated crowds. But it was nice and quiet, and the warm July air rustled through the grass as I waited, unlit sparkler in hand, for the main show to start.
Then, there was the whistle.
The first firework soared into the black Texas night. It blossomed high and bright, and a thousand green streamers fell back to Earth as the sound finally reached my ears.
A second firework shot into the sky, then two more in rapid succession. My mom wrapped her arm around my dad's waist. My sister seemed in enthralled, and although I knew she wanted to be down at the stadium with Troy, she was happy in that moment with us.
I was terrified.
Each firework seemed to crash against the darkness. Each burst was too big, too loud, too unexpected for my young brain to understand. They seemed to rip the horizon apart, and just when I thought it was over, another volley would lunge up from Earth.
Reds. Blues. Circles of White. I never knew what was coming, never knew what would happen between the brief second when the firework ceased its linear journey into the sky and that burst of sound and light. Would it be big or small? Would it be one loud burst or would it crackle?
Would it rain down on my family and I; burning embers of a country's birth scorching our skin and setting the grass around us ablaze?
I couldn't wait until it ended.
And obviously, nothing like that happened but for years afterwards, I hated going to watch fireworks. By the time I was a teenager it was just something in the back of my mind. As an adult, I took my kids to see fireworks.
I got over it.
Now, things are different.
8 days ago, the first vessel came. To say it came out of nowhere is an understatement. No one even knew what was going on when a hundred satellites got knocked out of position. Like a man walking through a swarm of gnats, they were simply pushed around the form of a hulking saucer.
Invisible to our eyes until it penetrated the atmosphere, the ship materialized in the form of a near perfect circle. Just like you would imagine after years of movies and TV. But what special effects could never capture is the sheer size, the menace your soul can feel looking up at something that was not built of steel or iron but some material that was truly alien.
How can you describe a color that's like nothing you've ever seen before?
Within hours, 12 more of these ships appeared.
Two days later . . . sometimes you couldn't see the sun for hours.
CONT
CONT
The governments scrambled to make contact but received no response. With no satellites to broadcast, every radio channel was now a 24 hour news channel. My family and I sat there listening to the radio because to go outside meant you had to look up and see those things. Those horrible, hateful things that covered our skies. At least listening to it on the radio, it seemed like it was happening to someone else.
We were told that the every country's missile systems were being positioned across the globe and placed under the control of the UN. We were assured in the even, calm tone politicians always speak in that nuclear weapons that are detonated that high in the atmosphere would have minimal effect on our planet, and usually people who know better would call bullshit.
But what other chance did we have?
One night I woke up to find Maggie and our daughter, Ruth, curled up in our bed. The sheets were dripping with sweat and I sat up and looked down at them. They were both in the fetal position; Maggie's arms and body curled around Ruth's small frame and the soaked bed sheet clinging tightly against them.
It reminded me of Pompeii. That immortal image of a mother trying to protect her child from a wall of searing ash that burned them both and turned them into a monument of love's last seconds.
I haven't slept since.
Earlier today, it was announced by the United Nations Security Council that the first ship, now currently hovering over India, opened up, not doors, portals maybe that's the right word, in its hull and smaller saucers were seen landing across the country.
Invasion, they said. It's time to strike, they said.
* * *
Right now is tonight, and I walk outside my house. My family, my wife, God I love her, begged for me to go into the basement with them, and I will, I'm going to follow them down there and pray but right now, I have to see this.
I have to have hope.
And I see in the distance, the first volley of missiles belch out of their underground silos.
Then a second group from God knows from how far away . . .
Now, hundreds of Minutemen missiles split the sky apart with burning white streams of smoke trailing behind them, watching them climb higher and higher towards targets that are so alien my mind cannot even conceive they exist . . .
And it is then I realize that I have no idea what is going to happen in the split second between the missiles detonating, and the flash of the explosion clearing enough so I can see if it has any effect
A jutting hole? A crumpled hull? A scrape? Nothing?
I realize that tonight, all of humanity is a boy on that hill watching fireworks for the first time.
And just waiting for it all to end.
-The End-
I came from dirt
Just like you
I came from rain
Just like you
I came from sun
Just like you
I came from suffering
Just like you
But now I’m gone
Away from the pain
Just needle in the haystack
Or perhaps lost in my brain
I sit I laugh I wait till dawn
Then I take off my clothes
And throw my nakedness
Inside a pond
But I can’t swim
I have no limbs
I cant breath
I have no lungs
But now I’m at the bottom
Thinking about what I’ve done
But it’s too late
I’m
One blank day later, he settled on "I'll start tomorrow." He feels warm and contented with the day's efforts.
-That stuff is creepin up the canyon.
-Nah, it will stay where it is.
They shot exaust down the mountain, red paint all a blur. Down into that smutty air, straight through Elberta, Payson, then Provo was their journey this morning. The lights weren't working on the 4 way this time.
-That ol' yeller is gonna get hit if it don't move out the way.
-Oh yeah I bet it's Mexicans again.
They overtook the car ahead of them. Jonny in the backseat saw the swish of the face of an old man driving, buying his time out on the open road, maybe he was wrong though he couldn't really tell.
Out on the fields the ground was just as dull grey as the sky. Mountains held the snow peaks high on all directions but were too hazy in the smut and all too familiar to marvel at again.
-Yep we delved into that big damn smog monster, I drive down here and I swear I cut 2 hours of my life short.
-I know it.
Jonny heard the vauge words of his Grandpa but was held into the screen of his phone, blankly staring at forum posts while thinking about something useless. He swiped back at something he was looking at just two minutes earlier vainly hoping for it to update with new useless text. He browsed youtube for new videos but in a fit of resentment he unsubscribed from almost every channel that upon careful self judgement made him hate himself.
He looked back out the window and saw a crow resting on an electric pole.
This is mine
I am not good at critique.
Is this about being earthworm jim?
Too much pointless blah blah blah.
Nothing capped my attention.
Work on your form stop trying to sound special and artsy.
Stop taking opium and absinthe
>stop taking opium and absinthe
Ill take this as your nearest form of praise
dialogue seems Korny to me
I don't like the narrator for some reason. Moreover, the pain sounds like that spongebob guy with paper skin lol. also that ending is EGY af
I don't like the ending, grats on the dubs, I like the simplicity howver..
DON'T RAMBLE AT ME!
Here's mine:
I've posted this in most crit threads but here's a slightly revised version
It'd sound shit without the slang imo, I'm writing this from Edinburgh rn so I can get why it wouldn't appeal to some American readers. But so far its great imo
will be providing some more crit in a bit
>so five or six feet above the crowd made out of individuals, there was a crowd made out of a single creature
This line strikes me as a little bit akward. It's a bit of a mouthful so i'd try to think of a way to simplify it and maybe use crowd once
>dreamy lover. “They really love her.
I like this line quite a bit but It'd be stronger if you just swapped the love out for something
>dreamy lover. “They really like her.
>dreamy lover. “They really adore her.
I'm seeing a lot of X did this Y did this X did this. Which is really killing the flow for me. Besides that I like the idea and the lil snippet of conversation at the start was really good (Besides the small note I made)
To improve this I'd pick up a book with this sort of conversation and read that scene. Don't copy it but just like at how they keep the story moving along with breaking it up into little pieces of X did this
Also formatting. Look into Shunn Standard Manuscript and change the text to that. Not only does it make it easier to read it'll save a lot of time if you ever try to get it published and find out you have to convert it to the proper format.
I'd never loved anything more than the sherbet colors of the sky during sunset in the Arizona desert, especially in autumn, which was her color. Looking out over the foothills laid upon a rock with his beloved, the wind blew temperate leaving spiral plumes of her auburn hair blowing out behind her. "Do you think it will always be like this... between us, you mean?" she asked, gazed out on the ever-running heath of the wide frontier, beset with spots of green and red where the morning glory and yucca. The orange and red flaming sky was shifting to purple, and I looked to her in earnest and told her, "No, Beth, I don't. Yesterday we were not the same as now, and tomorrow I will not be who you knew today. Change... change is the only constant."
I didn't know it then how right he was, and in that moment, his ignorance was a blessing.
>I am not good at critique
That's obvious, you're no good at writing either. No amount of critique can help you, unfortunately.
All of this is fucking shit.
You took a long time to say jack shit, son. That first paragraph blows. Its like a collection of lines you think you would add to your favorite pieces and not something you wrote for this. The rest of it may try to create tension but its indirect and tedious. If you consider how few words you actually have, then consider how tedious it is to read, you should have an idea of your problem
Try combining sentences or saying the same thing in fewer words and sentences.
>sidecar sam
corny as fuck as is his mission
"in enthralled"
Also, I already don't like how fragmented this seems, that is, you describe the family member's so much even though your character is "terrified". Doesn't make sense.
"I never knew what was coming"... should be: "I didn't know what was coming".
"How can you describe a colour that's like nothing you've ever seen before?" I don't like this. There was something in the Discworld series that did this better, try to emulate that.
"The governments" literally what? How about the governments of the world over, or the leaders of our nation-states, or something...
Again, it's too simplistic. Try to change up your voice a little. "Right now is tonight," - I hate this. Please change. Sorry if I'm a dick, I think you have potential at storytelling, just read more.
>PROVIDENCE
The Valkyrie’s braided locks whisper, “Choose me.”
Her body twists in Godly patterns. She wraps me in warmth. My neck begins to burn with her excited, ropey touch. I hold my breath expectantly. I’ll forget everything soon, lost in our love.
But another arrives, sybaritic like me. Baby’s got dangerous curves and skin like ebony. The blond slithers away into obscurity; the obsidian girl approaches, we drink Chablis. I fumble with her then turn her over to me. My lips press against her chamber. She’s one to recoil with screams, I assure. Strangely enough, she always looks like a panther in motion even when still. I look at the blond girl and think twice. The black girl’s hammer reels back. She purrs in my ear, “Choose me.”
But I can’t decide who to make it with. So I stow away the Rapunzel noose and the sable Glock, selecting the red-lipstick pills instead. I’m coming God.
>Baby’s got
Cut this it feels too colloquial and modern against the rest of the flowery dialogue
I gulped the rest of my pint and slammed the tankard on the table; in my other hand I crushed the chart. I jumped up and cried “We’re going to kill a god”. My two lieutenants whooped drunkenly and started yelling for more drink.
The hunchback we were dining with smiled cynically, lop siding his face and revealing one glass tooth jutting out its blackened gum.
“ When I sold you that map Captain, you assured me it was to visit the monastery” he hissed sweetly.
Here's the first draft of my storys opening. I'm experimenting with a new narrative voice.
Not bad, a little cringey though. I don't like drinking scenes unless they're strange/funny. Maybe make some crude remarks first, or describe how confused one character may be... e.g. One lieutenant looked up from his drinking, attempting to call for more, when the captain hollered...
>The Red Madness
At the very Beginning, there was nothing. There were no stars to light up empty space, or any planets to plot their way across the universe. It was a complete void. There was no life that could expire into death. There was no time to give any sense of direction. There was no order to give way to balance. But worst of all, there was no music to match the horrible silence of nothingness. Then suddenly, out of the dark, Chaos was born. Fully formed and unburdened by the curse of time and ware, Chaos was left to brood on his existence. He was immortal, which was far worse than anything he could have ever imagined. Chaos could never die, so he was left to wander blindly in the dark, pondering: “Why am I here? Where did I come from?” he would ask his lonely self. “I cannot come from nothing. There must be a meaning.”
Alone and confused, Chaos wanted to create something himself and for himself. His curiosity had grown too much for him. He decided to make a friend to answer his questions. So he created a star from the dust and loneliness from within his heart. “I have made you, the manifestation of all my pain and solitude in this lonely darkness to keep me company,” he told the star, “Though this is all I’ve ever known… I feel that there is something else to this existence. There must be a meaning,” Chaos repeated. He looked hopefully into the star that shone so brightly in his hands. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. But as pretty as the star was, it did not answer his calls. So Chaos fell into a deep and quiet depression, brooding once again. Unmoving in his melancholic position, Chaos wept for himself and for the soundless star he’d created. “There is no meaning,” he said, surrendering from his quest for knowledge, while tears ran down his obsidian cheeks and out into the void. “The universe is absolute Chaos.” For there was no time, the saddened Chaos hadn’t realised when he started crying or when he stopped, or if he had at all. But at one point, as he raised his head, he found no tears on his face or any sadness in his heart. Instead he found a red glow. And in this moment, he smiled the first smile and looked at the star in optimism. Chaos had come to a new realisation and spoke to his one friend with joy. “I was born from the nothingness as you were from my heart!” he said with that joyful smile, “We are much alike, you and I. You have no friends just as I had no one as I first came into being, so you must be lonelier than me. I shall grant you a wish… some friends of your very own,” he declared. Then Chaos reached into his chest and pulled out a single shining orb.
CONTINUED
“This one,” he called out, “shall be named Time. Everything will follow in her direction.” It gleamed well in the darkness and floated up to its sister star.
Again Chaos offered up a sphere of light from his heart. “This is your sister, Life. She shall make stars and worlds of her own. Because of this, she will never be alone.”
After that, he summoned Death from the depths of his chest, “the end and beginning of Life, for there shall always be this never-ending cycle between the two”.
Then Order was created to represent this balance and that of the universe. Finally, he made his last star which would match the horrible silence around them, the silence which Chaos loathed so much. Thus Music was birthed. Chaos held it in his hands for some time and brought it up to his ears, listening in on its beautiful bird song. Then with a pleasant smile, he let go, sighing blissfully. Slowly, the star joined the others and they rose up together in unison, flying away into empty space. The five new stars: Time, Life, Death, Order and Music floated towards the nameless firstborn. They circled around it with a low hum of divinity. Chaos chose to speak then as the stars danced. “You, my first star,” he said warmly, “you shall be named Madness for you are the centre of my and all existence.”
The star grew blood red and brighter while the others spun in pirouettes around it. They sung as one as they went, for Music had taught them her song. Time was at the front of the group, leading them in their trajectory around the red star. Order kept them in line and proper positions, whilst Life and Death attempted to pass each other amidst the circle dance of light. “Madness,” Chaos continued, “because you kept me company in the absolute darkness and the total loneliness around us, without Time, Life, Death, Order, Music or anything else. For this, you are the driving force in all existence. The meaning of life is Madness. You are confusion, ecstasy, despair – the true nature behind everything… and you are also a loner’s best companion,”
Then the six stars flew away from their father with their new names and purposes, going off to create new worlds and, eventually, Earth. Chaos gave birth to trillions of new stars across the universe. Stretching out from infinity to infinity, the universe held all of Chaos’ daughters and all of the planets they had created. But wherever a star may be, they still orbited around the red Madness in some way. Around and around the centre star they went – which had grown ceaselessly larger and redder than any inferno, as planets were born and destroyed, as stars developed and perished – under the strong, red light of Madness. And soon, Chaos couldn’t help but wonder who had come first: him or his daughter, Madness.
Choose the Force™. Choose the Jedi. Choose a Master. Choose the Council. Choose a fucking blue lightsaber. Choose protocol droids, R2 units and clone troopers. Choose Naboo, Coruscant and Tatooine. Choose fixed-interest credit payments to the Kaminoans. Choose a Corellian freighter that did the Kessel run in less than twelve parsecs. Choose a Wookiee. Choose sneaking into the Death Star, deactivating a tractor beam, waving your lightsaber in Darth Vader's face. Choose turning into a blue ghost at the end of it all, disappearing into thin air, nothing more than an embarrassment to the whiny farmboy you trained on the way to Alderaan.
Choose your destiny. Choose repackaged irony.
But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose something else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you've got the Force™?
Who needs reasons when you've got death sticks ?
He rebelled against the empire
of United Britain to dispel the whispers
echoeing from the merchant's alleyways
gilded in grit and mired in footysteps
delighted to carry our weight once more
in the tranquil storm of life lilting like a flame
near a cracked window pane pouring ashes
from Vesuvius nearby centuries ago
flooding the cortices of posterior posterity—
how deleterious the pitter-patters of the tongue become
seeping from my flesh like amber from an oak
chopped away from the forrest for firewood and paper
for the King to seal with his Kingly seal
and send to his mistress the baker
(who baked mad repeating german no's into this post kex-mix).
Honestly I feel like I like this a lot more than I should.
It feels trashy and delirious but still finding an off-beauty in that. Like if Hunter Thompson tried to get romantic
Hopefully that's what you were going for, I liked it regardless
That's weird you say that - I was reading Kingdom of Fear at the time. Thanks, user
Stopped reading at 'Asians' you bigoted fuck
post some of your shit bill HATER hahahahaha
dead-end rosebud citizen kane piece of shit
He rebelled against the empire
of United Britain to dispel the whispers
echoeing from the merchant's alleyways
gilded in grit and mired in footysteps
delighted to carry our weight once more
in the tranquil storm of life lilting like a flame
near a cracked window pane pouring ashes
from Vesuvius nearby centuries ago
flooding the cortices of posterior posterity—
how deleterious the pitter-patters of the tongue become
seeping from my flesh like amber from an oak
chopped away from the forrest for firewood and paper
for the King to seal with his Kingly seal
and send to his mistress the baker
Sisyphus torne from the ages asunder
borne in sherbert dappled pepper spackled skies
pregnant with Thor's thundering next door
in Charon's realm, the nebula of Abraxas,
the seraglio of Bacchus, the abode of Nobodaddy,
where dreams dreamt awake name themselves McCleary
destitute shaped by a wooden arm yclept combustion
broken like the ties of a lost soul in purgatory
wandering aimless through the window glass
in search of some solace simply supplied
by the obvious universe betwixt two points:
the pre-natal and post-mortem, where the business happens
and other things too, chimeric real tomorrows day.
I believe you have seen this place. I have a minor discomfort with the way the point of view snaps from dialog, which is presumably taking place inside the vehicle, to the "red paint blur" image, which must be outside the vehicle, then the lights not working, which again must be inside. The rest of it is from Johnny's POV, but for that one red paint moment, it almost feels under control. There is nothing else here to incite ire, nor draw down judgement, so I will tell you what I hope.
I hope that the weather report somehow develops bearing on the rest of the story. I hope the landscape description somehow develops bearing on the rest of the story. I hope that something happens soon.
thank you
pretty brilliant famalam
I think my problem is imagine scenarios from the view of a narrator that has total freedom of switching perspective on the fly then I write down. Almost like a movie director who has control of reality.
I should practice limiting my writing to just one single point of conciousness.
As for something happening, I have to admit i typed out that whole thing out on my phome last nigt in bed based on motes from a car drive the day before, so i wasn't really thinking about a story.
I agree with .
It feels very disjointed. Also I feel like you can say just as much with fewer words. Always cut dead wood. Find the right words to use that express what you need of them and instead of every single line being it's own separate point, try using commas and semi colons and try to have more of a flow. This should flow like a seamless melody.
Anaphora can often seem very... trite.
Try it with fewer "Just Like You's" maybe and see how it feels. I understand the feeling you're trying to impose with the repetition but by the end of the first stanza it may lose it's heaviness or meaning to some.
Tell me I should wash my hair and if I care about you, perhaps I’ll consider it.
Tell me you’ll come over tomorrow so tomorrow I can tell you that you will not.
Tell me how the bike ride we had at three in the morning under the lone street light gave me insouciant joy as the freedom of the December wind swept against my face.
Tell me I’m unlovable until I learn to love myself, and give me nothing but silence so there’s no doubt in my mind that I never mattered.
Tell me why your pictures could never stay on the fucking wall or why I even bothered to hold your hand.
Say you’re sorry while the glint of pride in your eyes still sparks.
Tell me that my hands on her slender, pale throat are at least a distraction.
Tell me how badly I fucking needed you to stay as I watched you grow further from me than I can ever reach (But God knows I’ve fucking tried).
A simple mechanism: have another entity observe the image. "The ol' yeller saw Grandpa's truck as a blur of red paint streak by." (for example. let's not quibble about dog color vision). Or the Mexican. Or the crow.
That way, your reader knows that the camera is unhinged on purpose. If that is your purpose. David Means wrote a story once that included numerous scenes from the perspective of a goldfish in a bowl.
I dont like the second and third use of the word rider. Try to paraphrase it
Quentin lay in bed, staring up at the blank ceiling.
He thought of his birthday. Of how while he was presented with gifts and congratulations, of how while everyone indulged themselves during dinner, he thought dark thoughts.Thoughts of how he inched another year closer into the nondiscriminant hand of the inevitable.
Into the hands of death.
Quentin tossed on his half of the bed, the silk sheets doing nothing to alleviate his anxiety. He and death, they were familiar bedfellows. Old friends who had brushed few times too many.
Tightly gripping the sheets, he stared off into the darkness that engulfed the room as he thought of how the past thirteen years had treated him. He of the journey he had gone through from youth to adulthood. Of the time he had wasted with a decades worth routine of normalcy: rising to the morning sun, teaching the whole day, returning home to play the role of dutiful family man, dining, grading, and finally going to bed in the evening only to begin the same routine when he awoke with the golden sun.
He craved the unpredictable.
He craved chaos.
He craved many things.
Careful not to wake Lenore, Quentin rolled out of bed for a glass of water. He carefully moved through the room, the slivers of moonlight guiding him to the bathroom. Turning on the lights, he poured faucet water into a glass. Sipping water, he set the glass down as he stared at his reflection in the elegantly framed mirror. Quentin turned his head to get a better view of his greying temples. It was silver, Salt-and-peppered in among his black hair. Pulling scissors out of one of the drawers, he cut away the grey strands from both temples. Turning his head from side to side, he admired his handiwork. Setting the scissors back down, he turned off the lights and carefully stumbled back over to his bed through the darkness.
Quentin slept uninterrupted for the rest of the evening until he awoke at sunrise, disturbed for a brief moment before carefully jumping out of bed with optimism.
great tips! thanks
lol ok
Would be great if Chaos would speak in verses.
The sentences could be more elaborate too. Nonetheless i like it, its a good idea, but as i said the language has to fit to this divine scene
The ol yeller is a yellow truck but i see your point
My family came into the room, followed by some friends of our household. I believe I am at a point in age where family seems like a loose concept. To be locked in what is essentially an adult daycare all day strips humanity from me. I can hear my mom’s voice, but I can’t feel it like I used to. Clyde came barreling towards me, and setting down my cupcake, I scooped him up with an arm and slung him over my shoulder. I walked around the room some while asking menial questions that every relative asks to seem like they’re busy:
“How’s second grade?”
“Good.”
“What are you learnin’”?
“Nothing.”
“I’m going to get better and we can play more tag. I promise bud.”
There was no reply. It was quiet, and I think my lie was pushed too far. All eyes that were locked onto me upon my arrival were struggling to escape me now that I’ve gone and lied to Clyde. Kids don’t forget anything.
I feel like "Into the hands of death should be used with a dash.
>tossed on his half of the bed
What? Tossing baseballs?
>He and death...
That's weird. You started so dark. To say death and this kid were sleeping together as "buds" isn't keeping that with me
It reads almost like an adult kids book.
"And he did..."
"he.."
"he"
Last paragraph was alright, though. Would read if everything was like it
We get it; you can jerk off words on paper. You can only make that work with poetry.
Don't do this in prose. Trash it and keep pushing through
i have a vague idea in mind (a novel about mental illness), how should i proceed now?
should i think a story-line or something like that or start write and decide whats going to happen?
...
OH MY GOD
I thought it was a dog, because of the famous dog of that name.
First - how is it not One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest?
Because even though that was an issue novel, the characters grew bigger than the issue as it progressed to the end. It was a character-driven novel that also, by the way, exposed the relative cruelty of lobotomy and patient mistreatment, and institutionalized sadism.
And, meme though it may be - how is it not Infinite Jest? Because depression and psychosis and addiction are, it has to be admitted, deeply handled there.
Everybody's process is different. But if you don't know what is going to happen yet, you might start by sketching out who the characters are. Or start with a single scene. Or write the ending first.
cecinestpasundelire.wordpress.com
What do you guys think of my blog?
>cecinestpasundelire.wordpress.com
Jesus christ my G. Do you have any idea how fucking drab this is ? There is no reason at all for me to read this. Your voice is boring, you strike me as a na uninteresting person, you're observations and thoughts are basic af. You're like the fucking oppisite Hunter S Thompson. Also a trip to Italy is a cheap european family getaway not you canoeing down the mekong.
Get your fucking self-promoting ass of my board
>dead-end rosebud citizen kane piece of shit
the only good line in the entire thread
>beset with spots of green and red where the morning glory and yucca. The orange and red flaming sky was shifting to purple
I think your descriptors are a bit redundant. Within one line reads 5 basic color names as adjectives, while there are literally 100's of more effective equivalents that you could use.
Also,
>orange and red flaming sky
is especially redundant in that flaming already describes it as orange and red.
Overall I enjoyed the passage though.
Here's something iv'e been working on btw which conversely I'm afraid may be descriptive overkill thats detracting me from productive story writing.
*extremely spoken word slam-poetry voice*
I got those paper cuts, deep in my fingers and in my
sleep, it's Pam, secretarial, behind the phones.
cut to my bones, communication, for this lonely nation,
business in and out and Scranton, Pennsylvania, home of founding
fathers and puritan mothers, industrious children. Liberty Bell or
Liberty Hell? I bleed the truth, bossman. Michael Scott at the water cooler
myopic ruler, ancient slave driver, smiley face 90s corporate
fooler, not so cool outside of business school, cool cold Scranton
air, at the job fair, Dwight and Jim, eternal twins, locked together like
Gemini, why oh why must we fight like this, we might like this if it weren't
for the man in New York with the corporate New Talk to tell us how
to work our trade, need to get... paid, paid in full, push and
pull, the endless struggle of the working day, starts to fade,
colleagues in the parking lot, Pam the sexy frumpy image of a working
girl, only chance you've got, censored longing, a lurking
snarl, Dwight, I see it, atavistic urge and you want to
free it, set loose on this land and make it yours, an instinct ancient, Germanic,
feeling manic, nunchucks under every desk, ready for a test that
never comes, feeling numb, another dumb client gullible and pliant and
dollar signs on the spreadsheets like the dead dreams in head, beats
working in the warehouse, I guess. Yes. I got those paper cuts.
Their shack doesn't have air conditioning. It's a wooden shack with a metal roof meant to keep the rain out; it instead magically percolates. Not a place meant to be lived in, but that doesn't stop man. They have to find that one place they can conquer. Terry found Oro in the house a couple of summers ago. In that run-down piece of shit Oro was trying to find himself through the excessive usage of browntown's eye, nose, and throat doctor. He would find Oro on the floor all the time. Another man showed up without prior warning, atleast to Terry, to pick him off the floor. But Oro hasn't come back to Terry yet. That guy stole him and left Terry with quite the moral dilemma. The man loaded Oro into a van, not a place where you want to see someone go, but you have to understand Terry's position. He heard the driver mumbling about Virginia, the rehab place. He wouldn't be able to help by himself; there's no way he could reach him. And he knows that Oro "can't" stop doing drugs, not even for a day. Would that be defined as a lack of self-control, even if he has total control over what he's doing? That's what Terry thought about. Maybe there's more to it than what Terry thought, but a definite wrench in his philosophical mumbo-jumbo is that Oro has definitely tried to stop. He says he'll get better. He's just going through some hard times, he would say. In fact, he's living in a wooden shack that appears to fail at all times of the year. Terry thought about sprucing it up himself. It's just wood and metal... just add more wood. That would solve the leaking problem, probably. In the end, he decided not to. He knew Oro would just mess it up.
I feel like there's two voices here, a kind of naive vernacular one and then an involuted DFW one, and I think the piece would benefit from really pushing just one of those. If you want a really good example of the 'naive vernacular' voice in action, which at the same time can express the kind of abstract anxieties of the DFW voice, I recommend William Gass's The Pedersen Kid
For me, it has to come naturally. Besides that, the most important thing is the setting. You have to set it in a meaningful universe that you want to write about. I like to write scenes that can be seen through multiple perspectives because I often utilize multiple characters. You take that setting you developed and make your characters (who you also have to develop) react to it. The story is the easiest part, you just make things happen that refer to those characters and either make them change or stay the same. If you want to write a story, you need to do everything else first. Those are what make a good story, not the story itself.
Wow, that's a perfect description of what I was thinking. Imagine the naivety being the first run through, and the DFW being the second run through and that's basically how I wrote it. Thanks for the book suggestion
Thank (You)
Literar is gay
0/-2
Thanks for the tips!
>One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
i only watched the movie and really loved it, but its not exactly what i'm thinking of
and i'm still reading IJ, but i'll try to find my own perspective on this
It seems a bit sparse, but it isn't really bad. A description of who Johnny is in the car with may prove useful.
Here's mine. It's a touch lengthy.
docs.google.com
How does one improve? I read and write regularly but can not see any improvement. I am unsure what avenue to take from here.
Cut fat. Experiment. Cut fat. Focus very acutely on important bits until fully lucid. Improve yourself. Know yourself. Improve characters. Write characters all day long until you become a master sculpter, fully aware of every detail yet knowing the whole sum and form. Dream something so important that you quiver at the chance to write it with a giddy smile.
This doesn't really mean anything except "practice".
Shut the fuck up
offened seven-squared?
...
By asking better questions. What specifically do you want to improve?
Who needs reasons when you've got Twi'lek porn?
I agree with this post
boy oh boy do i hate fiction
"German and Google Translator side-by-side" edition
Read para 12. Then come back and tell me why that is all in there. Then, ask yourself why, if every stick of furniture is that important, why we are not allowed to learn about it while the characters interact with them in some interesting way.
Now, maybe I've got you wrong. Maybe, later in the story, a bluejay is going to fly in and get stuck in that room, run its head into the refrigerator, land in the double sink, recover enough to take off again, then launch itself from the stove, and, now being chased by the character, who jumps from the fabric upholstered chair, clatters down on the table, knocking it over, to reveal that the cardboard shim is actually a copy of their grandfather's will which bequeaths them the exact amount of money they need to resolve the central plot conflict.
In which case, ok then.
Terry found Oro in the house a couple of summers ago. In that run-down piece of shit Oro was trying to find himself through the excessive usage of browntown's eye, nose, and throat doctor. He would find Oro on the floor all the time. Their shack doesn't have air conditioning. It's a wooden shack with a metal roof meant to keep the rain out; it instead magically percolates. Not a place meant to be lived in, but that doesn't stop man. They have to find that one place they can conquer. Another man showed up without prior warning, at least to Terry, to pick him off the floor. But Oro hasn't come back to Terry yet. That guy stole him and left Terry with quite the moral dilemma. The man loaded Oro into a van, not a place where you want to see someone go, but you have to understand Terry's position. He heard the driver mumbling about Virginia, the rehab place. He wouldn't be able to help by himself; there's no way he could reach him. And he knows that Oro "can't" stop doing drugs, not even for a day. Would that be defined as a lack of self-control, even if he has total control over what he's doing? That's what Terry thought about. Maybe there's more to it than what Terry thought, but a definite wrench in his philosophical mumbo-jumbo is that Oro has definitely tried to stop. He says he'll get better. He's just going through some hard times, he would say. In fact, he's living in a wooden shack that appears to fail at all times of the year. Terry thought about sprucing it up himself. It's just wood and metal... just add more wood. That would solve the leaking problem, probably. In the end, he decided not to. He knew Oro would just mess it up.
I did not change a single word. Can you see the difference? The term for this comes from the old newspaper business: You "buried the lead."