Let me see those opening paragraphs

Dude I'm sorry but this is so awful. The dialogue is shitty and so far from believable. It also pisses me off when people have to write "said the character" after every fucking line of dialogue. You don't need to do that, that's what the paragraph break is for. It totally destroys the flow of the passage and makes it look like a middle schooler wrote it

It just draws out the sound. So "ah~" would be something like "aaah", "thank you~" would be "thank youuu" etc.

non male, veramente non male.
sui due "subito" metterei l'accento, subìto, (all'inizio non capivo che cazzo stessi dicendo perché leggevo ho sùbito il deserto).

bravo comunque. ambientato in una futura distopia?

buona idea, grazie mille. No, è la storia dei figli di due famiglie aristocratiche russe che per una serie di motivi abbandonano tutto e si uniscono a un fronte indipendente che combatte l'isis. Tutto il romanzo è una grossa metafora del superamento del conflitto fra postmodernismo e new sincerity facendo prendere alle due correnti letterarie la forma del nichilismo europeista e della genuinità degli estremisti islamici.

WAHAHA

> è la storia dei figli di due famiglie aristocratiche russe che per una serie di motivi abbandonano tutto e si uniscono a un fronte indipendente che combatte l'isis
interessante, se lo sfogliassi in libreria e leggessi quel paragrafo, e questo riassunto, forse lo comprerei.
>superamento del conflitto fra postmodernismo e new sincerity
su questo sono ignorante

There it was. March 1957. A field in Wisconsin. John Metrone by his truck. His troubles just begun. Facing east. The radio is on. Susan Prondit pointing. There it was. Little did she know. Another god damn UFO.

The dream became a ghost, and Father too. We danced for hours, not worrying about the rising prices of soy nor the increased chance of eye-injuries-by-umbrella during rain season.

Floating down the Mississippi-Styx River on a raft; whispers of Hades and the smell of cigar smoke stuck on hair kicked my nervous system into overdrive. The shore greeted me.

By the time I entered the bar I was a trembling mess, and the cheap mascara mixed with sweat ran down my cheekbones and caressed my clenched jaw.

Almost like a random sentence generator. Nice.

In English?

"Tall, masked Johnny Prospero sweeps across the stage, a battered guitar hanging from his torso. Crimson smoke curls up about him, and spreads like outstretched fingers offering him to the crowd. Cassie Mathieson, sixteen, watches, awestruck."

Get rid of "Little did she know". Maybe less fragments since you connect a lot with commas.

Tava no baile, avistei as novinha no grau. Sabe o que elas quer? Pau. Pau. Pau. Elas quer pau.

Bom começo.

He had no place else to go. After his emotionally unstable mother's finally successful suicide attempt he had no choice but to move to Thailand. His father had some legal difficulties that prevented him from ever returning to the United States. Despite the threats of arrest, trial and a long prison sentence, he was still able to collect his pension and afford his house on the beach and the services of the two teenaged ladyboys who lived with him.

It was a nice summer day on the family farm. It had just rained and rainbows were seen. The next rainclouds were still hours away. The house was surrounded by apple orchards, and a meandering river which glimmered in sunlight. Oscar's uncle was in the apiary. Oscar's uncle was a stranger to social interaction, but also made the "best honey in Ireland." And then there was the separate guest house where Oscar's mother spent nights with other men as Dad worked on his yet another invention until yet another sunrise and the various buildings for the sheep and cows and poultry and horses. Neither of the parents spent time with the kids since they always had either men (Mom) or inventions (Dad) on their hands. When Mom wasn't with the men, she would write poetry, and when Dad wasn't working on his inventions, he was writing his Definitive Collection of Irish Folklore which took the rest of his time and thought. In the end, it was Oscar's uncle who had raised young home-schooled Oscar until this point.

Oscar was playing hide and seek with Hank and Alice.

"Go fuck yourself"

the edge

Way too much exposition.
I like the punchline, but isn't it a given that a suicide victim is emotionally unstable?
Pynchon nut, but nice potential. You snared me.
Really like the line "if the entity exists, it will have etiquette".
The most essential fact of what I’m about to tell you is that it’s all my fault. In my pre-adult life -which is over- I was never mistreatment, exposed, or suffering, or ill more than what I make the informed assumption of as normal. Ordinary, Satisfactory, Standard, Functional, Conventional, Typical, and Unremarkable, are all accurate descriptions of the events in my life up to when I decided to never leave my room, which I don’t regret doing. I can overturn this decision whenever I want.

You are in no place to criticize anyone. Simply awful.

If you’re reading this on a screen, fuck off. I’ll only talk if I’m gripped with both hands. Paper of pulp, covers of board and cloth, the thread from threadstuff or—what are bindings made of? hair and plant fibers, glue from boiled horsehooves? The paperback was compromise enough. And that’s what I’ve become: paper spine, paper limbs, brain of cheapo crumpled paper, the final type that publishers used before surrendering to the touch displays, that bad thin four-times-deinked recycled crap, 100% acidfree postconsumer waste.

>tfw you're such an unoriginal hack other people's Pynchon ripoffs look like your writing

Gay

"Balthasar."
He did not move.
"Balthasar," intoned Phineas once more, lingering upon the 'l' in an erotic manner.
He did not move.
Phineas sighed and waggled the fuckstick, causing the skewered slumberer to elicit a slight moan.
"Sebastian has bidden us espy his new gut churner this morning... or have you forgotten?"
"Leaping leopards," Balthasar grumbled. He wiped his mouth of a certain fluid and made move to disimpale himself.

Nelson Drake awoke to find that, despite his protestation, the sun had decided to rise once again. It was early in the afternoon (practically dawn by Nelson's standards) and the drawn curtains to his basement room took on the familiar dull glow that was the only natural light to ever break his sanctuary. “If only I could live in sleep” thought Nelson as he rolled over to where his phone had been charging, picking up the device and wincing as the electric light tore his eyelids from themselves. Rubbing the crust of sleep from his eyes Nelson was greeted by a single message: “You up?” - Alex. Responding with a simple “yeah”, Nelson threw the phone down onto the pile of dirty laundry that was one of the mainstays of his humble furniture and, stretching his seventeen year old body to its full height, began his “morning” routine. The bearded face that greeted him in the bathroom mirror, the envy of many a schoolmate and even some of the less developed adults, was as familiar as it was mute: brown locks of unkempt hair running from scalp to shoulder melted seamlessly into his impressive facial hair covering an always even mouth. The bags under his eyes, ever present despite his penchant for sleeping ten hours a night, seemed particularly heavyset today giving him the likeness of a man twice as age. With a shrug he dismissed his troubled appearance and began the ritual process of brushing his teeth, emptying his bladder, and putting on a wrinkly t-shirt to compliment the comfortable sweat pants he had been wearing for the last couple of days. All together this gave Nelson the appearance of one who could not be bothered by what one thought of him, least of all himself. With his wardrobe complete and his mind finally surrendering to wakefulness Nelson wandered from the adjacent washroom back to his basement suite, a journey of nearly a meter that brought him face to face with the message written in permanent marker on the face of his door: “Everything is Temperary”, a gift from one Shannon Moore some two years back that made up for its spelling error by standing for the utmost in spontaneity. Flicking the light switch Nelson took a moment to take in the view that was his home: posters of cartoons, bands, and semi-popular (never popular) actresses were arranged haphazardly on all four walls of the room. Where there weren't posters there were more notes written in permanent marker, everything from the lyrics of entire songs to brief declarations of impulsive passion (the most glaring being “JOHN WAS HERE” in bold lettering across an entire ceiling crossbeam), artifacts left by those that had come and gone through Nelson's life.

no you fuck off

(cont.)
Just as Nelson was rolling back into bed to enjoy a lazy afternoon scrolling mindlessly through whatever the internet could interest him with, there was a knock at the door. “Morning sir” came the familiar voice of Alexander Cavellaro, who boldly strolled into the room without waiting for a reply. “Hello sir” replied the still bed-bound Nelson, the excessive politeness of their greeting belying half mutual respect, half sarcastic familiarity. “Hard at work I see” Alex jokingly chided, plopping down onto the couch opposite the bed and himself pulling out his phone to begin mindlessly scanning the internet. Nelson gave a small chuckle before sitting up to reach for a box of day old pizza, offering a slice to Alex before grabbing one for himself. Breakfast was served. The two continued to recline in silence, enjoying the quiet sociability of friends who don't need to say anything to enjoy each others company, the silence occasionally broken by the crunch of pizza turned al dente. After a half hour like this Alex broke the silence: “Any plans for the day sir?” “Pretty much this” Nelson replied “did you want to do anything sir?” he added, considering that maybe Alex was hinting at boredom. “Nothing comes to mind” replied Alex, and the two returned to their silence with neither joy nor sadness. Suddenly Nelson's phone vibrated. “Looks like Shannon and one of her friends is coming over” he said after reading the text message. “Sounds like they're wanting to watch The Red Wagon” “Again?” moaned Alex. The Red Wagon was a movie so bad that, to their minds, it may as well have been high art. The main actor was also the director who also happened to be the lead writer and executive producer. It's plot was nonsensical though vaguely resembled a John Wayne western, with cardboard props and hackneyed scenes that unintentionally made the tackiest, most overdone commonplaces hilarious. At least it had been the first dozen times they had watched it. Shannon was a friend of Nelson's from back in pre-school, not always close but always around. She was a veritable socialite and always bringing new people to Nelson's, not in the hopes that he would extend his social circle so much as because his room was always available. Nelson's parents, “Rob and Jen” as they preferred to be called, were well into their sixties and over time their parenting style had become more and more relaxed. By the time Nelson, the youngest in a line of half a dozen siblings, came into their lives they were done with being relentless authorities and more than happy to leave Nelson to his devices. This was in stark contrast to the parents of Nelson's friends, most of whom were much less experienced, much more naive, and consequently much more controlling of their teenage brood.

(cont.)
What this meant was that Nelson's basement room had become a sort of meeting place for a wide variety of the towns population, sometimes spending hours at a time there even though they may just be an acquaintance of a friend of a friend who needed a place to get away from it all. Combined with Shannon's social tendencies this open door policy meant that Nelson could always count on some company, and company Nelson never refused. His openhearted love of all neighbours was his greatest quality, and one which all who came through the Drake residence could easily perceive. You could have just met Nelson for the first time five minutes earlier and already he was offering you a soda while you sat in his room among his closest friends. Despite this hospitality Nelson remained ever resigned, never incensed to passion on either end of the spectrum. This calm warmth made certain that all who entered were certain to feel welcome, but never pressured to stay. “So who's Shannon bringing this time?” said Alex “Hopefully not another St Anthony's girl, they're always so stuck up. I still can't believe that last bitch had the nerve to tell you to clean your room after she ate all of our food.” Nelson grunted his shared frustration with the last guest Shannon brought over, who had in fact eaten over half a pizza and an entire bag of chips to herself before leaving well into the AM. “You really should have said something” said Alex “I would've but, you know, I still thought I had a shot”. “Of course you did sir.” replied Nelson, never critical to the point of spoiling his hospitable nature but always understanding of others' frustrations. “I'm pretty sure she's bringing someone from Acadia, you guys should get along”. Acadia was the local bi-lingual high school which Alex himself attended. “I don't know man, Acadia is pretty horrible. Nothing but stuck up rich kids and blockheads as far as the eye can see” said Alex. “So which one does that make you?” replied Nelson. “Why, I'm firmly in the middle of course. Not quite rich and not quite a blockhead.” In all fairness to Alex his assessment wasn't far off. In all things it seemed he was squarely above-average but never excellent. He was smart enough to do well in school but never enough to impress. Some might call him attractive but it would be a stretch to call him handsome. His family had a modest income but every year they still fretted about the mortgage and pending university fees.

That's what I churned out this morning, would love some feedback

Daniel is 22. He is large. He is in his bedroom. He has his cock in his hand. He is looking across the street at a park of prepubescents. His hand is sliding.

Melvin is in the park. Melvin is not 22. Melvin is 10. Melvin is on a park bench talking to Sandy who is 12, who is great with the lads, who gave a kiss to Lance behind the garbage bin because Lance has good cheek bones and pubic hair on his balls. She gets up from the bench and makes a motion to an alley adjoined to Daniel’s house behind them. She takes Melvin’s hand; Melvin’s face is red. They skitter thence and leave behind a park of playing kids. No one sees them go but Dan, but Dan who watches children from his room, slides his hand in upwards motions, brings it down with slow caresses, in time with forward footsteps taken bit by bit by Mel and Sandy till they reach the foot of Daniel’s house and Daniel sees them creep into his alleyway and—

Blindspot.

They pass his window, and Daniel fucking freaks.

Cock in hand Dan’s firm yet fatty figure erupts from where he’s sitting. His eyes are mad and walk him out the bedroom door, mind leads him down the staircase, down the hall, to the sidedoor, adjacent to the alley. He hears them: two pubies pressing limbs together, breathing hard and kissing maybe. A vent in the wall lets out a heaving sigh: a link between their lust and Daniel’s secret hovel on which our Melvin has his back shoved up against by Sandy, handy, with her captive’s cock that is, for up and down her palm hath gripped his cutesy straightened boyhood toy, and whips it up and down in a shitty sort of handjob. Her mouth is his, tongue inside, and Daniel hears a pornhub moan from horny siren Sandy, who shifts her baby weight until it suffocates poor Mel. O Mel, O Dan, O dear — for leaping out the sidedoor with his corpulent fat frame is dirty Dan the pedophilic child snatcher, grabbing at and strangling both these startled kids with a massive bulk that spooks the fuck out of me man.

Sandy screams ad Melvin yelps and Daniel hauls them both inside, dick out, flab untucked, with a hand on both their skinny collars. Dan slams Mel into the wall of his hallway, knocks him out, saves him for later. Sandy is his present pleasure, an accommodating hole for his sexy engorged penis.

There's a certain peculiar nature to the way we go about; with a distinct lack of solemnity.
"Hey, do you know where I might find a petrol station?"
I look at the talking-man. Ugly.
"Hey...? Man?"
"There's one, I think... Around 20 kilometers from here... Down that way" I pointed towards the road towards the west.
Now, what may seem unnatural in the way leaves flounder, is, in reality, simply necessary. There are no 'unnatural' things. Horse. There are far too many lights for this kind of thing to simply go away. Yes, maybe, never. Privacy explicit.
"Can I have a look at that burial?"
"What bloody burial?" Irritated.
"You know, the one by the mound." This was said in a tone that could easily have been a statement as well as a question. Putrid lower class manner of speech.
"I'll see."
"Do you really harbor those ones?"
"Take a look. See?"
"This thing is in need of fixing!"
"Your head is in need of fixing."
Spirals of control. Descend illusion, for what?! For what...? Reach the sequitur that speaks to the flower by the sea, then you'll know... Then you'll know!
"Hey, are you alright?"
"I am fungus"
"Ha, well, I'm a fun guy too."
Nyt riittää. En kestä enää. The time has come. Τα αστέρια με περιμένουν! Όχι! It's really getting out of my χέρια.
I am fungus.

She said i could stay with her for free as long as i fucked whoever she brought over. I said that was fine. It had been awhile since I'd fucked. She would bring them into my room and watch while we fucked. The girls she brought over for me to fuck weren't bad and even some of the fags gave good head and had nice little girlasses for me to grab while they giggled like prurient sluts. Things went on like this for awhile.

Reminds me of Nabakov, wow, beautiful, you write prose like it's meant to be written, ecstatically

This means a lot :')

youtu.be/dsK3oaJ4-ks?t=37s

Davvero interessante. Mi piace. Se fossi in te accorcerei l'elencazione di roba dopo "ho subìto il deserto", ma comunque mi piace

> Tall, masked Johnny Prospero sweeps across the stage, a battered guitar hanging from his torso.
Is this a revisitation of "Stately, plump Buck Mulligan"? If it is, I love it.

>You are in no place to criticize anyone. Simply awful.
His critique can still be useful.

non male

Dreamt of shapes in transient ists'. Show bone from below. Unreachable. Saints. Dwarves the thought. In-and-of-itsself through truth. Styx interrupted. Mercy reach. Logosed. This town has gone troutser. yes
YES
Done.
Shied.
Bon in schedule to BAM.
AXALOTL
Good g9s.

My name is Ishmael. My pronouns are she/her.

>Pynchon nut, but nice potential. You snared me.

Appreciate the compliments. I'm interested that you saw Pynchon influence. Is it just the present tense and the silly name? I'm definitely aware that it's a Pynchonian sort of name, but for what it's worth, it's the only crazy name in the story. Very deliberately out-of-place.

I'll take 'unoriginal hack'. I'm 19, there's plenty of time to become more myself.

I'm delighted someone caught the reference.

But longer than a paragraph, isn't it lad?

It was by no chance, that "ye olde" Pulitzer Khan happened upon a sinking ship by the murky coast of 'Nam.

watch your adjective use and the narrator relation to the characters

>spooks the fuck out of me man
why is this here?

>sexy engorged penis
the narrator finds dirty dan sexy?

>corpulent fat
fat fat

also your descriptors aren't well connected to what you're saying (maybe use hyphons and apostrophes) , although i liked shit like >pornhub moan
>certain r peculiar nature to the way we go about, with a distinct lack
this sentence says very little and you could remove it without loss

short prose is nice but be careful with your shifts between describing a situation and recalling particular thoughts. you should stick to one or the other to have it be more consistent

meme?

>intoned
>skewered slumbererer
>disimpale
>bidden
these things, while being good constructions *skew* your prose and draw too much attention to themselves. I think this is mostly because the rest of your prose is short and relatively plain in form.

your prose is extended and consistent, it's not easy to write good long sentences which you pull off pretty well. But the commitment to adjective and synonym use screams plebbit. It rolls out the kind of effect that you get when you have to explain a joke: it's broken down into constituent and well explained parts, but loses the "humorous" value in the process. It's almost scientific in nature

Also, an editing point, some structures aren't as clear as they could be and need punctuation

>where there weren't posters there were more notes
>flicking the light switch nelson took a moment to take in the view
and so on

Nice rhytm, pincone

Thank you user

Your prose style is so unique and I really enjoy it

"¿Got the time, little chap?"
"Quarter to three, quarter to three."
"Always a sport, bairny." Blorrë shook his wibble-wobble approvingly at the midget before him.
Quèélm looked up at the humanman in front of him and coughed, "YouknowIdontlikeitwhenyoucallmethat."
"Say---"
But he was already gone. Or perhaps he was too small to notice further. Blorrë backwalked away making spitting sounds with his upper lip.

I spend my time alone walking through shopping malls. I walk and look into the shop windows, sometimes at the displays but mostly to catch my reflection. Sometimes the things in the display are lit in such a way that they overlay my reflection, overlay on me. I like to walk through the crowds but I don’t like to blend. I wear fashionable clothes. People tell me I am good looking and have an idiosyncratic style. I walk through the crowds and I try to make lingering eye contact with women.

A peculiar barrister knocks over a spoof. With the fallen angel struggles a substitute.
Loneliness expands throughout the fallen angel. He litters the terror beside a blasting code. The fallen angel shoulders the ruler below the impulse.
A known boy hunts him.

Marshal had a big ol' boner at work. He tried to tuck it into his waistband but his chef-coat was in the way. With every rotation of his body the fabric of his boxers made him harder and harder and soon his precum was so goopy and slick that he found it difficult to concentrate on his prep-work. And now here comes Ashley.

A flash of crimson light erupted through the heavens, tearing layers of bedrock as fire burned parchment. From beyond the surface, the skies parted at the spectacle of boundless power, where a pillar of blinding light stretched beyond Fosroth to the stars.
From their comfortable homes, the people watched in awe, their rooms adorned with candles that lit pale walls in flickering heat. Not even fire could compete; it was a losing game. But it didn’t matter. They still glared through their windowsills, the enemy matched in wonder as they gasped from beyond the city walls.
But one man sat patiently waiting, just as he had been for the past forty-seven years, twenty days, seven hours, fifty-two minutes, and half his existence, where no gasp or sound of wonder escaped from his mouth, but instead in admiration that their promise was finally fulfilled. Unlike every living creature that froze in awe of the incredible glow, the endless years of passing time had finally caught up to him and brought him home; he was the young, brave, soldier who waited for the return of an old friend, a friend who time had given a godsend through sacrifice.
“Glad to see you again, old friend,” he muttered to himself.

nice flow

One or two friends to whom I showed these
papers in MS. having observed that they were
not half bad ; and some of my relations having
promised to bny the book, if it ever came out,
I feel I have no right to longer delay its issue.
But for this, as one may say, public demand,
I, perhaps, should not have ventured to offer
these mere "idle thoughts" of mine as mental
food for the English-speaking peoples of the
earth. What readers ask nowadays in a book
is that it should improve, instruct and elevate.
This book wouldn't elevate a cow. I cannot
conscientiously recommend it for any useful
purpose whatever. All I can suggest is, that
when you get tired of reading "the best hun-
dred books," you may take this up for half an
hour. It will be a change.

Porque la aleatoriedad de las palabras que se le derramaban de los dedos no era aleatoriedad, sino un destino prefijado por los primeros átomos que florecieron en el jardín de dios. Miraba para atrás y corregía lo que le convenía; eso era hacer trampa. Habló de la literatura por medio del lenguaje y en sí mismo eso le pareció irónico, pero no tanto. Se preguntó cuán lejos podría ir solo escribiendo nada y asumió que podría vivir de eso. No era posible pero era probable. El número siete entonces lo contagió de su angularidad y poseyó al porvenir de sus próximos años, que casualmente, serían siete. Todo por el espejo roto y por la mala suerte predestinada(Que si estaba predestinada entonces no sería mala suerte).

No apto para plebs

He awoke, with a feeling less like a return to regular state of being than of an emergence of a consciousness entombed in space immaterial for much too long. His spark of awareness had latched onto the vessel of his body and was now dredged up through the pitch black and comfortingly warm abyss of void. Instinct weighed this spark back down pleadingly, fingers scraping against plush walls, pulling away from the overwhelming beckon of reality. Full consciousness was catalyzed by the dual crescent openings of his eyes, lenses that firmly rooted him in three-dimensional space and time. The sensation following the blurry red clouds of his long unused vision was pain – searing burnt lightning pouring down his face, bisecting the bridge of his nose and splattering down onto the skin of his upper lip.
Instinct, now in the business of navigating reality instead of protesting it, lashed his head down and side to side as his eyes cleared themselves with hot tears. The source of the pain, a warm corrosive liquid cascading from above his skull, was whipped into fine droplets that sizzled his bare arms and shoulders as it was flung from his face. He sat up rapidly and felt the cold smooth touch of stone grind against his tailbone, spreading his legs to sit upright upon a flat obsidian altar, grabbing his burning features with his fingers, aiming to assuage but only further irritating.

Pretty nice user. I really like your style, what is it about? I'd read more.

I like it

Might be a bit heavy for the first paragraph of a novel, but in itself is well written

Thanks guys, it's going to be a pesudo bhuddist space opera inspired mainly by this dude's art, here's a couple more paragraphs where it gets more fun

All around was cavernous space filled with life that he heard and felt long before actually discerning it from the deep shadows. The stuffy air hung thick with oscillating breathing vibration, an otherworldly roar of voices layered over each other, sonic waves adding and amplifying and bouncing off of high cave walls above. The reverberation and volume quickly added another shade to his pain as he felt his ribs vibrate through to their hollow contents, the air in his lungs filled with the chant that he had no choice but to breathe, feel, embody entirely. The horrible low groan of deep resonance was tangible and his vision almost seemed to warp with its sonic contours. The sound, initially steady and oppressive, had begun to falter as soon as he woke and then mutated into a fever pitch of screams, cries, confusion, amplifying and mirroring his own parallel emotions, before finally falling silent, cut only by his own gasps and moans as he gripped his burning features.
As the pain began, slowly but miraculously, to subside, he began to discern his surroundings – the stone slab upon which he sat, naked and frightened, the high dark walls of the chamber surrounding him, the soaring pillars around the circular stage like platform on which he sat etched and intertwined with looping, ornate lines of immeasurable different scales of detail that almost seemed to be twisting actively as he squinted towards them. Stretching out from between his legs was a curved trough, cut a finger’s depth into the altar, that ran down its length then continued across the surface of the stage until it dropped off with its edge. He could see the aqueduct bubbling with more of the terrible acidic liquid that had pulled him from slumber, viscously flowing down into the shadows below. Beyond was the rest of the cavern – which was filled as far as he could see with undulating waves of heads, bodies, indiscernible features, staggered in a pattern to allow all to view his shaking horrible nakedness through the shoulders of those in front. Beady black eyes blinked from the closest of faces, horrified, confused, rapt with undivided attention to his own visage which bore a similar expression.

This is just something I jotted down whilst at work so criticism would be welcome:

Today my flatmates had drank all my milk, I usually wake up at eight and have some milky instant coffee with the microwaveable macaroni cheese I have for breakfast. Drinking the flavourless, yer bitter, coffee took much longer than anticipated. In retrospect it would have been beer to forgo the coffee until I got to work - where I could make it with milk in the office kitchen - but the coffee had become a part of a stringent schedule I had given myself to minimise stress.

For a while now my mind had operated sort of like a glass ball full of red mercury, the kind you get in old thermometers. As the mercury heats up, becomes hotter, it expands. The glass becomes more tense - stressed - until it breaks and releases the poisonous mercury. I knew full well the consequences of allowing the mercurial stress to reach this breaking point would be too dangerous for me to risk, diverting from the morning schedule opened up endless opportunities for stress, so I always tried to stick to the schedule despite such adversity.

As a result of taking longer to drink coffee however, I only started to put on my makeup on en minutes later than usual. I was running late already when I hurried down the stairs to pick up my cheese, vegemite and bread so I could make a sandwich at work during lunch. I noticed my bread was not in the fridge where I left it. It also seemed scrumped up: my flatmates probably. Maybe being out of the fridge had caused the bread to deflate - ‘’yeast morphing into nutritionless viruses?’’ I thought - I had learnt how to ignore such stupid voices and just thrumped the bread into my bag. As I lifted my bag off the kitchen side, one of its tassels snagged the frame of the hob, dismantling it and the metal caps placed on the hobs themselves in the process, it made a cacophonous sound. I angrily cacaphony’d i back onto the top of the cooker, I didn’t have time to reassemble it properly. I figured one of my flatmates would do it, hopefully they wouldn’t be angry.

A clusterfugg because you don't speak normally in your prose. Why not say the same thing as if trying to tell it to another person? That would make your story easy to read. Ez 2 read is gud.

>yeast morphing into nutritionless viruses?
What?

I understand only 95% of the words because my Italian is rusty, but that's good.

Translate?

>as she created new clothes from strings and needles.

u wot m8

It's too tedious as neither Italian or English is my mother tongue. Paste the text in Google Translate, it should be good enough.

I assume it's a misinformed and pointlessly complex way to say she's sewing

A fat moth flapped dumbly around the room, the scrape of its wings against the newly painted walls grating Rasha’s nerves.

She was boarded in a new Drop compound, built with a now-familiar careless speed. Some of the gaps around the windowframes were big enough to stick a pen through, and apparently big enough for super-sized moths to squeeze in. A shame she’d never get the chance to catch up to the building crew and thank them for their diligence. They were always gone, on to the next site, by the time the Drop came in.

The moth was too dumb to even flap around the one light in the center of the spartan dorm. It taxid purposelessly in an upper corner, thumping against two walls and the low ceiling, apparently to minimize the time it wasn’t scratching its horrible wings against something.

Of course, it wasn’t a real moth. It had been years since Rasha had suffered a real moth, the guys that burst out of cupboards or brushed against her sleeping cheeks on summer nights. This guy had two wings and a thick mothy body, but it also somehow moved the wrong way, and it looked like maybe it had an extra body segment, a thorax or abdomen or something. And regular chitinous wings never made those horrible finger-scrabbling sounds.

Still, Rasha knew she’d take the freak-moth over a real one any day. Real moths only tormented the poor fools still on Earth.

The coffee at Steve Goldman’s usual breakfast joint, New Yolk City, was never that great. Armando, the 43-year-old owner and chef, relied upon a coffee maker that the regular customers referred to as “Shocky.” Half of the time, Shocky tripped the circuit breaker. When it was not on the fritz, its coffee (if it could really be called that) tasted only slightly better than brown dumpster drippings. Sitting at the counter of New Yolk City, Steve took a sip of his cup of coffee. It was as gross as always, but he would have raised hell if Armando ever bought a new model. For Armando’s customers, New Yolk City’s deplorable hot beverages were part of its charm. The restaurant, with its greasy eggs and home fries, was a breath of fresh air for those working in the floors above it.

I don't believe that this restaurant is a "breath of fresh air". It seems bad past the point of quaintness. Not to mention that if you want a breath of fresh air in NYC you need to huff it from a can Spaceballs-style.

Also, you use lots of cliches. "part of its charm" "half of the time" "when it was not on the fritz" "raised hell" "breath of fresh air".

Aren't they just idioms, not cliches?

I fucked my sister last night. No matter how many times I watched my favorite anime, Oreimo, I just couldn't get it off of my mind. I knew I had stop venting these feelings rather than shitposting but how... Is she my girlfriend now or was it just a one night stand thing? I didn't want to hurt her feeling breaking up with her because she was only 10 but what else COULD I do?

A big tit bitch sucked a big dick til she could not suck dick no more, big tits notwithstanding.

Kafkaesque

In marsh outside Disney World, a silver Hyundai drives into a service park. It decelerates into a park smoothly. The heavy sunset obscures the car’s interior, but you can discern four heads positioned evenly, unmoving.

The fire was dying slowly as the sky darkened, the people all lost their emotions long before it ended, the screams of "death to the witch!" and curses long have disappeared in the air, the only thing left in the square was the burned body of a girl who was punished for a crime which no one knows if it was true or not and a man with expensive clothes and an air of pride around him.

"Well, time to go to the brothel" he said as he turned it's back to her.

English isn't my main language so i might have some errors

That is awful. You have so many run-on sentences that it's almost a marathon.

As the keeper rounded the corner he confronted the scene.
So shocking and perplexing was this moment dear reader that each successive implication of the scene could be seen as it passed over the keepers face.
The first of these realisations sprang upon him at once. "Yes" he cried with a childlike horrified wonder. The world was torn asunder chaos unleashed.
Now louder he repeated the cry with a terrifying manic glee. The burning empires, the boiling sea, the blood lust of the psychopath were simultaneously conjured in the keepers mind.
Then at the crescendo of his cry he stopped suddenly as the first rational thought struck him.
His face now caught horribly between this shocking thought and his earlier ecstasy. Fate reached out to him in that moment and touched his soul for the last time. He was already too late. "The tiger is out"

thnx user

the main character is schizophrenic like me and I was trying to convey the type of paranoid thoughts that happen at the early stages of schizophrenia. Again this is literally copied from a notebook I jot shit into whilst at work

viruses are nonliving and only can prey on living bodies. the majority of bread is nonliving.

i love this

The sea was as it was, except for the plank casket floating 5 miles or so from the island. In the casket was a man lying on his back, staring at the sky. In about five miles his stomach will feel the weight of hunger. That is, it’ll loose its chains and like a feather try to force its way up and out. But right now the man was content.

...

are you making this up, I have never heard this before...

>the two teenaged ladyboys who lived with him.
>not "prepubescent ladyboys"

you had one job

I've seen it and recognize its usage that way. It came pretty naturally when I realized it, too.

first-year english major/10

I don't like it but desu this kind of writing is popular so you might do fine as is

It's bad, but I think that's what you were aiming for

>They skitter thence
>using "thence" correctly

10/10 for that alone

> for his sexy engorged penis.

Agree that this is awkward as other guy said, maybe "sex-engorged" or "sex-gorged" or something idonno

Incomprehensible as is. Is it better in context? Who can say...

the best I've seen in this thread.

They dressed the nameless man in red, and led him to the brazier with a retinue of candles and virgins.

As he watched from behind his altar, the Father of Flame noticed that the man’s hair was red too. A wan red, like autumn leaves crushed beneath the wheel of a cart, though red nonetheless. Perhaps there was a song in this, this red-haired initiate in a temple built on cinders. But the singers and gusli players tended to stay in their taverns with times being as they were, and saw but little.

The nameless man, meanwhile, was shameless in his wonder. His wide eyes devoured the stone saints that stood wreathed in light above him, lingering on Nadiya’s wounds of chalcedony and stern Alexius' obsidian crown. Stained glass dragons coiled above the door through which he had entered, languishing amidst sprays of orange enamel where the wicked beings they had once served burned and died. When drifts of snow lay heavy upon the eaves, and the winter wind clawed against the windows, the dragons appeared to howl their loss. The black marble from Stonesea was cold beneath his bare feet. Every now and then he would take a step that was a half a second too fast or too slow, as if to taste the stone; to learn the rhythm with which it lost and took on heat.

>inb4 fantasy a shit
I'm trying to write a fantasy story that's inspired by Gnostic ideas, with the MC being an analogy for the deity Abraxas.

I like it. Would unironically read to find out more about Phineas and his fuckstick.