Writers' Bloc

Excellent. I just finished up a poem for my writing class, but I'd like to continue getting more criticism on it.

 

Can we scan stuff into this thread?

I got a lot of stuff I've wrote that I don't care to type up.

 

I can see why that guy stuck a gun down is throat.

Aside from the few word changes outlined, that poem is pretty damn near perfect. Well, it doesn't use all the techniques available in poetry, but poems don't have to. Hopefully noone will say "Needz moar similiz."

 

I've had this idea on my head for a while now. I want to announce to everyone here that I am not racist and if this is offensive to anyone I'll gladly take it down. All races have their similarities and differences, in the case I'll be talking about the differences, specifically the Negro race. It seems to me that people that have a close relation to African people are generally, made, adapted for physical work. Now at this point you're smashing your keyboard in with hate, but just sit tight and read.

Where I came up with my theory, would be the examination of the differences between the Negro race and te others. Let me start off on the hair, swimmers shave their head to be more aero dynamic. The Negro race has generally brittle, thick hair that if not treated with special care will become dry and break off, therefore is usually found short. In turn making them more aero dynamic, which is needed in more physical activities then any, work.

Now for me to start talking about the nasal passages. When you do more work your body tends to want more oxygen. Through common sence we can say bigger nostrils will we able to send more oxygen to the lungs then smaller nostrils found on most other races. The majority of the Negro race has somewhat larger nostrils then others, easier to take in oxygen and have a higher duration of work.

I have other points on the subject, but the rules are restricting me a bit. So I'll end this with one more, the Negro race seems to have an extra step in the physical shape of others. From examination and close speculation, almost everyone could say a Negro person would be faster, in tune with the strength of their legs. It's certain that the more fit and stronger you are, the faster and more efficient the work will be done. And that pretty much sums up three points on why I believe the Negro race was generally adapted and genetically made for physical work.

 

So, I just got through writing a business-type letter asking for help on my fundraising for my trip to Virginia. Since this is open to any writing I thought I'd see what you guys think. So here we go:

10/18/09

Dear Neighbors,


As you probably know, I have been fundraising to go to the National Jamboree next summer with the Boy Scouts of America. I am well on my way to reaching my goal of $3,500 dollars but, I’m not there yet. I still have a large sum to raise and, again, I need your help.

I have contacted the Shares Card program and received 250 cards to distribute to people. The way this works is when you go on your normal run to the store to grab whatever it is you need have the cashier scan the card and a percentage of your purchase will go toward my trip to Virginia. There are only four stores that you can use this on, however. Save Mart, Smart Foods, Food Max, and Lucky are these stores. Unfortunately Food Max and Save Mart are the only stores in the local area but, what ever money I get helps.

I will also include some extra cards which I hope you will pass on to your friends and family. Even if one only contributes dollars it will still help reach my goal.

Our jamboree troop is well on its way to becoming a fully functioning unit to tour the east coast and participate in the many activities the Jamboree has to offer. I have been selected to lead my troop and I look forward to this wonderful experience I have been presented with.

Thank you for your support


Ryan Jones


If you have any objections to me posting this, or you don't think its appropriate, just let me know. I will take it down.

 

Well, well! My idea has been brought to fruition.



Dull roars of those lions overhead shuddered the window as a streak of lightning raced between two clouds. Bolts of waters streamed down, pelting against everything, creating a symphony of splashes dancing about the city. But rain was the least of the problems that needed attention. For within that orchestra of water there lied a chaos of crashes and explosions and gunfire, distorting the music and making a piece that few delighted in listening to.

Up above it all, a man, a simple human male, watched the roads through his foggy window, waiting, sitting in anticipation a moment of opportunity to show his worth. Ever since being forced to warfare, he hadn't a single showcase to pride himself on, unlike every one of his partners in combat. He was bloodthirsty, savage and ready to fire when it needed to be done. But he couldn't get a shot.

He never could.

Always being put away, above, and out of place due to his skill. His partners loathed him, and shunned him, and his commanders made him stay out of harm so he could perform his ability without excess distraction. A sharpshooter, they called him. More like an artist. None of his shots at base camp missed. None of his shots were awful or even mild. They were perfect.

And so he was placed away until that time came. A savage, vengeance-filled soul that needed just one to be satisfied, but couldn't even receive that.

The lions roared again, and they were joined by the cackle of machine guns and the deep basses of artillery. Yes, there were tanks prowling this shattered carcass of metal and stone that used to be a metropolis. But insurgents and their opposition that was the United States caused it to fall into despair and misery, which led to complete abandonment and military control.

A huge explosion rocked the skyscraper, surprising the man and shaking him from his thoughts, compelling him to the road below once more. He watched as a group of his own company rushed across only to be mowed down by a hidden turret. He could tell the general location of it, but not discern how far into the building it was.

Looking about, he saw there were fragmentation grenades, along with other useless - to him, anyway - weaponry. He picked one up, and eyed it with... well, suspicion, really, but why he could not say. Laying down his rifle and opening thwwindow, he plucked the flimsy holding pin from the orb, and simply hurled it down the thirty stories to the other side of the street, where it exploded with a heart-warming thud and flash.

A crater appeared, and even though he could not hear the cries, there were shouts below, and the distraction allowed four more soldiers to rush unscathed. They returned outside in mere moments, two carrying the heavy mini-gun, and continued down the road with their six companions.

Applauding himself, the man picked up his rifle, but immediately dropped it when a crack split the air, and he ducked, somehow missing the bolt that slammed into the concrete above him. He calculated, picked up his rifle again, and peeked over the rim of his perch slowly, and was rewarded with the blurry silhouette of a man four stories below him, a fellow sniper that happened to be on the wrong side of the war.

The man sighed and moved to the left to another window, opened it, stuck his rifle over the sill, aimed, and waited. He wanted the shooter down there to recognize he was about to die. Water poured over the barrel of his gun and rim of his hat, creating little pools in the small indents on the sill and wetting his boots. None of it mattered, though, for he had finally found a target and was ready to blow him out of this life.

A streak of lightning flashed across the gloomy sky, illuminating the whole of the street for but a few moments. He saw the man below in sketched detail in those short seconds, expecting to see scared features, but was met with steeled, rugged ones, hungry for the kill and ready for it, too. But he also saw confusion, and rightly so.

Thirty more seconds passed, and in those thirty seconds, the man took five, steady breaths. At thirty-one seconds, the sniper below looked to the left and saw him, and widened his open eye. But that distraction was his downfall, for a small iron bullet sailed three hundred feet to pierce the eye and exit the man's skull, thudding with a nice sound into the ground below.

The man above wept.

 

That is unusual. It leaves me with a sense of wanting to know more. Why did he weep? Why does everyone hate him? It can't be because he is so good. Then people would respect him.

I guess that it is a compliment in that I enjoyed enough to want to know more. But, you've thrown in some details which you haven't explained to the reader, like why America is involved. You could just say it is Iraq or Afghanistan. Also when the bullet misses the protagonist perhaps a detail about it smashing through the window. Small things, I know, but small things make up the larger picture.

I must say you have created the atmosphere of urban warfare quite well, and the reader can see a little into the character, although the characters are pretty one dimesional right now. Although, that can not really be helped due to th shortness of short stories. But one can still insert a sentence here, another there about other things about the sniper. Also, I demand some kind of title.

 

Ha, I just made that up on the spot.

They despise him because they cannot beat him.

And thank you. I don't think I shall be making more, however, of that story.

I'll try writing more when I have time.

 

Yes, maybe just make things a bit clearer, like saying he wept with happiness (i think it's happiness). And I don't think you can do too much more of that story anyway.

 

No, he cried because he was horrified with what he had been longing to do. He finally did do it, but the realization made him crestfallen.

 

Where's the love, people? 3 weeks, no entries. I find this ashaming.

 

As a newcomer to the city, I never felt quite comfortable leaving my apartment. Even walking down the common hall was an ardueous process for me, because I was always nervous of running into another tenant, and being forced into an unwelcomed exchange of small talk. Although some people may simply nod away such a formality, I do value common manners, despite my real feelings.

If I did manage to reach the front door, then came the task of opening it. Every time I would grasp the doorknob with the intent of opening the attached door, I would begin to fathom what I might find on the other side. I would stand on my toes to peer through the peephole. Even if nothing was on the other side, I would still spend a good amount of time scouring the front porch with my vision, checking any place I could to avoid being ambushed with a formality.

If I did manage to reach the porch, then the sheer size of the buildings outside, towering over my 2 story complex, started my heart pounding in my chest. I would crane my neck until I could finally see the tops of these great behemoths. I would then look down the length of these buildings until my gaze rested on the alleywatys between them. Surely people waited in them, in the shadows of those great buildings, with nothing but the intent of attacking me into an unsolicited interaction. The mere thought of the possibilty of this occuring would frighten me so that I would stand on the porch for hours, or, in more extreme cases, retreat back into my apartment.

If I did manage to leave the porch, walking down the dingy streets to the square became a whole new challenge. Every time I passed another pedestrian, I would wince and brace myself for the superficial greeting that I always suspected to come. Sometimes I went as fas as to pretend to be a busy and deep into a task to avoid a verbal greeting. I would mutter nonsense under my breath and continueously check my watch, so that when another man saw me, they would think I was a businessman rushing to an engagement. Laws of ettiqute state that one should only nod at the businessman, for a even a quick conversation may hold him up.

If I did manage to reach the square, well, at that point my nerves were so wracked that I had already forgotten my errand. I would turn and start to hurry away, down the streets, back to my apartment. Surely this sight conveyed madness to onlookers, but I could no longer care about my appearence. The only thoughts I had were fear of what could happen at the square, and regret for making the journey.

Of course, this situation is entirely hypothetical. I've never left my apartment.

 

Y'know battle can really change a man. It can bring out character that a man never knew he had. It can also scar him so badly that his soul leaves him. I think that's what happened to my first sergeant.

He wasn't a terrible man by most respects. He knew what a man could and couldn't do. He just didn't care about life anymore. He wanted to die.

I remember one time when he took the dead body of one of their soldiers and slumped it over the top of his foxhole. He somehow managed to get one of their flags and draped it over the body. So, he just starts ****in' it. Some of the boys even cheered him. Well that just pissed 'em off. They started shelling us during that ceasefire. We lost a lot of good men.

As sick as the sight was, I just couldn't help but think he was probably a pretty good lover. About an hour after dark a sniper picked him off while he was lighting up. I guess he got his wish.

 

The dark thoughts transpose
As the mind drifts into an endless sleep of awareness.
Dark feelings visit me at my solitude
Beckoning me to do an action oh so reckless.
My chest expands as a I draw a breathe in,
The fleeting darkness dissipates.
My solitude is every hour of every day,
I sit in my skin only to be interrupted by humans.
I pity them, there trivial pursuits of happiness,
There is only one logical outcome for all of them. Death.
The dark thoughts drift though time and space,
Only to be returned to normalcy.

 

Coup de Fadre​

Together now are we
Joy and ecstasy​

Immortality
Never ending Hope

Perfect vision dove
Hold me like a glove
Brutal honesty
You’ll have all of me

Heart that never sees
A moment of breeze
Rushing gale like storm
Nothings like the norm

It is all so new
Emotions for you
Stopping in my chest
Seizing in my breast

Somniferous enlightened eyes of blue
Not threaten’d never fear your eulogy
Long staring through the vicarious view
Hear scant the villainy of blasphemy
She burns for life, the odor, struck across
The pure of heart and soul mistrust their light
A man of faith atones as judgment knocks
So intertwined with fate which logic block​

So don’t e’er sacrament time ne’er to fade
The polymorphic omnipotent vice
Disastrous then fatal hope; a blade
By two and sharp to lead the blind by dice
Loquacious din to lead a mind astray
When all hope go ‘way, look to sky and pray​

At first its sweet annex; never ending And then it’s soon a mess; we’re descending Deep into a pit of immortality Two sit and watch as we all learn to bleed Lie and cry, truth be told, and in a sense We cut and raped each other’s innocence We stop and gape One binds with One Eleven make It all undone.
At start its wonderful; the beginning At part its horrible; documenting The loss of all I cared for in this world I’m stuck Alone on my own, Truth –behold- The pain it stops my heart and wrecks calm seas The pain is gone from you? Oh please, oh please… We stop and stare One binds with One Eleven scare This Hell away​

Justtakeitawayjuststareawayavendettamaybegintofrayourtimeawayonourlastday!!!
So why can’t you all just leave me Alone?​

Coup de Fadre (part one)
Lament of Fate (part two)
Alone (part three)​

 

Soft winds sweep slowly,
O'er cities sleeping silent,
Washing sickness safely up,
High above, in streams of sky.

Brown trails criss-cross the sky,
Ever present, always deadly.
We take and take, never returning.
The sky cannot take our sickness.

Plumes of death rise from cities,
While we natter in damned committees,
Sickness spreads, ever evil.
The sky cannot take our evil.

Soft winds weep slowly,
O'er cities dying silent.
Seeping sickness slowly down, from
High above, from streams of sky.

Weeping high above, are streams of sky,
Watching down as our human cities die.

I've written some more stuff in my blog, \/\/\/\/.