[–]▶ No.6679>>6684 >>9983 >>12345 >>13064 [Watch Thread][Show All Posts]
Let's git er dun. I submit:
The turd in the toilet took two seconds to tear apart. My fingerprints rilled with shit. It was supposed to be inside, but it was all doo doo. I glare at grandma. 'Why?'
Next thing I know, I'm at Romanelli's Scrap Metal arguing with handless cashier over how much grandma's walker is worth. 'Wha? This is aluminium alloy---no, I don't know with what!'
Back at the house grandma beckons. 'It is in my cunt' she whispers against my ear. So I guide her in the bathroom, undo her pants, and help her sit on the toilet. With a breaststroke motion I part her knees, her skin oldwoman soft. I feel my way into her melanin drained bush, of course she's self lubricating, why not? Middle and ring finger, searching. Has she been lying? Is she delusional? Insane?
My name is Alex Trebek, I may have all the Answers, but the real Answers are the Questions.
I was in DC all week. I got to sit next to Pope Francis today flying into JFK. Doing the NYT crossword, he turns to me, 'four letter word for a woman, ending in 'u-n-t'?'
'Aunt'
'Do you have an eraser?'
Now, in my voice: The Answers are the Questions.
____________________________
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▶ No.6680
Ouff.
This is what comes from encouraging you gits to read Pynchon.
Can I have my sides back now?
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▶ No.6684
>>6679 (OP)
it definitely trascends the good/bad dichotomy.
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▶ No.6685
I don't like turds but I liked your story OP.
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▶ No.6690
With a proper approach to obscenity, genius shows.
Bravo.
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▶ No.6826
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▶ No.6860>>6877 >>9983
The self recedes and shrinks before you
Till it speaks in starts and spasms.
It disappears
Along with you
Down
Into the chasm.
Now I snuff the stars. Indifferent eyes.
And darkness flowers in the skies.
Its petals float
Down
Into the abyss
Adding zeroes to zeroes
And nothing to nothingness.
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▶ No.6877>>6878
>>6860
Them's good, very good.
Shame I can't give you a proper critique for it. Poetical analysis be beyond my pay grade.
It invokes for me a meta-message, like you are describing the fall into the absolute focus of the creative process; getting it down on a computer while in that zone.
Take it for what you will. I likes it though, whatever the intention.
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▶ No.6878
>>6877
Addendum: Bukowski takes his computer for a spin.
Heh. Don't take that as a negative. This popped into my head just now from out of left field. I'll be thinking about your poem for rest of the day, I see.
It's good. Keep at it.
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▶ No.6879>>6936 >>6946 >>9983
How is it, that I am but less dead?
Could I shed my past, learn to live?
Perhaps I need, more want to be fed
Or the wish of love, mine to give.
Though how can I need, when I want?
And what is want, when I hold much?
The possessors prize, can just taunt
But I can not need, with Midas touch.
For if I have loved, have I lost?
Then when I have lived, have I won?
And then love, is but my heart's frost
While my life, is God's brief son.
So what is a life, with out love?
My Earth, with out Heaven above.
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▶ No.6936>>6938
>>6879
> is but my heart's frost
care to explain this expression?
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▶ No.6938>>6941
>>6936
basically the narrator is saying that love is cold and bitter for him if it is true that when you love you lose.
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▶ No.6941>>6943
>>6938
i thought as much.
personally it feels that the contradiction is a little too stark with the way love is described in the rest of the poem.
but maybe it's because one of the last thing i've read is gibran's "the prophet", and while that book would greatly piss me off at times with its vision of the world, i thought that it was pretty good throughout in giving the idea that most, if not all good things in life have a component of pain…
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▶ No.6943>>6951
>>6941
Thanks for replying anon, I get what you mean and I'll try and make it clearer
I'll have to read that book as well, would you recommend it?
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▶ No.6946>>6949
>>6879
Awkward lines clearly aiming at iambic pentameter. Content is solely cliche.
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▶ No.6949
>>6946
first attempt at a poem so don't be too harsh on me, anon-kun
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▶ No.6951
>>6943
honestly, yes.
it's a small book, but it's the kind of book that , at least i, cannot read "fast".
like i said, sometimes it rubbed me the wrong way, especially with its sort of pantheism and with a concept or two that i found either childishly optimistic or outright enraging.
but i mostly enjoyed it…
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▶ No.7848
The last half starting with "my name is alex trebek" was good; the first half is total whack. Honestly I think the last half could stand on its own.
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▶ No.9933>>9937
Feedback on this? Does it interest you at all?
The glow of the boy's flashlight bobbed around on the lonely mountain road, casting shadows behind the rigid pines. Ahead sat a cottage, perched alone near a cliff guarded by a rickety fence.
Past the edge of the road, the floor of the valley stretched into the distant night. A field of sparks lay nestled on a canvas of black; the lights of Nalio. A multitude of multicolored lights spread in a glowing spiderweb. Along the rim of the valley ran an eerie line of green lights. Past the rim, massive trees rose over the mountains, stretching miles into the sky.
The boy's numb knuckles rapped against the door. Muffled footsteps approached. The door creaked open, and an old man in a night robe peered out. He frowned.
“Shouldn't you be at home, Peter?” the old man said sternly.
“I should,” said the boy.
“Then why are you here?”
“I was curious.”
“About what?”
A chill wind grew. The treetops hissed.
“I was reading some books. Some of your books. People used to hurt each other, sir. All the time. I read about it. But that doesn't happen here.”
The professor sighed, and looked up at the stars.
“That was a long time ago. Things are different now.”
“Why?” Peter asked, eyes wide with curiosity.
“We learned,” said Professor Harling, “We became better people.”
“How?” said Peter.
“We … we learned from our mistakes. Things changed.”
“Oh,” said Peter, unsatisfied.
He turned away, to look down at the valley floor.
“What's outside the valley, Professor Harling?”
“Nothing,” said Professor Harling, “Forests, mountains.”
“Then why can't we leave?”
The professor stared up at the stars. Peter watched him chew on his lower lip for a second. He didn't speak for several seconds.
“I don't know, Peter. I'm sorry.”
The sound of crunching gravel turned their heads. A man in a black felt coat and top hat approached. Peter's heart sank.
“Peter, come home with me, right now. And there will be no more sneaking out at night, or you won't go to play with your friends till the first snow.”
It was so cold already, it couldn't be that bad of a punishment. Winter would be here in a few short weeks. Nevertheless, Peter took his father's gloved hand.
“Come on,” said Peter's father, dragging his son along the path. Peter gave Professor Harling one last glance before the old man closed the door.
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▶ No.9937>>9948
>>9933
I would say work on the second paragraph setting. Maybe write it from the POV of the boy.
>The professor sighed, and looked up at the stars.
remove the comma? idk if my critique for this one is correct, though.
All in all, enough to paint a picture and predict what your plot is.
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▶ No.9942>>9947 >>9956
Racing along a cratered dirt road, and we are -
INT. LAND CRUISER JOSTLING OVER UNEVEN TERRAIN - DAY
Three Hooded Men guarded by East European Militia. A third Militia drives. Next to him is a nervous, bespectacled man.
EXT. AIRSTRIP, EASTERN EUROPE - DAY
An airstrip overlooking a grey city rocked by artillery fire. A bland CIA Operative, flanked by Special Forces Men, stands in front of a commuter plane. CIA Man watches the Land Cruiser pull
up, hard. The Militia Men jump out of the vehicle.
The Driver shoves the bespectacled man in front of the CIA Man.
CIA MAN
Dr. Pavel, I’m CIA.
Dr. Pavel nods, nervous. CIA Man hands the Driver a briefcase.
DRIVER
He wasn’t alone.
CIA Man, confused, spots the Hooded Men. He turns to Dr. Pavel.
CIA MAN
You don’t get to bring friends.
DR. PAVEL
(shaken)
They are not my friends.
DRIVER
Don’t worry, no charge for them.
CIA MAN
Why would I want them?
DRIVER
They were trying to grab your
prize. (Smiles.) They work for the
mercenary. The masked man.
CIA MAN
(excited)
Bane?
The Driver nods. CIA Man turns to his Special Forces Men.
CIA MAN
Get ’em on board - I’ll call it in.
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▶ No.9947
>>9942
BEST! SCREENWRITING! EVER!
someday you're gonna be big, guy.
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▶ No.9948
>>9937
> predict what your plot is.
What's your prediction? I'm curious.
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▶ No.9956
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▶ No.9983
>>6879
This reads horribly in my head, particularly with the commas. The content of the poem is a bit interesting but also dry. Write about something other than love or whatever. This feels too much like a lame version of shakespeare.
>>6860
This is good as an intro but it doesn't feel like it's actually saying anything. I'd add a third stanza and try to give the poem a point.
>>6679 (OP)
What the actual fuck?
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▶ No.9984
I have a weird critique request, I am the guy who posted above. Basically I have been revising and working on a blog post about a weird thing in my life for a couple years now. It's supremely autistic but I would prefer if the writing were actually good, and how much I should try to write pretty versus just tell the story like I am talking to an audience. Because I kind of vaccillate between summarizing then getting caught up describing a particular scene that I remember. I want this to be a definitive document because my main manuscript will probably never be finished. But I'm not sure if it will end up too long and I should just write it in a word document for people who would actually give a fuck abotu the whole thing.
It's massive TLDR so you don't have to read the whole thing, just give me your first impression (besides "holy shit anon you're autistic")
http://thestoryofthewhos.tumblr.com/intro
Also should I change the title?
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▶ No.10745
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▶ No.10753
For some time I drifted aimlessly; serenely; burdened neither by purpose nor hardship. All on my mind was the ocean below, which lifted and dropped my rowboat, making soft claps and spatters as it flowed all around. That gentle movement kept me in a state of trance. Only a short distance from the boat was a firmament of whirling fog: a grey curtain that shimmered in a viridian hue. Underneath the curtain was dim, and thus amorphous. Nothing divided the ocean from the fog. The froth and the vapor joined and separated at once. Occasionally, a wispy appendage would extend as if to grab me, yet rather than reach me, soften into nothing.
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▶ No.10754>>10759
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▶ No.10759
>>10754
John Norman works better as a howto guide.
If that was the sense intended.
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▶ No.12321
Trying to improve my sentence writing and craft beautiful prose like Oscar Wilde. I know it's bad but how do I improve? What am I doing wrong?
The young lady was sitting on a picnic blanket watching the autumn leaves dance, she enjoyed being chilled and having her sunny dress slap about; the lass was alone and rolled from the blanket and it was immediately sucked into the sky then swallowed into the sea.
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▶ No.12345>>12346
>>6679 (OP)
need more criket
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▶ No.12346
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▶ No.13064
>>6679 (OP)
The Tryst
Tragic Romanticism
3097
General impressions, criticism of style, all welcome.
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Bq-fN2Zuhq7XguK3MnniD0IgYwAcG6s5lQ_yo5TGu8A/edit
Sample first paragraph:He arrived into the dimly lit foyer, the stench of alcohol on his lips. Solemnly and slowly he hung his dreary coat. He grazed his hand across it. Rough, dry, bumpy with lint. This was no way to present himself. He had been lucky enough to be invited to such a distinguished event and yet he still disappointed his peers. Appearance is everything; that is the law of business and even life itself. What does it matter to feel when you can fake it just as much? He wasn't a professional nor as suave as his peers. He imagined them now, at the backyard of the wide expanse that was this mansion, underneath the yellow lights, brows shaded and teeth gleaming, grinning at some obscure joke told in such elegant accents, their forms intermingling until they became indistinguishable and eternal. No, he wasn't professional nor suave and he could not fake it. A woman should've dressed him, but he had no wife and he could not live with his mother at such an age.
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