Critique thread. Post what you want us to read

If you bin it, it's obviously not good enough to you. Keep trying until you cant bear the thought of losing such a brilliant idea. Then you've found your personal masterpiece. The only important thing here is to --keep writing--. Otherwise everything else is irrelevant.

Two poem early drafts

#1
A love alive only in dreams
love that can only exist as a question
with mannequin figures and
a magic 8-ball mind

I wish I were a stranger charting
the unknown
that I may find her in more than
tempestuous thoughts

So that she is not just a fickle
blinking star winking
in the lonesome night
but a beam of light
upon the shore
always beckoning me home
#2
There is a woman who watches the world turn from her patio
She must live in slow motion
with drink in hand, tipped against her tortoise shell
and a cigarette she never lights.

Some days she waves at me as I go whipping by
her hands look frozen in air thick like gelatin
like a long forgotten photograph of anonymous history.

Her singing is sad like rain
her whistle sounds like low passing planes
and her laughter sounds like the Earth splitting apart.

djinn at the door
open your mouth
it’s all over
sharpen your bones
harden your skin
for nothing

you’re past irony
you’re post-Dorothy
your breath doesn’t cut it anymore
you’re looking for something
your heart is barely beating
you’re in pain and you aren’t sure why

then

you open the door
you find something new.
you love it now
you feel its vibe
it touches you.

then

it becomes a part of you
it settles in
it digs deep
it doesn’t feel new anymore.

you look back and see
the things that lead you here.
you look back and see
the last one didn’t last.
so you go off searching
for the next one.

Scotheren sat by the pond and pondered again to himself as blood ran down his nose.
“That Torrence!” he whispered to himself, hoping that someone would hear, though only quiet enough so that no one could. Everyone looked down on him, and for Scotheren, he just couldn’t take it anymore. He quietly wept; convincing himself, perhaps, that he wasn’t. Blood and tears fell and mixed onto the shallow pond, his reflection murkier as they came. He languished in his thoughts, thoughts of vengeance cloaked by fears long held and rightly so. He would show them one day he’d be better than this, that he would be greater than they. Perhaps he’d start small, but if he could just find the right place to look for it – he could build his reputation to something fierce, to something, well, reputable. But no hero starts off crying, at least, that’s what Scotheren thought when he remembered the great figures of old; those mighty warriors and wizards of immense powers taking on greater powers untold, and succeeding. They would return to their peoples praised and loved, and for some tales they would be the heirs of secret lineages and end the story on a throne.
Scotheren was none of those things, for he wasn’t a hero. “And heroes aren’t real,” Scotheren says as looks solemnly at the water. He remembered as Torrence and his gang beat him to a pulp, and all the unsure eyes passing by him as they did. No one cared for Scotheren in this pitiful place. A place of live and song, Aldroost, it’s called here in the west, a little farming community this side of Greenshire. A small enough village for a small enough people, but no one was small here – everyone had something big to share but never said. Pack of liars and cutthroats hiding behind smiles, Scotheren thought. If Scotheren could, he’d invite the monsters to burn and tear this place apart without a second’s hesitation. To him they were all scum, though it needed no more pontificating, he was simply mad; mad with grief, mad with sadness, and mad with a world that never born him a hero. For all his hopes and dreams, he would forever be ‘normal,’ and even that was a tittle worth questioning.

>“That Torrence!” he whispered to himself

Uh...

you don't angry-whisper, brah?

Averages

Women weight 166 pounds,
men - around 180.
A child - 500
(if put into a coffin)

Some nanofiction/pseudo-bullshit

- - -
I tend to twist my wedding ring. It's a comfort thing. Staring outside the window, I twist until she leaves the house.
- - -
She didn't cry. Her purity was taken from her that cold evening. She did, however, when she realized for the first time, she didn't wanted the train to arrive.
- - -
In the past, everything they spoke became truths.
By now, everything they liked became reality.
- - -
She re-opened the photo album and looked inside. Again, there was nothing.
- - -

Reads more like a song lyric then anything else. Very simple structure-like, not much to write home about.

Again, clique. Not quite sure about the placement of these brackets and the number of them inside the text but it's a good effort, gives some stylistic change to the poem.

>"Nigga is you retarded? The boy is dead as fuck."
Doesn't feel that well to be honest. The grammar is also a bit off. The exact number of floors is just annoying.

So deep.

>The sky was getting farther away, which was a bit disquieting.

If you don't know why this is bad you're too far gone to help

Bleachers full of bright-eyed spectators
Each gripped with hope they have transfigured
And projected on the spectres that dance below

Cut grass and ash and floodlights
Corn dogs and paella and sweet nuts
Sweeter tasting in the mild evening air that swoons

Each and every cheer juxtaposed with
The gut-punch of crushing disappointment
A total annihilation

Clouds assume a lofty perch
Above the incandescent crescent
Starched shadows of things inconceivable

And it is time, now time
To reap the day and exhume the night
And to be born again and to die and to remain the same, always

I kissed her for at least 10 minutes, teasing her. Then after walking her towards a bed I grabbed her and threw her on the sheets as hard as I could. She was facing up, not at all startled. Putting each of my knees on different sides of her belly I bend over and stared into her eyes. I felt her breath on my face. Every time she leaned up to kiss me, I’d move away and every time she’d give up I’d move closer. Then, I let her catch me. She grabbed my back with her hands, entwined her legs around my thighs and tried to pull me towards her. I, resisting, still only kissed her. She then let go one of her hands as to try to grab my dick and lead me in her. I broke her neck right when her hand reached my underbelly and fucked the corpse.

Damn.

His heart beat through the veins across his body; mind on edge from caffination and fatigue. There was a kind of mental parallax to it: a sense that things were both moving and still or both focused and opaque. The right combination for the job.

The paramedics came to lift the body from the pavement, but its bloodied skin clung. She'd been dead for at least an hour. Seeing it wasn't easy, but neither was it hard; it was expected.

Scratching an imaginary itch, he sat onto the curb infront of the auto-shop and got to work.

>His heart beat through the veins across his body
Hate stuff like this, no need to include the veins, we all know what the blood is pumping through - also how can the heart beat 'through' the veins anyway? Just say 'His heart was beating throughout his body' or 'He could feel his heart beating throughout his body' or something

True. I hate literary and film cliches like that too.

I really just came up with some random shit off the top of my head. I don't even like detective stuff much. Its so hard to see yourself knowingly fall into the same pitfalls that so many utterly mundane writers do.

If there's one thing /tv/ is good for its eviscerating things like that with their "Give me your gun. And your OTHER gun" type of threads.

actutally really funny

I see insanity in my head as a glittery semi-translucent barrier, like the threshold to paradise. but it only looks like paradise. its actually hell and when you get there you can taste it like metal on your tongue. there's a little twinkly music I hear sometimes that accompanies this feeling. its the scariest thing I've ever experienced and also kind of comforting. I think of insanity as trying to hold two contradictory ideas in balance with each other. it's hard to do. it feels like a dream. I lose blocks of time. hours and days. get in fights. spend my money barhopping alone. spilling drinks on strangers. I don't know if I will be alive or dead soon

Crit for crit?

Excerpt from a story where Harry is a young displaced white collar worker who falls in with a group of labourers. Not original I know but what is new nowadays?

Before Harry had a chance to fasten his seatbelt the van was moving and the radio was blasting urban music. He understood every third word when it wasn't being drowned out by heavy bass and tortured guitar solos. Both men in front lit noxious cigarettes and the open windows caused the acrid smoke to be blown into Harry's face and into his nostrils and throat sending him into coughing fits each time they took a drag. By the end of the journey he was feeling nauseous, lightheaded and had completely forgotten where he was going

I liked the second but not the first so I'll crit the former.
>Two threads meet in opposite paths
on*
>The sinews, intertwined, touch
themselves, and touch their touching.
>Touched-touching is multiplied.
>Each end, slipping apart, touches
>Each other touching each other
Touch touch touch touch touch touch touch. Overuse is grating but if you think it is vital then keep it in. Otherwise, use other words for the sake of variety.
>Until the space between crystallizes
Personally I would use materialise because crystallises is a belaboured descriptor.
>And asks "who are you?"
Again, personally I'd write 'And asks who you are' as using dialogue at the end solely can be taken to be incohesive/out of place. Personal taste, of course.

They seem related in a way. What message are you attempting to get across?

Are you being purposely verbose and faux profound?

>Uses the word 'verbose' and 'faux profound'
>Calls others verbose
>Thinks he has a monopoly on profundity
It's not even verbose at all - there's like two 'big' words in there

>Uses the word 'verbose' and 'faux profound'
>>Calls others verbose
Glad you got the irony. Faux profound doesn't even make sense.
>Thinks he has a monopoly on profundity
Case in point.
>there's like two 'big' words in there
transfigured
spectres
juxtaposed
incandescent
exhume

Alabaster was hungry. The morning sun had crept through the cracks in the hollow oaken barrel that had served as his shelter for the night. Between the slanting rays of light that struck his closed eyelids and the growing murmur of the nearby marketplace, sleep could not keep her hold on him. He awoke without a sound, rubbed the crust from his eyes and was struck with the sharp immediacy of his hunger. He had the appearance of an old beggar, hair and beard a shock of white and brown whose only break was a growing bald patch at the top of his head. His age had long been forgotten by himself and never recorded by another. The brown sackcloth that he called a suit was soiled with gutter wash and excrement from months of sleeping in the streets. His feet, calloused near to the point of clubbing, were brown masses of dirt and hair that rejected any coverings as unwelcome baggage. The alley where he had slept was mostly dirt, with the remains of a shoddy brick laying job strewn about so that this straightway between civilized roads appeared as a forgotten warzone where time and ruin had reigned triumphant. It was between two piles of rubble that Alabaster’s barrel had been propped, so that when he emerged his shelter rocked and dislodged the uppermost bricks, sending them down to the earth where they promptly broke and sent a group of nearby rats scurrying. It was long past dawn, and the market had been full of activity for hours beforehand. Hearing the hum of city life all around him and smelling the familiar spices waft over him like an invisible mist, the ascetic prostrated himself before the dilapidated wall adjacent him, kneeling with his hands and head pressed against the dirt.

As he was performing his wordless prayer a group of three visiting merchants from the far-off capital of Panopolis happened to be passing by. “Well would you look at that” said a young man with a thin moustache, apparently the leader of the group, noticing the prostrated old man and gesturing to his fellows. “At least back at home our beggars have the good sense to prostrate themselves before the rich, but this fellow seems to think that alley itself will rain manna down upon him.” It was clear the youth had been drinking, so that the scornful guffaw which exploded from his handsome face with reckless abandon drew looks from the nearby crowd. Clad in the dark purple of his family colours the handsome merchant egged his companions on, clearly enjoying the spectacle performed by the mad beggar. “Julian, are you really so ignorant?” chided the oldest of the three, a bearded man of about thirty dressed in the conspicuously spartan attire of a military man on leave. “Did you really not even begin the pre-emptory readings your father assigned to you for our time in Gaialae? These lands are positively swarming with disciples of the so called “World Spirit”. “And so, what if I didn’t Arnold?” replied the man named Julian with all the rude candour of youth “I was too busy attending to the important matters in life to even consider opening those dusty old books about yet another foolish religious sect. The only study that has ever brought me any pleasure is the ritual observance of the bottom of the bottle.” “Well” began Arnold, clearly growing impatient with the callow youth “if you had found the time to study these lands you would know that it is not so uncommon to find its peoples worshipping brick walls, animals, and even their own excrement.” “How is that?” replied Julian, “Have they really grown so far apart from what is holy that they have reduced themselves to praying to shit?” Julian found this vulgar turn particularly funny and immediately collapsed in a fit of laughter, supporting himself on the firm shoulder of his second companion, a taciturn man with a mute face and dark spectacles. “Precisely the opposite” replied Arnold in a matter of fact way, his frustration beginning to give way to his natural inclination for instruction. “The Gaialaens believe that the world itself is holy. That anything and everything that exists is in some way a manifestation of the divine World Spirit and that there resides some measure of the immutable divine in everything, even, as you so callously put it, in their own shit.”

Far from producing the desired effect of granting new respect to the prostrated beggar, Arnold’s justification only served to make Julian laugh even harder. This did not go unnoticed by the crowd, and several heads began to turn and stare at the sodden youth. “Let me… see if I… understand” said Julian, gasping between a last few spasms of laughter. “There exists a people who cannot tell that wine is holier than shit? That gold glitters more prettily than iron? That the cracked bricks we see before us are in some measure equal to the thousand-foot stone tapestries of Feoximas?” “That’s a boorish way of putting it, but yes, they believe the whole world and everything in it, without exception, is a shard of immaculate divine beauty.” “Does that include myself then, oh wise and magnanimous Arnold?” “Yes, I suppose it does.” “So that myself, my every action, and all that enters into and out of me are borne of the divine holy of holies?” “I suppose so…” said Arnold, mild consternation coming into his voice. “Splendid!” cried Julian and, drawing the knife he used to sample the smoked meats and fresh fruits of the Gaialaen market, walked the few meters towards Alabaster (still prostrating himself before the wall) and promptly stuck the blade into the back of his left hand. Alabaster jerked, let out a bellowing moan like the creaking of a wooden beam about to break, and, pulling his bleeding hand to his chest as he collapsed on the dirt road, turned to face his attacker. Julian was standing over him like some conquering warlord, staring haughtily down and said “where is the holiness in this wound, you foolish beggar?” before he received a response Arnold walked up to the youth, his face distorted with rage, and plowed his fist so hard into the side of his head that Julian crumpled like a paper bag. Alabaster did not make a sound, merely clutched his hand to his chest and re-adjusted himself so that his prostration was now supported by a single arm. He resumed his wordless prayer in silence. Arnold muttered an apology, threw him the few coins he had in his purse and proceeded to carry the unconscious Julian out of the alley and back into the marketplace. The commotion had happened too far away to arouse any suspicion from the marketplace, and business carried on as usual. The wafting of spices and the dull roar of amicable chatter suffused the air. Alabaster continued his prayer until his skin became a sheet of white, the knife had struck a vital artery and blood was spurting violently from the wound. He collapsed back into the barrel that was his home and looked up at the half-hidden sky through the corridor of the alley. The sun was nearly at its zenith, casting spears of light through puffed clouds that floated lazily along their course. “Poor young man” thought the ascetic. If only I could give him this beautiful sun. Alabaster passed away, the rats fed well that night.

...

Just a casual writing exercise I hammered out this morning, Nothing serious here but I would still love some critique.

Anyone else want to take this?

>Spectres
Nah
>Exhume
Nah
>Juxtaposed
Not really
>Incandescent
Again not really - every knows what these words mean
>Transfigured
Maybe

>"Nigga is you retarded? The boy is dead as fuck."

More realistic version:
>"Nigga is you retawded? Dat nigga dead as fuck nigga!"

Quick Poem

>Lo, moon, need not our companionship!
>In favor yet to watch idly by,
>As the sunbeams off countenance drip,
>in refusal to let the ground run dry

you have a talent for description and worldbuilding, but your dialogue has an unnaturally stilted quality typical of someone who reads a too many classics and loses track of contemporary stylistic standards. Try to make it sound more "natural" though be aware that natural speech is not the same as realistic

“BReARREb” screeched Boeb.
“I understand your concern, sir, but I must emphasize the projected impact of this proposition.” Boeb, seemingly unphased, dragged his appendages across the documents spread over the table. A string of drool decorated Boeb’s chin and necktie. Standing by Boeb’s right side was a fellow in a cheap suit who was tugging at his collar. He attempted to keep his cool as he worked to defuse what he considered a dangerous situation. The new CEO was pushing for a plan to launch the company headquarters into space.
The table, surrounded by board members and prominent stockholders, took turns analyzing crayon depictions of their offices in orbit. Murmurs circulated between the meeting. After some quiet discourse, a heavyset man sitting opposite Boeb took the speaking initiative.
“Mr. Boeb” he began.
“BEaROAAARB” a cascade of saliva seemed to suspend itself in the air before landing on the table and professionals in the radius.
“My apologies. Boeb, I’m intrigued by the philosophy. My primary concern is the absence of, shall we say, apparent benefits. What assurance do we have that this will help cement our place in a developing market?” Boeb was furious. Thrashing in his chair, he gradually oriented his body toward the window depicting the familiar cityscape. As his violent breathing and perspiration subsided, the fleshy mass began to whine, spit, and bark.
This display continued for nearly fifteen minutes while the attendees watched with great interest. The sound of pens scribbling notes accented the symphony of yelps and growls originating from the CEO. The event was punctuated with three distinct shouts. After a brief silence, the entire room launched to their feet and began pounding their hands together. Cheers of excitement and approval rocked the 71st floor of Company and Co. Boeb maintained his trademarked thousand yard stare.
Away from the excitement, Boeb’s right-hand man began frantically stuffing his belongings into a briefcase. It was only a matter of time before the liftoff. He found a dense folder detailing Boeb’s previous costly endeavor. Spit-soaked crayon doodles of contractors installing gargantuan thrusters and engines around the building were also well received by the board. He disposed of it. Immediately behind that lay his own proposition which was personally refused by Boeb. Auditing the company’s sustainability in a vacuum was deemed a waste of resources. He paused to judge the crimson wax, Boeb's trademarked stamp of disapproval, that adorned his short paper. Boeb was a Boeb of few words.

A rumble shook the offices. The young man burst into a cold sweat. He was too late. He pressed his face against the window as he watched the pedestrians around the building turn to gawk. He threw his arms and shouted in a futile attempt to get their attention. It was too late. The people on the streets were vaporized as the engines began to roar. His horrified yell was eclipsed by the burning fuel and erupting flames. Over the noise, he could make out the sound of the building’s foundation being ripped from the earth. Tears began to trickle as he watched the city he loved sink beneath him.
His phone rang.
“Hey, John, can you pick up more cat litter?” John clutched the fabric of his shirt through his unbuttoned jacket.
“Not tonight.”
“What? Why not?” She uttered a nervous laugh before a long, uncomfortable silence.
“I love you. Take care.” He heard his wife’s voice fade as he pressed the button on his phone. His emotions, previously untapped, began to swirl and bubble within him. Soon enough, if she looked, his building would be visible from their bedroom window. How had he let it come to this?
He stormed up three flights of stairs to the top floor. In a blind fury, he read the nametag assigned to the oak doors at the end of the decorated hall. Stretching far beyond the limits of the 3” x 8” nameplate was multicolored fingerpaint that won Boeb the designation of a “forward thinker” around the office. He knocked on the door before letting himself in.
The leather chair of the executive was turned away from the door. Tommy Dorsey’s band, on vinyl, played through the flickering light of an electric fireplace that illuminated the bookshelves lining the wall. The distant horizon slowly shrunk into enveloping darkness through the landscape window.
“Boeb.” John’s stern voice resonated. He watched as Boeb lifted the needle from the record with unexpected tenderness. Boeb span to face the intruder. John swallowed as he noticed the handgun pointed in his general direction. Boeb farted, his eyes wandering around the room without apparent instruction.
“It’s pointless, Boeb. We won’t make it out of the stratosphere. We’re dead men walking.” Boeb, with a flick of the barrel, motioned to a scrapbook on a neighboring table. John, not taking his eyes off of his boss, made his way to the book. He studied the cover. It was a crude picture of the company headquarters sporting a ring not unlike Saturn’s. John squinted. The ring was made up of human figures and Boeb, all joining hands and smiling amongst the stars.

“What is this?” He spoke, not taking his eyes off of the book. He turned the page, finding juvenile art of Boeb apparently talking in front of the board of directors. The next page showed the building’s new engines being installed. The following page showed the building taking off. He glanced up before turning over the paper. Boeb’s expression was impossible to read. John’s fingers peeled the pages apart as his eyes met the image of his coworkers voluntarily exiting the building to join hands. Boeb wanted nothing more than a ring of smiling corpses circling a decayed piece of architecture orbiting earth. This is why John was going to die.
“What the fuck?”
John’s burning gaze focused on on Boeb’s wandering eyes. His mind worked furiously, attempting to determine the circumstances that lead him to this situation. Somehow, a sack of meat and muscle, entirely nude aside from his necktie and perpetually coated in his own fluids, managed to ascend to the senior leadership position of the Fortune 500 company. Boeb’s wide, asymmetrical mouth was apparently flexed in a proud smile. Boeb’s head blended seamlessly into the torso.
John’s vision was fading. He wasn’t sure whether to attribute it to rage or the steadily declining oxygen levels. He noticed more stars were becoming visible through the window as the horizon now pushed against the lower boundary of the view. He was compelled to act.
His fist made solid contact with Boeb’s face. If there had been a nose, it would’ve broken. Boeb pulled the trigger. John’s ears were ringing as his fingers combed his body for an entry wound. His heartrate steadied astwo more flashes illuminated the room. Looking up, he realized that Boeb was aiming the gun far away from anything of value. He punched Boeb again before reaching for the weapon.
Boeb launched his legless body from the chair onto John, taking them both to the ground. The pair exchanged blows as they struggled for dominance. As hishearing damage subsided, John couldn’t help but hear Boeb’s grunts and whails. Ropes of mucus ran from Boeb’s mouth, saturating John’s cheap suit. Boeb, while unable to deliver strong blows, also seemed immune to the blunt strikes. John threw himself out from under Boeb and looked for the firearm. Struggling to catch his breath, he looked up to see Boeb holding the pistol.
“Duck bobe,” was all Boeb said.
John charged as Boeb, flicking the tiny selector switch, let loose an indiscriminate barrage of ammunition. Bullets tore the office apart. Dust from the drywall danced with fragments of paper from destroyed books, fluttering in John’s wake as he closed the distance. Fresh blood marked the trail behind him as he carried Boeb out the window.