Critique thread

Critique thread.

Critique and get critiques.
Don't be a faggot.

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docs.google.com/document/d/19fnwO2d2vq-NxTYnrfC6Arnx0U8eH7f4JxSNE2cIbbc/edit?usp=sharing
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Your an faggoot.
3/10

Hey guys I know a lot of people say there can be too much alliteration but I'm honestly addicted to it and I really like putting it heavily in my shit. Am I coming off as tryhard?

(Probably, but should I care?)

Dear Katie

Please tell me
You don't hate to read.

Please tell me
If you have a selfie
With the Eiffel Tower
You don't think you know everything
About France.

Please tell me
You know Hungary
Isn't a town in Poland.

Please tell me
You know there are differences
Between boys and boys
And there are differences between fun and fun
Just as much as there are differences
Between being funny or ridiculous.

Please tell me
You have more ambitions
Than to find an idiot
Who buys you drinks
And in exchange
You let him have sex with you
From time to time.

And please tell me
What can cure
My brutal hangover.

Her booty buckled when I was bucking her,
Breaking another bitch's heart,
Drunk sex with warm pussy with a hot dick,
Isn't dick when your sick of being an asshole,
And assholes are cunts, who act like dicks because their pussies who don't have balls to be a man, so they bitch-out on consequences of keeping promises and live with lies, but it's worth because I came.

Rough draft.

“Closed?” she whispered sheepishly, “what about all the food?” After being dismissed from rehearsal, Eve had set off to satisfy the heavy growling in her stomach with something other than spiced nuts and chocolates. Grave's End she found – as well as the surrounding neighborhoods of Coney and Brighton – had very little but beaches, warehouses and railways. What few restaurants she came across (mostly russian diners and delis) seemed to operate at bizarre hours catered mostly towards nightlife. It seemed few people came here save for the circus and beach, and at noon on a late autumn weekday there was little reason to stay open. If Eve was going to eat anything satisfying, she would have to take a train into the city proper.

Grave's End was one of the more remote neighborhoods in the city of Nieuw Amsterdam, separated from metropolis by sedimentary layers of immigrant enclaves, ripe with colorful imports and befuddling accents. Even given the city's density and state-of-the-art subway systems (a term which stuck despite much of it being located above street level), Eve knew it would be most of an hour before she again found herself in a place where she could read menus in legible Dutch. She wanted sorely for a book to keep her occupied for the haul: maybe pulp novels or star charts, even a dentistry pamphlet would do. It was while she rifled through her coat pockets, hoping for a paperclip to uncurl, that she came across the booklet that she had found on her face that morning.

It was a small, yellowed number wrapped in a soft, supple leather of the kind she had often seen used to polish boot knives and switchblades. There were no markings or labels, not even a strap, but it smelled faintly of ozone and coppery tastes.

Eveline opened the book to the sole dog-ear, and was greeted with a bizarre illustration that seemed burned into the paper. It was clearly insectile, though of an unfamiliar shape, toroidal and dripping with some unknowable fluid. What she though was its head was neither beginning nor end, joined to its long sender abdomen by both thorax and mandibles. Six membranous wings covered eyes, legs and air, granting the chitinous creature a seraphic visage. The end result of this amalgamation was unsettling and confusing to behold, but it reminded Eve vaguely of a dragonfly attempting to eat itself whole. The title in bold labeled it “The Basilisk Fly” and below that, in careful handwriting and fresh ink was a message left only for her.

Dear Eveline,

A wise man once said the only way of discovering the limits of the possible is to venture a little way past them. If you want to know what you are capable of, you must first do something you know you can't.

There are a thousand paths before you, but only one will lead you home. If you wish to return there, you must be prepared to traverse all of them.

You are being tested, and the first question is “What could be?”

– R.

it's original but lacks rhythm

wow man this is awesome you should totally show this to her the metric and lyrical qualities of this poem have blew me away

incredible

post her reply ITT

AND IF THE DOG CONSENTS
WHAT'S SO WRONG ABOUT FUCKING IT?
IS THE POSSIBILITY OF DISEASE THE ONLY THING SEPARATING YOU
FROM COMPLETE SPIRITUAL OBLIVION?

AND WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE
IF THE BABY'S ONE WEEK IN
OR ONE WEEK OUT
KILL IT
IS THAT SUCH A MORAL LEAP
KILL IT

YOU FUCKERS NEED YOUR OPIUM
IT'S A BRAVE NEW FUCKING WORLD

[SCREAMING]

will fucking a dog rescue me from complete spiritual oblivion? is that what this is about?

>>> /r9k/

I love this kind of melodramatic shit. 8/10


Bed & Breakfast

I helped the host make our bed
and the moment he was done I grabbed
you and pulled you close to me and
our tongues intertwined; such beautiful art.

I didn't care that you had been sitting
on an airplane for eight hours, all I knew
is that I needed everything about you
in every way I knew I could have it.

I lay on my back and I pulled down
your pants and I buried my face into
you and became inebriated from your
essence. Everything that was animal

took over my being and I needed to devour
you. I entered you slowly and pushed in deep
and my muscles twitched with delight and
desire and you told me I had to stop because it hurt.

Crown Heights


Lodestone

I waited for five hours in the airport for her to arrive from JFK as she was coming in from Serbia, and I, Toronto. News stations, spring rolls, wandering, and sad looks from an old Chinese security guard who repeatedly asked if I needed help and who I was waiting for.

The air was translucent with dust and I welcomed it to fill my lungs as I saw the shuttle approach, and my Goddess (oh, my precious, alembicated Goddess) descend the stairs with her bags. Our arms pulled ourselves into each other and even the universe halted its movement to watch her enter my blood.

Trains are confusing. I followed her blindly; did she ever lead me astray? A true adventurer, and I a pilgrim, searching for her sanctuary. She always knew where to go. She was born to travel (alone).

Eating donuts, wandering aimlessly, searching for bridges or orthodox churches, the end would always have me getting off the C Train at Franklin and dreading the narrow three stories of stairs that would lead me to a bed (with ill-fitting sheets) in a filthy room where I'd wait for her to wash her face and come to me in all her amaranthine beauty. I hold her close and caress her breast while I fall asleep and wonder how late into the morning we will decide to sleep.
Opprobrium


Can I go back in time? Can I reverse the ignominious memories that shattered us? Let's get off two stops later than we should. Let's never go to a museum. Let's hold our faces in each other's hands and kiss because that's what we were supposed to do. Let's find the Brooklyn Bridge together and I'll place a million blossoms in your hair.

I walk back to you in Brooklyn Heights while you sit on a bench crying tears of glass that splinter on the ground and slice open my feet with compunction; tears I will never be able to dry.

Maybe if I could eat more slowly, maybe if I wasn't sick, maybe if I remembered your keys.
Maybe if you'd just lighten the fuck up.

We walk through Crown Heights in the morning and I see a mother letting her child urinate on the side of a building.

Maybe this was all a lie as well.

I Lost My Erection

And this is how God made us. Flesh, fiber, sinew,
tendon. Your body against mine and all the
sadness and woe that clings to our skin and heart
mingling and becoming one single essence of love.

Love.
Love.
Love.

Not like God's love. A conditional love. A love that
depends on compromise and secrets and beauty.

I knelt up and you looked at me; such desperation in
your eyes, maybe fear.
"Please don't be upset, don't be upset." You repeated it
probably a few times. You needed my composure, my love.

I pulled off the condom and I threw it onto your
bedroom carpet and I was furious. If memory serves me
right I somehow blamed it on you. But this I know:
You needed my love and I gave you none.

And yet I have the audacity to say I’m overflowing with it.

apologies in advance for any typos, first time typing this out and i branched off what i had originally written

I made a vow
Every time she angered me I would say what made me angry and then soften it with an "I love you"

The next day she totaled my car
I drove to the scene and she shook in my arms, apologizing
I laughed and said "Sweetie, if love makes you blind, dont drive a fucking car. . . I love you"

The day after i caught her flirting with the peach fuzz checking out our groceries, when we got home she said nothing and so I told her "Sweetie, I know my youth alludes us both, but so does your. . .I love you"

It was a week later that I came home to the type of commotion that comes only with interruption, finding a man and my wife, the only clothes being that which littered the floor. She stared at me as the man fumbled over himself trying to rush out. I said "Sweetie, im sorry but i have to leave"

We hadn't spoken for weeks, I waited until the sobbing voice messages effects were numbed and i wrote to her

"Sweetie,
I love you. . . I love you"

He let the Santa Barbara sunset soothe his mind as he felt the fresh ocean air whisk away his stress. He had spent the whole day working on a new spice rack for the kitchen. He let himself soak in the satisfaction he always got after finishing a project, that sense of fulfillment he’d only ever known after hammering that last nail. Woodworking was the one thing capable of making him feel this way, though he’d been doing less and less of it lately. He just couldn’t bring himself to exert the effort. He tried to banish these thoughts. Not now. Not yet. He felt a smile sneak its way to the surface as he thought about his latest creation: twenty by twenty inches of solid, dependable oak, finished with a glistening coat of premium Watco Danish oil. His mom had been bugging him about it for weeks—she knew he was handy and took full advantage of that knowledge. It seemed like she was always there, lips pursed in reproach. Although that probably had more to do with the fact that he was failing out of community college. Not going to class, to be more precise. He was studying architecture, the only subject to engender even a remote interest in him throughout his short, troubled academic career.
“Gio! Get in here and socialize!”
He groaned. His mom had a habit of throwing these awkward and somewhat surreal parties, with invite lists ranging from that girl he’d had a crush on in 6th grade to his fresh-out-of-rehab Uncle Troy. She held the firm belief that “we should welcome the whole community.”
He took a deep breath and walked inside. Balloons of varying party pack colors were strewn about the living room. There was a table with a banner hanging over it, celebrating…what was it this time…our dog Sammy’s 13th birthday. He had to admit, this was a cause he could get behind. Sammy was a mutt, who by his analysis was a German Shepherd mixed with a Welsh Corgi. He had attentive ears, a white-crested mane, and the stoic commanding presence of the German Shepherd—all on the stubby little legs of a Corgi. He watched the dog waddle up to Victor, Gio’s twin brother, and rest with lazy indifference in a pile at his feet.
“I have a surprise for you, Victor.”
It was Grandpa Calvino. He’d been a bandleader back in the 1940’s, touring around the country with his swing band Calvino and the Cool Cats. His blue eyes shone with lucidity when he talked about music, and had that look in them now.


will post more if there is interest

Hey fuckfaces! Crit shit or get hit ya parasites!

>but should I care?

Why do you ask questions you know the answer to?

>she whispered sheepishly

She left. Time to get ready now. Frist, I drag the dusty barstool form the livingroom to the middle of my room. Next, I move away the months old garbage and grab my small lamp form the worn corner-shelf in my bedroom, finally, I pray not to die; which was a mistake, I want this just to be quick.

I sit on the barstool, and stare straight ahead of at the balcony window, man up, with lamp in-hand I cut off the lights and it appears. Watching, all it does is watch, like it always does, a breathing black silhouette, it features out reach in the darkness, as if one were to turn on the light, you will realize it was just objects stacked together that look like a man.

I am done with it watching. It's been watching for about two year now, after a bad situation. When I frist looked upon it, I screamed and keeped on screaming until blacked out and it was morning. Form then on, the ongoing months was a cycle, it would appear, I proceed to lose my mind for weeks, get myself together, finally have glimmer of normality, then it would appear once more. Repeat. Normally, I would see it alone, only a few times with people, but most frequently it watches me in this room. Definitely alone in the dark in this room.What does it want? My soul? To relay some profound message? Could be it's something that died and needs me to bring it closure? Is it going to kill me?

Not that matters anymore. Life has gone really bad for me. I am gambler, an addict and I owe both my dealers. Tired of People trying to help me deal with it. Tired of seeing others peoples emotional limits. Even in matters of the most extreme, life and death, at some point people stop continuing to care. I figure If It wants me, It can have me, I don't want me. How much is a junkies soul worth anyway? Less than nothing in life, why would that change in hell?

But today, is the day I will not scream. I manned up, this is the longest I've gone without backing out, I fought off all parts of my mind that yell "STOP". she left, so it's time to meet the monster. I screamed "what do you want?" it responds "come closer, I'll show you" with nothing else to go on and nobody to see me go, there I went and we soared.

Any promise with this story?

didnt read the whole thing but there are are a few spelling errors
also is there any reason why "first" (or "frist") has its own sentence yet "next and "finally" are combined?

The ending was abit week, everything else was amazing.

>also is there any reason why "first" (or "frist") has its own sentence yet "next and "finally" are combined?

Nope. Just mistakes. :(

My French isn't great, but I tried to write a quatrain in iambic heptameter for my girlfriend.

Alors que je t’embrasse avec mes lèvres mouillés,
mes longs doigts par tes cheveux j’accroche et je ratisse,
et chaque brin, lisse et hivernal, qui les chatouillait,
je l'entrelace et tresse en pont qui relie là et ici.

>our tongues intertwined, such beautiful art
needs to be cut. it's real bad

>the rest
eh, this is a bit weak as a whole, because the imagery is weak and the narrative is simple (not a bad thing in itself) and the syntax sound a bit tortured sometimes (Everything that was animal took over my being and I needed to devour you)

Turning off the engine and the lights,
the fisherman let his boat come to a stall.
From the last light of sunset he saw his wake,
and knew he would go no further.

The fisherman had gone on his last voyage,
weary and seeking a final resting place.
Here in nature’s last frontier,
he would not find a nobler grave.

And, Cod, says he with mugger's tears: Would you care to know the
prise of a liard? Maggis, nick your nightynovel! Mass Tavener's at the
mike again!

Nice, but I didn't like the ending.

I can tell you put effort in to the line of thought. The writing is alright and so is the grammar. Subject matter just doesn't cut it for poetry though. And even though your words convey your thoughts well, it's still structurally lacking in poetic terms- poor flow, little structure, lack of insight. A few of the lines are clever though.
6/10

This is bad. Broken into stanzas with almost no other discernible poetic form. Simple idea, no insight, no cleverness, dull and macabre imagery. Poor grammar, needs much editing.
b8/8

I know you apologized, but the grammar is bad. If you want a fully honest critique you should submit a fully edited work. This is a poem, but the subject matter and isn't poetic and hardly written so. You have some clever imagery which I like, but it doesn't take me anywhere. Just another affair. If you want me to care, give me something to care about. Make me care. Don't just expect it.
5/10

Always edit before you post. I dropped it after the first paragraph, almost even at "time to get ready now". Cut words you don't need, only write the words needed to covey the idea. Everything else just trips up the reader and ruins the experience. This reads clunky and gunked up. Read some more, edit some more, and remember that your reader isn't going to just read your work. Give me a reason.
5/10
__________________________
Here's something I just finished this morning from last night which I was hoping to get a few opinions on.

>Light of My Life

Rose petals bright red
The afterglow of day
Swells of salty air
Quiet applauding waves

Plump and juicy orange
Slice, crush, mushing, gushing
Spritz of aromatic zest
Mouth flooding foretaste

Glowing heart of molten earth
Dark layering rust and dirt
Broken bone, bruising skin
Green grass, blue sky, bright gold sun

The opening from a post-apocalyptic novel I want to start working on.

I woke up from the same sound that had roused me for the past two months. The sound of the people working the morning shift scraping and shovelling the snow from the nearby gates. Occasionally a shovel would hit the chain link fence and let off a metallic rattle, not exactly a pleasant alarm clock but it did its job. “Hey Stan, wake up and let’s get moving I’m freezing my fucking ass off” Cooper bellowed. “I’m already up, give a few seconds.” I replied zipped open my sleeping bag and was instantly hit by the stale cold air of the tent. I fumbled around for my clothes. The aviator jacket Cooper gave me, the pants from home I’d padded with newspapers and lastly my beat-up sneakers. I zipped open the tent and looked at Cooper, as per usual he was wearing his old army jacket, two sets of jeans and a giant pair of homemade boots. “Took you long enough dipshit, if we move out now we’ll be there by the time lines have reached half their length.”

repeating words like that really kills your flow

>sound
>sound

>shovelling
>shovel

> time lines have reached half their length.”

this is so fucking akward

>time the lines have reached half-length

anything else would work

also 0/10 for formatting and punctuation, I'd really just scrap this and start again

"time lines" wtf, how did I not notice that. Yeah, you're right it's a piece of shit and I'll scrap it.

I wanted so badly to lie down next to her on the couch, to wrap my arms around her and sleep. Not fuck, like in those movies. Not even have sex. Just sleep together in the most innocent sense of the phrase. But I lacked the courage and she had a boyfriend and I was gawky and she was gorgeous and I was hopelessly boring and she was endlessly fascinating. So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was hurricane


Rate please took me a lot of work

-More than a few grammatical errors.
-Inconsistent writing style.
-starts strong them tapers
-doesn't give much for starting details

+reads fluidly at times
+enjoyable voice
+not too badly written

6/10

Here's an edit I'm working on. English is not my native language by the way.

I woke up from the same sound that had roused me for the past two months. The noise of the people working the morning shift scraping and shovelling the snow from the nearby gates. Occasionally one of them would hit the chain link fence and let off a metallic rattle. Not exactly a pleasant alarm clock but it did its job. “Hey Stan, wake up and let’s get moving I’m freezing my fucking ass off” Cooper bellowed. “I’m already up, give me a few seconds.” I replied and zipped open my sleeping bag. The stale freezing air of the tent instantly hit me, it had been unusually cold lately and not getting any warmer. I fumbled around for my clothes, the aviator jacket Cooper gave me, the pants from home I’d padded with newspapers and lastly my beat-up sneakers. I zipped open the tent, stepped outside and looked at Cooper. As per usual he was wearing his old army jacket, two sets of jeans and a giant pair of homemade boots. “Took you long enough dipshit, if we move out now we’ll barely make it in time.”

Thanks, I've been working on my skills with the English language. It's not my native tongue so its easy for me to make mistakes.

The first time I saw her she was plumper, less angular. Her cheeks were rosy, brushed by the wind that made it hard for me to be sure it was her through squinted eyes. She swung her bag freely, a little bounce in her step, short, and sweet, her red raincoat creasing with every movement of her little body. Her hood was pulled down, a little too low to get a good look at her eyes, but with her shoulders down and head up, she looked content. That's how I imagined she was, before the red light turned amber, then green, and I pedalled away, not looking back, grateful that I didn't have to say wave or smile or just generally decide what level of greeting was appropriate. I just pedalled.

It was a few months later that I saw her for the second time. Autumn leaves had long since rotted, and the roads were a little less congested, the pavements holding more people. This time, with no hood to obscure her view and no wind to obscure mine, I saw her clearly. She was thinner, shrinking inwards into her clothes, her eyes looking hollow, with shadows lining both. A hint of a smile played around her lips though, as her bag swung back and forth, although with less force than before. Her steps were elegant, in sync with her swinging bag. Her eyes had been staring ahead, but they flickered over to the road, and she caught me. The calculation behind her eyes was brief, but I could tell she remembered, perhaps not my name, but definitely me. She smiled widely, her lips stretching out, and her head tilting in my direction. Gentle acknowledgement. I could live with that. I smiled back, a much more toothy grin, and then noticed the traffic light flash. Amber. I steadied my feet again. Green. I pedalled.

It's from ages ago, should I continue? I'm purging the pieces without hope

>I woke up from the same sound that had roused me for the past two months

'From the same sound' is clunky. This could be shortened to, as a rough example, 'the same sound has awoken me for the past few months.' Good editing is good writing.

There's promise, just keep up with your editing.

Here's mine; it's the start of a short story I wrote as an exercise. On the subject of editing I've noticed that 'upon passing an undefined threshold' escaped my notice.

Insecure

Just because I like my work doesn't mean it's good, etc.

Legitimately trash. REEEE intensifies

Thank you, that is good advice. I feel like I always have a different idea of what is going on with characters in my head, then when I put it on paper it is completely different.

"A gracious raven," kinda fedora tier my dude, just saying. Other than that I kind of like it, very dreamy as opposed to other stuff I read. Although the protagonist is definitely someone that's going to turn her into furniture.

Super gay, merely a pile of images just like it's a pile of words. Write in sentences you hack

Lol thanks, I think I'll kill the gracious raven (as will the protagonist)

-2/0

...

>tfw my critique is worthless so I wont bother anyone with it

Got a pretty girl,
she aint pretty enough.
Got some great friends,
they aint great enough.
Little bit of money,
little bit of booze
It wont last me, honey
but neither will you.

I agree with the other user, sorry. Nothing really holds me here, it's just a whole lot of clumsy description. Maybe work on ideas before putting the words in place.

Watch out with the description. This is pretty good, and there are a nice variety of sentences, but some phrases sound overwrought. "Gracious raven," "curves and contours suggestive of sublime feminine elegance," "caustic wit, an irrepressible confidence, a creative soul." Things like that. You seem to favour a sort of rambling descriptive style, and that's fine. But try and break it up a bit.


Gone Fishing

A lake viewed through a screen, crowded with life,
each fish displayed, dissected, clarified
with each subsequent cast and reeling-in.
So many minnows cloud the surface, like
a sheen of quivering, darting silver-gold.
These minnows make an easy catch, but quell
the angler's hunger only for a flash—
he's back at it again, U-turn toward
a spot not yet surveyed. Unseen below,
tremendous pike-perch sweep the rocky floor.
One fisher recollects his zander catch:
"It fed my family for a working-week."
The others nod. They know, but do not care;
they're on the water for excitement, for
the momentary thrill of catch-and-kill.
They haven't felt this in a while. Lately,
the rush is absent, and they fish to drive
the hunger pains away, with mixed success.
Another angler checks his watch. They've been
on water for three weeks. Their families sit
without them at the table, eating rice
and vegetables. The fisher says, "Why don't
we shoot for pike-perch, catch a few, and leave?"
No luck. They're out of line, and what is on
their rods is little more than six feet long.
They cannot see the shore; the green, murky
water stretches everywhere they look.
The waves pick up. They realize, too late,
they float not on a lake, but on a vast
and churning ocean, salted by the breeze.

no leeches allowed

fine, asshole

banal, sorta makes me cringe. no offense but I dont like it
sounds preachy and fedora
cool imagery, I like it
pretty good, I dont like this part
>Slice, crush, mushing, gushing

This feels like something from the mouth of an old dude with a guitar. Not sure if that's what you were going for. But the ending is pretty cheesy, and as far as content goes it feels quite empty.

have to agree with the first to anons, need it to take me somewhere

If it didn't go anywhere for you, then idk what to say. There's definitely a sun based theme there and it's not hard to see.

This is without a doubt the biggest collection of shit I've ever seen in a crit thread holy shit

At least this is a 10/10 post.

>but some phrases sound overwrought

Thanks. The exercise was to balance succinctness and 'beauty' of prose as I've had trouble with my purple passages in the past. It looks like I still have some work to do.

My breath runs ahead of me, sore soles bruising bleeding beating back breaking bones aching. Tried to catch the lungful. No such luck. Hot oxygen half holds his throat, hhhhh, huuhhhh, hh. Great gasps gulping ignoble global gases. Good great God grant me salvation. Fall on your knees! Oh, hear the angel voices! I don’t pray but I plead spread out head down in the prairie. Let the sheep out and let The Shepherd in. Place of peace. Graze grass, golden fleece. But the golden age is over. Empty verdant view as I rest my chin in the dirt. They’ll be catching up to me now.
But do they see me? Never saw them. Saw flits through shadows there, spied in the cemetery. All corners accounted for: only the sun was watching. The wind has always been my friend, and granted my demand. A gentle breeze blows grass and I, lightly lapping at my undershirt as I crush the blades falling underfoot. Caught the breath. Might’ve lost them. Getting dark. Oh night divine! Ought to find wood for a fire. As I pick up sticks I contemplate my escape. Far from over, every shadow still a threat. Smoldering now, the fire burned them all away.

---
Get rid of dashes putting words together if they aren't necessary, I think.
silvergold, workingweek, catchandkill
reeling-in is okay, and U-turn needs it

Otherwise I dunno if I'm fit to crit this, I think it's rather good. Maybe make it more clear throughout that they're fishing to feed their families? More urgency?

Better as a song than a poem. You can get away with this type of cliche in a song.

The last verse there comes in abruptly. We go from (I'm assuming) a beach, to eating an orange, then suddenly the earth's core? Just feels rushed, like it needs something more in between those. There's a disconnect.

7/10. I love the parallelism, and the flow is very good. Referring to a circumstance- the girl going out and doing (exciting activity) while the boy stays home or whatever- would be a good addition, but it's a solid piece.

5/10. Good, but not remarkable has the right of it: was this meant to be accompanied by a guitar?

Good rhythm, definitely interests the reader, no glaring grammatical errors. 8/10, please continue.
_________________________________

My turn, I guess. I've been thrashing on this piece for a while, and some critique would be appreciated.
docs.google.com/document/d/19fnwO2d2vq-NxTYnrfC6Arnx0U8eH7f4JxSNE2cIbbc/edit?usp=sharing

I like this. It's colourful and interesting enough to grab the reader's attention. Just a few nit-picks: at times the alliteration seems a bit much, especially in that first sentence. As well, the "hhhhh, huuhhhh, hh" feels unnecessary. The second half feels much more polished in this respect, and is less showy. I do really like the "plead spread out" bit for the way it suggests a rhyme that isn't there.

Thank you for your critique of ! I'll take those things into account, though I do prefer the hypenated versions of those words.

I'm not very interested in the content itself, but I'm not interested in fantasy in general, so I can't really comment. As far as the writing itself goes, it all seems pretty good. Descriptive without being overly so, and it seems quite sure of itself. I could picture this being in a best-selling fantasy novel, but again, I have no experience with the genre. Maybe just watch out for cliche. The "power" bit felt a bit melodramatic.

I think it's pretty good, senpai.

Something that tripped me up while reading it was that the first sentence made me think that this was the first time ever that the narrator had seen the girl, but that doesn't seem to be the case.

>grateful that I didn't have to say wave or smile or just generally decide what level of greeting was appropriate
I think you could tidy this up. It's quite loose and conversational whereas the rest reaches for something more poetic.

I say see where it goes.

i get some sort of brightness motif but it seems purposeless, hence the feeling of it not going anywhere

How do i stop smothering my ideas?

write them as short as possible
and then cut

This is pretty good senpai. Only a few stylistic things I could find fault with. 'Seventeen years old' should be hyphenated or you could just write 'seventeen'. I'd kill a few adverbs as well, ie religiously (it's confession, the statement goes without saying) and exponentially. Also:

>But repetition was one of few tasks that were well within Connor's capabilities

Remove 'that were'.

But on the whole it's a clean, easy read. I'd gladly keep going once it was edited.

Thanks. The religiously was meant as a joke but it I guess it doesn't really come off.

pee pee butt lick ass xD

pls critique

Everyday zooms by like another step I take whenever I walk. Not much thought is put into it, yet I keep up with this routine. I look out the window of this dull cafe, populated by these young, aspiring people with their eyes practically glued to either their phones or their laptops. All these people are soaked up in their own little world they have created for themselves. Stuck and indulged in the echo chamber they have grown accustomed to. They expect that through whatever they’re doing on their devices, they have the power to make change. Or become an important figure of a movement. Or perhaps something as simple as getting their ego fed. Whatever that may be, I have nothing to do with it. I don’t need to have anything to do with it. I already realized that I am nothing special.

Everything was fine except the ending.

I like this.

It was well written but the subject matter was really awkward for it's style.

The prose itself is aesthetically weak and undeveloped. The ideas behind it are chronic symptoms of a lack of real philosophical thought.
2.5/10

Stop being 16

My excavated guts suck empty air, ragged
air, without
lubrication, each draught
an intestinal screech that bites
the insides of my stomach,
empty drum;

my sagging gullet constricts
my chest, the pit of my throat,
with desperate suckers;

my jaw clenched shut,
lower teeth excoriate
the upper, a hungry hominid
fashioning a tool;
chippings raked along by arid air scrape
my shrivelled waterpipe; bone dust
reverberates
in the gaping, cawing void;

the drought
contorts the vascules of my
balls into tortuous knots,
leaves them black and gasping,
couched in electric spasms
that ossify the sinews
of my legs, down to the tips of my toes.