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435 No. 435 ID: 2579fb hide quickreply [Reply]
"Constructive criticism" is surely the worst mass hallucination since consumer capitalism, or the resurrection of our Lord, or the Democratic Party. For one, it's inimical to the purposes of criticism as art. I'll say it again: the point of criticism is not to improve you, but to express me. And each time I digress to offer you helpful suggestions, encouraging remarks and other pep-talk, I am not truly expressing myself. I'm merely being polite, nice, even a bit condescending — in other words, I'm being aesthetically repulsive. Like it or not, criticism is art, not altruism, and those two things are not the same.

What's more, constructive criticism is entirely useless, a wasted effort. All good artists have two things in common. The first is talent. Talent is all-or-nothing entity: either you have it, or you don't. People without talent, once they're past school age, won't ever get it, and no amount of prodding and encouragement will make a damn bit of difference. The best they can ever achieve is an approximation of hack fluency, and who wants to encourage more of that? Better for everyone if it's nipped in the bud. People who have talent, on the other hand, know it; they also know what to take from feedback, and if they need to take anything.

There is no need to take a "constructive" attitude with talented artists — if anything, they find such an attitude more offensive. As H.L. Mencken said: "I do not object to being denounced, but I can't abide being schoolmastered, especially by men I regard as imbeciles." The constructive critic is a crow who takes it upon himself to educate the eagle; one who tries to force his own limitations on those who can soar far higher, unencumbered.

The second, and more important, attribute shared by all artists is drive: the drive to create, the artistic impulse. In a real artist, this is strong enough that it won't be put off by a few insults. If anything, a critical savaging will drive him even more, make him even more convinced of his art. An artist is one who must create art, constantly, unstoppably: anyone who packs it in after suffering a bit of criticism, however harsh, is simply not an artist. His retreat from the art world is no loss at all.
>> No. 437 ID: 253add
I'll take the case!

I concede that criticism as an art form does not seek to improve the original work. However, I feel that you're getting too bogged down in semantics; while literary (or whatever) criticism has purpose that is to help express and define the original work, constructive criticism is widely acknowledged to be a whole different animal. While the terminology may be regrettably similar, constructive and literary criticism are two different things. One is not supposed to be taken to be the other.

Criticism as an art, too, has its limits. Most obviously, it seeks to make an interpretation of a work despite being necessarily and invisibly contextualized by the critic's experiences, tastes, education, and so on. While brave for making their personal connection public, criticism does not mean truth.

The meat of your post, the argument that constructive criticism is "a wasted effort," is absurd. Positing that talent is an all-or-nothing affair flies in the face of any kind of sense. Perhaps, and I only concede this for the sake of argument, the truly great artists have a talent that cannot be replicated. Even so, not everyone who produces art is among the rarefied few. Someone can be great without being a master; they could be good, entertaining, or thought-provoking, without being extraordinarily talented, but still want and need advice on their work.

Besides, there are plenty of great artists who had their work edited, and edited, and edited again by others, because they gain something from an outside perspective.

You also seem to misunderstand exactly what constructive criticism entails ("prodding and encouragement"). Constructive criticism is not encouragement; ideally, it is an honest assessment of the strengths and weaknesses of someone's work and suggestions for improvement. Coddling is not constructive.
>> No. 439 ID: 253add
Also, troll thread, but an entertaining and well-done one.

SAGE has been used.
>> No. 442 ID: 9dd388
>>439
>troll thread

rationalwiki.org/wiki/Talk:Godwin%27s_Law#Deviloser.27s_Law


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414 No. 414 ID: bbd8ad hide quickreply [Reply]
Do you guys know what purple prose is?
After reading the writings on page 1 I suggest you all learn what it is and possibly try to reduce it.
Lack of flowery adjectives will not make your writing any less interesting but probably better.
>> No. 415 ID: d27172
Everyone here is an amateur. Maybe instead of trying to get attention for yourself, you could maybe try criticizing constructively?

And you're looking for "page 0," unless you arbitrarily read the second page instead of the first page. If so, you are a silly person.

SAGE has been used.
>> No. 431 ID: 860e11
ANTI-SAGE DUE TO MANOS HANDS OF FATE


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420 No. 420 ID: bb0a18 hide quickreply [Reply]
I submit to you, a sample of a story that I am working on.

Its been awhile but, It feels good to write again.


Heat filled the dark room. No fire was needed as he knelt at the table side. His scanner beeping in a secret rythmn.
Brushing off the beads of sweat he slowly sighed. His surgical laser finally shutting off with his certainty and satisfaction.
He softly stroked the side of her lifeless face. Knowing the codes within her that will brew a conscious no different from man.
"Tomorrow you will know life, tonight I reaquaint myself with sleep." He whispered exhaustedly. Shutting down his equipment retiring for the night. The slow drone of the mainframe ushering him out of the basement. As the heat slowly left the room his creation faintly opened her eyes and pondered motionless at the darkness. Feeling and motion would not activate. Acceptingly bewildered she drew a breathe and shut her eyes to see if there would be any difference. She did not know anything beyond the still darkness of the room.
"this will do for now" she whimpered fearfully As she contemplated her function silently awaiting whatever would come next with an inhuman paitence.

The light turned on unexpectedly Her eyes fixated on the new stimulation slowly she felt the warmth. Her Perception was emerging she could feel her universe expand. Her mind hummed with the processing of this new experience. "Awake I see, good I knew you would." Exclaimed a voice from the corner of her scanning eyes. "W-who are you?" she asked in monotone. Unable to summon the right tones.
"Ah, I guess you could say I'm your god, or your father, the devil maybe?" She sat up in confusion at this statement.
"But, I'm not one who cares much for titles so you can just call me Ivan, I created you.but, I'm not quite done...yet." He declared briskly. "Your voice and brain will need some fine tuning and patching but, that won't take long." She didn't know what to think but, she felt comfort for the first time she wondered what kind of work would need to be done but, she knew she wanted to be completed.

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>> No. 421 ID: 4a05ca
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With the first story arc; I'm just going to say, "He", "She", "He", "She", is a bit dull, it's not really necessary. I know Sci-fi isn't renown for wonderful prose but you can be a bit more creative than that.

The second story arc was nice though.
The denunciations yelled by the officers, I wasn't sure if they made me cringe from cliche or afraid of how real they might be in such a setting.
>> No. 422 ID: bb0a18
>>421
She doesn't have a name yet.
Thank you for your input.
Shall I post more?
>> No. 423 ID: 96fe02
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423
>>422
You don't have to address them using their names either. If it's a conversation with 2 people, it should just flow without the need to show who is who. But anyway, that was a minor gripe and I probably couldn't do it another way. Luckily I'm just here to critise!
>post more
Sure, what else is this board for?
Were the two stories before meant to be linked in some way or just similar (mood) sketches?
>> No. 428 ID: bb0a18
The singer was nowhere to be found. His end came quick enough. The apprehended were on their fragile knees expressionless as they were in the cafe. Miczariel had never seen this before. She knew about it but, not enough to know to be casual about it. It seemed unreal.
Their executions were mechanical as they were methodical. Their corpses laid in the streets and were hauled off into a truck by the lower ranking officers no different from taking out the trash. Miczariel had never seen death before not even in her dreams.
An officer approached her from the side and grabbed her arm moving her closer to the crowd. Chills ran down her spine as she dreaded what would become of her. She hated life but, didn't want to die. She couldn't even muster the words to beg for her life.
She looked at the officer, He had a slight shallow smirk to him but, which only made her still panic worse. With his other hand her moved her face forward too look at the townspeople. They were being placed into lines but, they were standing. "Stand in line and all will be fine" The officer muttered as he set her in place. She felt better knowing that they didn't know where she was five minuets ago. They stood there obediently, A helicopter hovered in with a giant satilite dish. A scanning light hummed down over the rows of people. She stared into the light sighing of relief knowing that she would survive this. The boy standing in front of her began to seize and fell backwards nearly hitting her. Two officers rushed to his side and violently removed his insides revealing his ciruitry.
"WE HAVE AN INFESTATION OF DRONES, YOU ARE REQUIRED TO REPORT ANY NON HUMAN RESIDENTS TO US IMMEDIATELY OR FACE DEATH. THAT IS ALL FOR TODAY, NOW DISPERSE." The rows of people split apart as fast as it had formed. The officers moved away and only she was left standing next to the artificial corpse of a non person. It was time for her to go home.


"Do you think this will work?" Jiang hastily asked her friend. Eyes fixed on the wires connecting to her brain.
"With the upgrades and revisions she is sure to be fine. I'm certain of it" replied Ivan distracted by the signals and improved pulse.
"With enough luck she can turn the world around and undo this nightmare. Or at least a part of it."
"We can't do this again" Jiang replied frustrated but, proud of his persistence. As she installed the soul drive she could feel the delusion of hope once again. It might be the model they were working for. It might be. She was loading and growing in ways that none of her could have ever done before. "Are you sure you can and should make her EMP resistant?" Jiang questioned uncertain but, still willing to help. He nodded yes and triple checked everything he could. Wipping her memory was needed in order to keep her in line for a little longer. He didn't want to but, they knew it had to be done."This time we will complete it. All need now is for Genor to come and finish... the facade" Jiang said determindely.
Ivan used the last of his copper and knew in his gut that his work would finally be completed. "We need a name for her" Jiang stated in a matter of fact tone. Ivan nodded in and rubbed his chin. A knock came at the door and Jiang who was closer to the door.
A short and slim man entered. Taking off his hat. It was Genor. His warm infectious smile spread to his collegues as he shut the door.
"Wish we had more time to catch up on old times but, I'm afraid we don't have much time." The police are getting more and more powerful. As for the girl, well, I can arrange for her to live with a couple and she can live a normal life." He paused to catch his breath. Ivan was aware but, unwilling to let her go. "We should name her... Taluyabelle."
"Good a name as any" Jiang sighed. Reaching in his coat Genor pulled out documents from them.
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416 No. 416 ID: 35ab4a hide quickreply [Reply]
Have you ever thought of borrowing another writer's work and editing it until it became your very own original piece?
>> No. 419 ID: bb0a18
No.
And that's a slippery slope into fan fictions.
yuck.
>> No. 424 ID: 248bbd
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424
How very post-modern of you, Literary Girl Talk.


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393 No. 393 ID: 070a53 hide quickreply [Reply]
I have an idea for a story. However, I have never written very well. Is it too late to start taking classes at 21 years old? I just want to be get this story out and to be taken seriously, not laughed at for fundamental writing errors.
>> No. 395 ID: 248bbd
>Is it too late to start taking classes at 21 years old?
Dude, you're twenty fucking one. I don't want to sound patronizing, but your life has barely fucking started yet. Too late? This is the perfect time to start taking classes. You're young enough that you are pliable, elastic, yet old enough to have a solid idea about what you want. Stop doubting yourself, stop worrying about "too late" and just do what you want or feel you need.

I know a woman who is 81 and still taking university classes, she takes one class a semester because she's so old. Take the fucking class.

Also, don't worry about needing a class to write your short story. Oh, you have one short story idea? Write it and don't worry about it fucking sucking. If it sucks, fuck it, write another story. If it's full of fundamental writing errors, then write another story with fewer fundamental writing errors. Errors are good, you learn from them.

Don't worry about people laughing at you. Just do what you do, balls to the wall. Write your story. And if people laugh, fuck them because you wrote your story.

Write. If you want to write but have never written before, that's step one: write. Don't worry about it being terrible just write it and get it out.
>> No. 412 ID: 0d00cb
>>395
I have to agree with this guy. Writing shit is how you start off. You probably don't need classes, but it helps to put yourself in an environment where you are forced to study others' works. Especially if you can't do it naturally. You might just need a forceful push to make writing techniques a habit.

Write the story. Draft it. Send it out. Start another one. Have the first one rejected. Decide to either work on it more or throw it a way.

May I recommend Write1/Sub1? http://www.write1sub1.com/

Also, it doesn't hurt to surf writing forums, take part in the community, learn through criticism of your work and that of others. I recommend Absolute Write. http://absolutewrite.com/

Everyone has written shitty stories. I have and do and I know others that do. What matters is to just sit your ass down and write. Just don't get discouraged from criticism. I've had many rejection letters, and when they start becoming personal rejections you know you're doing something right.


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402 No. 402 ID: c71528 hide expand quickreply [Reply]
Hello,

I am here to have my fellow writers to help me round out an idea I would like to write. These are the major things that will be in the story.

>> Polyamory
>> Pansexuality
>> Breaking Social Norms

Debating whether or not to add fantastical themes to it.

If anyone is interested please don't hesitate to ask for more details.
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>> No. 406 ID: 248bbd
>>405
That's not necessarily true.

SAGE has been used.
>> No. 409 ID: 345c1f
>>406
Yes it is necessarily true. It's like those assholes who write things because they have a 'really good title' but no content.
You KNOW people do this.
>> No. 410 ID: 248bbd
>>409
I don't see what that has to do with anything.

I'm just saying that starting a story with some ideas about themes you'd like to explore and then building your characters and story around that theme is a perfectly valid way to begin a story and is something that a lot of writers have done effectively in the past.
>> No. 411 ID: 0d00cb
Writing to prove a point doesn't work. If you want these things then just have your story deal with it. Make it part of the protagonist(s)'s life. If you have things you want to say then make it have a place in the story. Make it natural.

Making the story from the points just doesn't work. Making the points work for the story does.
>> No. 427 ID: 248bbd
>>411
>Writing to prove a point doesn't work
Simone de Beauvoir

SAGE has been used.


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407 No. 407 ID: 181c99 hide quickreply [Reply]
The safe return to Earth of the famous explorer Roger Clementine was heralded as an astounding, almost inconceivable feat of enduring human achievement, one that promised to instill a sense of wonderment and inspiration to the generations to follow. However, Roger's voyage also brought chaos and calamity to the Earth, and so it seems appropriate that it buoyed the best of man's spirit, so that men might challenge the worst of the universes' offspring in the years to come.

Major Clementine, of the royal navy, stood with a small gathering of his superiors and fellow officers on the sparsely grassed side of an unassuming Scottish mountain. Each man pulled his coat tightly around his own body to fend off the sharp and gusting wind, save for Admiral Clark, to whom all the others paid their attention. He stood with his chest pressed forward while his coat tails flapped about, one hand on his hip while the other gesticulated in time with his enthusiastic speech.

"My friends, I thank you for your presence here today. I understand that many of you have come a long way to be here on my request." He began.

Roger's gaze drifted in his disinterest from the face of the bellowing Admiral down to the ground; a rather short distance for a man of such high importance, and then longingly off to the south. The horizon was a blur of low clouds, but with a squint of his eyes, Roger imagined that he could peer right through them and around the curve of the Earth, to Cardiff, and home.

The Admiral went on. "The year is eighteen ninety-nine. The present century is waning, and with it, the British empire. The remaining North American colonies have been absorbed into the dominion of Canada, the southern colonies of Australia and New Zealand are becoming self governed and I fear soon they shall pursue independence. The loss of India and South Africa were a bitter blow. This empire needs something, some great act, to prove its supremacy over the world. Gentlemen, here it is."

The admiral extended his arm out behind him, palm up, so that he appeared to hold the mountain's peak in his hand. For several anxious moments, the men assembled before him peered at the distant peak as nothing happened. Then, a thick fog appeared near the top, bubbling slowly, rolling downhill. The small audience began to murmur. The fog grew thicker, and began boiling out in increasing volumes. In seconds it was spewing up into the air, no longer having the time to cool and descend the mountain, and the thick white billows rose ever higher and grew exponentially faster, until a literal jet of steam was shooting hundreds of yards into the sky with a roar that had begun as a dull hiss and was now rising to a thundering crescendo that shook the entire mountain.

Just as several of the men in the audience were exchanging frightened looks that suggested a fear of the very mountain they stood on being torn to pieces, a black *something* flew from the top of the mountain upon the torrent of steam with a speed that seemed unfathomable. The long, cigar-shaped object soared into the sky at a speed far beyond that of the highest caliber rifle bullet, and was out of sight before any of the observers could utter a sound. The auditory delay of distance now brought to the mens ears the thunderous crack of the item's discharge that made several of the men duck from fear and cup their hands over their ears. The torrential column of steam began to subside quickly, boiling down, thinning out and soon, disappearing completely.

"Incredible!" Somebody breathed. All of the spectators were gazing skyward, where the black cylinder had gone, but it was long since out of sight.
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>> No. 408 ID: 181c99
The intangible fingers of Earth's gravity gently caught the Lux Orbis at the appropriate time, and the descent began. Once again at his viewing station, Clementine watched the wispy, high altitude ice clouds draw nearer, expanding to fill his entire view like a great white wall. The craft began to vibrate softly as the air buffeted it. The white wall ahead of him turned orange as the atmosphere around his craft slowly began to burn. Then as he approached the threshold, he unconsciously braced himself for an impact he knew wouldn't come. Lux Orbis punched through the orange clouds like a sharp needle through linen, and continued on down towards the Earth. As the orange glow slowly subsided and the craft began to slow, Clementine could once again make out the terrestrial features. He saw white tipped mountains sail below him, thick, dense forests, sprawling golden plains, many miles of patchwork farmland, the irregular curve of a river, and then, the flat, blue expanse of the pacific ocean. He knew now that he was coming close. He watched the altimeter on the console before him, it spun merrily counter-clockwise, indicating that he was only a half-dozen miles above the surface.

He moved his hands to a pair of switches on the console. He unlocked the first, and pressed it forwards to the 'Release' position. He heard a mechanical noise, then a loud bang, immediately followed by an even louder crump, like the flapping of a tent in strong winds. The craft lurched and it's nose pitched downward. Clementine was yanked forward in the seat by the deceleration of his deployed parachute. He waited a few seconds, his finger hovering over the second switch. When he was confident that the first chute had deployed correctly, he drew back, not having to deploy the second, emergency parachute.

Now he dangled from the enormous olive parachute in his tin can spaceship as the ocean slowly drew nearer. Clementine held tight to his harness. The nose of the Lux Orbis jabbed sharply into the water, jolting it's passenger roughly. The craft rolled lazily for a few seconds until it found it's equilibrium, and bobbed softly in the calm ocean. Clementine took a deep breath, and jostled his limbs carefully. He was uninjured. He had just visited another planet for the first time in the history of the world, and returned to the Earth without so much as a nick. He grinned proudly to himself. All he had to do now was to wait until the royal navy fleet arrived to collect him.

However, he was troubled. He felt uneasy, but could not quite figure out why. With each passing moment, his unease grew. Something was wrong, he knew that much, but what? He peered curiously up at the sky, trying to figure it out. The sky. He was looking out the forward window of the craft, at the sky! He should have been looking at the ocean and the horizon. The nose of the craft was inexplicably pointing upwards. Then it came to him. The parachute had not detached after landing. He had not heard the automatic release mechanism activate, and now, several thousand square feet of waterlogged silk was sinking, and taking him with it. Though he would not sink far, the hatch, normally above the water, would be pulled beneath the surface. To prevent Clementine from becoming trapped and unable to release the hatch, it was automatically designed to detach before being submerged. There would only be a few moments before this safety mechanism activated. He would have to exit the craft before it filled with water and sank.

All the work, all the time and effort that had gone into the spaceflight, the grand voyage of discovery to other worlds, would merely sink to the muddy sea floor. Then there would be Clementine, pulled from the ocean sopping wet with nothing to show for his adventure. No research, no scientific advances. Just a bedraggled and embarrassed Aethernaut. He refused to let that happen. Clawing at his harness, he pulled himself free from his seat. The camera assembly, where the film from all his photography was located, was bolted against a wall. Bracing against his chair, he launched a violent kick against it, then again, and again, Eventually, the bolts gave way and the box fell free. The narrow metal canisters that held samples of the Venusian atmosphere were screwed to the floor. He launched another violent barrage of kicks against one of them, and as it loosened, he grabbed and twisted it until the copper inlet pipes snapped. He hoisted it to his shoulder. With one final desperate lunge, he grabbed his thick, leather-bound journal and stuffed it into his shirt.

The hatch blew off with a clang, flying off a dozen feet and splashing into the water. Clementine's ears popped with the pressure change. With the film box under one arm, the sample canister under the other, and seawater now pouring into the craft, he squeezed with a struggle through the narrow hatch and plopped into the pacific ocean. He kicked strongly, treading the water, and moved towards the hatch of the lux orbis, which doubled as a floatation aid. He flung the film box on top of it and grabbed hold. He held tight to the sample canister, and to his elation, spotted the dark smoke plume of a royal navy ship against the horizon. He knew he would be rescued shortly. However it was a powerful stab of sadness that he looked on to see the Lux Orbis as it took on water, listed to it's side, and finally sink beneath the inky black waters of the pacific.


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363 No. 363 ID: 1da4b9 hide quickreply [Reply]
"There's this movie, called Wargames. In it, there's this old school hacker who nearly destroys the world by making a computer play a nuclear war simulator with real missiles. This hacker had a computer which he's programmed to dial every number in his city, searching for other computers to hack. The idea was called "Wardialing", after the movies name, and was used by hackers in the real world, in just the same way.

"I had this friend who packed himself off to war with the marines in Iraq to pay for college. In highschool he was a real wizard with tech stuff, and so while other soldiers were packing porno mags and chocolate in their packs, he brought computers and radios and far-out gadgets. He came onto this idea once while he was over there, and a bunch of guys had been blown to bits by a roadside bomb. He made friends with this bomb disposal guy, and found out that a shitload of these bombs were triggered by mobile phones. So he got one of these bomb triggers, and deconstructed it. He wanted to know how they work. What he figured out was that the ringing speaker was wired to the relay, and the relay triggered the bomb, so that when an incoming call was detected, an electrical signal was sent to the speaker, but diverted to the relay, and set off the bomb.

"My friend didn't leave it at that though, he did some experimenting. It turned out, that the sound did not come out of the speaker until about five milliseconds after the electrical signal began. But those five milliseconds were enough to trigger the bomb. It also turned out that mobile phones, the ones used in the bombs at least, were more or less sold sequentially according to the phone number. So he went and bought one, and he took it to his computer, and he wrote some software on it. Then he talked some guys from the corps of signals into lending him some radio equipment. Really powerful, military grade equipment, the kind that could jam enemy radio communications, and even signals in the civilian band. Like mobile phones. But jamming is just sending a stronger signal than what the target equipment can send itself. So instead, he got this jamming radio to send out organized little packets, just like cell phone towers get. The packet was just the first part of an electronic 'handshake' signal, it imitated the tower, calling out to a specific phone, and saying 'Hey, there's a call coming in for you!" and each packet lasted five milliseconds.

"My friend turned this transmitter on, using the program he wrote for it, and using the existing cell towers to repeat his signal across the entire country, dialed every mobile phone number that had been sold in Iraq in the previous six months. However, it only dialed them for the five millisecond duration of the handshake packet. After that, the tower worked out that this was not a legitimate call, from a nonexistent number and carrier, and disconnected it. So rather than every phone owner in Iraq getting a mysteriously short missed call from my friend, they didn't even know their phone had received this handshake packet Except for a few of them. Over the next few hours, reports came in of explosions all across the country, occurring at exactly the same time. No American casualties, but the bombs went off in very peculiar places. Cellars, secluded houses, farm properties, and shops. What was more peculiar, was that more than half of them had been flagged by the military intelligence presence in the country as potentially suspicuous.

"His next step was to program in the times of the next few patrols from his company, into the software, so that five minutes before, and every five minutes during the patrol, his transmitter dialed all the new numbers. A lot of bombs went off, but not one of them near an American patrol. For the two weeks he kept his transmitter operating, not one marine from his company was killed from a roadside bomb. That is what he called Wardialing."
>> No. 373 ID: a925ac
Holy shit this is awesome.
>> No. 374 ID: d27172
Cool idea, fairly well-written. Rather lackluster as far as a story, though.
>> No. 403 ID: 831a20
This I rather well made and you surely put time into it, but as the previous poster stated, it is rather lackluster. It's like killing off the enemy in a car accident before he makes his first move. Unless you plan on this guy becoming some sort of super tech geek for the FBI or CIA, then this story has already ended.


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401 No. 401 ID: 4cf2f0 hide quickreply [Reply]
He staggered in from the rain into the bustling bar area. A milling throng lay between him and the bar. Slurred voices, clinking glass, the smell of a carpet soaked in beer. The atmosphere was drunk, staggering, slow-moving, slightly aggressive. A sweaty and overweight cover band was doing a cover of an AC/DC song.
Whiskey… Fuck’s sakes, I need a whiskey. The man thought. A hand in the back pushed him forth into the lurching mob as it danced in ragged unison and shrieked/moaned along with the chorus: “You shook me AAAAALLLL NIIIIIGHT LONG,”
A man who’s entire v-neck shirt was a sweatstain and who’s eyes told of dangerous drugs grabbed our man on the shoulder, pointed at the roof and yelled, “WOOO!” and then “HA – HAAAAA!... YEAH!”
He despised the wearers of v-necked shirts; but nodded and forced a smile at the man, shouldered past into the jampacked bottleneck cattlepress at the bar. A fat chick grabbed his arse. He looked around, smiled awkwardly, turned back to face the bar. He felt his arse grabbed again; ignored it. Again. Ignored it. Dumpling seemed to get the point.
It was hot. He wasn’t sure now how much of the moisture on him was rain, how much was sweat. “Better make it a double,” he thought… “Two doubles.”
He got caught up in the jostling. At least four people were rubbing against him at any time. He used his elbows to make use of gaps ahead, pulling himself forward.
“Chrissakes” the man muttered, as he broke through to the bar at last and propped his elbows on the sticky, lacquered wood. He cursed his luck at getting stuck behind the taps. Nobody sees you from behind the taps, and if they do, they leave it to somebody else to serve you. Nobody knows why... it just sucks to be behind the taps.
Finally he got noticed, yelled for two doubles, whiskey. Yes, coke. Why not? He fumbled with change and small notes shoved it at the sullen broad in the tanktop. It looked a long time since she’d smiled.
He slammed one down, left the glass behind. Didn’t wait for change. Squirmed his way through the writhing mass to the edge of the dancefloor. Space, a place to catch a breath. He smelt the sweet smell of marijuana wafting from the front of the moshpit somewhere. Figured it dark and grimy enough to light a cigarette.
Rough, shoving hands grabbed his shoulders. “No smokin’, son.”
The gig was up. He didn’t even get to finish his drink.


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202 No. 202 ID: 76db32 hide quickreply [Reply]
Hello /wri/ this is my first time ever on this board, I wrote this bit of text quite a while ago, and completely forgot about it. Does it have any potential? Even as a writing style? Constructive criticism would be great, thanks.

It was one of those perfect moments, a picturesque memory of the kind that’ll stick in your mind for the rest of your life, and that you can never shake loose. The shifting summer breeze ruffled our hair and sent a shiver down my spine, as it drifted past on it's never ending dance across the Australian heat. We sat together; my back against a dune on the beach, you laid back with your body curled against my own, your head on my chest. The sweet scent of your luxurious hair wafted to my nose, my nostrils flaring as I took in your heavenly essence. The sun was setting over the horizon, leaving a golden blaze on the ocean tops. If only life could be distilled in such a moment of perfection, if only it was infinitely amazing…
>> No. 223 ID: 353c91
nitpicky:
>as it drifted past on its
I don't think anyone should ever use semi-colons. Using "back" in two different ways so close together is a little awkward. I'd drop the luxurious adjective and shorten that line to something like "... wafted to my flaring nostrils"

Anyhow I think it has a nice calm voice, my advice would be to just speak plainly, don't try to pack in description, let it come about naturally from the narrative.
>> No. 265 ID: e8d12b
>>223
Thanks for the advice, I'd kind of given out hope on getting any. Re-reading through the sentence, I get what you mean about the "back" bit, it doesn't sit well, I'll drop the first one then...So lets try again:
It was one of those perfect moments, a picturesque memory of the kind that’ll stick in your mind for the rest of your life, and that you can never shake loose. The shifting summer breeze ruffled our hair and sent a shiver down my spine, as it drifted past on its never ending dance across the Australian heat. We sat together against a dune on the beach, you laid back with your body curled against my own, your head on my chest. The sweet scent of your luxurious hair wafted to my flaring nostrils. The sun was setting over the horizon, leaving a golden blaze on the ocean tops. If only life could be distilled in such a moment of perfection, if only it was infinitely amazing…
>> No. 400 ID: 4cf2f0
It's good, man. Keep the semi-colon -- it signifies a longer pause than a comma. Reads better.


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398 No. 398 ID: 5deb0c hide quickreply [Reply]
The rain coats the awning of the Irish Pub.

New York City cabs rush by, their headlights cast unfocused light beams upon the drenched pavement streets.

A man walks in and removes his hat

"Hey...

Remember me? "


Glen, the bartender, raises his head from cleaning the glassware.

"Holy shit, are you serious? what the fuck are you doing in here?"

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387 No. 387 ID: 7182f6 hide quickreply [Reply]
Sometime in December I spotted this ad on Facebook.

I found the whole thing incredulous and while I was well aware that it was simply junk and a good way to give data miners information about myself, I couldn't help but feel compelled to write a poem for this shady and almost surely illegitimate 'contest'.

Within twenty minutes I had completed a poem called 'Mystery' which made blatant use of movie titles starring Bale. The whole thing was a good laugh for my friends and I, a bizarre incident on the internets of no real consequence.
>> No. 388 ID: 7182f6
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388
Until today, when I recieved an envelope from the 'World Poetry Movement' informing me of, well...I don't really know. All that's clear is that they would like me to buy a copy of the book they're publishing which may or may not contain my poem about Christian Bale.

Oh, and I'm now a semi-finalist in their International Open Poetry contest.
>> No. 389 ID: 7182f6
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389
Here is the copy of my poem that they sent me, which they say must be returned to them for publication. At this point, I don't have much to lose, so I'll be sending it back.

I thought /wri/ would find this whole affair as laughable as I do.
>> No. 390 ID: 248bbd
They probably send one of those to everyone who submits a poem so that you will pay them money for a book containing your own poem.
>> No. 396 ID: 5ce051
>>390

No doubt, no doubt. I just think it's tremendously entertaining that such a shit piece of poetry (about Christian Bale, no less) could end up in a book somewhere.


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369 No. 369 ID: 3927d5 hide quickreply [Reply]
Harry slammed his book shut. It wasn't really a book, because the pages were made of lasers and the words were made of headless women making godless love to dragons made out of motorcycles, but it was still reading.

"Gumbledorp, if you don't stop, we'll starve, and no one will be around to kill everyone in the universe if we get around to bringing everyone back to life after we killed them."

"I am no longer Scrumblegort."

The ancient man dropped some of the planets he was juggling.

"The worlds have shifted. I am Dumblecop, of the Darkmeal."

He flexed one of his legs, which was made of pistols, and kicked a planet in half.

"Bugger your Darkmeal, faggart of a thousand suns."

Dumblecop sniffed.
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>> No. 376 ID: d27172
You're trying too hard to make little sense, mate. If you're going to forego a narrative, your prose must be good enough to make up for it. It's not.
>> No. 391 ID: ffa1dd
I like how this demonstrates an intelligent vocabulary but a foolish sense of humor.


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380 No. 380 ID: eb7004 hide quickreply [Reply]
How can a narrative pass the Bechdel Test if it is told by a male narrator? Without incapacitating the narrator, having him listen into a conversation, or some other contrivance? Certainly just because a work is told from a male point of view it can't be called antifeminist.

Now, I know that the Bechdel test isn't a gauge of a works feminist leanings, but we have to acknowledge that it is one of the first things brought up when discussing wether a work is or is not inclusive. AND, failing is a black mark on a work, no matter what it includes.

Personally, as a writer I am immensely frustrated with the feminist critique of pop culture. I feel that it is something that injects itself into works that aren't about gender. I feel that it is too easy to appear antifeminist through cherry-picked examples. For instance, is a male hero (or cubicle jockey in non-genre) that battles a female villain (or maybe his boss) a triumph of the patriarchy? Can a male character desire a female character and describe her as an object of sexual attraction, or does this violate her and all women by proxy?

Harry Dresden definitely related.
>> No. 385 ID: 248bbd
1. Don't worry about it too much. Just write what you want to write first and foremost.

2.
>is a male hero that battles a female villain a triumph of the patriarchy?
No. Any feminist pop-culture critic worth his or her salt understands that an inclusive work doesn't automatically have to have women in "good" roles; it means the work includes female characters that are just as nuanced and unique as the male characters. ie: the women can be heroes and villains, likeable and unlikeable, rich and poor, ugly and attractive, etc etc etc. Your work is only non-inclusive/antifeminist/sexist if the female characters are only important relative to the male characters or only exist as stereotypes next to fleshed out male characters.

If you write a story where there is a male hero and a male villain and the only female characters in the story are the hero's love interest and maybe the villains femme fatale sidekick, you're going to fail the Bechdel Test. If you write a story where there is a male hero and a female villain, as you propose in your post, there is nothing inherently sexist or antifeminist about that work and anyone who says otherwise is reaching. Unless of course your villain is a sexist stereotype of some kind, in which case you not only fail the Bechdel Test but are also probably a lazy writer for having a major character of any gender who is a narrow stereotype..

So yeah, don't worry about it too much. If you write a story that just happens to have an all-male cast, you're not a bad person.

In conclusion: don't overthink it to appease some invisible critics. Writing to please invisible critics is never a way to go. And when you do write female characters, put the same care and attention into them as you do your male characters. Problem solved


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335 No. 335 ID: fc9594 hide expand quickreply [Reply]
(Wrote this on request for a friend accross the pond)
Two people, sitting at the opposite sides of the table.
Time passes, they converse without exchanging words.
Trading ideas, making jokes, enjoying drinks.
When one or the other leaves the table for any reason, there needs to be no break in conversation.
Aimlessly drifting from topic to topic, only the utmost personal things go unmentioned.
When finally their time together is done, they both walk to the door.
Two friends exit two coffeeshops thousands of miles apart, smiling
Knowing even though there was no one at the table with them,
They hadn't been alone.


Criticism is welcome as always!
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>> No. 341 ID: 39df8b
>>336 has a point. Just what the fuck is poetry?
>> No. 342 ID: b979dc
I never put up poetry, just written pieces.
>> No. 343 ID: 3083ec
>>335
I like it. A story about us bros
>> No. 354 ID: 586d98
>>339
That's exactly what I was going to say...
>> No. 370 ID: e4869d
Read this at an open mic night, no one really listened, but there was a smattering of claps


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348 No. 348 ID: 44009e hide quickreply [Reply]
Texas Ted grimaced, pushing his mustache out of his mouth with his tongue. "This steak is terrible. Goddamn terrible."
"Well I'm sorry," replied Cooksy, raising his voice with pinpointed malice, "What's so goddamn terrible about it?"
"There's hair in it, Cooksy." answered Ted, still picking auburn strands from between his teeth.
"Well maybe if yer mother woulda taught you to groom yer mustache as well as she did hers, you wouldn't be havin' this problem!"

Texas Ted shook for a moment, turning red and letting spittle fly from his chapped lips and gritted teeth as an awful roar brewed in his belly. He stood, drew his pistol and shot off Cooksy's hat before yelling, "You little shit, my mother was a sexy lady!" At this oedipal outburst, framed by a gunshot, the bar became uncomfortably quiet. Chatty mumbles circulated like breezes in a scrawny dust devil, turning the hardened, gritty men of the old west into whispering schoolgirls.

Texas Ted, the only standing man in the saloon, turned round and round speechlessly, noticing disapproving glances from every pair of eyes he met. "What? I misspoke is all. Ain't y'all never misspoke before? It was just a ..." Ted stammered, before running out of steam and beginning a shamed stride toward the swinging door. Before he could leave, six more gunshots rang out through the room, drawing everyone's attention to an elderly yet robust Mexican man with an impressive mustache and a small hat, revolver pointed to the ceiling in his grip. He stood, announcing proudly, "I am Rodrigo de la Cruce Montoya Murriloz the third... And Texas Ted, your story has touched my heart in a way it has not been touched in a very long time."

Rodrigo threw his gun aside and bounded across the room, diving toward Ted and embracing the thigh of the surprised Texan, soaking his chaps with breathless sobbing. Ted, along with the rest of the bar, waited for Señor Murriloz to clarify the situation, gazing flummoxed at the emotional scene. Rodrigo pulled his face from Ted's leg long enough to belt out, "This man has confessed a deep-seated love, and you all scorn him!" He sniffled a bit, continuing, "I too, have long held a secret love within my heart, a love for my horse, Esmeralda!"

At Rodrigo's accidental call, the very same animal bounded through the swinging doors, barely clearing the prostrate Mexican and the stunned Texan before landing heavily on a table. Her fall came with multiple loud cracks, the snapping of the old ribs of the horse and the destruction of the old legs of the table forming a cacophony of tragedy for lover and carpenter alike. Esmeralda whinnied in pain, falling to her side and landing messily in a large dish of spaghetti. Rodrigo's sobbing began again as he ran from Texas Ted's chaps to Esmeralda's mane. The old man hugged the horse's neck, trying to calm her and stop he from kicking around any more pasta. In between his consoling Rodrigo bellowed to the heavens. "¡¿Por que, Dios, por que!?" Esmeralda's panicked din eventually dwindled into weak, labored sighs, and Rodrigo rose from his beloved, grabbing a bottle of sarsaparilla from an intact table. He chugged it deftly before smashing it on the table he'd taken it from, bringing the jagged glass toward his throat.

The old man's suicide was interrupted by two perfectly synchronized gunshots, working together to completely destroy his improvised blade. All eyes in the bar turned to two identically-dressed young men crouched on their table, guns still smoldering as they both returned to their holsters. The pair simultaneously stood up, removing their sombreros from their heads and placing them over their hearts. The man on the left began to speak passionately, "We are the Wondrous Western Wilson twins-" he was interrupted by the man adjacent, "Yes, THE Wondrous Western Wilson Twins, of Colorado fame." leaving the left Wilson to continue, "and we have traveled globally, performing gun tricks from Australia to Zimbabwe, but until now..." he began to tear up, as did his brother, who announced, "we have never seen a love as strong yet taboo as our own." The twins turned to one another before placing their hats on their opposite's head, and shared a long, teary, emotional gaze.

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>> No. 356 ID: 5fa15d
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356
rude


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70 No. 70 ID: 0b4e92 hide quickreply [Reply]
So, I've got an idea and what do you think?

I've been reading some of Michener's really long multi-generational epics, and it's got me thinking.
Doing some study of the Anglo-Saxons I found an old legend of "Nosex". The Brits probably know this, the yanks and aussies don't (well I didn't at least) but the southern area of the island was ruled by three distinct Saxon kingdoms, whose names survive in counties and shires today: the West Saxons' Wessex, the East Saxons' Essex, and the South Saxons' Sussex. There's medieval legends of a North Saxons' Nossex that died out in a single generation.

Due to obvious problems ("no sex" lol) I'd probably style it more archaicly/less abreviated, as "Norsaex", or maybe even "Nørsaex" for a really Scandinavian flavor (The Saxons were of course from part of Denmark)

I've already thought about a family tree and basic story arc:
The father character is a minor warrior-gentry in Scandinavia and comes to England with other raiders, just as the Anglo-Saxon invasion is beginning.
He brings his wife, who is pregnant during the voyage; they land just at the turning of the 7th century, the son being born on English soil but the mother dying in childbirth. The story really revolves around their son, his life and conquests. The father marries a native Briton (celt) and he is raised with two half-sisters and a half-brother who's always exceeding him despite being several years younger, probably ending in a good swordfight and his death.

It would follow the span of the children's lives, the kingdom the norse father builds, the transfer of power to the son, ethnic tension between the Anglo-Saxons, the Celtic Britons and the Romano-Britons (I know the Romans officially left Britian in the 400s, but there could always be a few villiages who didn't evacuate for sake of a good story, right?)

Probably the entire Nossex 'kingdom' is destroyed in a raid by the South Saxons, they became dominant in real history. I'm thinking the main son lives a little over 40 years, building one major town of the original pilgrims from the fathers' land and their children, Romans taken under protection (obviously they would hold a favored status), Celtic slaves/servants, outcasts from other Saxon holds, etc. No more than 500-1000 people, we're talking one generation in the 600s here. Stuff moves slowly.

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>> No. 73 ID: b312fe
Well, I would be interested in it. That said, you can make a good story out of anything. It's how you write that matters, not what you write.

Another useless post on my behalf. I'll just leave you alone, sorry I said anything.
>> No. 111 ID: bcc71e
About the Romano-British you should do a little more research. Although the army left the population lived in cities and were more or less civilized.
>> No. 162 ID: 0b4e92
>>111
Ah, thanks. I wasn't too sure if ethnic Romans remained in Britain or not, thanks for that.
>> No. 349 ID: c7d3e2
I like the idea a lot. The first few plot points reminds me of Prince Valiant, but this sounds more down to earth and like a realistic approach to the subject. Also the fact that Valiant just gave up the Norse gods and accepted Christendom just like that after arriving in Britain always bothered me. I'm guessing this story would deal with the conflict between the different religions and the cultures in a much better way.
>> No. 355 ID: 8ed14d
>The Saxons were of course from part of Denmark

Wrong, they were from northren Germany.


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350 No. 350 ID: 586d98 hide quickreply [Reply]
Yes, Kato is based on Soul but that's pretty much as far as the similarities go. Please give me constructive criticisms and corrections!


Kato woke with a start. Thick, black rain poured off the shutters, streaming down the mottled stones that bordered the dilapidated home he was sleeping in. Opening, or rather, throwing off the faded green, rotting window panes, he appeared to stare at the sky. The night burned red at the horizon, matching the crimson darkness that was his eyes. A sharp toothed grin stretched unnaturally across the bottom half of his face and as creases formed near his eyes, his head tilted ever so slightly – such was his mood. The white frosted, spiky mop of hair that adorned his head had streaks of red flowing like veins, though these soon disappeared as they swirled their way down his face, the large splatters of water forcing the dirt and blood out. He wore a suit, military in nature, with a few medals hanging across his heart. His black trousers are sliced at the right knee; blood seeped from the cut. Kato, standing in front of the doorway, is silhouetted: a strong frame fills the old suit, wide shoulders giving him an imposing air; his face scarred from many battles, a thin line cascading down his jaw; his legs straight and taught.

As he smiles, steam slowly rises from him, the wisps dancing about him as though frightened. He turns back inside, reaching in for his two swords. The first sword is incredibly ornate; patterns bolt down the centre, the lower side has jagged teeth while the top is smooth and sharp. It is as wide as two men and reaches far down Kato’s back; an unholy tinge enhancing its sheen. This was slung over his back as though it were no lighter than a cape and no more than one. The second sword is much thinner, its body blacker than tar and harder than diamond, a slight shine covers it but as he draws it up, jets of lightning dance along it, fearing to go near the fearsome edge. The beauty is entrancing, breath-catching blue-white electricity flickers and cracks along its surface, silenced only when he sheathed the weapon. His footsteps burnt the ground beneath, leaving a scorched trail – not that anyone would follow him. Kato, and the rest of the country, knew exactly what would happen to anyone he caught.

The small fishing village of Sakamura 坂村 was once beautiful; fishermen would haul huge catches each day under the open blue sky. The deep oak wood hulls of the fishing galleys glowed warmly, darkened further by the sea lapping gently at its belly, men and children running along the decks were laughing and joking as birds chirped and seagulls gawked at them, asking for an easy meal. That was before Kato passed through. That was before his sword’s thirst was sated with their blood. That was before the screams echoed across the plains as the silver grass beneath shivered, silent faces shaking in the wind.
That, however, was not the day that gave him fame, or rather infamy. Before his mind fell to the pits. A wickedly bright flash of lightning flits across the sky, the thunderous smack of sound hitting Kato moments later, launched him into his past…


-The Day Kato fell-
Wild lightning bolted across the clouds, the stampeding of thunder rolling up behind. Heavy needles of rain threw themselves against the soldiers’ faces, soaking their clothes. The unique dark red grass of the Humishi Plains was crushed underfoot, revealing the smeared, slippery clay beneath. The clouds and the Gods looked down on the field of men, torches scattered throughout the swirling masses, the light shaken and dim. General Kato smiled, baring his brilliant white teeth, he snarled at his underlings ordering them to charge. No matter the enemy, he knew that to win, his men must first fear him more than the enemy.

His name was not famous, not yet, but after this battle he knew it would be. All the odds were against him: they were outnumbered by thousands, but that was fine – more for him he thought. A second more malicious grin once again spread across his face as he mounted his black-iron clad war horse. The shimmering stallion named Toride とりで reared its huge head, its muscled neck straining, chomping at the bit as white foam frothed around it.
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>> No. 351 ID: 586d98
That day was the greatest Victory and the greatest Loss for his nation. Both armies were shattered and dead, lying at his feet, his horse triumphantly snickered, flicking its matted mane across its neck. Blood covered him; it was in his mouth, in his eyes and over his skin dyeing him a peculiarly bright rose. He chuckled, then charged through the rain screaming at the crows and flew above the river. He danced madly before collapsing into the silky water. That was when the rider realised quite how much he enjoyed killing.

12 Nov 2011
The next clap of thunder snapped him out of his reverie; he straightened his now soaked suit and stretched his shoulders back, rolled them in their joints. Another flash of lightning reminded Kato of his quest. The place in his dreams he knew was out there. Clicking his tongue, the haggard war horse trotted gently towards him. The constant running was having a visible effect; the burly rippling muscles were reduced and replaced with the sinews of stress and the once shining coat was now dull from lack of care. Kato mounted his horse tiredly, his leg only just making it over the large beast.

A worn, light brown leather saddle caught him and held him in a familiar embrace. The coarse woollen traveling coat hid Kato’s suit as he wrapped it tight, knowing that neither of them would survive another chase as intense as the last. Government Ashigaru were turning up everywhere, not even the most rural taverns were as safe as they once were. He chuckled lightly, a rumble in his chest causing him to cough. He never thought the state would spend this much money to find him, he didn’t believe he was that large an affront to their dignity as he was deemed. Head hung low, hood pulled up and arms drawn close he gently taps the horse and they start lumbering forward. It seems as though time stood still, their mutual exhaustion sapping their strength and sense of time.

Uniform stamping snapped them out of their daze, and they both tense, adrenaline began to surge through their veins. Kato kept moving, hoping against hope that they were just farmers who’d pay them no heed. A cruel god smiles as the signature Ashigaru uniform emerges from the mist of the dark, abandoned road. Toride and Kato do their best to shrink themselves, both begging that they aren’t asked for papers. Fortunately the Ashigaru seemed to be in a rush, as jogging past them the group of ten ignored them completely. Their grey cotton cloaks rippled in the blissful wind, the old road softening the clacks of the wooden sandals as the straw hats run over them.

Kato sighed in relief, murmuring to his horse, “That was close, if they had stopped us…” Neither of them needed, nor wanted Kato to finish that sentence. As the softened footsteps faded from hearing, they sunk back into their daze. The soft rocking of the horse lulled Kato deeper into his trance and his dreams returned to the field.
>> No. 352 ID: 586d98
(I don't know how to do italics, but this paragraph is him dreaming)

There is an open field, extending further than the eye can see. Golden grass grows tall, swaying softly under the gentle zephyrs moving amongst them. Surrounding the plains are tall, sleeping mountains. Cold rock and grimy snow are blurred by the haze of dust that lingers over everything. The musty scent of pollen fills the lungs, the glowing mist warming them from the inside as the bright but gentle sun throws soft beams of light through the cloudy ceiling, and the soft clouds laze back on the blue ocean above, wrapping themselves around noise and disturbance, calming the scene. A quiet orchestra creaks under the grass, the crickets’ ensemble untraceable. A piano sits in the centre, out of place yet belonging more than anything else. The dark mahogany hood is lifted as though it was recently played yet the shine is covered in dust. The keys still are covered by the heavy lid which was locked shut…

17.11.2011
A loud neigh woke Kato up; they were reaching another small village. The road was visibly worn by the ages of use and the name of the village was long forgotten, the mossy sign clinging desperately to its rusty nail. Perhaps this was where they could lose themselves, thought Kato hopefully, but he soon remembered that this was where the Ashigaru came through recently. As they wandered through the ancient village Kato noticed that the fresh wanted posters still held him in his old uniform: a white, charming smile that drew your eyes to his mouth whilst the deep red eyes pulled you back up; a strong, chiselled jaw held his mouth and then the beautiful scar that tore through it all. A pang of jealousy rose through Kato as he saw who and what he used to be.

22/12/11
Kato hadn’t realised quite how long he had been staring at the poster, nor had he noticed the slight sneer that he had developed, what he had noticed though was that the villagers had started to stare. That was what shook him out of his jealous reverie and made him pull the cloak a little tighter. He asked the closest villager where the stable was but was met with only a blank stare as though the peasant hadn’t realised he had been spoken too. Asking again more sharply provoked a nervous, stuttered answer but an answer nonetheless. The stable was housed behind the inn, perhaps not the wisest choice, Kato mused, yet a stable was better than nothing and he slid delicately off his horse whilst keeping firm hold of his saddle. The fresh muck that coated the floor steamed in the cold evening air, Kato held his breath before breathing the musty scent of his familiar woollen cloak.

10/01/12
He shivered, the cold night running its fingers over any exposed skin, causing the hairs on his body to stand on end. He hugged himself and carefully made his way towards the front of the inn. It was in relatively good repair, the plaster on the front still white, the dark timber beams without rot and the windows without any damages. Though most telling of its age was the door, the great lumbering beast that guarded its master’s fort was taken from ancient oak, the heavy wood was pale from weathering but still held firm under any pressure, the vertical planks were tight together and braced by metal bands that belted the door across.

Its hinges were the size of two hands and had no difficulty in holding the huge beast up. A large mouth hung against it, the black paint peeled where thousands of hands had grabbed onto it, revealing the dull iron underneath. Kato’s hand reached for the same gaping mouth, the pale, elegant fingers hooking inside and pulling. It didn’t budge. Harder, with his all his weight he pulled again, and slowly the beast groaned and began to move.

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>> No. 353 ID: 586d98
(Ignore the timestamps, they were just for me to keep track of when i was writing, I hope they don't bug you too much.)


The bathroom’s oceanic mosaic floor and mirror began to sweat as he opened the hot flow as far as it would go. The boiling water flowed freely from the decorative shower-head, cascading down onto the large sheet of stone below. The mirror reflected his lean body; every ounce of fat had been burned off from the constant exertions. Ripples pulsed across his pale, lithe body. He shivered in the still cool air; his skin puckered at the few scares his body held, none of them were ever deep enough to truly mar him, curiously though they seemed to flow like ink. The light danced along him, casting the queer patterned shadows formed by the wispy smoke, steam filled his lungs, and he stood up straight once more then stepped under the scorching waterfall. A slight pink hue seared across his chiselled body, and a contented sigh escaped from his parted lips. He stayed in for as long as the water still felt like it had been pumped directly from the furnace. When the water finally began to cool he was disappointed that his luxury had come to an end, but soon got over it, it being petty in comparison to his other sufferings.

Walking out into the main room the steam followed him, its long fingers refusing to release him. He took his time, enjoying the glow he felt de-thaw his bones. Moving to the dark carved wardrobe, he gripped the rounded handle and pulled firmly, walking into its open embrace and delved inside; choosing another perfectly tailored suit. It appeared to materialise out of the darkness, it was the deepest black, a perfect vacuum of colour. A powerful aura emanated from it as Kato ran his hand lovingly across it, relishing the feel of the familiar material. Hanging it back inside he turned and walked to the window, pulling a luxurious fur robe from the stand nearby, he covered himself.

The village was dark; all was silent bar the occasional chirp of a startled bird, the stars flickering like candles on a windy day. A small howl pulled itself through the gently shaking window pane. Kato shut the curtains on it, silencing the nuisance before finally getting into bed. Stretching out under the luxurious silk sheets and heavy bear blanket he sighed contentedly again. He reminisced over the good times, when he didn’t need to cower like some peasant, when he was able to walk into an inn and not even have to ask for the best room. Well as they say all good things come to an end, though perhaps he ought to have exercised more self-control that battle he mused, before quickly shrugging it off and settling down for a good night’s sleep.

Morning broke early the next day, and the curtains seemed to laugh as the slight gap allowed a fearsome beam of light to lie across Kato’s face. He opened his eyes then slammed them shut. A sole word croaked out of his throat “Crap.” He rolled out of the burning line, and into the bedside table. “Crap” His head now ached, and as he rolled back the other way he swung his arm out, and knocked the metal jug of water and its platter onto the floor, making a racket. He swore loudly, his morning ruined, he was very angry and expressed it by slamming his hand into the wall, the plaster crumbled beneath the impact. Splashing some freezing water on his face cooled him down, and he composed himself, glad that no one had seen his outburst. Releasing his stress, he slipped into a red silk shirt before he greeted the black suit like an old friend.

In front of the full-length mirror he admired himself, adjusting the pocket square that matched his shirt. He clearly had no intention of riding away from the village just yet and without his uniform he looked completely different. He pulled a few faces, chose a soft smile and focused on softening his eyes, allowing his brow to relax. He transformed himself into an open book, someone who innately made you want to trust him. Today, he had decided, was to be a business day. He gave himself a sly wink and pulled a cheeky grin. He was sure that a certain someone was going to find him.

Invigorated, he pulled the heavy door with ease, tipping his head to the startled doorman before gesturing to him to shut the door. He sped down the stairs with ease, before sliding himself up to the bar before realising he had left his drink in his room. “No matter” he thought. He motioned for the barman and explained the situation. The barman hurriedly carried out his request, returning moments later with the ornate glass and dusty bottle. A malicious grin rules over Kato’s face as he greedily snatched the bottle from the barman, as he left the bar he grabbed the cup and slipped it into his left pocket. Walking calmly towards the corner booth, he slides the bottle onto the black marble capped table then slides in beside it, ready to wait for as long as need be.

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288 No. 288 ID: aaeb24 hide expand quickreply [Reply]
Seriously. Who gives a fuck about starbucks?
I work at a Locally owned coffeehouse. Ask me manythings.
4 posts omitted. Click Reply to view.
>> No. 298 ID: a6f4b5
>>296
dat rhyme scheme pattern
>> No. 301 ID: fc9594
>298
There's a pattern?
>> No. 304 ID: d1fe2c
oh yeah, misspellings

sipping coffee in my shop
what makes you seem so sad?
>> No. 345 ID: 2e20cf
The last thing people go to Starbucks for is coffee.
>> No. 346 ID: 4f76ed
>>345
I wish that was true here. People swear by that shit


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317 No. 317 ID: cd674f hide quickreply [Reply]
Anita was sucking a cock one day, when she herd the sound of a farmer knocking on the door. "Hello who is it" I said. I'm the farmer and I'm here to take back my CHICKENS. NO you can;t have them. Well they're mine so I'm taking them anyway. Anita let the farmer take his chickens because she knew they were his and he was a good farmer. Anita got the mouth rabies from the chicken and had to go see a doctor. The doctors names were ROBERT. They gave Anita a really good exam because he was a really good doctor. Basically, they started at the feet and made sure every part of Anita was ok going from bottom to top. When they got to the mouth they were concenered for her rabies and gave her a rabies shot it the gums.

CHAPTER TWO
Anita went back home to get her car so she could drive to the Super Market and get her perscriptions. She also got some gas and was like "Gas is getting really expensive so I should be frugal and/or drive with more care to my acceleration". Nobody heard her because she was alone but actually someone DID hear her! It was THE FARMER because he had planted a GPS tracking bug in her car! Anita didn;t see it but she was still suspicious that something wasn't right.

CHAPTER 3
Anyway, Anita had some normal days and her mouth rabies got better. She once again heard the farmer knock on her door. "Who is it?" Its me the farmer, I just want to talk about what happened the other day and see if we can do something about getting you your own chicken. "ok" and Anita was tricked into opening the door. The farmer exploded into a rage and said I KNOW YOU WENT TO THE DOCTOR WITH MOUTH RABIES. The farmer and all of his chickens now had mouth rabies too because anita had given it to them for being a SLUT. Anita and the Farmer had a really cool fight where the farmer attacked with his fists and hurt anita pretty bad. Anita struggled to get away and managed to wrestle herself out to where she could grab an object and hit the farmer with it. The farmer fell down but kept attacking. Anita got hurt and hurt the farmer, but anita was doing ok because she was younger and on antibiotics. The neighbor came over and helped anita hold down the farmer until the police came. The neighbor Tom had ugly bumps on his lips and said to anita that she should get checked out for mouth rabies because he got them and they made out last week. Anita said yeah i got them and was on antibiotics. "Well then its probably ok for us to kiss". Anita said no because she had mixed feelings about getting mouth rabies from Tom. This frustrated Tom a bit and over the next week he fantasized about raping Anita but never did it becase there would be too many social consequences. Eventually over the year they started dating so the moral of the story is that social consequences are a good thing.

THE END
>> No. 340 ID: 5fa15d
Whose cock was she sucking?
>> No. 344 ID: f53cf9
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344
dude this is fucking genius
>> No. 361 ID: cd674f
>>344
glad u like :]

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