Writing and Critique

Old thread is dying and as before, fresh thread equals fresh eyes.

Since most writing is taken at face value here, may this also be a free write and/or prompt thread. Basically general writing practice--something to not pressure anons to post serious works but while still legitimately trying. Feel free to share or ask for prompts, and feel free to write off the head. Just remember to put on your best if you do.

Other urls found in this thread:

pastebin.com/fEb5ftyW
youtu.be/WkVWhlkzZ9E?t=1020
youtube.com/playlist?list=PLfDEnr6vhnbprlAO-m6uoLwrcWaptezLt
twitter.com/AnonBabble

Really shitty intro to a novel I am planning currently. It is German though, I'm afraid. Pls tear it to shreads Anons.

Um drei Minuten nach Acht trat Ulrich keuchend durch die automatischen Türen in den Supermarkt. Er stand schon im Laden, als er den letzten Zug von einer Zigarette nahm. Dann schnippte er die Überreste durch den dünnen Spalt zwischen den sich schließenden Türhälften.
Aus den Augenwinkeln sah er einen kleinen, fettleibigen Mann mit buschigen Augenbrauen auf sich zustampfen.
„Sie sind zu spät, Herr Roboros“, blaffte der Marktleiter ihn an.
„Ja, Sie ham ja Recht, Herr Müss. Tut mir ehrlich Leid, wird nich mehr vorkommen.“
„Wollen Sie mich für blöd verkaufen? Das sagen Sie mir jedes Mal und trotzdem kommen Sie jede Woche mindestens drei Mal zu spät. Langsam steht es mir wirklich bis hier mit ihnen!“, meckerte Müss weiter und zeigte mir der rechten Hand auf seinen gedrungen Hals.
„Bis hier steht es mir! Bis an die Gurgel! Wissen Sie was, Herr Roboros? Sie bekommen diese Woche nur das halbe Gehalt, vielleicht lernen Sie dann mal etwas aus ihren Fehlern.“
„Ich, also, ich, Sie, also das ist doch bestimmt garnich legal, was Sie hier abziehen.“, stotterte Ulrich kleinlaut.
„Legal? Ich kann auf der Stelle zehn andere Trottel finden, um Sie zu ersetzen. Und jetzt an die Arbeit. Die Frau Trösste hat letztens festgestellt, dass tonnenweise Getränkekisten im Lager falsch einsortiert sind. Sie helfen ihr jetzt gefälligst dabei, diesen Fehler zu beheben“, orderte der mittlerweile knallrote Müss und ließ Ulrich alleine zurück. Ulrichs Gefühl der Erniedrigung zog sich von der Magengrube in den Kiefer und wurde dort zwischen seinen Backenzähnen zu Hass gemahlen. Bilder der vorhergegangenen Nacht explodierten hinter seinen Lidern.
„Blöder Wichser“, murmelte Ulrich noch zu sich selbst, bevor er runter ins Lager ging.
Graue Betonwände, deren Farblosigkeit durch das fahle Licht surrender Neonröhren noch unterstrichen wurde, bildeten den Grundriss des Lagers und trugen eine Decke, die Ulrich zwar nicht daran hinderte, aufrecht zu stehen, aber gerade so niedrig war, dass er beständig das Gefühl hatte, sie würde ihm näher kommen. Von hinter einem der riesigen Regale hörte Ulrich ein angestrengtes Stöhnen gefolgt von dem wütenden Scheppern aneinanderschlagender Glasflaschen.
„Scheiße! Fuck!“
„Sabine?“
„Ulrich? Hat Müss dich runtergeschickt?“
„Ja. Warte, ich komm rum.“

cont.

Alles war vollgestopft mit Regalen, die so versetzt angeordnet waren, dass man, um durch den Raum zu gelangen, in umständlichen, langgezogenen Schlangenlinien zwischen ihnen hindurchgehen musste.
Als Ulrich das Ende des einen Regals erreicht hatte und sich umdrehte sah er Sabine, eine Mittfünfzigerin mit kurzen, billig blondierten Haaren, auf einer Getränktekiste hocken, unter der sich bereits eine gelbliche Pfütze beachtlichen Durchmessers gebildet hatte.
„Als mir die Kiste runtergefallen ist, ist ne Limoflasche geplatzt, nicht das du was Falsches denkst“, witzelte Sabine aus einem Mundwinkel, während sie sich eine Zigarette ansteckte, die am anderen Ende ihres Mundes baumelte.
„Darf man hier rauchen?“, fragte Ulrich.
„Ne. Willste auch eine?“
Ulrich nickte und ging zu Sabine, die auf eine Ecke der Kiste gerückt war, um ihm etwas Sitzfläche zu bieten. Schweigend saßen sie nebeneinander und rauchten. Als die Glut fast am Filter angelangt war und der Qualm unangenehm zu kratzen anfing, drückte Ulrich seine Zigarette in der gelben Pfütze zu seinen Füßen aus, stand auf und klopfte sich ein paar Aschereste von der Hose.
„Müss meinte, irgendwelche Kisten wären falsch eingeordnet“, sagte er, während er versuchte die eingeriebenen Aschespuren aus dem Stoff zu wischen. Sabine löschte auch ihre Zigarette und gab nickend Antwort:
„Mhm. Sein Sohn, dieser zwölfjährige Bengel“
„Vierzehn“, unterbrach Ulrich sie.
„Was vierzehn?“
„Der Junge is' vierzehn.“
Sabine rollte die Augen und wischte mit einer Hand genervt durch die Luft.
„Ist doch völlig egal, man. Auf jeden Fall arbeitet der doch jetzt ab und zu hier, ne? Bekommt zehn Euro die Stunde, pah!“
„Purer Nepotismus“, murmelte Ulrich.
„Was?“
„Nix, nix, erzähl weiter.“
„Hast wohl wieder zu wenig geschlafen, hm?“, grinste Sabine und fuhr dann fort, „Der Idiot hat den Getränkelieferanten auf jeden Fall gesagt, dieses neue Zeug, Mate oder wie das heißt, käme zu den Fruchtsäften, also ham die alle Matekisten natürlich hier vorne zu den Säften gepackt. Und dabei ist's doch glasklar, dass der Mist zu den Limos kommt.“
„Glasklar, ja. Kommt wohl ganz nach Vaddern der Junge.“
Sabine grunzte über die Bemerkung.
„Total! Naja, auf jeden Fall habe ich dem Müss das dann später gesagt, das mit den Kisten. Hab auch gar nicht über den Jungen gemeckert oder so, nene, hab's ihm einfach nur gesagt. Herr Müss, die Matekisten stehen falsch im Lager, habe ich gesagt. Weißt du was er dann meinte?“
„Was'n?“
Sabine legte ihre Zeigefinger über die Augenbrauen und blies den Mund auf.
„Na, dann räum'n Se die doch um, Frau Trösste. Dafür bezahle ich Sie ja schließlich.“
Fragend kniff Ulrich die Augen zusammen.
„Was soll'n das mit dein Fingern da?“
„Man, der Typ hat doch so buschige Augenbrauen. Die zwei dicken Raupen da, weißte?“
„Ach, klar, jaja, witzig.“
cont.

Wieder rollte Sabine mit den Augen und schüttelte den Kopf.
„Dann lass uns den Dreck hier mal wegmachen und die Kisten umräumen. Irgendwann will ich heute auch mal nach Hause“, seufzte sie, stand auf und schob die Kiste auf der sie gesessen hatten zur Seite. Eine Pfütze, dreiundzwanzig Kisten und acht Zigarettenpausen später, waren knapp fünf Stunden vergangen. Die Beiden stolperten müde, verschwitzt und nach Rauch stinkend hoch in den Markt. Müss war schon dabei, die nächste Schicht daran zu erinnern, dass sie gefälligst froh darüber zu sein hätten, dass er ihnen überhaupt einen Arbeitsplatz bietet, als Ulrich und Sabine sich vor dem Markt voneinander verabschiedeten. Die nachmittägliche Sommersonne überraschte Ulrich mit ihrem Licht, das, ganz im Gegensatz zu dem sterilen Leuchten der Neonröhren, warm über sein Gesicht strich.
Er nickte Sabine kurz zum Abschied zu und wandtd sich ab, um zu gehen.
„Ey, Ulrich!“
„Hm?“
„Pass auf dich auf, ja?“
„Mh. Klar“, antwortete er überrumpelt und ging weiter.
Nach ein paar Schritten blickte er kurz über seine Schulter zurück und sah, dass Sabine ihm mit besorgter Miene hinterher starrte. Als sich ihre Augen trafen, drehte sie sich schnell um und ging in die entgegengesetzte Richtung, als sei nichts gewesen.
„Pass auf dich auf. Pass auf dich auf. Passaufdichauf“
Egal wie oft er den Satz wiederholte, er konnte sich dessen Bedeutung nicht erschließen. Er nahm sich vor, Sabine morgen danach zu fragen.
Zuhause angekommen schlich Ulrich durch den Flur auf seine Wohnungstür zu. Leise öffnete er sie, schlüpfte hinein und schloss sie vorsichtig hinter sich.
„Wie das hier schon wieder aussieht, Herr Roboros“, erschreckte eine nörgelnde Stimme ihn von hinten. Im Türrahmen zur Küche, zwischen dreckigen Tellern, verschmutzten Verpackungen von Fertigmahlzeiten und leeren Bierflaschen stand eine gestauchte, faltige Frau und sah ihn vorwurfsvoll an.
„Frau Zerber, was machen Sie denn hier?“
„Ich besichtige die Wohnung die ich Ihnen netterweise und zu einem sehr guten Preis, Ihrer Großmutter, möge sie in Frieden ruhen, sei's gedankt, vermiete und ich muss sagen, ich bin sehr enttäuscht davon, wie Sie mit meiner Wohnung umgehen.“
„Also, so einfach reinspazieren, ohne das ich da bin, einfach so, das dürfen Sie doch gar nicht, also absprechen mit mir sollten Sie sowas doch auf jeden Fall, auf jeden Fall“, haspelte Ulrich, noch immer verwirrt von dem plötzlichen Auftauchen seiner Vermieterin.

last part coming up....

„Herr Roboros, wir, Sie und ich, wissen beide, dass ich sie hier nur wohnen lasse, weil Auguste, möge sie in Frieden ruhen, einst eine gute Freundin von mir war, sehr teuer war sie mir, ja. Wenn Auguste jedoch wüsste, wie Sie sich hier verhalten, mir gegenüber, der Wohnung gegenüber, dann hätte sie Ihnen sicher die Ohren langgezogen, da bin ich mir sicher! Da sie aber das nun nicht mehr kann, die Auguste, möge sie in Frieden ruhen, sehe ich mich gezwungen das selbst zu tun.“
„Sie wolln mir die Ohren langziehen?“
„Nein, also ja, beziehungsweise, nicht direkt. Ich werde ihnen aufzeigen, dass ihr Verhalten Folgen hat und zwar dadurch, dass ich die Miete auf einen Preis erhöhe, der dieser Lage angemessen ist. Nächsten Monat bezahlen Sie also zweihundert Euro mehr, oder Sie sind, und Auguste, möge sie in Frieden ruhen, würde das verstehen, sonst sind Sie raus aus meiner Wohnung. Verstanden?“
Ohne eine Antwort abzuwarten schlüpfte die kleine Frau an Ulrich vorbei, verließ die Wohnung und schlug die Wohnungstür hinter sich zu. Einige Momente war Ulrich wie versteinert, dann jedoch löste sich seine Starre und er fing an wild um sich zu treten und zu schlagen, sodass der überall verteilte Müll herumgeschleudert wurde.
„Scheiße, scheiße, scheiße, scheiße!“
Erst als sein ganzer Körper müde brannte und sein Atem verbraucht rasselte, hörte er auf zu wüten.

Being I'm the OP I'd love to, but I do not know German very well. Just enough to be a typical American tourist were I to visit the lovely country. Hopefully a German fluent user will be able to help.

I can't read German, sorry user.
Posting a bit of my own, pic related. I'll be around to help critique for a few hours. Let's have a comfy thread, lads.

The elevator rises, 200 m/s speeding through the several layers of artificial ozone that separate the underground from the inner city . Up and up and up into his very own personal seventh hell, humming along to the state of the art mechanisms that make this junkie hand shaking journey possible. Temperance kiddo temperance. Abstain from the poisons that fill thy night full of fucked up needle grinning monsters cuming with the name of our lord Jesus on their tounges. Nothing but a coincidence of course. Too many days of burning out on the sunshine leaving the liver behind for the crows. Aaaanyway. Notice how the beady drop of milk colored sweat rolls down from the upper forehead to the last remaining hairs that call that piece of skin an eyebrow. Beyond the sunken schizo starers crawling along to the corner of the mouth, you can taste it on the tip of the toungue. Salty. That's a good sign naturaly. Moonshakers have a tendency to erase from the body amongst other things,, carbon dioxide, bone marrow, white blood cells, grey matter in the brain and of course, salt. Very important to maintain healthy levels of salt in the digestive system, alongside vitamin C and crack, pillars of a ballanced 21st century household diet, so says the Guide to Second Millenia Modified Medical Research. The A.I in the cealing is doing it's best to cultivate a deep entrancing placid ambience. Selecting an adecuate third class citizen slave musical playlist that jumps between twelve different classic headbangers in a time lap of thirty seconds. HEEEAVYY BOOTS OF LEADD NANANANANAANAA NANANAAA. Almost achieving a ten out of ten in covering up the tribal beating thump of tumor plagued slave muscle that bounces through the ear canal, dancing and swinging like a Nanostorm in an echo chamber. Ding! You have arrived at your destination. Music gives way to four bars of Op. 23 ballade of dread, how apropiate. Step into the corridor. The decoration has changed moderatly since last time, seventeenth century french. Ten feet wide aluminium polished mirrors cover the wall from the floor, a couple of inches before touching the cealing. On the left are beef jerkies, lamb chops, pork chops, chicken breast, human hearts, fixed through platinum nails with diamond engraves. They drip, blood and watered down fat staining the thick white carpet that covers the floor, by half, brown. The air stinks of iron and rust. The light is blue and green, iluminated by the vintage neon squares that flicker above the head in a disco dancing nighmare. We are faaa-mi-ly hmm hmm yeah. Calm down retard calm down. Remember where you are.

Rumor states the floor is filled with vietnamese traps and mines and MegaCorrosive TNT that pulvurises the body, from toes to eyeballs in a matter of nanoseconds. It sure does seem like the clicking sound as feet press down, comes from somewhere. Specialized sensores analize the weight and body heat of the guest. Take no chances, you can almost hear the brain scaners poking little fingers into the thinking paterns. Don't think, bomb-suicide-kamicaze in that order, vegan quisine for safe measure. Guy despises vegans, humanitarian canibals, amost as much as he hates commies, queers, democrats, niggers, slutwhores, dikes, commifeminists, intellektuals, anarcunts, junkies, hobos, transfaggots, dicksukers, cokeinhaleres, human lovers, tree fuckers. The corridor is over a mile long and takes ten minutes to walk, squielching through the slime that haunts the carpet and creeps up the trouser leg with a hungry parasitic clench. A few drops of feces break lose from the asshole smelling of fear and eager anticipation. This is the moment of absolute truth.

What are examples of Man vs. Reality and Man vs. Author.

Please remove your trip. Thank you.

So your main problem is that i need to be clearer with the perspective of the narrator?. I was trying to do two different points of view at once, but i see that might not have been a good idea. Or i just can't pull it off

Three days ago, and I mean three days according to my biological clock, which isn't very reliable, but my only way to know what's going on, was I to find out where I would find out what I was to discover to continue on my journey ahead. Now, about three or so days later, I've found out what I wanted to find out firstly, that is the place where I will discover what I need for my journey ahead. This journey isn't going to be a linear one, going forward, or northward, or in any chronological sequence either, but an intertemporal one through time and space. Time and space, since I discovered its origins, means not much to me. I pace in my room, hopping from one year to another with each step, observing my immediate surroundings change little by little with each successive year. I stopped going back in time after an evening in 1942 left me in tears, as I walked in on my grandparents fornicating. They didn't see me, I wish I hadn't seen them.

Well your critique isn't really living up to standard either. Keep on trying though

the most charming (i.e. least irritating and done with skill) example i've seen of man v. author was calvino's "if on a winter's night a traveler…" the main characters set out to collate fragments of novels (the novel you're reading) and directly confront the author in the end.

Elisha Balbia leaned against the wall of the liquor store to help take the weight of her big tits off her sore back. She winced. These things were always getting in the way. She reached up and rubbed her nipples. “Fuck it hurts.”

Melvin pointed and grinned. “Let me a touchey them titties?”

This cretin really thought that I’d give him the fucking pleasure so easily? He looked like a flaming retard and smelled of dead goat—so no, just no.

“It seems to me that you are,” Elisha said, pinching her nose, “a disgusting rancid virgin.” That would show this creep. And if it doesn’t, she would have no problem just kicking his sorry ass up and down this street.

hey user, good work so far. i just had one question: in the first paragraph, you described Elisha's severe back pain (owing to her overlarge mammaries), yet in the third paragraph, you wrote that elisha "would have no problem kicking his sorry ass." how do you, as an author, reconcile this discrepancy?

...

her back pain is not really severe, just sore and aching. She would like to rest for a little while, but would not have a problem pushing through the pain and beating this antagonist if it came to that. She has fought with worse injuries against tougher adversaries before.

I am but a poor autistic brainlet with no real exposure to Veeky Forums. I try.

Nigga tom cruise never did that.
But yes, nobody is more annoyed with word repetition than me. I learn more vocabulary and substitute it in over time.

Sorry my critique was bad, but don't know what to say when I can actually insert into the narrative as is.

what does it matter none of you are going to be published or remembered there are literally millions of people more talented and clever than you are

Niggerfaggot please go. I'm never going to be Gordon Ramsay, does that mean I shouldn't try to better my cooking?

TFW too scared to post your writing on an anonymous internet board

Nope.

Dialog is pretty good. I don't know much about planes, so this feels nicely informative and reasonable. Once you start writing straight prose though it gets just a little sloppy. Could use some finagling to improve the overall structure and readability. But really isn't all that bad. After some editing I would probably read it all through. Keep it up.

There is something wrong with this argument. Think hard and you'll figure it out, user.

The fart lingered in the air around her. It had the scent of sharp cheese and wet garbage—covered in shit. What an absolute pleasant aroma this fine evening, she thought, inhaling deep and long. “Yummy . . .” she said, as she began twerking with excitement against the leg of the dining room table.

Ald ruins of ages long past
Letters anonymous let slide in slots
Such arbitrage as none may guess
Being and self drown’d ‘neath stress
Kettles and kitchenware painting pots
Mad sages and saints board-flat
And folk a-plenty, nary twenty
Quip, quote, quoth sinning mental sloth
And ‘ere an other sort, xis and xix and xer
Devastated by trigger mechs set, keku
Queen the red off cleanes’ white tit
Eye the temple, aye the brood conflict
Vainest owl, bah! firing aside Azad De-Su
Stifling thither and yonder stilted Shur
Sing a song, sing along for many

Mother under bus, omni in a truck, yet still better than Infinite Jest.

I tried mate, but my foreign language skills are a wreck. As long as it's not incognito-feminism what little I got from it is funny, though privilege of English is checked.
7/10 polish up.

Reads a lot like a more modern/intelligent Hemingway. That's likely me projecting similarities because you're not brightly peppering commas as if torches to liven passages. Could stand to drop a couple cliches, but I'm just foolin' like the Sasquatch is.
8/10 if I'm sensing a distant Aubrey-Maturin or East Coast ghost influence, 6/10 if not.

m/s is outdated, please die.
ms^-1 at the very least if you're going to do SI; don't fuck around in this part of town, old boy. 0/10
Otherwise +3/10 because I can imagine it.

-1/10 for not starting with "Rumor has it" because this piece got that fucking song stuck in my niakuk.

Wouldn't call it completely autistic, it's kind of interesting. it does read like Master Chief finds an F18 in BF4 though. I guess best crit to give is you should heave a bit more description in there so non-martial n00bs don't feel like tools.
4/10 pre-fixup, I imagine 7/10 post-fixup.

>And that's as much as I can read before shitting myself, feedback on the poetry much appreciated.
>Have at 'er while I'm throne-prone.

Ich möchte weiter lesen.

Thanks for reading. I really do need to polish up, true. Currently working on the rest of the novel though and I really want to finish that up first.
The story itself is at least not supposed to be "feminist" in any overt way. Wether or not a reader would judge it as such I do not know. It devolves into a horror story in the other chapters. The protag goes insane and has a recurring dream where he dies in an explosion. Long story short: he then murders someone and the story closes with a dream where he takes the perspective of the bomb, destroying everything in his wake. Not a very innovative idea probably, but at one point it struck me as interesting and now I just wanna finish something for once in my fucking life.

In regards to the poem: English is (rather obviously, I assume) not my first language so a lot of the themes and wordplays probably go over my head. I do like some of the imagery though. For some reason it makes me think of an election in which you are taking a rather critical stance towards one side of it all.

Das ist ein großartiges Kompliment, vielen Dank! Ich versuche gerade zum ersten Mal etwas zu schreiben, das über mentale Masturbation hinausgeht und auch für andere zugänglich und interessant ist.

"You know, every time I get back home after a run, I take shower. It's not about the hygiene, really. I'm just cremating my dead skin cells. That's what the body wash is for. So, you know, every day, I die little by little... But..."

"What are out talking about?"

"I'm just saying, I know what's dying everyday because it's in front of me. But what about the part I can't see or touch?"

"And what part is that?"

"I wish you didn't need to ask me that."

...

She left. I sat myself on a chair and lit up a cigarette. I didn't know what was in it, and I didn't care. Time to call up Rob and get out of this prison, my own panopticon.
I'm the jail, the jailer and the jailed.
"About time", is all he said and picked me up a couple of hours later. "Where to?"
"Just drive". And he did, along the river, down the curving road, into the horizon.
"You see, if I say that the weather is peachy today, that would be a double entendre", Rob remarked with a grin. And he was right. It was beautiful, a light fuchsia, with traces of deep orange and little yellow infused together.
I could see clouds in the distance, white and innocuous, drifting away to their next destination.
I took a deep breath and shuffled through his rack of CDs. Great, Blues & Roots by Charles Mingus. The baritone sax, heavy and intoxicating, started to boom out of the stereo, followed by the bass, each note sending a chill up my spine. I closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. I'm one with the beat and the beat is one with me, and if I could, I would replace my heartbeat with the soft kicks of the drum. This is my therapy.
We stop by to get a few beers and sit back in the car to drown them. "I don't know, Robby, me and her, it was a beautiful juxtaposition.
She embraced this stark contrast... Or maybe she didn't care for it and just wanted me to be something else, you know. Carve a fine fella out of me".
Saying so, I got out of the car and started to walk. He didn't come after me, he knew better. I got into a bus and sat by an old man. He didn't appreciate the stench of alcohol and was very vocal about it. Yet he refused to get up and find another seat. Okay.
Being calm, accepting and not reacting to unpleasantness, whatever it may be, has been the hardest struggle of my life.
So problems keep coming my way, more so than others and I'm trying to learn to live.

I still see no point of it, for by the time I know how to live, it'll be time to move on.
I put this thought aside and get down, walk over to my place. Shoes come off and I drop down on the bed for a quiet siesta.

Some of the dialogue feels very natural and real. I like that. There are however far too many clichés surrounding the "deep" and "brooding" protagonist scattered throughout for my taste.

It seems like something someone would write when they are in a certain emotional state themselves rather than something written to tell an engaging story or paint an interesting picture.

Could you elaborate on the cliche's and explain what exactly you didn't like. Thanks, I really appreciate your feedback.

You're right to run with it, the wake-from-a-dream isn't particularly innovative in and of itself but where you're headed with it is fucking interesting and not at all what I was expecting.
>That may only be my misunderstanding from not wholly understanding the language and culture it's coming from, but...
It's certainly going to be a kickass read, especially if you can hint at but not quite explain until that end. I want to say I hope for continued suspense, but I think the better word is anticipation.
>Also reminds me of Eyedea's "Colour My World Mine" youtu.be/WkVWhlkzZ9E?t=1020

Strange that it made you think of an election with a critical stance, haha. I was reading up on political ideologies while typing it out, but had only meant to make it a middle eastern joke. The joke is how seriously we (of Veeky Forums, of Veeky Forums, of this living generation of humanity) take ourselves in the here and now and think little of stepping back for a longer-term perspective. Like tossing all of the world's free water because we want to pretend we're too ignorant to know we'll need it later, just to fit in.

I think what meant is that you're laying on the deep, dark tone too thick. It's not meant to be a heavy dollop of jam and cream but a light slice of butter to wet the golden toast. I think making it more subtle, like hiding it a bit more with description rather than telling it.

"You know, every time I get back from a run, I like to shower right away. It's not about the hygiene, I'm not worried about the slickness of the sweat or the odour after. It's the ritual; cleansing myself of the little bit of decay building up day by day. It's why I get fidgety when I miss a run."
>Claims you need subtlety, can barely employ or describe it
Helpful, I know.

Thanks for the insight, user.
I'm btw

Okay, and here's the flash fiction I've been working on. It'll most likely be resigned to another practice piece... Tell me what you think. : )

Rate my dialogue -

'Go ahead,' he said.
'Go ahead and do what?'
'Gee,' he said, as though it was obvious. 'I don't know... Suck my cock?'

Daaaamn, I haven't listened to Eyedea in quite some time. Making me feel all nostalgic like.

Hey,
here. I was busy but the other user kinda got the gist of it.

"

when the light uninvitedly decides to pour into your room
burning to the ground like coal that doesn't move
what was that thought, while laying in bed
the one you liked before you spilt the contents of your head
take me back to the things i’ve seen
to the things we see within a waking dream

Even shadows have shadows, user.

I wrote this during a bit of a lull in work today and thought i'd post it. Gonna do some crits later, but going to grab some dinner in a few.

It's the death of mall rats, mall ninjas, and mall hangouts on Friday nights. A single letter, B, stays lit above a row of grimy automatic doors. BEACH MALL sat with its other letters broken and dark broadcasting its terminal state. The expanse of the barren parking lot sat like an old sun beaten face; faded white lines like teeth. Weeds grew through the cracks that rested like smile lines on the face of a mall that forgotten how to smile. A few of the teeth were punched out by the cars of the few dozen employees and shoppers that acted as a failing life support.

>Obligatory
Shadow hide you.

You're welcome!
I'm , Eyedea's on my turntable playlist with RAKhalil (youtube.com/watch?v=SiZ9c1C3pBk) and Shigeru Umebayashi (youtube.com/watch?v=XvQNCR71DhE)
Nostalgia playlists while reading some Drayton is great.

Certainly botched, though I'm glad the point ended up coming across. Anything you would add for the sake of clarity?

Just wrote pic related for a laugh, trying to sum up the history of Philosophy and culture in a pragraph.

This is great writing, as far as I'm concerned - or at least, it's very similar to what I like to write and read. You've got some real skill in crafting lightscapes that overlap with the emotions of the characters, your telegraph-cut technique is very much appreciable. Keep on that. To me, it didn't feel too cliched and broody but hey, maybe do drop the heavier themes and try to cruise across the page with some light neon ennui. You can be the next Tao Lin, but better.

I would greatly appreciate if someone would bother to provide feedback on this poem. I'll try to do the same if you post something of your own.

The names known,
no one
remembers
no body
of mine
not unnamed
but by myself

I’ve forgotten.

My name has
no body
for I am
no one
only detached
alone
but from myself.

man vs reality = the crying of the lot 49

uninvitedly isn't a word

While this America settles in the mould of its vulgarity, heavily thickening
to empire
And protest, only a bubble in the molten mass, pops and sighs out, and the
mass hardens,
I sadly smiling remember that the flower fades to make fruit, the fruit rots
to make earth.
Out of the mother; and through the spring exultances, ripeness and deca-
dence; and home to the mother.

You making haste haste on decay: not blameworthy; life is good, be it stub-
bornly long or suddenly
A mortal splendor: meteors are not needed less than mountains:
shine, perishing republic.
But for my children, I would have them keep their distance from the thick-
ening center; corruption
Never has been compulsory, when the cities lie at the monster's feet there
are left the mountains.
And boys, be in nothing so moderate as in love of man, a clever servant,
insufferable master.
There is the trap that catches noblest spirits, that caught--they say--
God, when he walked on earth.

I'm back from dinner to do some crits.

Really liked the voice in this piece. The images and close detail that the character gives to each image I felt really brought it to life. A few things like in the first line it should be "I had been standing". Though I do really like it so far, i'm still searching for a sort of purpose to this piece, but I am assuming it isn't finished quite yet.

I sort of agree with but not as heavily on the cliche's. I feel that the character's edge could be dialed back just a bit by removing things like "he knew better" after "He didn't come after me". I also kind of enjoyed the sort of meta moments when comparing the relationship like the usage of the word juxtaposition. I personally enjoyed it.

may do some more in a bit.

I'm pretty good at rolling cigarettes.
I was trained.
"Roll me one,"
She asks the kid who doesn't smoke.
"Roll me one,"
The first few times it's a request.
"Roll me one,"
She stops asking.
"Roll me one,"
She repeats, dismissing the ugly, the bent, the limp, the loose, the tight, the ones who
burn too fast, too slow and especially the ones with paper sticking out over the filter.
"Roll me one,"
She says, throwing the deficient ones at my face with a flick of the wrist, like a small
calibre slap.
"Roll me one,"
She says through her teeth while I smoke the rejected, having been told not to waste her
our tobacco.
"Roll me one,"
She says in bed, smiling, staring at me in a language I don't yet speak.
"Roll me one,"
She says, giggling, while I fumble with the papers.
"Again,"
she says, inspecting the firmness of the cigarette, her head tilted to the side,
disappointed in my whiskey hands.
"Roll me one,"
She orders between sobs, and again, and again, until the smoke detector dies of
asphyxiation.
"Roll me one,"
She whispers, waking me up from my spiteful sleep in the hallway with a poke of her
pinksocked feet. But after all those years, after the thousands of cigarettes I had grown
something like a spine (likely a tumor).
"Why don't you roll your own?"
She purses her lip for half a second, making sure I notice, and deploys the answer like a
precision strike, having long hoped for a night to come when affection could be
weaponized.
"Because I like watching you roll them for me."
I'm pretty good at rolling cigarettes.
I was trained,
like a dog, by a bitch.
And I thanked her.

yes it is

Even if it isn't, we know what you mean

Here's a thing i wrote, just to see what i could do in a single sentence.

The waves peel out and in, steady rising and falling of water like the breaths of the sleeping, water cut through, bottle-green, with sunlight stripes of gold and amber bounced off motes stirred up from shoreline or washed down from hillside, brought down, ferried by spring-filled streams and rivers, tiny chips and specks of stones pulled separate by ice, wind, rain, boot-heel, veins of water woven through boulders and swelled by winter's touch, cracking and splitting, a reduction in size and increase in count, in complexity, trend marched on season stacked on season remembered only in the trunks of oak and weather-warped aspen shrouding dense in shadow the forest floor over which robins flit, breasts beating proudly crimson filled with life, same life fading now from the leaves and sky, both bleeding yellow-orange-crimson, this crimson an antithesis - portent of death - life spilling, rotting, prelude to a blackness pierced by a lone star shining cold and indifferent on the firmament, gazing down on a city void of light and noise and living, void even of the associated detritus of living, food-waste, scraps of paper, newspaper blown off over soot-grimed cobbles to some place beyond the sight of the star, hidden in an alley somewhere with other detritus, building up a mockery of the city from which they came, narrow city streets mirrored now in tiny channels between impossibly tall cobblestones, through which the currents of a commerce obscure to us still run in miniature, changed not in substance, purpose, or effect but in scale, tied to some solidarity with the winter-chipped stones that now line the shores of the world intermingled with ground down shells, lining great dashed brush-strokes of highlight around the edges of continents, or an inverted dashing around water enclosed as ponds-lakes-oases, double ringed with gold and verdant brilliance, held out against the desert's clawing vacuum still, here growth appears the only constant, change appears the only thing unchanging, for now at least, the seeping up of water that now springs forth life from the desert is a consequence of erosion deep below and unseen, this hidden erosion the true constant, that of entropy - a grinding down - of stone, of earth, of heat, of light, graduations diminishing until they reach a zero, no demon to open gates and let pass the His selected atoms here, oh no, only the illusion of one, that being our will, appearing Maxwell's demon but closer to his silver hammer, a tool of compulsion who's only agency is to accelerate the entropy he thinks he controls.

Please don't say "no run-on sentences"

>The waves peel out and in, steady rising and falling of water

Which is it, peeling or rising?

Huh, the waves peel out and in, as in they move up and down the beach, and the waves are a rising and falling of water, (peaks and troughs)

>no run-on sentences
>only one sentence

Memories aren’t history. But I like to think I’m accurate in how I remember him. Always energetic, darting around the place. Hair flattened down or fluffed up. His tiny shaking arms, his nervous tics. Upper lip twitching into an Elvis Presley snarl, flashing the braces on his teeth. His voice sounding like it was coming from a tin can telephone, he’d burst out with inexplicable statements and jokes, head swiveling around to see his classmates’ reactions. And they’d only look at each other, but all he saw was their smiles. The teachers would smirk at him, bemused by his mania, his browned Turkish skin seemingly melting with sweat as he’d spill words, passionately failing to form arguments on just about every issue.
I was just beginning to find myself falling for him, but he was too busy bounding in the direction of the nearest bimbo, falling over his own feet. They’d pout their lips at him, but really at the men in their peripheral vision. Their eyes would stare mean from under drapes of hair and films of concealer. And I would sit with my back slouched, my fat spilling out, stretching my shirts. My chapped lips, my bitten nails, my old scars.
I remember the morning he was arguing about capital punishment. There were the laughs, the gasps and the whispered insults as per tradition. The unshaven fuzz on the top of his lip moved up and down with his verbal circles. The teacher stood above him, looking down, smirk burrowing into his neck. The bell rang. He picked up his books, shoved them into his bag and sprung up to walk out the door before anyone else. He thanked the teacher and went home. That afternoon, Ahmet killed himself.
just whipped this up

Man vs Author: Fog by Unamuno
Although it could also fit in man vs God

I don't understand what the first sentence means. Unless it's important that the 'B' is the only lit letter, you should leave it up to the readers to decide how the sign is lit--reader participation is good. 'broken and dark broadcasting its terminal state' - this is overwritten. I'm very aware I'm reading when something is described as being in a 'terminal state' instead of just off or not working. I can't get involved with such overwritten language. The parking lot image is very good and concise. The second image of the weeds is too soon (too image dense) and rings of the first, anyway. And the final sentence is the same way: it's continuing the metaphor too far, like you're trying to wow the reader with how brilliant you are instead of telling the story. It'll be a lot better with some revision.

I think it shows a lot more promise than a lot of the shite that gets posted here. Well done!

: )

The first paragraph is a damn load better than the subsequent ones...

adjective adjective adjective adjective NOUN adjective adjective NOUN adjective VERB adjective adjective adjective NOUN adjective adjective adjective NOUN VERB

Wow, you sure know how to write. ;)

You've created better works than this shite! Into the trash it goes! Now, get serious and post something better.

Thanks for the Crit. What I wrote is pretty image dense, but thats usually my process when I write, I will usually generate a few images and then relocate them. Im trying, atleast in these earoy stages, to stick with a almost hospice bound person as a central metaphor, which is why I included "terminal state" though I think that could be better served with more context further along.

Please tell me all the things wrong with this poem I wrote.

I splash my feet in the water
flowing down the sloped side of the street
it is warm; the heat of the earth could not be quelled
not by the brief clouds
a capricious storm!
going lightning rain hail sun
all over the course of tea

the river offers its share of passengers
a leaf, a twig, a stream of silt
one moment still, the next swept up and about
in another put down again
just as to start
but now they float calm
drift
rocking in the breeze.

I enjoy the multiple meanings created by the line breaks. I feel like the third stanza might be unnecessary? Maybe not, I need to meditate on it longer. Anyway I think you should move the second stanza to the end either way ("I've forgotten."), it's a more powerful conclusion.

I can taste the crowd. A rectangle composed of ten thousand faces; a crowd of sweat, blood, narcosis, and body. Not bodies--a body. A crowd is an entity. I’ll say to go right and the rectangle shall shift to lozenge flesh. Not one person, some nobody-Nelson, some bum; the crowd.
My crowd.
I’ll throw a rag and keep their riches. I’ll breathe and inhale camera angles and screams, both so pubescent in sense and style that I laugh and they, whoever that is for the day, will slap it on a news article before they can hear my sarcasm release through my nostrils. I walk on people. Though, the samians who like to journey into obscure concerts and drugs, the “fans,” are hardly worth a damn. I say this from a perspective of a man and through a high, high horse. I’m not an artist, nor am I some clowny entertainer, nor am I a political puppet of the Rockefellers and the commies and the Skulls and Bones. I’m only an expert seditionist. In fact, some young man in his garage who found his cousin Tony’s old guitar will probably beat me. But I wouldn’t tell them that. Neither would any one man who’s obtained some form of recognition. Salver Record Company, on an offshoot and a buzz, culled me from the others. I’m lanky, play the guitar, and smoke, and I look damn good smokin’. That alone is enough for someone now, but to make it, to really just make a living off singing around some die-hard’s theatre or stadium, you’ll need to sell yourself. You’ll firstly sell your mentality and your thoughts to masses. Then, you sell your body to the “Next Big Fashion Line,” which turns you into a glorified manakin and a canvas of materialism, greed, and behest.
So now I’m here. If you look to the left, you’ll notice two heads rolled onto the muddy ground. If you ask why there is mud in a concrete stadium, I could not answer. If you turn right and walk through the three glazed heads of roided men, you’ll see a bud or two or a tab or two. Muller’s held the carnage tonight. It’s my first night in Scranton. It’s probably the crowd’s, too.

The remaining daylight bleeds red and pools between skyscrapers on the notch of horizon cut by sixty-second street as Neville, walking, admires the spectacle. Occasionally he will look down away to the shoddy boardwalk when trying to avoid gaps in the wood. Some of which large enough to slurp like a wet noodle the foot and leg of an unaware or misguided step. Roughly every ten feet on either side of the walkway are posts bound and tangled together by black vines of colorless string lights whose dim beads of illumination begin to find their place in the dusk upon the mossy boardwalk and in rippling reflection atop the murky water below. A faint odor of salt is in the air as gentle waves whoosh quietly against the walls within the lifeless city.

Neville approaches an intersection amidst the surrounding buildings. The walkway here abruptly expands into a makeshift wooden piazza, the length and width of which covers the intersection, supporting a shanty bazaar brilliantly lit by light shouting from each individual market and merchant. Many people wearing all sorts of attire decorate the lively center, filling the air with barter, banter, and even bright melodies strumming and humming from a performer near the mezzanine central of the piazza. Whiffs of fresh grilled crab and tuna come and go on the intermittent breeze. The upper level of the mezzanine bears a white signboard lit by spotlight displaying "Steelmarsh Market" stenciled in red paint. Behind the sign two armed guards watch over the crowded site.

Neville makes his way to a small enclosure beneath the guard's post where a man stands inside, in front of an opening, watching as Neville approaches.

"How goes it trav'ller. Haven't seen ya round here 'fore; what brings you ta Steelmarsh, and how can I help ya?"

The lanky man leans in toward Neville onto the window's ledge as he speaks. His voice is gruff and his light brown hair and beard are long and unkempt. A lit, hand-rolled cigarette protrudes from the scruff at the corner of his mouth, giving off a stale, skunky smell which overpowers the aroma of salt and foods in the vicinity. His green eyes are sharp--inviting yet cautious-- and his nose crooked, attributing to his face the look of a man who could turn from friendly to deadly at the slightest provocation. He wears a worn and dirty white T-shirt with a leather sling-strap pistol holster positioned under his left arm. It contains an ancient Beretta M9 fashioned together almost entirely from scrap metal, hard plastics, and even duct tape around the palm grip. In the room behind him there can be seen several workbenches and tables strew with spare parts and materials from damaged, disassembled weapons and various machines, scrap motherboards, processors and diodes and housing containers, and all sorts of tools, blueprints, and manuals scattered around the materials and over the walls.

1/

The first sentence isn't compelling enough for me to want to read on.

'A crowd is an entity... the crowd... my crowd.' It's hard to give a damn about the crowd; we've been given no reason to care. But you go on about it a lot.

'sarcasm release through my nostrils' is a very odd phrase. And not in a good, original kind of way.

'I'm only an expert seditionist.' It's hard to sympathise with this character and that's a problem.

'I'm lanky, play the guitar, and smoke, and I look damn good smokin'' - cringe. Still no reason to give a damn as of yet.

No, nothing really of merit here. It's too self-involved, too preachy, too inconsequential.

Good luck with your future writings.

"I'm new to these parts. Hitched a ride some days ago for Faleseen Harbor on a flatboat headed out the Appalachia Isles. Was told to make for Steelmarsh where I could find a man known as the 'Techno-Prophet'. Perhaps you could point me in the right direction?"

As Neville says this he slips from his coat an intact HTC One A9 onto the window's ledge next to the man's elbow. He clicks the power button. The glass screen blinks to a black lock screen displaying 18:46pm. The man in the window, intrigued, leans up and touches the screen with his index finger. 'Enter PIN to unlock' flashes in response.

"I can unlock it. And you can have it; if you tell me what I need to know."

The man in the window eyes up Neville. He stands six feet tall with short black hair and his face is very neatly shaven. His eyes are hazel and his facial features are strong, with light acne scarring scattered across his forehead and cheeks. Neville is wearing an opened leather overcoat which extends to his mid thigh, covering a black vest over an also black shirt. A survivalists' backpack rests it's straps over his shoulders and on his back. His blue jeans are scuffed and frayed and he wears worn-out steel-toe boots.

"Unlock it."

"First make me believe you can help me."

The man peers into Neville's eyes-- Neville holds the stare steadfast.

"Tha Techno-Prophet's dead. Has been so fer a while now, sorry ta disappoint. 'Haps you'd like to visit his grave? Can't say you'd make much of it if you seek him livin' though."

The man recedes into his workplace, rummages through some drawers, a few scattered pages, and, after lingering over a desk for a moment, he returns to Neville at the window.

"Leave tha market here goin' north. Walk til ya can't go further north, n' enter tha buildin' the end of the walk. It's an old library there. Nowadays though it works better fer storin' bodies than books--mind you tha smell. Nobody but a few scragglers as myself know ta read or even want to. Out the back's where we set to sail or sink those who ain't into rotting inside an old buildin'. That's where you'll find yer fella; at the bottom."

The man brings his hand up from below the window, setting a flashlight and a pair of goggles next to Neville's smartphone. His eyes are itching toward the again dim screen. Neville carefully assess the man in the window.

"I'm sorry; I don't think we've properly introduced. Name's Neville."

Neville reaches the hand he used to place phone out to shake the merchant's hand.

2/

"Neville," he says shaking firm the outstretched hand. "Name's Justin. What, eh, with the sudden formalities?"

"A man tells you to wander into deadhomes, it's best you know him better by name than convenience is all. A man's eyes tell you a little more when you know their proper name."

"If it's trust yer lookin' for, I can't promise it's in my name or grip. Neville; you seem a capable man--I respect an air of caution. People round these parts fear that building for havin' spooks. You'd better chance a shark floppin' on tha walk and chompin' ya 'fore you get there than an ambush lyin' wait. If you're that concerned take ol' Berra here."

Justin pulls the jury rigged Beretta from its holster and places it next to the other offerings.

"Ain't much ta look at, but it's a full clip. 'Round here, a warning shot's as good a kill shot. 'Haps even better so. Most know most these parts--a dead baddie adds to three, four times that in vengeful folk."

"I appreciate the sentiment. I've no doubt in the capability of that Beretta. Well, perhaps a little."

Neville laughs as he says this. Justin appears neither offended nor amused, and he waits for Neville to continue.

"I believe though that you've helped me enough, and I will take the torch and specs. Here:"

Neville enters 1-9-2-7 to the phone while saying the numbers out loud for Justin to hear. It reliqueshes it's guard to the factory default home screen.

"All yours my friend."

Justin eagerly takes up the phone as Neville watches his fingers flick, swipe, and poke at the illuminated screen. A slight grin appears under his beard and in the corners of his worn eyes.

"What a beaut. If ya don't mind me askin', where'd you happen 'cross a piece this pristine? Awful rare round these parts. Even rarer most anyplace else. Rarest of all's that she 'ppears unlocked. You must really wanna find this guy don't ya?"

"It was a very lucky find owned by an electronics merchant outside Faleseen Harbor. Offered him a few odds and ends I had brought with me and that I had intended to give way for just an occasion. I have little use for it, but knew full well, perhaps better than the merchant, it's desirability."

As he says this, Neville removes his pack and stores the goggles in a side pouch. He then returns it to his back, placing the torch in his coat from where he had previously produced the phone.

3/4

"Justin my friend, it was good doing business with you. Best of luck on your tinkering and with your sales. Before I leave, I was wondering as to if you may have a local map which may be of use to me? As I've said, I'm quite new to these parts. A guide would help tremendously."

Justin signals Neville to wait as he goes to a small desk in the southeast corner of the enclosure, closest to the window, and which Neville hadn't immediately noticed before. It's surface is clean, and Justin takes from one of the drawers a folded sheet. Looking it over a moment before returning to the opening.

"Here ya go. That there's fairly accurate of locations within fifty miles. Also has markin's on what places may be more dangerous and where ya should avoid pokin' around. Followin' sixty-second street outta town leads ya along tha major travel route of the locale and merchants. Along that this map'll lead ya true some couple hundred miles, all the way ta New Athens. Don't let folk round here see ya havin' it though. Good maps such as them're quite tha prize for dead-divers, bounty hunters, and all sorts of trav'llers alike."

Justin gives Neville a slight look as he says,

"Take care trav'ller. You happen 'cross the Prohpet's waterlogged corpse, be sure n' pay my respects."

use pastebin or something

But the narrator is such an ass that he's full of himself. It simply shows how he doesn't care at all about them

Also, the buzzword of cringe you used may or may not be supported; I meant it as in smoking a cigarette. Not sure how it seemed "cringey," but I appreciate the criticism.

That said, how do I manage a character who doesn't care about something without having the reader lose interest? I feel as though it's paradoxical.

The 6th line of the first stanza personally feels a bit clunky but with that being said I like the first stanza. The only other thing might be the 7th line of the second stanza. The word "drift" added a very strong break in the flow of the stanza but that appears deliberate. Is that the case? Overall though I thought it was a solid piece of work.

The leaves of the trees were swaying from the gentle breeze that blew past as did the lillies which reminded him of snow, waiting to be played with by groups of young children. He looked at the people going by: An old couple, two young children sprinting ahead of their parents roaring with laughter and joy, and a woman.

The woman sat down on the bench opposite to him and started to read. The sun fell on her. It illuminated her face and as she read there before him bathing in the warm rays of the sun, the light, it seemed to cling to her body gilding her smooth milky complexion with rose gold and when a gale blew across the trees, it caused the autumn to gently fall, and her hair, auburn like the leaves danced in the wind.

Noticing his gaze she looked directly at him. Her sufferance made her drop her eyes to the lillies. She started to read again but unable to bare his gaze, his admiration ... his worship, she stood and left.

She was gone. She was never to be seen again and yet the world still went on. He expected time to stop just for him when she dissipated forever but he could still hear the children laughing and the faint sound of the bustle in the distance. He looked up at the sky and thought,‘I stood in the divergence of the two and as I listened to the waves upon the bank of the river, hither and thither, and as you stood there before me,I smiled to have ever met you.’

leaves... trees... breeze... lilies...

:^)

Hi, I really enjoy writing. Also I want to become the best writer that I can be so I was wondering if anyone in this group could give me some critical feedback on my writing. I'm currently writing a spoken word origin story series telling the tale of how twenty two children were recruited into a soldier program.
One of the ones I've already released is linked below.
Once again, I would be extremely grateful to anybody who can just sit down, listen and give me some feedback.
youtube.com/playlist?list=PLfDEnr6vhnbprlAO-m6uoLwrcWaptezLt

What's wrong with it? XD

Yeah, I forgot letters here are encrypted.

Thanks for the feedback. Would like some more, if that's alright.

It’s only after retrospection one realises that words left unsaid should’ve been said instead of those that were. And I’ve left my share of thoughts unsaid, opinions unvoiced, pieces of my soul unshared.
Ah, the exertion. It’s not speaking up or out but letting it sink. Sink down to the old distillery and then it’s all bottled up and sent into the cold, damp cellar. And my cellar’s full.
So, sometimes, and sometimes only as I’m stingy, I bring a bottle.
And drink I drink my own wine.
And the beat slows down, tears well up, the liquor drowns and the demons come out — it’s Mammon’s feast, they chant and climb, on the top of the hill, where the ol’ tenor blows, tall and still. And I’m him.
Or, he’s my essence. Unperturbed, my soul,
In eternal bliss, in a mire of my thoughts, and blinded by the fog of my emotions.
But he plays and plays, in eternal bliss.
Untouched and unfazed, and that’s what I’m meant to be, I realise, every now and then.

…

Every now and then, and between now and then all my sorrows lay dormant.

Going for my own little style here:

The 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 be your reality.

Too on the nose. Change the title. The whole piece comically blunt in a way I don't think you'd want it to be. Infinite Jest is a meme and not really stylistically comparable to what you're trying to do here, but at least Dee Eff Double U contrives some nuances to his treatment of mad diction as a theme

I've never read DFW. Was intended to be blunt; obvious to both addicted and non addicted peoples. Not really comically so though. It's all supposed to be self contained, the imagery is supposed to feel as though it's constantly recycling around--seemingly going away and returning as itself or it's counterpart--to get the feel for an addicts thought process. Thanks for the input though, will take into consideration.

Don't mind me man, I'm probably not the target audience. You do you.

Also meant to mention that the very repetitious and flowing diction are supposed to represent being in a sort of dream state, to enforce that it's not reality.

Well I honestly went for general audience. For the non addict to feel inside the head of an addict, and for the addict to see himself in the cliffs. So if it fell flat for you, it fell flat for my audience. I try to write universally.

...

A Neverending Game.

Summer had crept up on us with little preface. Days were long and nights seemed longer. Individual moments whisked away in the thick of the heat. I was just turning fourteen or somewhere about; it was hard to tell. My little sister, Ophelia, was about half my age, and half as smart. I was pretty sure I was smart then.
It was a good time too – my uncle and his fiancée were coming over. Long since I had seen the black Honda roll down our driveway, but it wasn’t any different. Micah and Louise weren’t any different either, ‘cept for their hair colors. She bleached hers and his was something darker than it used to be.
“Hey George!” they both said in unison out the car window as I approached.
I never liked my name.
“How in the heck are you doing?” Micah hopped out of the Honda and stopped himself before me, giving a faux formal handshake that I took to with all-severity.
I said I was well, that I had been well. Micah tussled my hair and said that was good. Louise gave me a smile as she walked by but didn’t really say anything before opening up the trunk of her (their?) car. Then she spoke.
“Oh Curious –“(Curious was her nickname for me, a reference to the monkey Curious George) (I hate my name.) “-dear, can you help Micah and I carry some of this in, please?”
Micah nudged me with his elbow a couple of times.
“Guys like us get no breaks, eh?” he said.
Micah had this sort-of funny thing where he could only speak in tangent with Louise, whereas Louise said whatever she wanted, at any given time. They were a new age couple I think. That’s what dad used to say. A new age couple.
I helped them in the house of course – picking up a big garbage bag full of clothes and carrying it along as they themselves lugged in some other bags and suitcases. This is the point where mom came down stairs, having ‘dolled up’ in her room. She liked to be presentable.
“My god, Micah, you haven’t aged a bit!” She said as she clung to the seemingly shorter man.
“You’d be surprised what a little sun and workout can do for a guy” Micah smiled.
“And you – Louise – why, you look positively stunning”. I’m not sure what part of Louise mom considered stunning, all the nondescript portions possibly.
“Why thank you Margaret, you look very appreciable yourself.” Louise said.
Appreciable? What is that even sup-
It was at that time that a loud scream was heard from upstairs. I, of course, knew instantly what this was. Louise and Micah were not as understanding. They looked at each other, and then at us in surprise.
My mother looked agitated: “Sorry, Ophelia has not been good lately.”
There were a lot of things I could say to that -- but I kept my mouth shut. Better to think and not speak.

(I wrote this little bit out in late highschool and just revisited now, not even sure if I should continue it...)

I didnt like your descriptions. They were very long and humdrum. Like whenever someone starts off by describing the light of dawn or dusk i kinda roll my eyes. It's completely unmecessary to the story. If the author is going to describe things in detail i want him or her to be very self aware of why it's being done, as opposed to, "just trying to set the scene man." I don't need the scene to be set, cause i can do that in my own head with a lot less primer material. Anyway, think about your readers and their time.

It all absolutely helped make the setting.

>sunset appearing at the end of a city block would draw attention to it
>he's on a boardwalk
>the reflection from the string lights begins to stand out on what is water below
>finally the salt and waves

You now know the guy is walking down a city flooded by the ocean at night. I'm building the scene, bringing you into the world.

I cannot say I have ever been a kid. I've been raised by workers and have been raised as such. There were no videogames. There were many days when, after Momma sent me to pull the weeds (every last one of them, she'd add), I'd scramble into the neighbor's yard to hangout with their child. I never knew his name. I didn;t have to, though, so I called him Chuck. He was my gatekeeper. Chuck knew girls. He knew where babies came from and how to make one. He knew porn. Shifting reactions from a dimly lit screen in the basement we sat and watched as a young woman was moaning. This confused me.
Whenever I left Chuck's, I felt exposed, like I wore a target on my pudgy you-got-those-from-your-aunt-Cara's cheeks. I'd get red and Momma would ask why I was "so damn redder than a tomatter." I'd say it was the sun. But there was no sun that winter; only prurient computer screens and pubescent curiosity.

...