Critique

Poem written in one sitting its o k i like it.
First 5 > last 5 lines

Grey sweaters and old cream shoes;
On the frontpage moocow an' baby tuckoo -
Whats on your mind?

Pls dont rate me, written in jest.

>On the frontpage moocow an' baby tuckoo -
kek

Looks like you just finished the crying of lot 49
Be a little less opaque with your plagiarism, don't make Oedipa Maas your main character

I like it but also it's just a diss stop worrying about dumb people and write something meaningful because you can write

thanks user, appreciate that

I have another similar one lol. Idk why but something about getting angry at pseuds temporarily subdues my laziness and allows me to write a little

First paragraph is far superior. The sparse prose helped with his isolation and the image of him and the horse without fire was strong. The second paragraph was very weak because it tried much harder to be better written. I'm not a sparse prose only guy but you've got to do better than that.

This thread is a failure as people are not actually critiquing, just dumping their shit.

Years ago, yeah. CoL49 hasn't crossed my mind once writing this short story. Maybe that book is a presence too strong on my unconscious mind. I might need to purge it, or something. What's some good anti-Pynchon?

Just throw Oedipa in a blender with Nastasya Filippovna and, since this is an Australian story no matter how much you might wish it wasn't, add a sprinkle of the neuroses of those unforgettable australian high school sluts.

You are not an artist, but
Perhaps neither am I.
You wouldnt know art
If it hit you in the head,
Falling from the sky wasting time
In hip cafes posturing all
But your back light up
Cigarettes and smoke away
Bring out your typewriter might as well
Have a crack. Pretend
To master in weeks
What has taken our priors
A lifetime. With an arrogance so assured
Youd never suspect the pantomime
Oh, but your childlike mentality!
Am I not ranting at such innocent intentions?
So who am i to absolve myself from insanity
I think this calls for reflection.

gay as fuck

shit

Well Agostina isn't all Oedipa. I remember Oedipa being pretty amiable and kind. Sorta adventurous, too. Agostina can actually be a massive bitch if she doesn't get to empathise with others immediately, because she wants to feel good about it. So her mission to empathise is a fairly selfish one. She wants to be an angel. Don't know about Nastasya, though; I've never read The Idiot.

You're right about the Australian part. And I don't wish it wasn't, either. There's a ton of neuroticism which surfaces later on like a pimple on a sore thumb (the short story is about the world unexplainably ending without warning, and how all the characters in the room deal with it). Most just start fingerbanging before its all over, and others just sob for hours alone in a corner, others getting into arguments over nothing.

shit as all hell

bad as shit

sucks crap

are you making fun of me

why would you make it so obvious that you're not putting any effort into this?

Shit cuck

Okay here goes:

The bar’s atmosphere is cool, relaxed, and filled to the brim with alcoholic stench and has been so all the day cycle, until he walked in. Someone steps in through the bar’s entryway, right under the blaring neon sign reading “Rider’s Bar and Grill”.
A stalk-eyed creature at the bar-side spots the establishment’s new guest, and nudges his friend with urgency. “Hey.”
The giant friend moves a lazy eye to look at his companion. “What.”
“Don’t you ‘what’ me. Did you just see what walked in?” The small, stalk-eyed space creature motions its head over, and the big, gray one looks. He jolts in shock when he sees the figure coming their direction.
“W-why didn’t you tell me?” The ten-foot Ganar asks.
The short, sharp toothed Akinlin scowls. “I did. His target’s probably in here so we better jet! It’s only a matter of time before-”
“A human!” Screams the bartender over every conversation happening right now. Everyone in the bar looks to the figure. Concealed by a white and blue atmosphere suit, the outline of a human is unmistakable. Yelps of terror and the sounds of shattering glass fill the small establishment as everyone, even the bartender, scrambles for escape. Rows and rows of people pass the human, who tries to speak.
“Uh, what’s-” The last alien passes him as it runs out into the gallery, “-up…”
Other than the human, only one person is left in the bar, and that person raises his carapaced hand. “Right here, Mister Outstar,” the tall insect creature speaks through its translator.
The man in the atmosphere suit hesitates a moment, nods, and then steps right up. He pulls out a chair and takes a seat opposite to the insect guy. “Do aliens always treat humans like that?” “
The insect’s many eyes fluctuate a bluer color. “Aliens, Mister Outstar?”
The human clears his throat. “Excuse me. Individuals have been running from me the second I got here. Not even the security detail would search me. I read up about the Nautus System while waiting for the interview, but it doesn’t give mention of human presence anywhere.”
The insect hums. “Well, let’s just say we have just one human, and he’s not exactly the sort people mess with, but don’t worry about that — the reputation should help you.” The insect offers his hand. “I’m Opsone Eqarne from The Bar of the Lascardian Royal Space Navy, I expect you to be Lieutenant Cole Outstar?” Cole takes the hand and shakes.

bad

What's bad about it?

Something I drunkenly wrote tonight.

“Do you think you’d ever be talking to me if you didn’t want to fuck me?”
It’s 3 AM. The two of them sit in the derelict bus stop sipping on cheap coffee from the kebab shop down the road. The kebab shop makes most of their revenue from people like these two: clubbers, drunkards, loners. The kebabs they bought are already consumed. A thin mist rolls over the shabby shelter, coating the strangers in a cold jacket of vapour.
“Well? Am I just a piece of meat with a hole for you?”
“Well, where would we meet otherwise? You were at The Joint for a reason, right? You go there to hookup, no?” His voice wavers; he wants to get laid, but saying the wrong thing at this critical moment could cost it all. Men like this think with things other than their heads. The mist is forgotten to him, but the girl shivers. Noticing this, he gives her his jacket, a brown leather coat, wraps it around her shoulders; she doesn’t slip her arms into the sleeves, only holds her styrofoam cup of coffee.
“You only interact with me for these?” While she speaks, she grabs her breasts with both hands after putting her coffee on the bench.
This turns the man on, and he leans in to kiss her.
She stops him with a hand to his collar, “No, I’m not flirting with you. I’m asking you a question. Will you remember me tomorrow? Will you remember anything tomorrow?”
“Yeah, baby. I want to know you.”
“Look at me.” She stares into his eyes. He is still looking at her tits, but soon he looks up. His reaction time is severely impaired; he could care less. “What colour do you see in my eyes?”
Well, this is easy. He looks into her eyes. There is blue, of course; a blonde chick, blue eyes are the norm. But then there is green. Maybe it’s the light, either way her eyes are blue or green. But he needs to get this right, he wants to get some tonight, and she is clearly the emotional type of girl. Green or blue? But wait, there is another colour. Brown? No, she shifts a little and he sees red. Is she getting impatient? He needs to get this right. Red? Orange? Yellow? Her eyes are changing, shifting endlessly. Blue, red, purple, black, yellow, they all flash past. The whites are gone now, do they count? Should he give her every colour he sees?
“I see… lots of colours. Blue, black, red, green, yellow, orange. No white, the white is gone.”
“And you’d still fuck me?”
“What do you want me to say? I like you, that’s what people do when they like each other, right?”
“Yes, it is. Quick, without thinking, tell me the colour of my eyes.”

Immediately, “Black.”
He has her number. She leans in and passionately kisses him, then handles his erection through his jeans.
“Good guess.”
“How’d you know I guessed?”
“Doesn’t matter. A correct answer is still correct regardless of whether it was guessed or not. I have surprises in store for you.”
They get up, the man following the girl’s lead, and walk off into the thickening mist. He never questions her actions, just holds her hand, tightly, and egresses with her into the mist, the obscuring, suffocating mist.

Nah it's dece

SONETO ESPAÑOL
Rodéome de golfas y villanos
Y, con una compaña de tal guisa,
Con una voluptuosa Dionisa
Se establecerán sólo pactos vanos,

Que serán olvidados muy deprisa
En favor de aqueste vivir insano,
Quebrados por el sentenciar tirano
Del vino y de las lánguidas sonrisas.

Si algún incauto fiare sus haberes
En tal recua de putas, de basura,
Verá desesperado sus perderes.

Mas yo, que pertenezco a esta conjura
De colgados y putas, miserere,
Asistiré borracho a mi tortura.

good

bad

enlighten me, senpai

I like the mood. I like your faulty prose. I like the conversation. I like the changing colours of her eyes and the situation. I dont like the sudden shift, the compression of time, the cock grabbing. Everything after "Black" feels awkward, like you didnt quite know how to resolve the situation and thought that this would be good enough. She practically rimming his a-hole because he guessed her eye colour seems of colour in light of the conversation they were having before. Disconnect.

Maybe thats the point, probably is. I dont like it either way.

Oedipa was a schizoid slut who hated everyone she met and deconstructed them until they were all insane because she was too fucked in the head to realise she was a fruitcake. Dont know where you got nice and amiable from.

tRANSFRIGURATION! cetacean background transparency enveloping water permeated permeability, prefigured transfiguration waterproof surface memory - arid pale - warm aridity transforms into: compass (above: lamp: fire: warmth: heat). Access to: hidden booth exterior presence. KNOCK. Slot, already light and shadow after wrapping matter: wood in shade enveloping rigid surface post-preterite transfiguration cetacean prefiguration surface skid grease saliva past post-preterite: prefiguring memory presence, (in short ) exec cmd, but then prefigures surrounding matter saline, turbid, enthalpy, prefiguration, deposits, from Greek "to go" greater than less than chaos from Latin "chaos" to fluid less than greater than transparency greater than gelatin crystal less than salt surface sequel greater than Latin "chaos" Heat, therefore: glass window mirror glass prefigure mast wood waterproof transfigure of blow: contention, prefigure transfiguration in prefigure preterite re-present surface viscosity saliva feces greater than fibrous envelope smaller than multitude of, Less than on horizontality by end E: crowd therefore smaller than: greater than the same prefigures transfigures in prefiguration post-preterite structure, continues. Transfiguration fear transfigurate equal to terrace less than simultaneous superior to greater than posterior posterior posterior post-preterite posterior: propitious movement by circumstance therefore climate weather compass above sun heat sweat salt olfactory salt denouncing sweat denouncing Inner presence. Movement in shadows in telluric projection overflows in frame greater than embossed arabesque pattern contains mirror action representation by: reflex inversion profile silhouette just edge. KNOCK 1 KNOCK 2 and 3 absence of correspondence antithesis gold denouncing fear feces cover rags greater than adjective: prefigure white amber upwards: lamp: fire: warmth: therefore heat: therefore isometric projection becomes shadow being becomes shadow in three 90º angles prefiguration (lamp) oblique window division quadrant adjective numeral intersection greater than wood frame subject hardware crystal prefigure time posterior break quadrant point (x6, y-4) slope: collapse full 2 years 5 months 12 days 4 hours 7 minutes 12 seconds later Prefigures for 4 milliseconds marine wave clarification: non-physical gold transfigures potential fragmentation into duplicity in recursion of cetacean prefiguration. Temporal relativity submits to instantaneous capture interior room in front of bedless absence of blankets therefore: prefigured guessing after evidence: displacement consequently of subjection less than grip less than fist less than subject southeastern position inferior to prefiguration blanket subject object containing subset meat plague fear deposition essence transfigure in substance emancipation coming in bond with external presence therefore: subordination of the predicate of subject B to subject A hence:

fortuitous fatality less than predicate prefigures insurrection to verbis ad verbera: forced transfer of goods as content of subset as content of basement greater than permeate matter as envelope material transparency background prefiguration memory effective instead contains subset framing contains subset frames as a function of framing in succession in-line surface slope E smooth transfiguration to perspective absent from action therefore: death therefore transposition of perspective to: interior of framing therefore: artifice representation of exterior in interior of frame 4 (four) vanishing points above: warmth, heat right prefiguration cetacean in the middle surface in perspective turbidity superior to depth transparency envelope left matter wood less than wood system less than subset B therefore: room smaller than set A therefore: less than set joint less margin containment that prefigures absence of action prefigured above: subjective subjectivity therefore: specificity action time inner set A greater than outer subset B greater than inner subset B lesser verb than predicate in affection to subject A in subjection to subject B prefiguration action transfigures in the absence of action hence violating as destitution of essence in transfiguration in material in stateless post-preterite subjective less than microstate therefore: inner outer containment in relation to less than subset frames in succession in line metal pending (classification: steel) therefore greater than individuality less than set of sets therefore external in relation prefiguration less than memory for: a set of instantaneous captures in simultaneity continues proposition: chaos transfiguration attempt of order therefore: compilation of antecedents for: specificity action time for therefore: necessary hierarchization maximis ad minima ad verbis: exterior framing representation artifice ordering action absence of non-action, greater than prefiguration: specificity, therefore, subjectivity: action less than killing less than death less than life less than lesser than lesser than exterior less than scene less than frame less than artifice less than word less than writing less than hand less than I.

Autism at its finest

Take modafinil.

(OP) #
Are you writing poetry or prose? Your line breaks after too and certain are pointless.
>suffused
Is used wrong.
>the beautiful ding-dong being sent off from the bells heard only by myself.
You can delete this entire line and not lose anything.
>therefore they fail to
"Failing to" is plenty.
>purportless
Purposeless. Purportless is archaic.
>Looking around myself, I found the passers-by looking downwards at their cell phones, staring directly
Again, not sure why there was a line break in the middle of this, but this whole fragment is terrible and redundant and repetitive. It needs rewriting.
>their imposing silhouete imposing a certain minuteness in my stature
Typo in silhouette; imposing used twice within a word of each other. "Minuteness in my stature" is awkward and feels forced.

All in all this is very bad. I hope English is your second language. Or that you're young, very new to the idea of writing, and thought you'd sound good by trying to use higher language even though it's almost entirely unwarranted and does nothing to the voice. You need lots of practice and to study the basics of what makes good writing. This is a just a paragraph of angst, venting, and preach. Not sure if you're really giving me a novel opening or an excerpt of your diary desu

#
>He could barely stand the thought of stopping, and knew full well he’d hardly sleep, but night was encroaching on the mountain side, and he couldn’t risk losing his horse or injuring himself.
This is a run-on and reads like a run-on, since it has no aid of established voice.
>He couldn’t
By this point, you've began most of your sentences with a pronoun (his, he, he) and have had multiple contractions that should tend to be avoided unless necessary (and they aren't here, believe me)
>He emerged from his cocoon
Did he undergo some drastic character evolution that changed his entire person while sleeping that night? Otherwise this is just fluff with no weight to it.
>pristine and practiced notes that set his anxious heart to rest
This line unintentionally has great poetic meter and content. That being said, it comes of forced and whimsical (in a negative context) within your attempted prose.
>He knew he was close now. He knew that, if his friend were truthful, he was finally headed toward closure, and that he could finally live again, free of his obsession
He, he, he, he, he... of all your sentences in this piece, only two didn't begin with him or he and those were still basic (after, the). And your sentences are "suffused" by pronouns.
(OP) # (see this for proper use of suffused)

If you're writing this to grow into a larger piece, you need to know your characters and world. "He" "him" "my friend" are not people they are your ideas. They need names, attributes, personality. What mountain range is he by? Is it near a desert climate? Your opacity hurts everything. Last lines are fine, but everything needs more detail/meaning.

Forgot to use my trip here.

What said.
But I will add that it is well structured, reads well, and has been edited. I'm never a big fan of prose being hyper-connected purely for style and flexing. But it is a well regarded style when done right, and I can't let my bias say anything other than this (and by this, I mean your writing skill in general) has potential. Just be careful with plagiarism. Be sure you're not wholly drawing from another source you've read before writing. Be sure you bring your own style out from the inspiration of another--not mimicry.

I get your being ironic by using sonnet stylistics in a piece on vanity and ineptness. But it doesn't feel like a sonnet to begin, and the change comes a bit abrupt for the voice--it's jostling. It's clever, and really not that bad. But I do agree with in that you chose a mostly meaningless topic that is also very typical, especially here. This is alright for a personal collection. But try and branch out, encompassing ideas such as this one here and others within a story that (much more) subtly reveals these themes in a way that will carry more of an impact. That's why this isn't bad, but isn't good either. It's right in the middle, but isn't 'just right' either.

I'm not going to break this down, but will say it's just bad. We're you attempting a stream of consciousness style here? Either way, you need more context, more coherence, and more structure. Stream of consciousness doesn't mean a lack of structure, it means you're attempting write what should read as flowing thought. You still need proper grammar and punctuation to establish this, yet you must use it with finesse. It is a difficult writing style that takes practice.
Besides that, I took nothing from this, gained nothing from this, and forced myself to run through it much like your flat character through his stomach cramps. It needs purpose to me. And I can't magically find what purpose it has for you in there, and that still means nothing to me unless it's a universal theme.

Pointless. But has solid imagery and alright flow and meter. That's about all I can give for such a short, whimsical piece.

I'm sorry to do this to you, but unless you can give me a good reason to keep reading past
>The small, stalk-eyed space creature
I'm just going to generalize that you need to work on descriptors and stylistic form. You already said it was stalk eyed, and saying it was a "space creature" is so fucking dull and bland that it really nailed the coffin shut for me. Fuck, just give the race the alien is a name. I'd rather read "The lanky and grotesque Algorosian motioned me over via a wave of its eye." and not know off hand what an "algorosian" is but be able to inference it's an alien of sine kind based on the description.

The same thing can be said to most of the posters here so far, including you, which would be: KNOW YOUR STORY AHEAD OF TIME. Know the details surrounding your story, know where you're going, where the story is going, everyone who is involved, and what it all will come to tell. There's no meditation here, it's all masturbation.

Alright I cooled off and returned to read the rest of your piece. And I have to admit, it was better than the introduction led me to believe. One if the few cases where the writing actually got a little stronger as it progresses. Like you started to get a grasp on what you were writing in a grander scheme, when compared to the beginning. You could benefit from (even an entire additional paragraph) added a real description of the aliens scrambling out the bar--to really give weight to the lone man being surrounded by aliens. The final conversation with outstar and eqarne was good and a great ending point of the segment. I went from disliking this piece, to being interested in what comes next. Which, barring the first half, that's exactly what you want. I still stand by what I said: you have quite a few repetitious words and phrases that detract from the quality. And you also have a few redundancies in your descriptors that you could go without, where some of your descriptors are lacking a need bolstering.

I'd say keep working on it, and hopefully you've got a good idea of where this going. If you do, it could have potential.

>The bar’s atmosphere is cool, relaxed, and filled to the brim with alcoholic stench and has been so all the day cycle, until he walked in.

Don't mix your tenses, senpai. If you're going to write in present tense, write everything in present tense. Other than that, this is a run-on. You need to break it up more.

get a typewriter. the margin bell will improve your rhythm. it's good, but lost the snap that form would give you around the second cetacean.

First draft of possible first page of my novel.
Please critique as harshly as you like.
OH Kate, how I love you, let me count the ways.
One, unconditionally, like the artist loves his work, it isn't what he had in his minds eye, it isn't what he sought to create, but with the 20/20 vision of hindsight, he one day sees it is so much better.
Like the baker loves his bread, I know that your creation was not my doing, I was less than a substrate, you were as whole as time is infinite and resolutions are predecided, I am merely witness.
Oh Kate, let me end the counting there, it is too painful.
You remember those nights in Melbourne hostels, passion and the resulting sweat, I remember them, rare as the punctuation of the ellipsis, and as such they always implied something more to come. I never had the heart to tell you that not one hostel we fucked in had I not fucked another before. I have the hubris now though, to tell you that your company was the only one of importance. Though you tell me when we talk that you remember, that you hold on to the permanence of our love, I must tell you that I don't remember a thing.
Scenes and atmosphere I recall but my heart I cannot displace in time. I remember only that I felt then as I do now; precious little.
But my love, oh how much I can imagine we felt! That first night we spent together, on the top bunk of our twin room rendezvous, post coital but preconception, the pain we felt then, near tears, not even speaking, strangers still, that pain I now see was foresight, that nothing good lasts.
Wish that I knew then that the bad lasts just as long.
You know that what we shared was true, but do you know that I am immune to truth without narcotics.
I made promises to myself that you would experience MDMA with me your first time, that when you touched the abyss and felt your heart there, I would be the pulse that kept your blood flowing. I made promises to myself, those I kept...
I want to take you now to that place you dread, I am sorry to do so. I want to take you into the absurd, outside of the black iron prison, outside of Grill'd Christmas parties and outside of them and into you.
Will you come with me? I promise to be a good host, what I've promised you though, I never did deliver.

"Those who show the world contempt,
Die as beggars on heaven's step;
While those who wonder at things small,
Drink their wine in heaven's halls."

We got double dubs so I'll critique you.
Rhythm is unoriginal, the schizoid in me loves the sentiment.

O, Great Northern Mall, you dwindling oracle
of upstate New York, your colossal lot

of frost-heaved spaces so vacant I could cut
straight through while blinking and keep my eyes

shut, I’ve come like the flies that give up the ghost
at the papered fronts of your defunct stores,

through the food court where napkins, unused
to touch, are packed too tight to be dispensed,

past the pimpled kid manning the register
who stares at the buttons and wipes his palms.

If I press my eyes until checkers rise
from the dark – that’s how the overheads glower

in home essentials as I roam through Sears,
seeking assistance. I know you’re here.

For this window crank I brought, you show me
a muted wall of TVs where Jeff Goldblum

picks his way through the splintered remains
of a dinosaur crate. There must be fifty

of him, hunching over mud to inspect
the three-toed prints. I almost didn’t

come in here at all, driving the opposite
of victory laps, and waiting as I hoped

for the red to leave my eyes, but my urgency
smacked of your nothingness. I did it again –

I screamed at the woman I love, and in front
of our one-year-old, who covered his ears.

The rain was relentless and the street was deserted and the stranger’s hand was edging ever closer to my wife’s breast. There was a passion in their kiss which I had never been able to inspire, a visceral lust which gripped them both. It was already too late to intervene, for any love she had borne me was clearly already gone. Her love was in her thudding heart as he pushed her firmly against the wall, in her body as it shuddered with anticipation, in her eyes as she stared into his. I was already a memory that she was starting to forget.

He was tall and handsome whereas I was not. He was dressed stylishly and expensively whereas I was not. He was able to make my wife squirm in pleasure with his kiss whereas I could not remember a single instance when she had responded so passionately to my touch. Why was I unable to make her yearn for me like that?

...

thank you for your input, Ill keep it in mind

I'm a kangaroo with an alcohol problem.
Hop-scotch.
I'm a koala druglord hiding marijuana.
Tree-house.
I'm an obese paraplegic giraffe that eats sausage links whole.
Deepthroat.
I'm a mentally handi-capped pitbull protesting womens rights violations.
Retarded bitch.
I'm flying with a flock of seagulls that graduated from a liberal arts college and shame white birds.
Frosted flakes.
I'm a rock-tossing desert dune coon that smokes opium.
Stoners.
I'm european pig hearing the news about Brexit.
Basejumper.

>and the change comes a bit abrupt for the voice--it's jostling.
can you just elaborate on that I dont really understand

Like I said, I was drunk. You're actually correct in seeing a shift there; I had gotten up for about half an hour between those paragraphs and I had originally planned it to be longer but by this point I just wanted a conclusion. I was drunk. Maybe I'll revisit it today and alter it; the shift is fairly egregious and noticeable.

How does it feel to literally be a living meme?

bliss

Chapter One:
The door open, and Lorica knew it was time for her punishment. Her eyes locked on to the floor as the sound of the guard’s footsteps could be heard closing in, and she braced for the inevitable, the flood of unknown fear knocking her heart hard against her chest. But as the sound of footsteps stopped, she gripped the sleeves of her ragged clothing; all she wished now was an end to this confinement.

She’d been held captive to the unknown place after an incident in her village, but for Lorica, there was no telling what they would do to her. She often heard the screams and whispers in the distance before coming here, now they were everywhere. They called to her in a language she did not understand. When her cell fell in a still silence, they filled it with whispers, their essence all around her. When she told them to go away, they screamed at her and terrified her in her dreams.

She knew nothing of what they craved or what they asked, and at times she had a lingering feelings neither did they. She’d been here for no more than a month, and in that month she craved nothing more than to return to her parents. But she knew the bitter truth than she would have liked. Even if the Gods themselves found her innocent and pardoned for the incident, she could never return home after what had happened.

The guard tapped her shoulder with his sheathed weapon before reaching for something. The guard then cleared his throat as he shifted his posture from side to side, his face showing discomfort when reading the parchment: “C-child,” He said hesitant, averting his eyes from her own. “May you please stand.” He sounded younger than the previous guard who brought her in to this cell, and his mantle that draped over his shoulders were in a different color than the other; nonetheless they both have the same sigil.

Lorica pondered for a moment before she stood up from the cell floor, she gained nothing by resisting. “Stretch out your arms,” he said, as he pulled out metal shackles with strange markings from the leather satchel tied around his waist. She shivered as his steel gloves brushed against her skin. “Are you feeling different from before?” he asked his soft voice betrayed by a jotting curiosity that made her worried in what kind of response she should give him.

Man consumes himself,
a life of excess and greed,
Thoughts controlled by screens and celebrities
Joy appears to be dead
and Man is classified as a soulless creature

Alas, all hope seems lost
yet a minute, beaming incandescence appears
A light that energizes life itself,
and motivates even the most lost of men
We appear to be undeserving of this light
It’s nature, virgin-like, too pure for our rotten souls

Shall we evolve,
or shall we parish
If not now then when
When shall our destiny be etched

Our will to live or die
a vacillation only fluxed by this light so often within our reach,
still, we neglect it
It often appears
going without notice
With hope, man will no longer be consumed by himself,
But consumed by happiness

Exactly what about reads like CoL49? I'm trying to rake through it and eliminate anything that reads similar, but I'm having difficulty finding what it is that's giving off vibes of plagiarism. Is it the wording? Certain words? Theme? Character? I mean, shit, is it the whole underlying structure itself? If so, I'm fucked and have to start over.

(1/2, so far)

Mowing along the waist-height hedge Charlie turned his head to look at his neighbor, short and stout. This neighbor was, according to himself, an affluent lawyer, hailing from a small village in Russia, from which he’d emigrated during the second world war. Half the village’s inhabitants had supposedly died of starvation, and thankfully this neighbor—Eliot was his name—had grown healthily in girth since his move to America. Charlie was by no means a well traveled man, nor an intelligent one, but he was curious about Eliot’s accent. Despite supposedly having emigrated from Russia, Eliot spoke in an accent that Charlie had most associated with Britain. Eliot got into the driver’s seat of his convertible whilst Lars emerged from the doorway of the house and followed Eliot to the car. This lawyer was certainly affluent, as he was somehow able to pay his assistant to live with him. Lars had been living in the lawyer’s home for three weeks, along with only the lawyer and his wife, however, as Charlie hadn’t seen Eliot’s wife in said three weeks, he’d assumed she was perhaps on a vacation of some sort, as the lawyer could certainly afford such luxuries for her, and did his most to please her, despite her rudeness toward him. Charlie continued mowing his lawn, focusing his attention on his careful work—for he loved his lawn very much—and away from the lawyer and his tall blonde assistant Lars.

“Ack! Ack!” Charlie heard after a loud bang. The noise startled Charlie, and he looked back over the little hedge to see what had gone wrong. The hood of the car was billowing with black smoke. Whilst Lars got out of the car to pop the hood, Eliot simply sat inside, his face a mix of terror and fury. Lars tried to discover the problem, but to no avail. He walked around to Eliot’s door and shrugged his broad shoulders, slightly untucking his too-tight polo shirt from his chinos. Eliot and Lars had a little irritated discussion, like that of a married couple, before both turning their attention to Charlie. And eventually, after a long time of staring, and Charlie staring back at them, Eliot got out of his car and approached the hedge, sweating in his fine black suit, the beads resting on what little white hair he had left.

(2/2)

“Good day, sir!” he shouted over the still running mower. Charlie, having been a rather dim man, had forgotten to shut it off.

“Good day, sir! Could I trouble you to flip off your mower?” Eliot shouted again.

“Huh?” Charlie shouted back in response.

“Turn off the bloody mower!” Startled, Charlie finally switched off the machine.

Eliot, embarrassed, regained his composure and continued to speak, “I’m terribly sorry to bother you, fine sir, but me and my assistant over there had decided to go golfing today. And as you can see, our plans have been utterly ruined. So, seeing that fine machine you have in your driveway,” Eliot nodded toward Charlie’s red convertible, “we’ve decided to implore you to take us there, as this trip is terribly, terribly important to us. Terribly.”

“Well yeah, I’ll take you. Of course. But I don’t know where this golf course is.” Said Charlie, and both Lars and Eliot snickered to each other from across the lawn.

“That’s no matter. We will give you instructions along the route. Thank you for your assistance, dear sir. Lars! Help me get the clubs from the boot, will you?.”

“Yez’mmm,” responded Lars, as he usually did.

“Just hold on a second, sir!” Eliot said, turning to Charlie, before heading off to the trunk of the ruined car. Lars and Eliot opened up the trunk, and struggled with a large golf bag. Very slowly, and with great effort, the two men moved this bag down the sidewalk, and decided to take the shortcut across Charlie’s lawn to the car, which annoyed Charlie greatly, although he didn’t say anything. What annoyed Charlie more was the red syrup that was dripping from Eliot’s end of the bag.

Eliot noticed Charlie’s eyes following the dark syrup, “Putter oil!” Eliot exclaimed.

“Yes, um, you’ll have to forgive the wait, but, you see, the whole bag is full of putters. Selling them to a business partner. Dozens of the things. Very heavy. And well, I suppose I was a tad too enthusiastic with the oiling, but you know, one can never be too careful about putter-rot!” Eliot said, out of breath, chuckling, as Charlie opened the trunk and the two laid the golf bag in it.

After Eliot had caught his breath, they all squeezed into the little two door, Charlie started the car, and Eliot, seated in between Charlie and Lars, forcing them both slightly askew, held out his left hand like meat cleaver. “Right! left.” Charlie looked at him confused for a moment.

“I said go left.” He reuttered.

“Right!” Charlie said, and turned left out of the driveway.

After awhile of Charlie driving, and Eliot giving instructions, Eliot spied something in the rear-view mirror.

docs.google.com/document/d/1GbywSXiPMwKCJhbvrtjUbxERc1vEvWa9hZavxqHNZyA/edit?usp=sharing

If anyone is willing, I've got an ~26 page fantasy/sci-fi/speculative fiction with Neolithic era tech story here. The central question examined is, "Is ignorance really bliss?". I wanted to look at the nature and burdens of knowledge, and the mindset of people living in a time when so much about the world was unknown.

It's written in a deliberately and deceptively simple style, so it's not difficult to read. I'd appreciate any critiques/criticisms.

If you aren't going to be constructive, fuck off

Irony, the post.

Is that cum dribbling off her chin?

In a grey mountain land, searching for God,
I happened on a cave, toothy and cold.
Shouting, anguished, within. I turned to my guide,
facing somber dissent. Heedless, I entered.
Where the small den halted, bleak light fell through the rock,
on a thin brackish pool, in which a figure lay.
That tormented wraith writhed, bones in black water,
endless life lamenting— one it could not take.
An ending I offered, a fool's pity.
It shrank from me in fear— by this I left.

Returning to the guide, I bid us continue the search.
Met with my ignorance, their gaze sought the ground in dismay.

how is it irony?

it's a shadow

Not that guy, but it's pretty funny you claim to not see the irony here.

It's ironic because you tell people to "fuck off" if they're not "constructive" while you yourself are posting non-constructively (making posts that don't pertain to any work to be criticized). You're basically telling yourself to fuck off

I'm not trying to be constructive, I want constructive criticism, why is that so hard to understand?

About time someone wrote a book with an autistic protagonist

>If you aren't going to be constructive, fuck off
>I'm not trying to be constructive
I guess you have to fuck off, then.

Oh, he gets a lot worse.

Also, i'm not that beta cuck that i am writing. Just sayin

you first newfag

>doesn't understand irony
>calls people newfags

I thought I told you to fuck off

You are a bad writer

Expand upon this.

Not sure if this is a serious work. If it is, then try writing something that doesn't talk down to the reader so much. Something with a 'lesson we could all learn', because your writing is suffering for it.

Trying to make a new form here and curious as to people's thoughts on it (if you don't like the bullets, then ignore them, they are on iffy ground and are not part of the structure i'm talking about.

1. Learn some brevity.

2. Don't constantly project you're nihilistic attitude into your narration. We don't care what you think about things, we care about what makes you think that way.

You seem to have a sophisticated skill set and understanding of prose writing. But your execution and application of these aspects needs to mature.

Two things have helped me. One was shortening every sentence as prose to be as concise as possible without sacrificing the phonetic integrity. The second has been viewing whatever theme I'm trying to instill in the story as an entity that vaguely pulsates throughout before climaxing near the end.

Thank you. This is very helpful for me as I struggle often with the length of my sentences, and i even break grammer rules in order to add more to them. I'll try to keep that in mind.

Also, the man I am writing is one who is bound by little sense, yet always asserts himself in a intellectual manner. I am having trouble with showing that without directly telling the reader due to the novel's first person prospective. The character is unaware of his fallicies, therefore he should write in a manmer that expresses this idea. Any ideas?

There are some minor grammatical errors in here. More troubling though is the weird change in perspective...it starts off in first person, then switches to 3rd. Was that intentional?

It is a little hard to judge where you are going off of such a small fragment, but assuming your novel is in progress, more details and interactions should follow this paragraph. Right now it is mostly description of surroundings and atmosphere which is fine, but it can drag down the pacing if you just keep meandering.

I liked the part in 3rd person better than the part in 1st person. The latter just felt too self-conscious, like the speaker is trying to demonstrate his vocab and superiority. Could be fine though if it is intentional characterization.

BUT one sentence I really dislike is "The looming skyscrapers..." because "imposing silhouette imposing" sounds awkward.

>The character is unaware of his fallicies, therefore he should write in a manner that expresses this idea. Any ideas?

I'm not entirely sure of the kind of story you're trying to write, so I'm not really sure.

I would try and convey his mindset and personality through smaller, more subtle ways. Is he so self-absorbed he doesn't hold the door open? Do people tell him thinks that seem out of place due to his obliviousness of others? Say he sees one person on their phone, how would he relate that to their appearance and situation?

Also, actions speak louder than manic rambling. In what actions do his character traits manifest?

write something else and come back to it

step away from the story in a sense and do something else. I say in a sense because I don't think that forgetting about it completely is helpful. your momentum would just dissipate and you would forget some of the things you wanted to do. Right now, you have it planned out so remember the basic gist of what you've done so far and play with the ideas that remain while engaging in something else...exercise is what I like to do (specifically cardio). It seems to remove block quickly for me.

Very nice. I don't have much to add other then that. Keep up the good work though.

How can I write sincerely? I literally just stopped being able to write a year ago. Every single day I sit and try to write something, anything, but it's impossible, nothing comes to my head that feels half honest or in any way interesting.

It sounds like you're overthinking it. Just sit down and do it.

lel, kys

Can someone please give me a nice idea of something to write 300 words on? Fantasy, sci fi, edgy, whatever. I'm feeling a strong urge to write, but no idea is coming to mind. I promise to post it here in the critique thread.

Vaguely noticing a pretty girl in your apartment building that always smiles back when you smile at her, that you always think of talking to. She starts staying in your head when you're not around, only a little bit though.

Just as this happens, just as she begins to linger in your mind just a little bit, she dies. You see strangers moving things out from her apartment.

And you never even learn her name.

Another chunk of my novel someone please critique.

My first love was Electra. I dont remember her last name, I think it was Greek, a somethingapoulos.
We were in grade 4 at the time, Sandringham East Primary school, talking TV.
Angus Young, the year level's best athlete, name definitely no accident on his father's part, had that unfortunate always flushed pinky red complexion, and looked like a Scotsman's arsehole. He led the discussion. I theorized that his face had stayed red ever since he first ran out the beep test in 2nd grade PE, such a freakish feat must make for a freak. I was in the dark then still about sex and sexuality, and the group of 11 year old boys quoting Billy Joe Armstrong on 'fucking' a 'bitch' groupie revolted and disturbed me. I hated their masculinity. I understood the sexual act, but it was something sacred to me then, for I didn't understand its meaning, and so Electra and I talked about ABC's Wednesday night lineup instead.
Spicks and Specks; The New Inventors; We can be Heroes; Kath and Kim, has the embarrassment passed yet so that we may be fond of the noughties? I will proudly be its first champion. The Australian Broadcasting Commission's golden era. Now I say bitch when I fuck and every TV channel has multiple personalities. ACA can still be counted on for a supermarket scandal, and we at least don't have to look at Derryn Hinch's face nearly as often. Kochie is the Sun made into flesh, oblivious but always beaming, he hasn't aged a day.
Now I hate my masculinity.
Adam Hills cheated on his wifemultiple times. I saw Alan bro riding a bike in the CBD once, post-Spicks and Specks' cancellation, he wore a helmet and smiled when I waved as he crossed La Trobe street going up Swanston and I looked for a cheap hostel room in the city to spend the last of my Youth Allowance on, I picked one close to the Dockland's, I had a job interview the next morning for a door to door charity fundraising job.
We make so many bad decisions.
Molly Meldrum fucked adolescent boys who lived in the housing commission buildings across the road from his apartment.
I hope Alan Bro is a good man.
It's Monday night and I need cocaine to recover from all of the cocaine I did on the weekend, I wish Myf Warhurst had rode past instead.

I was awaken by a warm, tingling sensation in my right leg as I found myself laying in an empty, dry bathtub. A miniature yellow river had begun to form beneath my abdomen, with my loins acting as the riverbed to a stream of urine. Quickly, I drained the creek, leaped out of the tub and put on my underwear without washing.

"So this is the power of brandy...", I mouthed calmly to the suspiciously androgynous Asian person leaning against the bathroom door.

Alright you fuckos, here's the first chapter of my highly anticipated seminal novel, THE LIFE AND TIMES OF FUTURE PRIVATE EYEBALLS VINCENZO. You can critique it if you want, but it's perfect, so you'd just be embarrassing yourself.

pastebin.com/DZNX4acu

noice