Overnight Critique Thread

docs.google.com/document/d/1QWFnHI66PsH3O8_dW45RaKirhjBFCJF43eYS2x1RtDQ/edit?usp=sharing

...

I have a 16th century astronomer in mind

My meditation on the stars is an obligatory duty, as vital to my survival as food and drink. Tonight I stepped out to gaze at those twinkling lights of heaven illuminating the abyss, once more. It is not hard to ponder under the stars, for there is a peculiar quality of mystery about them that makes even the slowest dunce thoughtful. It makes a man think of his utter insignificance: nothing but a speck in the long, infinite stream of time. But how majestic is the fact that this small speck can look at this assortment of lights, can reflect on the stream which paves his destination, and wonder!

>The first two sentences
I like the rest of the paragraph, but these two sentences have no character to them. I would cut these and open with: "An old man was dying beside me."

>Curled over some hard drug or another
I think this is okay, but grammar wise I stopped for a second.
>or far from anywhere, for that matter.
Cut this, "far from home" gains double meaning. It also gives the paragraph a stronger ending then 'for that matter."
>I walked up the steps and pressed the intercom.
Make this a new line

>but negative ten degrees Fahrenheit on the outside.
>but negative ten on the outside.

Is there a difference between semi-broken and broken?

- - Feel free to ignore this part - -
If you're going for the noir feel, what I like to do is have "blunt" parts of my prose, for example:
>It took her five minutes.
>Five minutes.
This can make the narrator feel impaitent. It gives the sense of a "gruff" storyteller to me.

>a cocktail of cotton, paper, and the bodily fluid
I very much like this description. Is increasingly-self concious needed though? It implies he's anxious by sweating and by his thoughts.

>foreign languages.
I like this, it can imply he's way out of his element, that he's fully alone.

>the curves of a woman who has had half enough to eat.
Really felt noir with that, nice.

>The next moments are somewhat of a blur.
I really like what you're trying to do here, it show's he's very nervous, his thoughts are rapid, but the execution need's work. There are some parts where the thoughts don't flow, for example:
>do you know that evolution
That is jarring, where as:
>eyes I wonder how many
Could be better, but it has logical flow.

There are a lot of i's that need capitalizing from here on out. At this point i stopped taking notes and just finished reading.

>a drop of transparency in a grey world.
I feel you could describe it better than grey world, I accidently read it as "grey, grey world." in my head just to give it some more emphasis
I do like the idea though.

Overall thoughts: I actually really like this, though if you noticed from my notes I thought the narrator was going to be tougher at the start. I guess my only real complaint was the "no punctuation part."
Like the idea is good, but the execution needs work, the only thing I've done similar was lots and lots of short, choppy sentences, but that has different context/tone. I'm afraid I can't say what to do better.
Again though, good job! pacing was great, had some nice stuff there. Write more.

Hey, I'm sorry, this is very long. Could you give me a section of it to work with? ~1.5 pages

Yes, sorry about that.

...

Two, tiny wheels pushed against the concrete sidewalk, connected to a miniature frame and a miniature deck and two miniature handlebars, propelled by a boy who looked a little too big to be riding such a miniature thing. His body towered over the handlebars. His feet looked awkwardly stuffed onto the deck, with one foot edging up where the frame and deck connect, and the other in a tip-toe position when it wasn't pushing. His weight alone could drive this scooter into motion.
He didn't do this, this being riding such a tiny scooter, because he was too poor to buy a bigger one, nor was it because he did it as some kind of joke, certainly not that. No, instead, he rode such a minuscule scooter to seek solace, to escape the pressures of life and live as a recluse while the sun still shined.
Normally, people seek solace in hobbies. Maybe it's playing basketball by yourself on an empty court. For others, it's locking themselves in their rooms, listening to punk rock and playing the latest FPS shooter. But this didn't look as if it were a hobby to the boy -- no -- he looked too stern for that to be the case. People who get to experience have a smile on their face, or at the very least, they don't hold a clenched jaw and intense stare into nothingness.

I'll be honest, this is very purple.
I think you're new, and that's okay! I just see bits of how I "used" to write in what you've got.

You have a strong emphasis on "phrases." These sound nice, but they're short, choppy, and they sound cliche, as well as squander an opportunity for better description.
>The surrounding world darkened
>my mind and the world went quiet
>but the blaze was alive
>entered a state of chaos
It sounds like to me you're using the first words that come to your mind. Trust me, this is a bad habit. A terrible example:
>The surrounding world darkened.
>The shadows crept beneath my feet and the legs of my chair.

>void inferno chaos
These words are heavy, it sounds like they were chosen because they sound cool, not because they are the correct words.

I think you need to work on those two issues, before I can really say much more.

My overall thoughts though: It's a bit tell, not show, both descriptively and emotionally.
>The winds entered a state of chaos.
Write a paragraph describing this "state of chaos."
>Everything imperfect about my life was evident
Like what? I don't know the narrator, for all I know "imperfect" could be that they burnt their toast that morning.

Keep it up though, writing well isn't easy.

What does Veeky Forums have to say?

At this point, you may well wonder about my own connection with that wretched and ineffably nightmarish hamlet deep in the woods of the Thoroughshikst Reservation. Well, do not despair, reader, for it is on that account that my senses will relate. As I perceive it, no other living being on this earth has ever shared (and, furthermore, I hope will never have to share with me) such an accursed and horrifying experience. My six hours there among its inhabitants have left lurid imprints on my mind, whereof I have yet to rid, and, I fear, I might never be able to exorcise entirely.

Hey! I don't know how much I can really say about this, because its somewhere between poetic and philosophical.

>even the slowest dunce thoughtful
that doesn't feel 16th century to me, and even if it was 21st century I feel like the narrator would say something more poetic than that. A bad example:
>could give even the everyman a moment's thought!

I don't feel like I have enough experience in what you're aiming for to be able to critique it more. That's not to say I don't think there's anything wrong with it, it's just I can't put it to words.

Here is a piece from Gordon Macquarrie that has a similar philosophical/poetic thing to it, I think you could learn a lot from it!

-------------------------------------------------
There is something about rain ... A night in summer when the clouds can swell no more and shrink from threatening battlements to ragged shreds over Wisconsin, I often get up from my chair, go to the big closet and speculate over the implements of trout fishing there. Indeed, there is something about rain. Especially a warm rain, spilled over a city or a network of trout streams, It kindles a spark. It presses a button. It is an urgent message from afar to any seeker of the holy grails of angflingdom-- trout.

There is a mild August rain sluicing down to the thirsty earth. There are the castellated clouds, fresh from the western prairie, borne on the hot, dry land wind. And there is your man of the creel and the rod and the sodden waders going to the window to peer out and plumb the mysteries of the rain and wonder about tomorrow.

It must be that eons ago, when the rain splashed down over the front of a cave door, the muscle-bound troglodyte within went to the opening and stretched out his hand, palm upward. Perhaps he even stood there a bit, as perfectly sane men will sometimes do. Perhaps that old sprig of Adam, restless by his fire in the dry cave, felt the friendliness of the rain. Perhaps--no trouter will deny it--he felt the drops on his matted head and wondered about tomorrow.

The rain can beckon a man of the noisy city and draw him to the door or window. Its attraction is so much greater if falls at night, when it is a whispering mystic from afar that seems to say "Get ready, my friend. I am just brushing by to settle the dust and wash away today's dead spent wings."
-------------------------------------------------

That ending hits very hard, it's also very metaphorical yet vivid, I guess those are the only two areas I think you could look at.

Still, good job. The narrator's got character, and I like that!

I'm going to go ahead and draw the line here, I've got some things I've got to get done today, so any post after this one I'm going to have to pass, sorry!

These three will be my last.

What I want to illustrate is an archaic, scholarly monks thought as accurately as possible. It's difficult though, as I'm trying to portray a wise man without being one myself!

Thanks for the feedback, I appreciate it.

>It sounds like to me you're using the first words that come to your mind.

Well yeah, it's a draft that I just wrote and moved on from.

And what if I'm trying to express a chaotic atmosphere? Is this acceptable?

Any time, friend!

And it's always difficult writing a character wiser/smarter than yourself. The narrator DOES have a personality though, which I like.

If you're trying to express a chaotic atmosphere, you could describe how shadows are getting longer and distorted, how the fire is crackling louder and almost flickering out of the fireplace.
The wind is howling, and the shutters on the windows are slamming, the room is spinning. A bowl falls off and shatters.

of course, those are cliche, but what I'm trying to say is, don't say "it is chaotic"

The atmosphere I got from the draft was that it was dark, there was a fire, and the wind was blowing in the room?

There's a lot of "advanced" stuff, like describing your narrator's mental state through the environment, but the other stuff comes before that.

I'd suggest, whenever you come up with a "phrase" that is 3-5 words, re imagine it so it fits 10-20 words, just as practice. Doesn't have to be any good, as long as it gets you thinking of more eloquent ways to write something.

>She danced in a dress "flowing like silk"
>She moved and her dress fluttered as curtains to the soft breeze of a spring morning.

The first sentence DID get me interested, so it works as a hook. I think it could hit a little harder though. Maybe make it a little more dramatic?
>He skulked into the bathroom and kitchen, as he gathered the essentials for the ritual before he locked himself in the basement: thing#1, thing#2, and a checkered bathrobe still damp from his evening shower--the garments of a warlock.

>and godliness was not on the table tonight.
lol.

>Which was a problem. There were no goats in a 20 mile radius.
lol.

>pentacle
do you mean pentagram?

>a rotary phone.
lol.

Okay, I can't really critique this beyond what I already mentioned. This is funny, childish, but funny. This is the kind of stuff I used to write and laugh to myself and then give up on because I simply wanted to write something more serious.

With that said, I genuinely like this, I'd really like to read more. Aside from "pentacle" and some punctuation issues, i don't see much wrong with it, it does exactly what I think it was meant to do.

This is chuckleworthy. I mean it.

Alright, thanks. It's usually difficult for me to get edits because I'm such a perfectionist and feel like I'm shit at writing, but I appreciate your patience and kindness. Have a nice day :)

Thanks for taking the time, its been lying untouched in the judgment thread for a while so i assumed people didnt really think much of it. Glad you liked it. I agree about the first sentence being a bit bareboned, ill probably add some meat to it. As for the pentacle, blame me skimming wikipedia, i saw a picture and presumed that a pentagram was just the star while a pentacle was the inverted version with a circle. It seems they can be interchangeable so ill just swap the pentacles out so it doesn't confuse people. I'm fairly new so it feels like sticking to funny and lighthearted writting might work best as to avoid overly dramatic/cringy moments. I'm not completely sure where to go with this, originally i was planning to stop as is on an anticlimax, but i'm thinking of doing something like they not really wanting to take his soul, and him growing more and more desperate to sell it.

>pushed
They pushed? Did they roll, or was the boy so heavy that they dug into it? I like the idea of the latter, but it's a little too early to be vague.
The reader can't understand unless they reread the passage.

>the last section
I'll be honest, I think I understand what you're trying to say, but it feels like you don't, as you contradict yourself and the words you use don't support what you're saying.

That's not to say I think I know better than you, I'm saying, whatever you intended, you got across the opposite to me. Why isn't riding that scooter a hobby? Hobbies aren't always enjoyable. Solace from what? Experience what? hobbies?

This final section simply reads very messy to me. I can tell the boy is troubled, and he's likely riding that scooter because he's got nothing/not allowed to have anything else in his life?

I'm certain there's a better way to say that he has nothing else in his life but pressure and riding a tiny scooter, than describing how people enjoy hobbies and how he doesn't get to have enjoyment.

I hope you get what I'm saying and can rethink it a bit.

>him growing more and more desperate to sell it
that sound hilarious!

but I do think ending where you're at is fine just as it is. I imagine its actually something a teenage boy might do. Ending on the phone being answered is very cheeky, and it leaves it up to the reader whether it was real or not.

Thanks for replying. I used the word pushed to try and show the boy was, like you thought, heavy, and that they were being more pushed down then actually rolling. I'll change it to roll for now and see what I can do later.

I agree that the final paragraph seemed messy. I was considering scrapping it but I thought to keep it, maybe I should've written a little more to get at the thought. The plotline I'm going for would dictate that the boy rides that scooter specifically because it was gifted to him by his mother, someone who's very important in his life. The solace part being his loneliness. I'm trying to go for a "School shooter" kind of feel about the boy, for lack of a better description.

Thank you for reviewing what I wrote. I'll be revising and writing more.

This is something a little pedantic, but
>At this point
I never really like openings like this, its like starting a novel with "And." However, I think this is entirely on me.

>Thoroughshikst
Does this have to be the name? lol. That doesn't sound scary, or disturbing. It just sounds awkward to say. I'm horrible with naming things, but I think you could do better.

To be honest, I don't know how much I can critique this because it's very stylized. I like narrators with a personality.

It is a little purple:
>ineffably nightmarish hamlet, lurid imprints
but I think this is good! it's not worthless, and words like "ineffably" and "lurid" very much characterize your narrator.

I get the sense he is somewhat posh, scholarly? A Sherlock Holmes type?

Like I said, very stylized so I feel I can't say much. but this one segment
>(and, furthermore, I hope will never have to share with me)
is okay here, but I'd be careful, use interruptions like this sparingly, especially if you continue with this style of narration.

Overall: I like it, I'm sorry I can't say much more though. This style of narration is too far from my own, but I can appreciate what you've got. Write more.

I see, if you're going for a "school shooter" kind of feel, a good thing to impart in the prose is maybe bitterness and jealousy?

A sense of "they don't understand," "everybody else is ignorant."

I'd do this by describing other people's hobbies as worthless, wastes of time.
>listening to music locked in their room--but its all the same, same rhythm, same words, same sounds.
>playing basketball alone on the court, to pick up a ball, throw it, and miss, only to pick it up again and start over.

Give him a real negative outlook, and juxtaposition that with how important the scooter is to him.

Just how I might achieve that.

Thanks. I'll make sure to put that in when I'm editing. Thank you so much for taking the time to look over my writing!

i think there is nothing more beatiful
than passing by a beatiful girl
seeing nought but her smile,eyes and a flutter of hair
the air charged with possibilty , a glint in your mind
you look behind , and see her
and smile
briefly
and then move on
your love perfect and undisturbed

The syracuse trees sway with the wind with their bacillary branches stemming from the wooden work of God. The leaves fell and gathered near the iron fence and crumpled in response to the winds howl, and folded to their natural death. Each branch in this orchard had swayed to the Earthly rhythm of the birds and the grasses, playing on for life and its carriers. Footsteps crash and break against the mixture of red and yellow leaves, and the leaves accept their fate. A shadow of a man obscures the critters and the crawling ants of the ground and absorbs the sunlight in the area. He swayed his walk and circled the tree like a passive predator as to analyze every piece of the bark and to feel the textures of each color. Brown was rough against his skin, and the touch of yellow was sticky and crumpled. So the man brushed off the colors and wandered to the color of blue, and found himself engulfed by the color. He dived into the azul pit and took in its freshness, and drank its cool. He lapped his tongue to the droplets drizzling down his face and body, glimmering in the blazing sun. He unsheathed a cigarette and let his lighter snap and echo through the wood-walled woods and tasted the smoke and blew it into the clear air. A squirrel brushed beside his foot, and, with a terrible fright, retreated to the great syracuse that towered above the others. This syracuse had been large enough to be two of them combined, which intrigued the man. So the man walked towards it and wanted to observe this, too. And with a sleight of hand he drew a pair of binoculars out of his satchel in order to see what may lay above his wrinkled skin. The scope was fixated on the brown and the burnt squirrel seeking a resting spot. He withdrew his cigarette from his tight mouth and blew the grey out into the empty air. So that each cloud seemed to sink with his cigarette smoke, and roll with the vapor. The bees aswarm, the honey tempting, his senses were appealed.

Good Idea OP. Might join you with the critiquing.

dear OP,
I have an idea for a screenplay in which a misanthropic female porn director lures women and transgender performers to their deaths while filming them. The themes are supposed to be psychoanalysis, voyeurism, and ironic role reversal of the sexes. does this sound like a good premise?

>He wears two different shoes; one right, one left.

Any premise can be interesting. I can't really say, it all depends on the execution.

If the threads still around tomorrow morning, i'll check yours out. Feel free to critique the previous posts!

synthesis.blog/2017/04/07/the-mask-of-social-media/

Cheers brah

Thanks. I realize that a screenplay is a lot like a novel, but in a different format. They both even have their own shitty self-publishing industry.
i really liked this poem, kind of captures what i'm going through right now. is love lost better than never having loved but having perfect fantasies about someone?
>tfw no gf

This wasn't really designed to be a self-contained story, more like a brief look into this world I'd invented, which is why it just begins and ends so suddenly. I've also been criticized before for spending too much time describing things, so I've tried to fewer descriptions and more action.

pastebin.com/sNSceD7u

hey, beginner here so there's a lot of room for improvement.

Excuse my brazzeness for taking upon me to write this booklet. I am no poet nor a writer and though I am sure you have no interest to hear what a pitiful slave much like myself has to say, I will weakly utter the following tale. I do so only because the story is of people greater than I who have a right to be heard. To let their story die with me would be desecration of justice.
However due to the great trauma I have suffered I will take my life swiftly upon finishing this booklet. I can no longer function in this world and since I serve no purpose I see no point in continuing with my sorry excuse for a life.
The chain of ill-fated events began upon a harsh winter day. I stood idly by, watching a murder of crows croak at each other at the front of the lawn. I convinced myself to continue to sweep the floors of the first floor with a strange feeling in my gut. My nanny had always said that a murder bodes ill. Though she was an estranged woman, she often seemed to have knowledge that was far beyond her education. I preferred thinking she was close to God in those moments. The court, sadly did not agree.
The familiar rhythm of four horse shoes treading upon rock alarmed us that Master was soon to arrive. I and two other slaves ran towards the front door. The door creaked open and a tall man of heavy stature heaved himself inside. His beard was rough and coarse, his eyes grey and occupied with something beyond us women. He sat upon a chair and lifted up his boot clad feet. We jumped to work, pulling his boots off, then the damp socks and dutifully dressing him in slippers. Agatha took off his jacket while Julia was slapped lightly for approaching to take his hat. He looked at her with distain.
It was hard to tell with Master, when what was appropriate and what not. Surely he knew, that it was not a heinous act to assume that he would not wear the hat inside. The mansion wasn’t cold. There wasn’t a practical reason for his animosity. But there was a reason and that reason didn’t mean anything good for us.

That night I washed the dishes, my hands were awfully sore and my skin wasn‘t taking too kindly to the changes in temperature that followed the seasons. I wiped away a drop of blood and puss from a nasty bladder on the base of my thumb.
I was startled by the arrival of Agatha who came to me, speaking in a hushed whisper. You must have noticed it, she said. The behavior of Master...He‘s getting increasingly agitated since he came home.
Yes, I replied.He must have had a tough time with deliveries today, his job is hard. I finished. I was not one to talk ill of our Master.I had learned it by through experience that such impertinence wasn‘t tolerated. Agatha could sense my apprehension and reigned her feelings of edginess in.
Just be careful,he‘s tense. She added, before she took to drying the dishes in silence.
I could not deny feeling myself a bit on edge. My back became even more hunched than it was because of the worries that burdened me.
When I was cleaning the floors, Master arrived Gretsel, he said. I was quick to startle, jump and then bow in front of him.Yes, my Master. I forced past my chapped lips.
Make yerself ready in my living quarters. Quickly.He bit out.
My heart sank to the floor. Sounds became muted and I arose. I was in a peculiar state of mind, like I was not in control of my body, but only a mere passenger.I looked down on my feet as I walked and found them strangely foreign, as if they were someone else’s. Master was already walking stiffly away and I knew I was in for it now But not willing to make a bad situation worse I shuffled through the slide doors of the servant quarters to his. I undressed and put on his favored chains along my feet and hands.I snapped them into place, throwing the key to the side.
I could reach it if I wanted to,but it was hidden under the old cabinet so he wouldn’t see. He had another key which he believed to be the only one. I crouched on the ground and kneeled.Knowing it did not do well to be seen in another manner, when he would come in.
But from the unusual manner I posed in, I could see something odd underneath the bed. It was a simple cube. It was disgustingly black and slick. It made me uneasy just looking at it. The more my eyes trailed along its edges, without seeing the material itself, so black was it, the more I feared losing my mind.
I snapped away from the cube but I could still feel its presence there. It lingered upon the base of my spine. The worries of my Masters general sadism seemed muted in comparison to the feeling that the knowledge of the cube gave me. I did not ask Master about the presence of the cube, knowing that it was not my place. It must have been a recent treasure of his, since it had not resided there three days ago to the best of my knowledge.
My uneasiness was not quenched, even as my Master forced himself unto my rectum, slamming my head to and fro for no distraction could relieve me from the presence of the cube.

Here are hearts left, kissed by those lovely lips,
Scarred softer than the sweet breeze of summer;
The voice a chalice, its nectar in sips,
Drinking to the meadows of lost lovers.
Of ice water running, in garden past,
Memory will remain for those that live long,
The bare do bare little, the hearts soon cast
Onto stakes of wood burning and cruel song
Yet bloom does the daisies in hordes of green
While mistress stares skyward, quite pale blue
Back at the books turning the blood red streams
And the garden now heartless, not yet true.
In length, we do speak to empty vessels
But the past is the present to soft fools

The story starts off far too self loathing for any respectable person to enjoy. Add a sense of irony into this to make the character mock himself perhaps

lol I read the post again and skipped over the poetry, any help would be great, made this in like 5 mins and would just like to know anything even if it is you telling how it made you feel or whatever

Thx bro

>When I was cleaning the floors, Master arrived Gretsel, he said. I was quick to startle, jump and then bow in front of him.Yes, my Master. I forced past my chapped lips.
Please use quotation marks. I have no idea who is saying what here.

Sorry, I had to delete some commas and periods since I was 18 letters over the letter limit.
Gretsel is a very disturbed individual, I'm aiming for already a damaged slave, who copes by depersonalizing, is abused physically and sexually by the man of the house, and verbally and is bullied by the wife. This is the setting until the lovecraftian-ish cube is announced when the story begins. Then it takes on a traditional horror experience, and who can blame someone for a bit of self loathing after that?

The target audience is a bit twisted and have at least read the works of Sade before. But I take any advice I can get, since it can't sound too whiny, then it will be repelling. But the point is that the tone is supposed to be angsty and revolting to the normal reader. But ofc it can't be too 'tumblr' ish either.

—That is because. That is because, I heard a man moan from inside one of theses shrouded houses, that is because, that is because. And the house seemed to sway also with his voice, flickering between myself and what was obscure. I thought of his voice for long after we had passed his house there on the road.If I let my mind wander and if i gave myself to the swells and ripples beneath the surface of my life it would seem his voice was linked now to my steps and that my footsteps carved out measures of his voice which would jar against those lines already in the sidewalk and appear as two people dancing and eventually meeting at one accidental and harmonic moment before starting again.

Not that user, but please don't make Gretsel do that through the entire story. It gets really tiring really quickly, because it goes from a character trait to being an obstacle to telling the story.
>Let me tell you about what happened next. But first, I'm going to whine a bit.
Seriously, by the time I got to
>I will weakly utter the following tale
My only thought was "Get on with it!"

They were streaming and usage of protrude are awk but otgerwise looks pretty good

For dunce maybe muttonhead or something. Insults say a lot about your character whether they're crasa (dolt) or educated (philistine)

Lots of runons. Try to bracket your thoughts more

Doj't know if the repetition of miniature is supposed to be poetic but it just sounds redundant here

is this better?
I'm not really qualified to comment, but seeing as you've been ignored i'll try and give you some potentially wrong critiques.
> And the house seemed to sway also with his voice
This feels a bit awkward to me, I'd prefer The house also seemed to sway. The last sentence might benefit with some trimming since its really a huge beast of a sentence. And thats about all i can offer, you're going for a surreal style which isn't really my forte.

I grasped my throbbing cock and gracefully shoved it inside the taco, letting the warm meat and melted cheese consume my manhood. I began to hump the fucking living day-lights out of the taco, gripping the crunchy shell tighter with each thrust. I finally ejaculated inside the gorgeous taco, and I let out a moan of ecstasy.

Sea-spray, salt, cawing -- I exhaled a puff of breath as my gaze contemplated the sky. It was strikingly blue, cloudless --like a cinematic shot so perfect it didn't seem real. Yet, I'd seen skies like this before. They were mundane but somehow fantastical. I was at peace here, floating on the shifting surface of the water, close to shore, but not so close that the breaking waves proved a problem. Coy pats of water cradled my cheeks; my body rocked gently to the beat of the sea. The day held its breath -- and I felt a restlessness rising, pushing at my skull, thickening my thoughts. My eyebrows drew together unbidden. My right arm drifted up from my side, over my head, and then both arms were beating at a languid pace, then faster and soon enough, I had left the insouciant nearshore behind. I was swimming farther and farther out of the bay now, nearing the opposing headlands, the last checkpoint before the open ocean, sailing out towards my mental image of the horizon: in my mind a flat, dark thing -- a velvet-blue dividing line sternly delimiting the watery page.
As the land faded away from the corner of my eyes, the restless feeling broke and crystallised, and I could at last see it for what it was: a clear, blinding terror that stiffened my limbs like rigor mortis. I was as if pinned to the undulating liquid surface, arms frozen, slightly outstretched from my sides. Imagine what monstrous creatures swam beneath me right now, so many leagues under the sea -- or perhaps just inches away from my neck, waiting for the optimal moment to rip into my back. I almost felt the teeth then, or were they claws? Or maybe, I'd just be pulled away by the amoral current. By that magnificent power which is unsullied by humans' imperfect laws and mores, who would lead me out across that velveteen canvas where I'd eventually sink into the paint. I made the most of the rush, the harsh pounding against my ribs, against the skin at my throat. Not a sound passed my lips, not a twitch betrayed my limbs. I dared not breathe.
Until suddenly I canted myself up and onto my stomach and in the same movement started a frantic breaststroke. The outline of the shore ahead in the distance seemed so far from here. Rushing blood drowned out the crashing of my arms as I scrambled across the surface of the sea. Any minute now, the steely tentacle of some undersea beast would wrap around my ankles and drag me down to the bottom, right out of my own existence. Or perhaps, no matter how I hard I beat at the sea, I'd never reach shore. My flailing strokes too shallow to clear the distance, I'd splash uselessly until I were no more than the foam of my wake. The self was so impermanent.
But no, the shadowy bottom gradually drew up towards my legs, and my heart gradually calmed until I stopped propelling and let my feet sink down into the soft, fine sand.

Go on then

williamguppyblog.wordpress.com/category/one/

Ayo just a heads up to anyone posting who doesn't read the thread. I was only free yesterday.

I'm sorry, I should of been more explicit that it was a Friday night/Saturday morning kind of thing.

I said I would so I'll give you my quick thoughts though,

>sway
This sets me up for present tense but the rest of the past.

>bacillary
Try not to use words you're not very familiar with, you're telling me the branches look like bacteria.

The second sentence needs to be reworked. It reads as if you had a checklist for it. Simplify it a bit, maybe just "The leaves fell to the wind's howl."
>crumpled in response to the wind's howl
Here's something to look out for: crumple is closer to "in response to," which means it sticks in the reader's mind when they continue the sentence. My first thought was the leave's crumpled to the wind, not fell off the tree.

>folded to their natural death
>the leaves accept their fate
>absorbs sunlight in the area
this is bad purple prose, it's not poetic even if it seems so. It's basically the literature version of a college student writing long passive sentences to increase the word count, or using large words to seem intellectual.

>wood-walled woods
say this out loud.

I'm going to just delve into my overall thoughts, because for the most part I don't wish to repeat myself. This is a lot how I used to write, so I don't want to dissuade you from writing.

First, it's very purple, I'd suggest you reread every sentence and ask yourself: "What am I really trying to say?" A lot of these sentences don't feel to have a purpose, its scenery porn, it feels like a checklist.
>Near the iron fence
did the reader really need to know there was an iron fence?

You need to let go of physical metaphors. What do I mean by this?
>A lake is am azure pit
>Leaves are the touch of yellow
Metaphors fail in their purpose if they make something vague, or more complicated. The purpose of a metaphor is to give a reader a deeper, even subconscious understanding of an idea. Here's one I once wrote:
>I felt guilty in the way that she stared at me.
>She had a stare with the weight of a sinking ship.

There's a lot that I think I could say, but maybe you should focus on what I've mentioned prior first, one thing at a time, right? You've really just got to work on your prose. Tone it down, a little less purple. One sentence with clarity and purpose > a hundred with large words and cliche vague metaphors.

I'd be happy to help you workshop it a bit, apologies for being so pedantic. Keep trying though!

Why must everyone gaze? You don't gaze at a fire unless the fire is unexpected or large and invokes feelings of astonishment.

I would omit the second with and just use a semicolon

>swaying
Invest in a thesaurus

You can't engulfed by color, unless a being of pure color exists, but you can be engulfed IN color

Some of your word descriptions are unnecessary, like unsheathing a cigarette. Now I would say this is good if you were describing one of those single cigar case.

Passive tense. Know it, and more importantly know when to specifically use it (almost never)

>which intrigued the man. So the man walked towards it and wanted to observe this, too
Redundant. Either show or tell. If you show, don't tell beforehand. If you tell, have a reason to not show.

You have some good writing, but some of it is using a lot of words to say not very much.

Yeah. But also be careful about fragments. They can be done but they need to be pulled off tastefully.

Ex "which meant" doesn't sound as good as "that meant"

Thanks for pointing that out, i probably wouldn't have caught it myself, but i might've gone a bit overboard with them in the third paragraph.