Critique Thread

Not really, that poem is shit

Turned this in for class last thursday. Kind of threw it together the day before.

Never Not There

This is a catalogue
of pieces from Ingrid,
whose head was found
toothless and bleeding

in a ditch in the mud,
by a rock near the sea.
Gently caressed
by the froth from the ocean.

A skinned finger,
close to a clearing,
Where she would hide
when oxygen atoms
turned into bricks.

A chewed leg,
bone marrow burned,
tied to a tree,
with a piece of her dress.
The one she wore
out with her friends,
stoned and joyful
forgetting the fact
that she was alive.

In the woods surrounding;
A thin torso
with so many holes
It let through the sunlight

Missing the stomach
Part of the liver
Lacking intestine
And markings around it

Leftover organs
arranged in a circle.
Stuffed with tapes.
Stuffed with pictures.
Written letters
in a made-up language
no one could read.

The ink mixed
and became one
with the blood

We look at the pictures
and see they progress;
Ingrid at 10;
Ingrid in high school.
Alone on a hill,
the ocean behind her

A long shadow,
standing in front.
Stretching beyond her,
holding her bones,
bleeding her eyes,
pushing them in,
into the cold
darkness of the water

>It's been eight years since you went out to get milk.

But really, fix your rhythm and cut the melodrama. Bang and rang rhyme but fall awkwardly with each other, and makes it easy to stumble over the next line. Revise your shit.

I felt the entire opposite about that line. It took it out of the introspective mood I got from the first few lines, and made it almost campy in my opinion. This is good stuff though.

>It's been eight years since you went out to get milk,

AHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAA

thank you made my night
hilarious

Ben Quadrinos shuffled through the crowd with his head down. A sizeable group of reporters had amassed, but most were focussed on little Ani Skywalker, the surprise victor of the podrace.
“Ben! We going to see you back again!” he heard as he quickened his step. A few turned towards him, holding out microphones and holo-cameras. These pod races were watched all over the planet. The sight of the pods sweeping through the canyons and zooming through the underpasses was the only spectacle one ever saw on this sandbowl, a welcome distraction from endless days of farming or salvaging or some other menial task. He realised everyone had seen it; he’d have to face his older brother. He could almost hear him now, ‘Ben Quadrinos, four starts four losses!’. It was now approaching dusk, which after the twin suns had set, fell fast on Tatooine. He looked out at the dusty plains beyond the masses of people and aliens, all crowding in to get a sight of the victor.
He wanted no part of this life any more. The rejection, the pain; this world had no place for him. A single tear rolled down his sallow, swollen cheeks. He kept on walking, even as the jeers grew louder, the laughter, the pointing. He kept on going.

Soon it was night. Ben was still walking. His eyes stung and his legs were heavy, but he didn’t stop. It was too painful to be rejected by others. Never again. He didn’t care what would happen to him next.

a short story
Like everyone else before, he asked me "Are you not scared she might hurt you?".
To which i usually reply "She has hurt me before. But it was accidental. Mainly when she was a cub. She wasn't able to properly judge her strenght and hurt me in play. It was never something that needed medical attention. I never was afraid of her. When she came to me, we both were still almost babies. We grew up together and she is used to me".

I told no one about the times she showed her raw animalistic sides. The thought of her being taken from me was unbearable. She made me feel invincible. I needed her.

Honestly, i WANTED her to be a wild lion. She was supposed to only be tame when i tell her to do so. I wanted to posses her. She made me feel like a mighty goddess.

Pure muscles, fangs, claws and me, a meek accumulation of skin, hair and innocuous teeth.

She grew more violent and unpredictable every year.
She wasn't my little furball anymore. Her paws had always been a reminder of just how huge she would one day be.

There was not a moment i wasn't aware that a single blow of her paw could easily kill me. There was also not one i wasn't aware that she's a predator and i'm merely prey.

When it finally happened, i was already expecting it.
It felt almost reliving.
I knew i wouldn't survive, the moment her playful banter changed into pure instinct.
Patiently, i was awaiting her teeth to sink deep into my tender flesh, her jaws crushing my bones and her claws tearing my skull.

The last thing that went trough my mind must have been that i was sorry this majestic beast will soon be turned into a lifeless pile of organs and fur.

critique my pom please

The cat shat
In my hat
What a brat

He is so fat
That fucking rat
Please die, you bat

That cat
My hat
He shat

So is this fanfiction or an actual novel you are writing.

Go on

Rewrite something like this
Sunset found her squatting in the grass, groaning. Every stool was looser than the one before, and smelled fouler. By the time the moon came up she was shitting brown water. The more she drank, the more she shat, but the more she shat, the thirstier she grew, and her thirst sent her crawling to the stream to suck up more water.

A little of both... there's no actual story to this game, just a collection of character blurbs and maps. I decided to turn it into a story to see if I could maybe convince the deveopers to use it as the real story (I have talked to them before).

I just don't know which is better:

> zombie guy struggles into bar, bites someone
> gets shot
> other guy turns into zombie
> cops arrive and there's a slow buildup to more zombies showing up

Or

> jump right into the action with more zombies outside after first one, city is under zombie attack
> pros: more like game, easier to write
> cons: even more pulpy

not that zombie writing is going to be anything but trash anyway.

As a screenplay, this has both formatting problems, and content problems. Hollywood enforces very strict rules about formatting. Studio readers and executives are in a position to dictate terms, so there's no arguing about it.

Content examples:

>Two weeks later.

You can't describe that without saying how it will appear on screen. Your descriptions of action also need to be free of anything that can't be visualized on camera. For example:

>where the remains of [whomever] were once interred.

Unless you specify that we can see their names carved over empty tombs, there is no way to convey that information on camera. Again:

>full approval of David's parents.

How do we see that?

Go look for them, and you'll find plenty of examples. No one who makes pictures will get past the first page.

Zombie writing could be good

There are many different ways and ideas as to how humans experience the World. We can look at the concepts of rationalism and empiricism as standards set by previous philosophers, but we must also grow and evolve those ideas. Firstly I would like to separate the mind of the individual and how they perceive and the mind of the collective. I believe that humans are rich, conscious beings that work in their best effort to do what is right for them and those around them. They will struggle at times, and try to find the easiest way to do most menial tasks while developing rich work ethics and strong morals in order to improve on the society they live in. The individual focuses on creating an environment that best suits their needs from the things that they have perceived to make them happy. We know that humans experience through the five senses and through those experiences, they develop certain traits that will usually be a part of them for the rest of their lives. These perceptions cause us to form our perceived reality and to live a life in part to the things that affect us. The World as an individual knows it is an amalgamation of everything that the individual perceives, whether that is smells, sights, tastes and so on. Through those perceptions the individual is able to piece together they perceive as the real world. There is no true reality, as humans are only able to perceive their environment. The real world as humans know it is whatever they face how they interact with it and what they take away from it. Everything in life is a perception, but the way people perceive things is completely subjective. When we think of humans as a collective on the other hand, we begin to warp the reality that we have set ourselves on an individual level. We no longer hold as many truths close to us and rely on the perceptions of others to help grow ours. We can look at the very base line of things of how humans learn through in society. This does not account for everyone, as there are those who do not learn in schools, but for the most part humans develop their cognitive processes through things such as school and interactions with adults. The base ideas that were given to them were also just teachings from others. They learned through not only experience of the self but of the experience from others. In my life it has been harder for me to learn from others than it was to learn on my own. I had trouble understanding how others felt until I truly felt it. The collective hampers the training of the self, but also enables it. We live our lives very differently depending on our perceptions of things. As a collective we are trained to think a certain way and to interact a certain way to follow into a general idea of society. We are slowly starting to devolve from that process with the advent of the internet.

> The Neon City

the cliff had grown with careless heed
'gainst cotton murk, it's jagged silhouette
eviscerates the panorama of the city

stern claw held armies of the tired feet -
thump'd ashen rock, the blackened husk
now only knows the neon splendor

young I took the pilgrimage here,
for tacit stand-off with malignant glow
of city and it's pattern'd cradles

height smote the crimson polis, made
jeering wrought of highways spill
into the veins of lonely palmister

the many lights reach out to grab
my skin with red penumbra; down the cliff
I went, one of the lights was mine.

seems kind of juvenile, and doesnt evoke any kind of emotional response from more, or any realy thought. proofreading is always good too.

>Pure muscles, fangs, claws and me, a meek accumulation of skin, hair and innocuous teeth.

this is worded poorly, it makes it seem like you are a part of the "meek accumulation" that she consists of, which i know isn't your intent.

just try reading it to yourself friend and you'll pick up on how awkward a lot of it sounds

--

I’ve only ever broken one bone in my life. The middle section of the ring finger on my right hand. I’ve never known how to refer to the parts of a finger between joints. The nurse who treated it called it the middle phalanges which seems too cumbersome for everyday use. She wore too much makeup. Enough that you could smell it. My mother always made fun of my fingers. She said I had spider hands. I started calling her by her first name in an attempt to annoy her, but in time it just became the norm. I always called my father “Dad” though. I always felt like we were slightly estranged. I could never quite pin down why. It saddened me sometimes. Saddens, I suppose. That feeling hasn’t diminished with time. If anything time might have amplified it. I think I regret the distance between my father and I more than I miss the gentle to and fro I had with my mother. She said it was a shame I didn’t play the piano. I always thought the same. My father and I once went shopping for a piano so I could start learning. Not shopping, I suppose. Browsing. I don’t think I’d really intended to start. What a waste.

I don't want to do lame shit but I also don't want the whole "humans are the real threat" crap going on.

But, if I basically write that trailer word for word then leap into the zombies having taken over the entire city in the space of like fifteen minutes... it just doesn't make sense.

Not sure what to do. I want to stick to the game a bit but I don't want to make it really shitty.

If I'm planning on changing a lot of my story after I finish the first draft is there any reason for me to write things consistent with the old draft?

Cliffs of Addiction-

...here you are. Dumbfounded that you've found yourself standing here again. After you told yourself you would not do it. You knew how it would end. Yet here you stand, peering over the ledge. Staring into a swaying sea-canopy.
Does it please you knowing the fall could release you from the promises you've made? Does the thought ever cross your mind to recall the answers you had to find? To rewind time and see what you've seen in that swaying sea-canopy?
No.
The wind slips those dreams away as it drifts through the knots in your hair. Your feet, they leave the edge, and the sun evaporates you from condensing to the sea. And temporarily you are free. Reveling in bovine royalties revealed by the radiant star as it sparks the forest canopy and ignites your senses. A release from gravity. Weightlessness--stoked by waving leaves and risen by that radiant sun.
But you knew. Don't you remember? Before you took that step, of the promises you have made? Of the realities realized before stolen by the breeze?
In a moment, you condense, gripped tightly by the gravity of that churning canopy. Your head flooding with the memories waked by that swaying sea. Chilling you to your solidarity as that radiant star sharpens to a dull, glowing husk-of-a-face, shrouded in darkness, and mouthing to your mind the promises you had to hear. Spoken so clear, so long ago.

Your eyes close lightly as you're wrenched to the earth, the sea consuming your sight as it hungers for your entirety...


When they reopen, you see a swaying sea-canopy, far below the cliff resting at your feet. Relief flows through as you stare into the trees that are waving in the breeze. Was it just a dream? Was nothing as it seemed? With fear fleeting, you found believing that you'd be leaving was all but leaving you living.

Yet...
_________________

... until you decide to step away from that sea-canopy, a dream will always be your reality.

I can't fit my critiques in this post, so I'll quote and reply to this with my crits.

Here are my crits

Your prose is clunky; you use a lot of words you do not need and it jumbles your sentences. You use a lot of overly descriptive words that don't help the imagining or progression of the thought. The idea here is clever, but I couldn't see it developing much further beyond a short story. Keep on practicing and perfecting your method.

You slip in and out of a comfortable rhythm. Same for your rhyme scheme. You have a few good lines and rhymes (the attention/intention lines and the limp/grim/blur/mess/disaster stanza). But saying that, using words like 'grim' to describe the sky in a poem is too vague and ambiguous. Try more concrete imagery that's evocative, that's the heart of poetry. And within that heart is a whimsical innocence which this poem freezes cold in death. Which is to say that what makes a poem and poetry so great is it's simplicity and beauty. And this is just upsetting in nature. Not really ideal for a poetic catalyst.

Nice 1's and 9's. But not a nice poem. Probably would've been better to keep this for the personal collection given how morbid the imagery is. The way people are nowadays your professor will notify someone to keep an eye on you in case if shady behavior.

It just comes off as try hard- all the odd word shortening, and when the words aren't shortened, they're dense (poetry should be easy vivid reading) and the imagery is ambiguous and conceited and not very concrete. It just doesn't feel like a poem and reading it is like wading through too much syrup. Being encumbered by something which is sweet gives me no taste of sweetness.

Yes, thank you for your critique, kind sir. I will keep your words in mind.

>formatting problems
I'm fully aware of these, my writing tool is just a simple programmer's text editor that I'm using simply because it's free and feels good to use (Google for PSPad). All the pro writing tools command rather high licensing fees, which I'd rather not pay for something that is essentially just a free-time hobby project. You know, since I'm not realistically expecting it to get produced, knowing the sheer number of all the other hopefuls out there looking to catch a break.

For the time being, I will take creative liberties with the writing rules, just so that I could get the damn thing finished some day. And I also wish to have something that gives me the full picture about everything that is going on in the story's universe. But don't worry, I know it has problems, I just need someone to point out what they are. I'm a first timer, what can you expect?

Pls critique this. I'm going to be in here throughout the night and giving thoughts on poetry

Not bad. Interesting subject matter. Lots of potential. I would just work on the rhythm, the syllable count.

Check this out
"You were struggling to breathe, struggling to talk,
The trembling hands of the one who taught me how to walk,
I held your hands tight,
to make sure you won't be out of my sight"

There's a good beat in the first lines but then on the last line specifically, it falls apart. Consider this:

"You were struggling to breathe
Struggling to talk
The trembling hands
That taught me to walk

I kept back my tears
I held your hands tight
I had to make sure
You weren't out of sight"

Or something like that. Just my opinion though. I don't want to give the impression that my artistic preferences are more legitimate or anything. I just genuinely think it would make the poem stronger.

Well done. Really appreciate the structure and the evocations. It would be better to include punctuation, though I can see your reasoning (if any) behind the omission.

Here's one I've been working on for weeks.

Convallaria Majalis
Pristine may-bells, in ever chaste,
What deathly guise have you embraced!
The nightingales dare not espy
What poison kissed; no tongue to cry.

For whom do your blooms droop in shame?
No Cythera could fade your name –
The knell that ebbs Lethe’s limpid tide;
The peal that outlived Babel’s pride.

Lily! shed not soft dewy tears,
Bled in your roots are buried years.
The wintry winds would soon comply
And waft you to the blissful sky.

Burns bright, alas! the stone of Cain;
The envy high that spares no pain
Has drenched you with Medea’s flask;
As of your makers, thus I ask:

When Persephone made you lithe,
Did she intend revenge so blithe?
Had Eve who cried you tender birth
Adorned your lips with bitter mirth?

Beneath the boughs my thoughts thus fleet
Benighted to spring’s lying sweet.
I have asked the willows why;
Their shedding leaves wept no reply.

I had felt an uneasiness about my heart ever since I left the apartment. The steps down to the base level floor felt cold and foreign despite my intimate familiarity of their qualities. Faces past me along the descent, shifting their glances away as I shifted mine. She had followed me, attempting to stop me, and asked for my wedding ring. As always, I refused. She cried and I tried not to. I concealed my emotions but not well enough; a tear had managed his escape. She yelled; stranger’s faces kept away, and my soul sunk deeper.

She had wanted to know why I was keeping the ring, but no answer given seemed satisfactory enough. Perhaps she wanted me to say something cruel, to give her some sort of closure to our tumultuous marriage; perhaps she wished I would reveal myself as some evil entity, hellbent on breaking hearts wherever I went. At least then she wouldn’t feel so betrayed—it would be an understandable reason; one that didn’t reveal the truth that I no longer loved her. I concealed my thoughts and sheltered my feelings.

I took a step forward. She said “Don’t come back”. A tear left me. She stormed upstairs. I heard porcelain crashing on the floor above—it was a wedding gift; a statue of Mickey and Minnie mouse as newlyweds. At least, it was in the moment just so passed. Before, it used to be complete, beautiful, and meaningful, but now it lays shattered about that concrete landing.

Rusted skies and sweet air, the hope for coming days remembered, but what melancholy for their loss. What an incongruous face I am; my mouth a soft lift while my eyes hold forecast, looking longingly on the dancing shadows across my eyelids. Where once all grew tinted red as the day settled out to its close, there remains only the cold bitterness of the wind that chimes even my marrow. Window unto window; memory unto memory. The release, to weep, is denied of me; so I must sit, and I must wander only the edges of these windows to the summer.

I awoke, I recall, to my boat crashing into something in the water--the impact was not kind to my headache, that much I know for certain. I slid a good five inches along the floor of my little boat, gaining half an ounce in wood splinters, and rocked about a good five seconds more in the waves of the impact. When the boat was still at last I looked up, and behold! A great warship, with all the signs of loving wear; the sails were in some places stitched together from cloth, in some others a Union or Spanish flag, and in another a pair of panties; the bottom was covered in a layer of fluffy moss that may as well have been the sole thing keeping the ship afloat; and the unmistakable aroma of dry Caribbean rum spilled overboard the vessel and eclipsed that of the bitter rotgut in my own boat.

Thanks a lot friend. After reading yours I can see what punctuation can do for a poem. I probably won't add it to the one I posted but I'll definitely remember the tip for future writings. So for that, thanks!

And yours was great. Well written, well structured, classical, and pretty. Good work.

Some sentences such as

>The nurse who treated it called it the middle phalanges which seems too cumbersome for everyday use.

Might not need the qualifier "for everyday use" at the end. It's a style thing but I prefer it shorter, since it's bot really needed to understand the meaning.

The whole paragraph seems to be like a thought pattern, like SoC, yet you didn't take liberties with stylizing it. You could very easily make the writing have no punctuation, letting it flow like thoughts might do. Once again, it's a style thing.

Other than that it lacks context, do I can't say overall if it's good, but it's not what I would write. Speaking of, this was my submission but I forgot to critique alongside it.

>Excerpt from a massive folder I have on my desktop for emotional outlets. Used this one for a Creative Writing class in college a few years back, and reduced myself to tears reading it in front of people. It's fairly edgy, though, consider this a warning.

If I could take, just a single moment of your time, a brief second to explain what I feel... I am unsure how much you would hate me. Who did you think I was? What did you think I was? I can't imagine, for any instance, what you saw in me. But that didn't matter. You looked past the pain. You looked past the abuse. You looked past the crisped up shell of a person that can no longer trust their own mind to maintain life. You helped me get better. And when I did, when I recovered, I took you for granted. Those memories stored of two awkward kids underneath trees in gardens that we didn't belong in, in hallways on the run from teachers. Those dashes of emotion on a fragile canvas, streaking across in vibrant explosions of orange light, red waves and blue waters. What was that? Where did that come from? Sitting here writing this there is not a single way that I could envision that spark between us now. There is no love in your heart for me anymore. But that's okay. You saw what I would become, and cut yourself away from the decay. It's okay. I understand. But I can never trust you again. I can never look back to you as more than a memory. You are a ghost upon pages of time, dancing across in an ether far from reality. I'll never tell you this. You'll never get to see this one, I'm afraid. I'll continue to trail after you like a dog, licking at the hands of an owner unconcerned, an owner browsing replacements. And that's not okay. I'm going to let you cut yourself away from me, deal the killing blow.

Fuck being hurt.

Fuck loving you.

Fuck loving hurt.

thanks for ruining my poem desu

Ben stumbled out of the Twilek whorehouse into the midday sun, took a few tipsy steps and fell to his knees.
"QUADRINOS YOU SCUM FUCK SPACE APE, I DON’T WANT TO SEE YOU OUT HERE AGAIN!” the manager roared.
“E chu ta!” the Twilek spat, as the door slammed shut and Ben was left on the arid plains.

Back in the city, at the Mos Eisley Cantina, near the back of the bar, a porpoise-like creature called Jeb slouched over the bar. His eyes were dim, the joy that he had once been known for, gone, in its place, a tired apathy.
“Uhh, excuse me?” he motioned, as the bartender passed over him. “Bartender” he said now, using his big boy voice; still nothing.
Before he could ask again, Ben Quadinaros slipped into the seat next him.
“Ben buddy, where you been!” Jeb cried, “I saw the race –“
“Yeah, we all saw it,” the bartender interrupted, “Hey fellas we got big Ben Quadinaros in here.”
The room booed. “Quadinaros you would have gone faster if you’d taken a Bantha.”
“Come on Jeb, let’s get a booth,” Ben said as he dragged Jeb with him.
“Ben, what’s with you today, your eyes!”
“Just some Mandalorian spice.” Ben moaned, still aching from the last night. He thinks he might have gotten an STD.
“MANDALORIAN SPICE BEN?!” Jeb said a little too loudly, “you, you know that’s illegal right?”
“I’m sick of it Jeb.”
“What?”
“I don’t give a fuck. No one gives a fuck Jeb. You and me, we’re the runt of the litter.
“I don’t think I’m the runt of -“
“Yes you are Jeb, everyone knows it. I’m sick of being just spat on. These meatbags need to hear us, they need to respect us. THEY NEED TO BE TAUGHT!”
“Ben, I think that spice is messing with your head.”
“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. You of all people know what I’m talking about.”
Jeb frowned; he did know what he was talking about.
“What you think that bartender really couldn’t hear you?”
He thought about it for a second.
“What, he was ignoring me, on purpose –“
“Of course he was Jeb. All our lives, treated like dirt.”
Jeb didn’t say anything, he knew he was true.
Ben reclined in his seat. His eyes were wild, searching the room.
“I’m telling you Jeb, something needs to be done.”

33 degrees
Pour it on me please

It's chocolate milk, swine.
If you've got the time,
You'll open up a Gallon
For the

Breaking down of all incandescent worshippers of the most holy bond between cap and ring

Weeping as your turniquet grip unleashes the richness of the god's nectar they scream in pain

How you've stolen from them their light, their guidance, and fervor.

Decapitation

Death by wrench

Null

It IS fairly edgy, but it's not downright terrible, apart from the end. "Fuck loving Hurt"? I think you can do better
The dog metaphor is lovely though

No, sorry. Read more, be more precise

This is just muddy, there is no balance. It's straight forward but there is no beauty. Rhyme scheme has no effect other than to rhyme. No cadence. Non existent Meter.

Here's my painfully cliche fantasy short story that I wrote.

pastebin.com/cMdYJcxJ

It does indeed reads as a cliche fantasy, but it's alright if that's what you want to write.
I think it is well written, but it needs some degree of originality or something promising from the start, a glimpse of what will unfold later or the implications of a conflict, otherwise the reader will be bored after a few pages - this does not to be the case, but it happens often with fantasy readers.

I will coment the paragraph without the last three lines. They should be dropped by all means.

I don't think it's good by itself, but it could be used in a longer piece. I've seen far more cringy and edgy writing in some of the big authors, but they make it work because the character's psychology and past has been well established and we can understand why he has been leaded to have such thoughts.

This is alright, but I don't see where it's going. Again, context.

I wrote this a year ago. I don't know if I shoud expand it or throw it into the flames
pastebin.com/8htng3jW

This would a much better poem if you fuck with line spaces and give it rhythm. But as a small paragraph, it's too short and self contained. It begs an adventure though we're given a scrying of one as is. Well written though, grammatically and linguistically it's tight and gets the point across without much fluff, but the fluff that is there isn't overzealous and encumbering.

1/2
Captain John Miller strode out of his lunar module, his feet digging into the soft lunar surface. The great moonscape that stretched before him flared with a great white intensity, greatly juxtaposed with the black horizon of outer space. In the vastness that engulfed the black sky hung spectacular view of Miller’s terrestrial home, the home to all who came before him. For countless millennia, ambitious men beheld the heavens and only dreamt of standing where he now stood. This single moment will be historically celebrated for thousands of years, a beginning of a golden era, and the dawn of a new epoch. He shed a single tear in awe of-
Miller’s monologue was interrupted by the astronaut standing beside him, who violently shook both his shoulder and his dramatic prose. The astronaut, lieutenant Adam Thomson, shouted into the radio and pointed a gloved finger to the horizon, where a shiny and pointy object stood in the distance.
The two spacemen exchanged curious glances before striding across the white plains towards the unidentified object. As they came closer, they saw an orange-clad figure in the distance, clutching a patch of red in his hands. The astronauts squinted at the figure and the red thing he held in his hands before realizing the identity of their lunar guest. They shouted in bewilderment, and as the orange jumpsuit raised his arms, aiming the flagpole at the ground, the two American astronauts began flailing their arms in anger and bounced as fast as they could towards him.
The orange astronaut turned sideways and haughtily looked at the two dancing Americans before firmly planting the flag into the dirt. He looked back at his lunar module and motioned to his colleague, who was in the middle of climbing down the module ladder before clumsily tripping on the last rung and collapsing with the gracefulness of a fat ballerina into the white soil.

2/2
“You commie bastards! We were here first! Leave!” Shouted Miller.
The soviet stood and looked at the ranting American through his visor with a blank expression, not only because he couldn’t understand English, but because he couldn’t hear what was being said through the vacuum of space in the first place. Therefore he promptly responded with a gesture, the only American one that he knew. He thrust his middle finger into the air, and the Russian shouted a profanity that only reached the sides of his helmet.
Meanwhile, his clumsy comrade, helmeted face now firmly planted into the dirt, picked himself up and dusted himself off just in time to see his colleague and the American buckled on the ground and wrestling each other, kicking up a large cloud of white dirt. As the two spacemen sluggishly swung their limbs at each other, the soviet astronaut shrugged, wobbled over to the scuffle and threw himself on top, promptly adding himself to the cloud of violence.
Lieutenant Thompson, who had only been idly standing around somewhat confused, watched the three roll around in the dirt like sumo wrestlers grappling each other in a bouncy castle. Unsure of what to do, he toddled over to the red flag and lifted it out of the ground, gripping it sideways in his hands. The two soviets looked up from their scuffle just in time to see the American breaking the pole over his knee and promptly kicking white dirt over the flag that now lay at his feet, just for good measure. The soviets scrambled up from the ground and furiously waddled as fast as they could over to Thompson, who was already hopping away in distance. Miller, still on the ground, hardly even bruised from the pillowfight he had just been in, picked himself up and snuck away from the two angry soviets and went back to his module.

My favorite parts were your riveting critiques of the other people who are just as hopeful as you are to get some advice, you ignorant twat.

On Veeky Forums--

Oh how! Was I born with iron knees
To displease none fair but me?
To run rampant-ly (not ease-
Ily) among sober fields of poppy?

To which I do reply-sayin’
(a)lively hymn, what way
To hide my gay demise but through
Lying smiles and smiling lies.

A little overly complex, but I enjoyed it as ironic. And I also very much want a glass of chocolate milk right now.

Here's a bump cuz I forgot to clear sage from my name.

One sentence in your first paragraph bothered me. You say:

>Even during radiant morning, not even the bravest of men dare venture close to this tainted ground for fear of their mortal hearts being corrupted by the aura of evil that permeates from down below

Instead of saying 'permeates' you might be better off using 'radiates' or 'emanates'. Something more definite and active.

And goodness, please don't use sentences this long very often. Not unless you have a good excuse to, or you happen to be James Joyce. That sentence I've quoted is thirty five words long. The average sentence is best kept short, because the longer a sentence is the harder it becomes to keep a reader's attention.

You can dodge around this a little bit with semicolons and commas, but I'd advise getting good at figuring out how to break up some of your sentences into smaller, punchier pieces.

>This is the very first fantasy vignette I've ever written

You are standing in the mouth of a cave.

You've just fought a dragon.

The ground that marked your battlefield has been worn smooth by decades worth of coming and going. Claw marks scar the floor in jagged, quasi-geometric patterns. Smoke trickles past, its smell bizarrely sweet. There are blackened blast marks all around you, from where the monster spat flames in wild, spectacular arcs.

Blood fans across the cave floor and wall just in front of you, a brilliant crimson that doesn't seem like it will ever dim. Further scarlet dribbles indicate where the beast dragged itself off after you struck the mortal blow.

It must be further back inside the lair.

You listen carefully, but hear nothing coming from inside the cave. No groans and roars, no breathing even...just empty, hollow silence.

Nobody critiqued mine >.>

>just empty, hollow silence.
stopped reading here.

some things i don't like
> decades worth
>marks all around you
>from where the monster
>just in front of you
rest is great

Empty and hollow are synonyms. Try pervasive and hollow, it will get the meaning and dread more flushed out.

I wouldn't use bizarrely. Maybe unsettingly or quietly.

I agree with the above poster that
>decades...
Doesn't seem to fit well. Perhaps just describe it as the character would see it
>the dirt where you fought was pounded smooth by time.
Try that or something dimilar.

Are you seriously criticizing me for posting work in a critique thread?

>didn't read the OP

I'm not the person who called you a year, but I've posted

As my critiques while my story remains untouched.

>seriously criticizing me
>critique thread

See the irony? I've still contributed more to the point of the thread than you you sniveling tool.

I've got three in here not critiqued yet and I've given 7 crits. You gotta love it.

Is English your first language? Phrasing is awkward throughout. For example, "about my heart," "base level floor," "in the moment just so passed," "a tear had managed his escape," all sound stilted and could be reworded to be more clear. And those aren't the only ones.

Chill out, faggot.

It was my mistake, as someone more courteous than you pointed out.

It's my first language. I worded those specific sentences that way on purpose, though base level floor is a bit redundant.

"About my heart" using an antiquated version of about.

"A tear had managed it's escape" is symbolic language.

You're on Veeky Forums. If someone wasn't being a dick and someone else nice, nobody would listen to anybody. But you've got eyes and a hand, and since you're on lit, I'm assuming you can read. You knew what this thread was and you thought you could tell everyone else putting in work to fuck off as long as someone gave you a crit anyway. Own up and don't act all offended.

I've submitted stuff this gruesome before and gotten no backlash for it. Poetry and art have no need to be 'nice', in my opinion. Art that disturbs you is usually whats most interesting to me. Thanks for reading though.

Just be careful using antiquated words. You can get away with about, that's not too bad. But don't push it. Using words in a meaning that's forgotten just makes reading your piece work instead of leisure.

No problem. I do usually try to make it a point that what I said is my personal preference and you aren't wrong. If it's written from the heart, it'll always be good to you and an audience fit for it. By no means change your style and keep up the work. Aside from my comments, there is interesting imagery there.

Calm your autism, user. Go read a book.

Thanks for the advice.

As for the work, should I continue it? Would it make a worthwhile read? I would like to end it with the main character becoming so wracked with guilt he tries to return to the apartment, only to be beaten to death with a cast iron skillet.

What would you say specifically about it being overly complex

The mood bundled by this is integrated well. It is very infantile about mortality. It made me feel very dependant upon groceries and other animals; it also felt like the prose was launching an attack on me

I'm going to leave this here; no one has to critique it, but I thought it'd be due diligence to show that i rewrote the beginning of the story

Irrational fear of ideas covered not many minds in history, but it covered this one. If Norfael had an idea: there would be a howling; there would be an immense cajoling to discard that snippet. Ideas looked like mire all over, and the best way to conquer the chance of having an inkling was to be fatigued.
Trying to write a novel in his head, because he didn't really see it as a meaningful impression, meant that a cogency would be created, bent double by the second paragraph. The indelible shifting of the misty black angstroms was perfect - phasing qualia resembled a leaping gas lamp in the noisiness of the particles' gambol, chasing after spiders and architectural screws. All he could do was look at them, considering how much of a slump was triggered by the night.
Consciously: all he did was rap on the stool with an invented time signature, conciously cascading that every four clusters of thumping warranted a snare drum, and that this queue was missed. A knife against burnt toast is what the pattern sounded like, with great mechanical intensity, though perhaps accidental.
This moment he stopped his exertion and rested on the girder, being sly.
Suddenly: his heart exploded with red. A light at the trapdoor beneath his feet revealed that other people wanted to collaborate, an irretrievable mistake.
Burnishing the exit's metal plates with wire wool from nights before was a swift skint, then he opened the door past the foot berth given by a doorstop stone (which fell downstairs subsequently, and was a victim of breaking,) allowing himself to climb down, which he did.
He percieved the underside of this room - the corrugated mortar ceiling, and rubbed his forehead, blinking. There was a vapid thump, which marked the doorstop stone's landing. These exits reminded all of us of the graphs of the people, all of the erroneous chants made people argue from continents apart, or would do (he thought) if impressions were irrelevant. It was a flowing morning, it was an interrupted night.
Norfael coughed, because the lexicon he abstracted was no tonic, and the resonant frequency of his decibelic range generated earaches; the words melted on the ears like toxic wax when this man spoke.
Absconding, as he did on a regular basis, the abrasive enamel that was a solvent snare on the first rung of the descending ladder: he found a way he could hoop himself down, and port himself lower quicker

I had no idea he was talking about a refrigerator until this comment.

google shortner - djLyw1

It's difficult for me to say without going into personal preference because I can tell it is supposed to be complex in its irony. So don't take it to much to heart. I just wouldn't say this is a piece that would be recognized, but one for a personal collection.

You should always finish what you start. There is certainly potential there, but I'd say depending on how much longer you plan on making it, just watch your level of unnecessary descriptors. Really ask yourself how each description contributes to the piece and if the piece would be lacking without it.

I hope nobody crits your shit man, you seem insufferable and blockheaded.

Being I've been handing quite a few crits and my contribution hasn't been looked at yet, I'm going to post an old story I'd forgotten about and recently dug up and did a little editing on. It's a little long, but I would love for someone to give it a read and tell me what they think. I apologize in advance if it starts out slow, I've been tossing around a new opening for a while and I'm still stuck. It's too long for the comments so I'm linking the pastebin. But it's not as long as it looks, there's a lot of line breaks

pastebin.com/pNHixySQ

things that i don't like
> devoured the open sky
>flock of chairs
>I was utterly dumbfounded
> isolation was difficult not to feel
it was hard not to feel isolated
>really gained respect
>I believe it is no accident
>hear just fine
>emotional support through my shoulder blade
>floats around

stopped reading here
>potted plant in the remaining corner by the door.

or "i almost felt isolated

I hate to sound ungrateful, but I mean, thanks for the effort? I read through loads of shit in these threads, but I do it to completion to give an an honest critique. I don't just say things I don't like with no context. Otherwise it just comes off like you're looking for a reason to stop reading it and not trying to help me out.

But like I said, not trying to sound ungrateful. I'm thankful for the effort. I just don't know how to work with what you said.

not the guy you crited but how tf can you "almost feel isolated"

Yeah, I was thinking that too... Oh well, what can you do, right? Hopefully someone else will give it more of a chance. It's really something you've got to read all the way, it's got a great payoff I think.

I'm sorry that it seemed that way. I was just listing things that I thought didn't sound very good. I'm not a good writer so I can't really give a complete critique.

Also it was rude of me not to read the whole thing

Fair enough. And I mean it's not like what you said didn't help dome, I do think some if the wordings you pointed out are strange. Although I can say a few of them are intentional due to the characterization of the narrator. Like the shoulder blade remark. He's saying that as someone who's just been told they're dying. So the attitude from the author here is that even though the doc is trying to show a supportive gesture, it doesn't help him at. It's meant to sound as awkward as it feels for him.

But at the same time, even if you aren't a good writer, "you're" still my audience. And if all that is off-putting to you, I've got to consider it. So don't think I'm demeaning or ignoring your crit. I've noted all your remarks.

Thanks. For giving you some shit and being cool about it, you've got something you need looking at? I'll gladly help a brother out for being so chill.

I've been working on something but it isn't ready to be looked at yet.

I tacked the tin of blood as I scrapped to my hucks in the swamp commotion of the street. Buffle-headed and with watery eyes, I lifted my ernful noggin to clock my spit standing a spit away. Under the stone gateway of a garden, I was daring a rabble to guess under which cup a borrow-pence lay. I wore the white, yellow, black and red clouts of a Smoke bard, with a silver serpent circlet on my brow. I gawped as I clocked me, grinned and raised a swatch in my right donny. Then, my grin dropped and I gazed on me like I was an addle-plot, and I pointed at me, the swatch still high in the air, and snarled into the crowd.

If you post it, quote me and I'll check it out. Biding my time tonight playing New Vegas and browsing the boards, so I'll be around.

I haven't written that much of it so I just wrote this which is a short simplified version of the story:

As the gardener walked through the garden he saw a weed growing up his apple tree. He climbed the tree planning to smother the weed and shook the tree's branches dropping leaves onto it. The gardener returned the next day and saw that the weed was still there. It thanked the man for giving it a hat of leaves to protect it from the sun. Determined to kill the weed the gardener climbed the tree again this time dropping apples hoping to crush it. Instead of crushing the weed it thanked him for being kind enough to give it food. Angered that all his attempts to kill the weed had failed the gardener spent months guiding the tree's roots around the weed to choke it. The weed seeing that the man had circled him in roots thanked him a third time for creating a wall to keep pests out.

Too impenetrable.

You failed your d20 saving roll to avoid cringe

I liked this right up to the last line, which seemed too glib.

I always wondered what happened to Def Leppard.

It's funny, even for a quickie, I didn't like the last line either. I had a fee alternates, but I just couldn't land on one I liked ultimately, so I chose the best of the worst. Didn't think it'd even get a mention though, thnx.

May I ask what you're going for, since I'm getting a short-hand instead of the legitimate? I have a faint idea, but I'd like to hear what it is for sure so I can give you the best advice I can. Right now, Ive just got a lot of questions over any real advice.

what a fucking pointless critique

>stopped reading here.

really, you stopped reading at the end of the excerpt?

Like I said it's not really ready to be looked at yet
It's supposed to be funny.

This has some pretty powerful line, but i'm wondering if you use archaice language, because you feel like you're supposed to, or because you think it improves the poem in a specific way?

Consider cutting ANY couplet you think the piece could possibly live without and then expanding. I personally would like to see the flower less clouded by allusions. I feel it muddles in inherent emotional response that seems to come with nature poetry. That said. Mine is hardly any better.

Cubist Self-Portrait

My I died
in fatherland
when Georgia
was invaded
by I cracked
among the star
less night the god
less night the wonderful
night

The planes of my face
fly off and crash
and I crash into I
and I crash and
feel the ground of
me and I know the
still point.

And I am pointless
and revolutionary
and turns in me
my Euclidianship
revoked reordered
and cubed into my
self who died when I
invaded I and I cracked
among the sky
and I knew the other I
and we spoke for a time

now see this see
stretching before we
and me and me and I
and we glitter above the
sea and crash against the
door and crack open the shore
and peek inside

let light dwell outside the wall
and pale the paint of mind
and peel the I’d of signs
of glass and cold enzymes

the chainlink fence I and I and
I and I make up in spite of
ghastly cracks among the night
in peerless little pricks of light
shining through the fatherland
of Georgia, where red mud
is ground, “Here lays where Mars
collide” where Venus light
can pull the tide, where every
thing does spin inside my mind

The green coast of lines and lines
is marred against the orange rind
the melts into the horrid time
that passes by in flight.

Let everyone see among them
shelves that bare the weight
of light that can’t bare to stare
into that planeful nighght.

I actually really like this my man

thanks! it's super fun to read out loud, but hopefully it doesn't feel spoken-wordy (at least not too much)