/Critique thread/

you got two redundancies:
>a labyrinth with twists and turns
no shit, really? a labyrinth with maze-like qualities, corners and such? wow.

>bushes and trees and vines
in a forest? Holy shit droppin bombs here bro.

>an huntswoman
sounds clunky but it might be correct.

>no younger than thirteen, had known all of her life, found herself foreboding
it sounds like you're saying she found HERSELF forebodin, and then you repeat the word foreboding making it a cool 3 redundancies, but not wanting to seem mediocre in the repetition department you decided to top it off with "and walked forward". And the last bit of clunckyness belings to "that for a time in the past" and hitting the whole thing in the dick with "content so the Storyteller would say." It's not very good.

First draft- act one, scene one so to speak

===

When I was sentenced, the judge told me that I should start thinking about my choices. Now I think a lot, and maybe too much about choice.

My father drove me home that afternoon, cursing about how the system was fucked up, how the judge said the same thing to everybody, how the deck was stacked against regular people.

My father has the temperament of a well-fed cat.

I don’t think I said anything one way or another. I was feeling very small for my part. Too small to talk about anything.

It was a cloudy day.

Hire a lawyer if you want to learn the hard way about how profitable it is to sell somebody hope. Or to figure out how fear influences the way we human beings choose.

I think you’re not allowed to be a lawyer unless you can convince somebody you’re the best one there is. Ask somebody on the street for three thousand dollars. They’ll laugh in your face. Now convince them it’s so they don’t spend a year in the county jail.

They’ll fork over whatever they have and finance the rest.

I’ve only made out a personal check once in my life. It was for two hundred and sixty four dollars. I made out to the IDRC for the time I was required to spend at the Resource Center, as I had been an Intoxicated Driver.

My grandfather- who has a dragon’s dignity even when dressed in a tank top and long socks- drove me to this place. I rode in silence as his passenger, still a little too small to talk to anybody, let alone a dragon.

Reposting what I posted last thread:

This is just something I wrote for this thread, it isn't part of any ongoing story.

The lights to the basement murmured above. Against their flicker the room seemed more like a dungeon. But where most dragon's lairs carried gilded treasures and intricate traps, Mark had storage boxes. Piles, piles, and more piles of storage boxes. Some already emptied, some untouched in over a decade. Mark dragged a trash bin behind him, nearly full of glass flasks. He was bent over, digging through a fantasy epic's worth of potion bottles. He wasn't sure why he had so many stowed away. They had to have been remnants from some quest or another, but Mark couldn't quite place them. He held one in his hand. Some of the markings on it seemed familiar, but the memory was almost completely clouded. He knew it had something to do with an enchanted forest. That was about it. He put it back down into the crate.

Something else was there, buried between the bottles. A black handle, jammed tightly in a corner. Forcing through the heap, he grabbed hold of the hilt. His hands were too big for the grip. Mark pulled back, dislodging the sword from the junk with an unnerving amount of ease. He twirled the sword a bit in his hand. It reflected a bright yellow, a hue more saturated than he remembered, far more than he expected it to still be. The color clashed against the faded gray of his sweatshirt. Mark raised the sword above his head. He swung the sword down in an arc. It still handled well. He laid it out flat again, between his hands, studying it like a sculptor would study a block of ice. Carefully grabbing hold of each end, he lifted the blade high in the air again, then slammed it down on his raised knee, snapping the sword in two. The pieces landed into the garbage bin.

>I heard you like consonance, bro.

The Storyteller knows that Ava was born to a tribe that would sack a town to content their hearts.

Ava's eyes dart left and right. She knows the bushes, the vines and trees.

She'd known these all her life, but then her life was only thirteen years.

And the forest was transforming, twisting, turning, back upon the trail she had taken.

He didn't write this. He posted it last thread too.

/r/ a critique, i feel like im being awkward in places

Came up with the idea of writing a story about a sudden worldwide condition, the effect being that if two people touch eachother even slightly then they both die
Thoughts?

pfft thats boring.

make it so that if people even slightly touch each other they go into ecstatic convulsive orgasms that lasts for an hour

now thats a story

split the difference. one orgasms, one dies, random 50/50 chance each time. the villagers try to stop it and everything gets worse because someone is clearly always getting off on it. resolve by everyone orgasming or dying by touching each other all at once depending on the moral you want to send, and have the debate if it will work one way or another as your build up.

Got high as a kite yesterday and wrote this shit HAHAHA Do your worst. I like being told i am a purple dickhead.

Peaches en Regalia

It starts with a falling spin and tumble of a wheeling drum. Then the bass kicks up dirt with a ready-steady-go. Musical gear shift of 1 2 3. The journey has begun. With spidery notes crawling on the guitar string or is it a mandolin? No time on your hands. On to the 1st leg with very very faint vocal harmonies encapsulating the jittery drum, the organ and the arpeggiated piano, which is calling out the names of the stations to visit on the way. It tells us that the third station is the first melody which now has arrived and is full of sweet notes for our hearts to savour.

But then it just leaves. Leaves and never looks back.

Every instrument gets a chance to sing. Like companions in a car. The twangy mom made of brass. The sober guitar which fathers the whole thing and keeps its pitch perfectly shifting. Tender flute from the shy daughter. Closely matching the father. Looking him in the eye on every single note. Bonded melancholy.

Soon you realise that the delicious array of various instruments and their transitions are now actually melting and glowing right in front of your eyes. The wind and the touch. The hit and the pluck. So many others also have joined this family.

O the clarinet twins! Blissfully voiced. Difficult to tell apart from Zappa's guitar. Then the angry boys who get their turn on their congos and cymbals. With brows furrowed of course. There has been a fight on the way. It is a journey after all and it's leading to a crescendo of ecstatic harmonies. All the beautiful peaches coming together in a basket of music. There now. It's complete.

But did you notice that you have lost yourself? A victory of emotions has left you defeated with satisfaction. Reflect now, onlooker. Wait. Be careful, the song says. Too much sugar is dangerous and snatches the delight away from you with the voices still singing. And so the peaches leave you. Gifting you the memory of a journey that never ended.

Goodbye, regal peaches. You made my life sweeter.

Was told this was awful yesterday so I tried to fix it up a bit pastebin.com/XtW2exr3 probably still terrible desu but nevermind.
I can cry myself to sleep later tonight.

actually pretty good desu
Was that really written completely high, or did you edit it sober after?

It makes me think a lot of the thoughts I wish I could write when I'm baked (random stuff about music, convolutive conceits of maturbatorily long nature which makes them thrilling to further develop, etc)

It's two, two. Two for a son have come and have gone, have seen and have been, have done unto one, one. One for a will that never was still and never could kill, that never spoke free, it's sending me still unto nil, nil. Nil for a brain that searches in vain, that loves in the rain, and washes its sin where corpse-eaters win, I am sane, sane.

So there's this thing I wrote, and some guy told me it's mindless, repetitive trash.

What if it's exactly what I'm going for?

i want to write but have no inspiration - would someone lay out a prompt?

A person has just lost their home. It was the best thing that ever happened to them.

Then. Yourself

Naught cometh from bottleneck drunkards and bluestockers in orgiastic crucibles, wondered aloud Ogil, Olaf's third cousin. Chew and spit the faggot meat, don't swallow though, my misgivings cause a light tremble, mother spoke aside to Ogil. I, the youngest in the family, Ogil's brother, cousin to Olaf, too, but not his first cousin Arriette, the comely soon-to-be Olaf's bride, born a bastard to a dead father and absconding mother, taken in by their family, raised as their own, and now to be married to their son. Far end of the table I see now the oldest I've ever seen a man be, mother's father-in-law, his eyelid never moving, drooping, the right one and he turns his head towards one when he talks, nodding graciously, the old puritan, and he only disrespects the Muslims, I see every now and then him and his daughter, aunt Eelo, busty, old her bosom sags restrained in a blouse far younger than she and for someone far younger than she. Caught my glance she smiles knowingly my infatuation with the hag, my penis acknowledges her visage's allure and bosom's too, Ogil, beside me unpleased as his eyebrows furrow, well-meaning and worried about the Freudian implications of my phallic aspirations, for beside him is mother, not too different in age than Eelo, sweet Eelo. Thirty or so other members, and shame as it may be, for they live within a distance of a car ride, are less than acquaintances to me. Dinner's run long, and aunts and uncles care for little other than the immediate, and their siblings aren't the immediate, Ogil taught me a year ago, or less than that. A wobbly tit charms a cowherd, a woman must perk up, and God blesses those whose breasts are proud, firm like a lioness, and the dejected must resort to surgery, old world values need puritanist tinges to them,Olaf announces to an aghast audience, rendering Arriette nearly to tears. Ogil slightly amused muses on about the dysfunction saying rapt in uhtceare will the bride-to-be spend her days chained in holiness to the quomodocunquizing paragon of the Lord's bastard native of Nazareth.

Fire stations cannot be vigilant. "Crew" is a singular unit, and hence it was cheering. It was cheering for a firefighter, not on him. "Like a heavy stone", please mind your similes. Tubs's sake, or Tubs', depending which style book you use.

Overall, not too shabby, except the aforementioned mistakes. Seems to be uninspired indeed. Has a pulpy quality to it. Could be the next Patterson if you try hard.

Not him, but the best poem I've written to date was written completely high. Prose always comes out a strange mix of poetry and prose when I write stoned, and requires a bit of editing afterwards. But I usually walk away with some interesting metaphors and symbolisms.

—Senator, put down the knife. She did nothing wrong. So she filmed you, so what. There are thousands of tapes out there in the abyss, in safes begging to be opened at the slightest hint of deviation from policy. And so you have a wife and kids, you say. Well don't we all. Put down the knife, let go of the woman.

He let her go. She ran toward Mark Twain, and hid behind him, trembling. The senator held the night, and raised it to his neck.

—Senator Whitman, I implore you. Don't off yourself. Don't be an asshole. Do you know how many Senators perish by autoerotic asphyxiation? None. Not a single one. It's icing on the cake for us, really. Taunting your ghost.

—P-p-please just–won't you delete them, please.

—No no, you swine. In fact, if you don't give me the knife, if you don't spare me this pathetic scene, I'll walk out of this hotel room and deliver them–hand deliver them–to the Post. You got that, you bumbling ass?

Senator Whitman pressed the knife against his throat, indenting the flesh but not piercing it.

—And another thing. Where's the shame? Is it because she's a prostiture? Is it because you're a prostitute, Margarita? Is that why he pulled the knife, and said those mean things?

Margarita mumbled in foreign tongues. The Senator trembled, threatening them with his own life.

—Just do it, Mark Twain said, and taking Margarita in one hand and the hard drive in the other, walked out into the sleepless city.

A couple is driving to Chicago for the weekend after the two year anniversary of the boyfriend getting into a car crash which resulted in the death of their child. He was sober, and it wasn't -entirely- his fault. The girlfriend was working at the time. They are specifically travelling to ease their minds from the event.

This was for
, not the original quote

I'm going to write a treatise on abortion, and the broader cultural and community framework that is supposed to promote human reproduction and family-based child rearing.

I'm going to call it "stop killing people when they're still babies who haven't even been born yet"

>arrested for misogyny

don't write if you don't have anything to write about. You'll come up with an idea in the shower.

This is shitposting right?

What?

It's a short story written by an algorithm which takes in input from critique threads, and such, and spits out stories based on what gets posted.

I don't really think anyone would read the whole thing, so here's the half of it I got around translating. I don't know if the "the" there is necessary, which is why I put it inbetween parantheses. Any kind of criticism would be much appreciated, this is basically my translation of a recent prose I wrote in my native language(Romanian...if anyone wants the original, I can provide that too). Hope you like it!

Whenever there was a blackout, we used to huddle around the lonely flame of a candle that always stood undecided between succumbing to darkness and struggling to burm its last breath. Certainty was only in how we inhaled its soul every single time. And so it is that one by one we will all breathe our last, spellbound by (the) carbon monoxide.

It is with such clarity that I reminisce the ungovernable throbbing from underneath my skin and the blades of grass whose upgrowth shrouded me, inevitably withering under the rule of gravity and poisoning my blood.
What no longer being meant was of knowledge to me, but it never sprang to anyone's mind what the opposite's significance was.
So were the fleeting hours flying by, forgotten somewhere within a cosmic crucible of nonbeing, patiently abiding their imbibing into the sharp and miniscule lightning darts oozing from one neuron to another.

I arduously budge one morning from beneath the outer protective shell of my bed, dwindling in between kindled and unkindled while blearily descending the fleet of stairs and finding myself in the backyard where I furiously lunge towards the large and shabby wooden door of my great-granddad's penthouse. The forlorn squawks started anew each time, blaring through my marrow and finding birthplace up in the attic beyond a ladder of whose ascending was although not prohibited, something within my very being kept on preventing me from climbing.

No, its literature!

Why, what's wrong with it? Not much of a critique, young man!

wtf is this bullshit? i mean c'mon this is worse than pulp fiction

So are all the critiquefags just out on holiday?

I'm sure they will be back when they have something that needs to be critiqued.

Great critique. Expert eye you have.

Vaguely post apocalyptic north american suburb : half empty strip malls, panoramic ads, big box stores lost amongst a labyrinth of indistinguishable housing tracts. Our narrator is a NEET. having recently dropped out of college following a nervous breakdown. prodigal son returns, defeated, to the old patriarchal homestead, spends his days 'smoking weed' with burnout highschool acquaintance(now in affair with mom) and spinning elaborate dissociative fantasies of fascist regeneration through violence on internet forums. Father, once paragon of middle brow bourgeoisie respectability, is driven to the brink as structure of fraudulent and or dubious business ventures built over the years collapses thanks to the NEXT MARKET CRASH RECESSION EVENT, a phenomenon baffling to theologians and economists alike, somehow connected to the complexities of securities training, the unexpectedly slow arrival of the coming technosingularity and an orthodox monastery/extremely low frequency radio array in siberia. The NEET ends up in a codependent and increasingly tormented relationship with a similarly violence obsessed 17 year old girl(daughter of a well of pastor, 13 siblings) paralleling the collapse of North American civilisation into the state of nature.

Is this fan fiction of yourself?

all writing is fanfiction of yourself

(pic related)
The story is about a witch archaeologist who works for an academic group. Through sheer misfortune, an excavation that was meant to be her stepping stone to fame gets her involved with a fugitive scientist from another reality and his robot daughter, fleeing from the remnants of a world he destroyed.

The witch's world is already rife with problems, and while the scientist offers solutions to them, he is running from his own. The groups from his world cause their own issues as they clash with the inhabitants and try to establish themselves in this bright (and resource-filled) world.

Not necessarily true. A lot of authors add themselves into their stories as a character, but most authors do introspection of characters who don't resemble themselves without having a character that portrays the author.

Gili swung her right arm's baton upward to block Nero's downward sword swing, and the two wooden weapons nearly splintered as they met with force. She parried the swing into the dirt, which left Nero's body exposed enough for her to sneak in a side kick which hit Nero's ribs at its apex, a painful blow that caused him to drop his sword and fall to ground.

Gili walked over to the old man's body with batons in both of her hands. They were both exhausted, their bodies beaten, but when they caught eachother's glare neither of them could help but to smile. Gili stuck her training batons into the loops on the side of her hips, then reached a hand down to help Nero up. She pulled the heavy old brute up to his feet with an exascerbated grunt that she knew he'd take as a jest it was.

"Too heavy for you now, am I?" He asked, smiling. "Or is it you who's too weak?"

Gili smirked. Nero had been with her since the very beginning. She was eight when he first noticed her, training into the dead of the night. He snuck up from behind her, picked her up by the waist, and slung her over his shoulder. "Night is the time for rest, little warrior. There will be plenty of time for training tomorrow."

The front door opened up to the newly bought house. Light from the outside shined into the
empty living space. Two large shadows casted from the young couple standing in the doorway, stretched
out onto the bare walls. "I've been thinking. You should hang up that painting of the old naked guy, and
frame it right there, so every time we come home, first thing we'll see, is a pair of old genitals." Said a
young and cleaned shaved Brody. The woman, his wife Clementine, rushed into the house and did a
swirl. "I love it. Mother would be so happy to see it when she comes over every holiday." She said as
Brody followed her in. "Sweet Fruit, your mom will be coming over more than just on holidays. That's
why I want to hang up that painting, Mother-In-Law deterrent."
They took a tour around the house, scoping it out before they move the furniture in. Clementine
stopped in her tracks in a very dramatic way and spun around towards Brody. Her voice became super
animated as she said, "This is where I want to do my painting at! It’s the perfect spot!"
"It is?" He said.
"Yes! Look at those two large windows looking out at the city skyline. At night, when I feel the most
creative, I'll put my canvas between the two windows so I can gaze upon the beautifully lit up city." She
said with a big grin and cupping her hands together.
"The best views of cities are their skylines, because the actual inner workings of the cities are ugly."
Brody said as he hugged Clementine from behind. She put her hands around his arms and said, "You
have a way with words, honey." Digging his face into her jet black hair, giving her head a kiss, he mumbled, "I'm a glorified stalker, not a poet." He took her by the hand and led her towards the front
door as he said, "Lets start putting our dollhouse together."

Thanks, user.

I had smoked half a Kashmir joint, a cigarette and hadn't slept in around 20 hours. My writing goes euphoric when i'm short on sleep and so to counter that i usually smoke.

>I wish I could write when I'm baked
It takes time to discover your ritual, so to speak. I have a friend who writes while standing. She discovered that while on a walk one day after 10 years of being a failed writer and now she's a published author.

Tip: Try not to smoke too much, even a couple of drags is too much sometimes. For me there's a point when my eyelids starts to feel a bit heavy. That's when i know i am ready to shoot my load HAHA. Great feeling.

Good luck, user. Masturbate away....

not anymore
and the process of producing the orgasm
is a tiresome chore at best
in a similar way eating has become an annoyance
any sensory or bodily experience is another trial of patience
there probably is nothing more overrated than life

not bad right?

yeah not bad

I was thinking of writing a story about how a defected soda factory in a small town causes people to mutate into giant insects and then after awhile everyone just gets used to it

make into a movie script

pastebin.com/NUEM5vRm this is about a ghost blowjob and it is by far better than anything else on here, christ you guys

Their mother made them lace up in overstuffed coats and mittens and play outside in the snow. Mia’s mittens were a deep navy blue, and Alice’s were a green that matched her eyes.
“Is blue your favorite color?” Alice asked.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Your mittens.” Alice catalogued it in new things about Mia.
They were both dragging sheet of tin across the snow. They didn’t know where they were going, exactly. They were just looking for a hill that would suit them.
Mia pressed her mittens against Alice’s hair, flattening out some strands that had been sent astray by the wind. The snow melted underneath the warmth, and she felt moisture on her scalp. She pressed a finger into Mia’s jacket, a bony poke that pushed into several layers of fluff, and it elicited a giggle. Mia swatted at her hand, and they almost started fighting, again. But today they were on a mission.
“So how long has blue been your favorite?”
“A while. I don’t know. I just noticed it was the prettiest color one day.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
“Yeah. It’s like the sky.”
“Or the sea.”
“Same thing,” Mia said, slugging Alice. Together they began to crest a hill, boots cracking fresh craters,caking in snow. At the tip they sat the seat down and braced themselves.
As one they sat hands on opposite sides, and gently began to push. They crawled forward until their makeshift sled catches a motion. Slow creep into a blur, and the wind whipped around; racing into them, through them. They hold hands and steer unsteadily. They dipped a sleek line down the hill, the only sound their joyful screams.

Alice stirred first. Her head was hurting, and her hand came away with flakes of dried blood.
She remembered, vaguely, crashing. When she stood up, her skull beat a heavy agony, causing her to double over, spewing vomit onto the snow. She put a hand on the bark of the tree. Flakes of blood were clinging to her glove. Green and red. Christmas colors. Her fingers grasped the wood as she tried to steady herself. Her other hand was rubbing her forehead, trying to smooth out the waves of pain rolling in. Then he stepped out from behind the tree.
“What do you want?”
“I was worried. Are you okay?” He leaned in close, and Alice’s nose was assaulted with a sour odor. She vomited again, chunks of bile flinging onto his face. His tongue slid out, lapped up the pieces settled around his lips. Alice started to dry heave, her stomach driving fresh nails into her skull. Her brain was choking.

He grabbed her by the shoulder and pressed her against Mia. His vomit-encrusted tongue parted her lips. Mia was so cold. So was he, but his tongue was hot. it slid along the roof of her mouth, leaving a film of regurgitation. She threw up again, but now there’s only stomach acid, and he forced it back inside her.

“Go away, Mia.”
“Daddy, I’m hungry.”
“Go fix something to eat then. I’m busy,” Mark said, even though he was clearly just sitting there.
“Daddy, quit being a deadbeat and go fix me a sandwich or something.” Mia’s father stared at her for a second, and then stood up.
“Let’s go, then.”

“How’s school?”
“Eh. School’s boring. All the other kids aren’t as smart as me and Alice.”
“Alice and I.”
“Huh?”
“If you’re such a smartass, you better be using proper English,” Mia’s father said, pushing a large bologna and cheese sandwich across the table to her.
“Daddy, don’t be a hater.”
“All day. I chug at least two bottles of haterade a day.”
“I bet you drink them on the wrong side of the bed too, don’t you?”
“When you get to be my age, sweetie, there isn’t a right side.”
“You sound like an old man. Maybe you should switch to coffee instead of haterade.”
“Young lady, where did you get that attitude?” he said, smiling. Mia doesn’t remember his smile anymore.
“From my daddy.”
“I bet you do,” he said, sliding a loaf of bread to make a sandwich of his own. “What to drink?”
“Sweet tea!”
“Coming up.” At that time Alice walked in. “Hey sweetie, want a sandwich?”
“I’ll make it myself,” Alice said, curtly and short.
“Suit yourself. Did you get some nice clothes?” he asked, still trying.
“We can’t afford nice clothes. Remember?” Alice strode out of the kitchen with a hastily-made sandwich in hand.
“Daddy?”
“Mia, run along.” She hesitated, but she left. Mark expected to boil over with rage, but instead he just finds himself holding back tears that eventually come out anyway, getting all over his half-eaten sandwich.

pastebin.com/Lze8w20B
I wrote this on /bant/ from the suggestions of dubs and trips so I know the story's shaky and the jokes only work on /bant/, but any criticism would be helpful

Potential introduction to a story I've been outlining:

Albeit the machines appear ideal when compared to most models, they still looked as human as the potential customers surrounding them--their monotonous voices pitching consumer friendly, pre-approved remarks and responses to shopper inquiries being a dead giveaway of their autonomy. If a patron happened by adorned in a past purchase, the company's built-in database of retail items, rendered in three dimensions and cross analyzed with the machine's visual component's software and barcode registries, would trigger a complimentary statement toward the person. John likes to keep on the look for those especially malleable to flatten under their programmed amiability in attempt to not be rude to an automaton. Considered special occasions and recited in exaggerated anecdote to his friends on game night were the days when a, usually elderly, person verbally assaults the "devil-bots-come-to-take-our-jobs, rebel, and-kill-us-all".
Now approaching one inside his local Full-Cart down a clothes aisle he'd mistaken for not luring him into one of their traps, John actually smiles, realizing the far end of the aisle crosses early into the underwear section he desired--flipping off An-Dria as she remarks his socks as being ahead of their time. He grabs the cheapest bulk pack of boxers just as quickly as he returns back out the aisle to the checkout. An-Dria is telling a large man his briefs are "slimming in all the right ways" while he anxiously scratches his head trying to explain to it why he's in a hurry as John walks past snickering.

Not bad, but based on the children's dialog and their claimed intelligence, it's hard for me to settle on an age for them in my mind, which makes it difficult to give them true voices. All I can derive is that Alice is slightly older. Perhaps ease in a mention of at least one of their grade levels. Or if this isn't an intro and just an excerpt, just make sure you establish their ages a little clearer before hand.

>The front door opened up to the newly bought house. Light from the outside shined into the empty living space. Two large shadows casted from the young couple standing in the doorway, stretched out onto the bare walls.

Really bad desu, sorry. Clunky verbs and adjectives that contradict, repeat, or simply sound terrible. Dull, cliched imagery that doesn't set up any real scene. Not that you chose a bad scene to begin with, you just need to shrink what I quoted to one sentence tops and cut out a lot of filler.

Last paragraph sets up a past instance of their meeting randomly thrown into a present thought which convolutes the image when you immediately return to present. Be careful of when and how you decide to introduce facts. The rest is alright, if not beyond cliche in every way.

>Far better than anything on here
It's not. It's just as bad as everything else here.

I'll critique some stuff in this thread later when I get home from work.

Not sure if it's because of your translation, but you have words sprinkled around here or there that are unnecessary--which stands out aggressively due to the otherwise precise and varied language used. I can't establish where you're at since you began with a past instance and image, then an ever further image before actually actually giving a concrete setting. This is confusing. Then by the last graph, the consistency of your thoughts dwindle some and lose their shreds of cohesiveness. Example being the last sentence:
>The forlorn squawks started anew each time, blaring through my marrow and finding birthplace up in the attic beyond a ladder of whose ascending was although not prohibited, something within my very being kept on preventing me from climbing.
Reads very much like it was translated, which is to say it's awkward.

-----
Gave up after the first few sentences. Don't mince unintelligent speak/thought with intelligent language, wtf are you expecting to form by doing this? It's muddling, contradictory and a chore to read. You're either narrating through the character or not; and a character who fails to use proper diction isn't going to spit out words such as 'absconding' nor 'visage's allure'--Jesus what a disaster.

i hope you'll critique it then, cause i don't see how you could be right

What makes prose good and what is a good prose, I'm complete sincere

appreciate the feedback. How could i make it sound less cliche?

Thank you for your kind reply! I do understand that I still mess up words when translating(I happen to have a problem with knowing exactly what words are not out of the ordinary and what words are in a story. I wouldn't ever use "squawks" for example. I know this might be asking a lot, but could you point out some of those words that are out of place? I still have a hard time figuring out what should and what shouldn't go into an Emglish prose).

Regarding the inconsistencies, it is partly because of an intentional style decision of making the intro past tense, middle section present and ending back again past to convey a certain message, but as I didn't get around translating the ending, it just seems clunky, and partly because I'm a novice wannabe writer in English who still tries to find his bearings and don't have a perfect grasp of tense usage yet.
Once again, thank you for your in-depth criticism! I much appreciate it!

Kek'd at this. Great Joycean style prose.

fucking mia's asking to be spanked and spunked on

clarity, precision, cohesion, purposefulness

try raymond carver's short stories like Tell the Women We're going to see what i mean

This is a journal entry from a few days ago but have at it:

Robert knocks on the window. I’m a foot and a half away from it, sitting on a metal chair that’s going to give way any minute now. My laptop is open, I’ve been organizing my music collection by genre for the past ten minutes; Hank Thompson is Western Swing and Outlaw Country, Kendrick Lamar is Conscious Hip-Hop, West Coast Hip-Hop and G-Funk and Ennio Morricone is Spaghetti Western. It’s 1:57 AM, there are no coffeepots to clean, no Gatorades to shelve and there’s no one to tell “I’m sorry, we don’t sell alcohol during window service hours”.

Robert’s asking for the ten bucks I owe him. He came by with a 40 oz. of whiskey yesterday and sold it to me for ten. He dropped by earlier to collect but I didn’t have the money to pay him back. First he asks for a cigarette this time, I give him one of the American Spirits in my pocket. He asks for another one, this time for his sister. Robert’s family was killed years ago. I don’t know how but enough people have told me the story that I trust that it happened. I know he’s bullshitting me but I give it to him anyway. I only smoke every few months so I can still get the head rush after smoking the first from a pack. I already smoked that first one last night and I’m not planning on huffing on these for a few months. I don’t mind giving them away for nothing in return.
I do mind being lied to though, especially by Robert. Robert’s a swindler. He finds the shittiest things he can and tries to sell them for the highest prices. He’s tried to sell buyers catalogs from the 90s for full price, lights that don’t work, a bass amp to go along with my electric guitar amp and once even tried to sell me a thirty cent pack of gum for fifty cents. It’s the only way he can make money, I guess. He lost everything he owned in a poker game and now his bed is his sleeping bag, his floor is usually the concrete behind the bus stop across the street I have to hand it to him, he doesn’t look the part of a homeless man. His hair is always combed, he never has facial hair and his clothes don’t smell any worse than mine or my boss’s. If he wasn’t a liar and a cheapskate I’d hold him in high esteem for that alone.

Pretend there's another space between the nothing in return and the I do mind being lied to paragraph.

Bullshit critique

itt: how not to critique

pastebin.com/smnAAiCq

Poem: Ode to the Queen of Nymphs, Mother of the five elemental spirits

>pic related

The word 'butt' should be replaced with rear or the like.

I ran into two large Serbian boys on the stairwell today. They were chatting as they descended past me, excitedly conversing in some east European dialect that I couldn’t quite discern. They looked like they could be long lost brothers, as most males from the Balkans typically do. As we were about to cross paths I caught the eyes of the taller of the two, who stopped dead in his tracks and stared at me. He furrowed his brow, as if he was trying to pop a zit on the bridge of his nose. I said nothing, made no attempt to entertain his scrutiny, and merely continued on up the stairs. They soon resumed their chatter and descended towards the streets below. I wonder what he saw.

Generally liked it except for the zit part, and:
>They looked like they could be long lost brothers, as most males from the Balkans typically do.
How does one look like this?

> I wonder what he saw.
He was wondering how ignorant you are at assuming him a Serbian and not Slovenian. Also they were talking in English you racist fuck.

>Normie prose

meh

But Stephen King tier sells so huzzah?

How do I improve my prose? Genuine question as I don't know where/how to start

>notes them as Serbian
>"east European dialect"
what did he mean by this?

I do kind of get that part, I guess it's kind of a Balkan thing.

Read a lot. One book a week. Write a lot. 5,000 words a week, at least. There's a thread recently made on writing, visit it, please.

I've got something but it's in italian. I'll post it anyway in case someone knows the language.

Un assordante rombo di motocicletta nel pieno della notte svegliò chi già non dormiva per colpa del suo ronfante compagno di stanza. Chi poteva mai essere costui mi chiedi? Io, e chi altri sennò? Ero disteso sul letto e non sapevo bene cosa fare, o meglio; lo sapevo, ma cercavo nei recessi della mia anima l'effettiva voglia di farlo. E dunque eccomi qui. La voglia di fare quella cosa ancora non l'ho trovata, ma ho pensato che venire qui e raccontare ciò che mi successe avrebbe quantomeno potuto aiutare.
Domanda successiva: cosa mi successe? Domanda più che lecita questa volta. Del resto, non ho ancora accennato nulla. Quantomeno non ora, nel frangente in cui io rilascio le mie dichiarazioni sul fatto. Ma tu, lettore, le stai leggendo, e se stai leggendo evidentemente lo scritto è ultimato, dunque tranquillo. Avrai già grossomodo notato le dimensioni del documento, e saprai che troppa ce ne è di ulteriore cartaccia da smistare qui. Dunque pazienta e stammi a sentire. O meglio, a leggere.
Tornando a noi; il fastidioso ingombro umano dormiente riecheggia ancora, più molesto che mai, nella mia memoria. E se vi è qualche cosa di vagamente positivo nella permanenza all'interno delle carceri statali oltre al poter ammazzare il tempo con libri e attrezzature da palestra, questa è sicuramente la sua assenza dalla struttura in cui io passerò il resto dei miei giorni. E già così confermo il suo alibi: lui non ha nulla a che vedere con gli avvenimenti qui riportati. Di conseguenza, a meno che egli non perda eventualmente il lume della ragione in seguito ad altre questioni esterne alla vicenda qui trattata e si trovasse quindi a opporsi alla grande macchina statale ritrovandosi poi dunque chiaramente perdente, le nostre strade dovrebbero essersi definitivamente divise.

Why does /ic/ have such a specific method for gitting gud, while all Veeky Forums gives is vague "write a lot, write gud".

This is actually great, Zappa bro. Just try not to sound too much like a nu-male fag. Im talking about "sweet notes for our heart to savour" and "goodbye, regal peached, you made my life sweeter"

I've been thinking of writing a series of shorts that takes place in a small town; all the stories take place at roughly the same time and include referential nods to each other (Old lady from story 3 passes boy from story 5 on the street).

Essentially just providing a patchwork view of small town life, probably with a magic or fantastic moment defining each narrative individually.

Sounds lame when I spitball it, but is it a decent framework to work from?

I mean it ain't original, if that's what you want to hear. You really should establish a "mood" for the town, then structure your stories around said "mood".

...

here's an excerpt from my shitty fantasy book. everything is still the first draft.

His progress westward was slower now. Having lost his mount he preceded on foot. As a result, he had to carry his armor and weapons on him, and they made his journey wearisome. In the evening, he searched for plants to scavenge or for game to hunt. He did not know what to expect when he reached the shore, nor did he know what he would do after, all he knew was that he had to get there, lest the journey all be for nothing.
This day seemed to be the same as any other with the sky dull and overcast, and his shadow striding in front of him, heralding in the morning sun. There was and cold wind that burnt his faces and chilled his armor. Sickly creature, he thought. Looking down at the breastplate, he saw its hideous hue. They had once called him the rust knight he remembered, and he understood why. This is how he appeared, after being baptized on the battlefield time and time again. Gone was the vermilion splendor he once possessed in those distant times. Even further gone still was the silver virginal metal of his youth, before the crimsons, the renaming, or the great siege. That time was so opaque in his memory that it seemed to him but the last fading embers of a past life.
It was midday when he finally reached the coast. At first he only could hear the calls of strange birds, and then he could hear the churning of the tides and smell the tang in the air. At last, passing fields of withered reeds, he saw the ocean in all its brutal majesty. He approached the waters almost with caution. His eyes drifted to the sand below him and he found the discarded shell of some lost creature. He picked it up and examined it: the outside was bleached and coarse like the sand he plucked it from. He spun the spiral shaped shell in his hand and saw that its inside was smooth and a gentile pink color. Memories of childhood returned to him, back when he would dream about the ocean. Back then he used to imagine the sea as an idyllic place. The waters were always warm and tranquil in his mind, and he would dream of undiscovered lands beyond the water. Pyramus went to the edge of the water and cupped his hand to take a drink, yet it was vile and did not quench his thirst. He gazed to the horizon, where the primordial deep and the heavens met on another and were separated by a line infinitesimally thin. His mother told him how some men would find pearls under the surface of the water, and sell them for a fortune. He discarded the shell into the sand, similar to how he imagined the creature that inhabited it once did.

Funniest thing I've ever read here. At least you're trying not like most of these swines.

Thanks dude.

I agree. I do sound like a fag in those lines.

Over the past 7 months I've kept a dream journal. 5 of these dreams I've recorded have all involved psychic abilities, (often violent) sexual abuse, human dissection, and oddly enough cooking. I've been considering putting them together in a collection of short stories, but I want to keep the surreal yet aimless feeling in dreams. Would this be entertaining with the lack of logic and plotless nature of dreams? Obviously I'll flesh out the characters and come up with resolutions to the stories, but i want to make them feel like a dream, not read like one. Is this doable, or should I give this up for something with a more satisfying plot?

And i mean obviously this depends on my ability as a writer, which is still developing