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I write a lot. Here's another poem; this one's about a breakup. It's a generic topic, I know, but stuff happens and it's hard to get over so I write about it.

 

I made it easy
I made it so easy for you
When I disappeared
you  could forget
your wrong
doing
When I disappeared
you couldn’t hear
you couldn’t hear my song anymore
But I guess that I don’t know
for sure
I mean it’s been a long time
and I didn’t forget
so maybe you still remember
or even think
of me
occasionally
But I don’t really know
so I assume
and my assumption is
probably spot on
but I didn’t forget
so maybe you still remember
I can’t even really
Honestly I can’t
keep my thoughts
together
It’s been a long time
It’s been too long
for me to care anymore
and I guess I don’t
but I didn’t forget
so maybe you still remember
I didn’t forget
and you’re still
whatever

 

Seems like those VNs Haiku that doesn´t make much sense until later in the game.

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I wrote this centuries ago, I even had a thread for it. I kind of let it die for a while, however, since I got caught up in some unpredictable business. I'll be picking it back up soon though.

 

A Brief History of Portugal

 

Chapter 1 - Before the Roman Arrival

Portugal is situated in the 

Iberian Peninsula, nowadays constituted by Spain and Portugal, but it wasn't always like this.

 

The first known tribes in this peninsula were the Iberians, a bunch of nomadic people we know bugger all about. Maybe not quite, but they left no reasonable settlements or noteworthy anything, so let's skip ahead.

 

Later, the Celts showed up in Iberia, creating what is known as the Celtiberians, another unimportant lot who did nothing noteworthy at all. One of these tribes were the Lusitanians, we'll come back to them later.

 

This all happened a few centuries BC, mind you. Around this (unspecified) time, the Phoenicians arrived. They've got a good eye for these things and they were quick to notice how rich we were in gold, and being one of the first civilizations to create a currency, they made good use of it. Giving us a bunch of scrap clothing in return, they slowly stole our precious metals.

 

Of course, the Celtiberians couldn't care less about that malleable metal they just couldn't keep straight. Make a fine sword out of it and after one spar is already completely worthless. Shields would be useless too. This made the metal, essentially, rubbish.

 

All was well for a few years, but what's a business without competition? The Phoenicians weren't the only merchant tribe in this ancient world. The Carthaginians swiftly caught on to the Phoenician increase in income. They immediately headed to the Iberian Peninsula, what they assumed to be the cause.

 

Usually, one would say the merchant that arrives later has the disadvantage, but this wasn't the case for the Carthaginians. At least, not when backed by their unmatched army of sell-swords and mercenaries. The poor Phoenicians didn't stand a chance. Not that there was much of a fight, they "peacefully" left the place.

 

Mind over muscle, or so I've been told. Seemingly, the Phoenicians agreed. They made a call to their good pals, the Greeks. And then they came back, with a Greek army in tow. Trouble was bound to arise for the Carthaginians... 

Actually, scratch that, the plan backfired. The Greeks liked the place so much they just told the Phoenicians to sod off. The Greeks settled there, and neither them nor the Carthaginians dared make a move. Both had mighty armies which had no real need to clash.

The hapless Phoenicians simply had to take their leave...

 

With the pieces in place, and hundreds of years gone by, a new player joined the fray. Enter the Romans! The mightiest of civilizations with well-trained soldiers. Furthermore, sworn enemies of the Carthaginians and not exactly best friends with the Greeks. No wonder they took interest in Iberia, where the Celtiberians simply watched on as tribes and civilizations came, settled, and left...

 

Chapter 2 - Roman Arrival and the Lusitanian Tribe

Should've written this ages ago, but it was put in the back-burner and was left for the wolves. I'll be back though. Do count on that.

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I wrote this centuries ago, I even had a thread for it. I kind of let it die for a while, however, since I got caught up in some unpredictable business. I'll be picking it back up soon though.

 

A Brief History of Portugal

 

Chapter 1 - Before the Roman Arrival

Portugal is situated in the 

Iberian Peninsula, nowadays constituted by Spain and Portugal, but it wasn't always like this.

 

The first known tribes in this peninsula were the Iberians, a bunch of nomadic people we know bugger all about. Maybe not quite, but they left no reasonable settlements or noteworthy anything, so let's skip ahead.

 

Later, the Celts showed up in Iberia, creating what is known as the Celtiberians, another unimportant lot who did nothing noteworthy at all. One of these tribes were the Lusitanians, we'll come back to them later.

 

This all happened a few centuries BC, mind you. Around this (unspecified) time, the Phoenicians arrived. They've got a good eye for these things and they were quick to notice how rich we were in gold, and being one of the first civilizations to create a currency, they made good use of it. Giving us a bunch of scrap clothing in return, they slowly stole our precious metals.

 

Of course, the Celtiberians couldn't care less about that malleable metal they just couldn't keep straight. Make a fine sword out of it and after one spar is already completely worthless. Shields would be useless too. This made the metal, essentially, rubbish.

 

All was well for a few years, but what's a business without competition? The Phoenicians weren't the only merchant tribe in this ancient world. The Carthaginians swiftly caught on to the Phoenician increase in income. They immediately headed to the Iberian Peninsula, what they assumed to be the cause.

 

Usually, one would say the merchant that arrives later has the disadvantage, but this wasn't the case for the Carthaginians. At least, not when backed by their unmatched army of sell-swords and mercenaries. The poor Phoenicians didn't stand a chance. Not that there was much of a fight, they "peacefully" left the place.

 

Mind over muscle, or so I've been told. Seemingly, the Phoenicians agreed. They made a call to their good pals, the Greeks. And then they came back, with a Greek army in tow. Trouble was bound to arise for the Carthaginians... 

Actually, scratch that, the plan backfired. The Greeks liked the place so much they just told the Phoenicians to sod off. The Greeks settled there, and neither them nor the Carthaginians dared make a move. Both had mighty armies which had no real need to clash.

The hapless Phoenicians simply had to take their leave...

 

With the pieces in place, and hundreds of years gone by, a new player joined the fray. Enter the Romans! The mightiest of civilizations with well-trained soldiers. Furthermore, sworn enemies of the Carthaginians and not exactly best friends with the Greeks. No wonder they took interest in Iberia, where the Celtiberians simply watched on as tribes and civilizations came, settled, and left...

 

Chapter 2 - Roman Arrival and the Lusitanian Tribe

Should've written this ages ago, but it was put in the back-burner and was left for the wolves. I'll be back though. Do count on that.

Just curious, but is your piece fiction or non-fiction? Or does it have elements of both?

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Just curious, but is your piece fiction or non-fiction? Or does it have elements of both?

Non-Fiction. Though obviously there's quite a bit of exaggeration and metaphors. Saying the Phoenicians "made a call to their good pals, the Greeks" isn't entirely accurate. But it is true that it was the Phoenicians who requested aid from the Greeks.

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Don't be so quick to throw in the towel. This is a place where everyone should feel welcome to share their projects no matter what level they are currently at. It would be boring if everyone's writing was the same or everyone turned in stuff without any flaws. The whole point of the critique is help writers recognize where they're at and push them beyond their limits. As long as everyone puts in effort into their writing and rewrites then I see no reason why you should stop doing something you enjoy.

i've been writing books for years over a thousand pages written and counting and still im terrible at correct writing

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  • 2 weeks later...

This is a short story i made in 2012.

its not good because i just made cos i was bored but it was better than i though it would be at the time

 

Royal Flush.

L.A. a beautiful city to live in with great weather, wonderful attractions and an amazing nightlife. This is where our story begins.

9.30pm in downtown Los Angeles and there is a poker tournament going on. Just the looks on the faces of the competitors is enough to make someone burst into laughter. Everyone is so focused on this. Around the table are the spectators watching intently, making their own little bets on the side. In the middle of the crowd was a short, bearded man, if you had looked at him, you would have thought he was about 70 to 80 years old but this man became the world's youngest multibillionaire at only 30 and is now 40 years old. The man's name was Vladimir Petroviç and to say that he was well known would have been an understatement. He had his name on almost every mainstream brand on the planet as well as owning his own products which made him £450,000 in their first week on the market in England. Petroviç had almost all the money in the world, which was fortunate seeing that he was an obsessive gambler who sometimes blew thousands or even millions on horse races, greyhound races and poker.

The pack was dealt. Everyone gasped as they saw the seemingly old man bet $300 billion, which to him was only pocket money. He hoped harder than hope itself as the dealer turned over the first card. Three of hearts. Petroviç smiled happily and looked down at his cards. He had a Three of diamonds and a Three of clubs. The next two were turned over. Three of spades and Jack of spades. The man was beaming, he'd figured that he had won this and so he sat back and confidently went all out, betting over $900 million and smiling as all but one man folded.

That man's name was George Mykhals and not one of the people in this dark basement had not heard of him before, in fact almost everyone on the planet knew him as the owner of GMP (George Mykhals Petroleum). Mykhals was a multimillionaire with a feisty attitude and an obsession with coming out of things as the victor, even if it meant using his assets to achieve that. Mykhals went all out and let out a little chuckle as he slammed the money down as hard as a Bajan man playing dominoes. Everyone who was cramped into the basement watched with intense focus as the dealer purposely took his time turning the next two cards.

 

Petroviç watched Mykhals trying to figure out what he was thinking but Mykhals didn't give a single thing away keeping still and donning a serious but not too serious face. Petroviç thought and pondered over the possibilities of Mykhals winning and, due to his excessive pride and vehement hate for losing, concluded that it was near impossible and decided to just get on with it. The dealer turned the last two cards over. Queen of spades and King of spades. Petroviç sprayed out his laughter along with a small amount of saliva and then lay out his cards. The whole crowd gasped when they saw the amazing hand that Petroviç had laid out and realized that it would be very difficult for George Mykhals to beat the best four card hand in the game.

 

Everyone was amazed at the 40 year old's impressive hand. Petroviç was so pleased that his smile almost reached around his head twice. Petroviç looked up at Mykhals only to see a smile break across his face and, annoyed with Mykhals refusal to yield, told him “come and show your cards, let’s see what you have up your sleeve.” Mykhals whispered something quiet but threatening to Petroviç, something so threatening that it caused Petroviç to sit up in his seat, looking a little more than worried.

 

Mykhals showed his hand. Petroviç stood up, everyone stepped back, the old lady in the back fainted and all this was a reaction to Mykhals' hand. In the hands of George Mykhals were a 10 of spades and an Ace of spades. On the table were 3 of hearts, 3 of spades, Jack of spades, Queen of spades and King of spades. A Royal Flush. As Petroviç cried and walked out from the crowd, in his mind, a sentence repeated over and over.

 

"It was nice humouring you, but now I have to end this.

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This is a short story i made in 2012.

its not good because i just made cos i was bored but it was better than i though it would be at the time

 

Royal Flush.

L.A. a beautiful city to live in with great weather, wonderful attractions and an amazing nightlife. This is where our story begins.

9.30pm in downtown Los Angeles and there is a poker tournament going on. Just the looks on the faces of the competitors is enough to make someone burst into laughter. Everyone is so focused on this. Around the table are the spectators watching intently, making their own little bets on the side. In the middle of the crowd was a short, bearded man, if you had looked at him, you would have thought he was about 70 to 80 years old but this man became the world's youngest multibillionaire at only 30 and is now 40 years old. The man's name was Vladimir Petroviç and to say that he was well known would have been an understatement. He had his name on almost every mainstream brand on the planet as well as owning his own products which made him £450,000 in their first week on the market in England. Petroviç had almost all the money in the world, which was fortunate seeing that he was an obsessive gambler who sometimes blew thousands or even millions on horse races, greyhound races and poker.

The pack was dealt. Everyone gasped as they saw the seemingly old man bet $300 billion, which to him was only pocket money. He hoped harder than hope itself as the dealer turned over the first card. Three of hearts. Petroviç smiled happily and looked down at his cards. He had a Three of diamonds and a Three of clubs. The next two were turned over. Three of spades and Jack of spades. The man was beaming, he'd figured that he had won this and so he sat back and confidently went all out, betting over $900 million and smiling as all but one man folded.

That man's name was George Mykhals and not one of the people in this dark basement had not heard of him before, in fact almost everyone on the planet knew him as the owner of GMP (George Mykhals Petroleum). Mykhals was a multimillionaire with a feisty attitude and an obsession with coming out of things as the victor, even if it meant using his assets to achieve that. Mykhals went all out and let out a little chuckle as he slammed the money down as hard as a Bajan man playing dominoes. Everyone who was cramped into the basement watched with intense focus as the dealer purposely took his time turning the next two cards. Petroviç watched Mykhals trying to figure out what he was thinking but Mykhals didn't give a single thing away keeping still and donning a serious but not too serious face. Petroviç thought and pondered over the possibilities of Mykhals winning and, due to his excessive pride and vehement hate for losing, concluded that it was near impossible and decided to just get on with it. The dealer turned the last two cards over. Queen of spades and King of spades. Petroviç sprayed out his laughter along with a small amount of saliva and then lay out his cards. The whole crowd gasped when they saw the amazing hand that Petroviç had laid out and realized that it would be very difficult for George Mykhals to beat the best four card hand in the game. Everyone was amazed at the 40 year old's impressive hand. Petroviç was so pleased that his smile almost reached around his head twice. Petroviç looked up at Mykhals only to see a smile break across his face and, annoyed with Mykhals refusal to yield, told him “come and show your cards, let’s see what you have up your sleeve.” Mykhals whispered something quiet but threatening to Petroviç, something so threatening that it caused Petroviç to sit up in his seat, looking a little more than worried. Petroviç stood up, everyone stepped back, the old lady in the back fainted and all this was a reaction to Mykhals' hand. In the hands of George Mykhals were a 10 of spades and an Ace of spades. On the table were 3 of hearts, 3 of spades, Jack of spades, Queen of spades and King of spades. A Royal Flush. As Petroviç cried and walked out from the crowd, in his mind, a sentence repeated over and over. "It was nice humouring you, but now I have to end this.

 

i dont mind critique so please share some on how i could improve.

Could you please break up your story into paragraphs? It makes it easier to critique and follow along with the story. I'd do it myself but I'm not sure where you intended to have breaks for dialogue and scene transitions.

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http://veinsofkygrykhon.blogspot.com/2014/02/red-ribbon.html

 

It's a blog about my writings (mostly), but I would like to post this one in particular because it's my personal favourite. 

As usual, my line edits are in the spoiler tags and you can look through them at your own discretion. Feel free to leave some comments or questions concerning the edits in case there are any pertinent doubts that you still have after reading through them. Some problems I noticed were your inconsistent tenses and meaning of some the sentences being lost due to the high diction.

 

Red Ribbon

 

Big Fishes' Carnival at The Lake - Red Ribbon

A funeral. The red ribbon still on the wrist.

None wondered why a cluster of humans gathered around a coffin much like people gather around campfires, albeit the contrast in atmosphere. Although obstructed by layers of griefing (grieving) acquaintances, one could clearly imagine (Should this be 'see' or is this not happening at the moment?) a lady on (in) her forties kneeling down, stupidly banging on the coffin walls (,) wailing for explanations, her cry of sorrow striking the hearts of every (everyone present). The father, a tall man of calmness, (What's a man of calmness?) would softly hold her shoulder, and although excruciated (<--- should be in present tense), would patiently wait for his beloved wife to quench out all her tears (let it all out), her questions unanswered. As the last line of sorrowlessness (sorrow) (What's a line of sorrowlesness?) break(s) in them one by one, they started to look away, unable to bear (Unable to bear what?), unprepared for a mising existence (this sudden loss). For a person so loved, the breathless persona must be of kind nature. (Too verbose. It could just be 'he must have been a very kind person.')

A church. The red ribbon still on the wrist.

Sat a girl in front of the hearing wall, with ‘crying’ unable to explain her state (Suggestion: A girl cried as she sat in front of the hearing wall, unable to explain her anguish). She did say about wanting and end, but never with so much blood on her hands. Now those hands of a murderer (These murderer's hands) were only capable of meaninglessly trying to hide the flowing tears, of sadness, of fear. Imagine a line of good people, standing in line outside the church, so that they could point a judging finger on (at) her one by one. Imagine the word “killer” that everyone had been (spewing, clinging to her skin) vomitting to grossly stick to her skin, with her unable to cleanse it for it was truth. She could make mistake (Not sure what this sentence means? Should there be a 'no' in between 'make' and 'mistake'?). Nobody told her this was an exception, for even her new beloved walked away from her. She never had the chance to explain.

A newspaper. The red ribbon still on the wrist.

Trampled on the ground, covered in the snow of yesterday (yesterday's snow), it hadn’t given up on informing, on spreading the words regarding (it told of) a murderer walking (by) your street, a succubus so fragile yet prevailed in ending the life (strong enough to end the life) of a genius. It said he found the cure to cancer. It said he would have a bright future. It said he brought joy to many. It said his voice liven up (was a blessing) the still-beating hearts of the tortured. Yet she stopped him, good. She didn’t want to. She didn’t mean to. She did, with his love for her.

A diary. The red ribbon still on the wrist.

Photos of lovely couples were pasted (glued) on every page but the last. She appeared to have a good life, a happy relationship, a dream world. In every page would be the (there was the) word “love”, written not (out) of blasphemy but of sincerity. The last page covered in tears (Wouldn't the tears have smudged the writing?), she had written about her failure, about the second heart beating in her, about how she would only fail him and pull him down from the shining realms in which (where) he belonged. Thinking about him and his future, she thought she had made the ultimate sacrifice – to bury her feelings for his future.

A closed room. The red ribbon still on the wrist.

Darkness desperately tried to cover this room with oblivion (drag this room into oblivion), yet it failed to conceal the horrible decision made by the owner of the room (crime committed by the owner of the room) – for blood could be smelled (there was a stench of blood), and pictures of her found everywhere you look(ed). A piece of paper explained it all; a crumpled little note for no one to find. It said he couldn’t go on without her. He said she was cruel, the note displayed (The note mentioned what he thought about her cruelty). He said the world was cruel, the note displayed (It was a testament of his ire toward the world). His trophies didn’t matter anymore, (End sentence with a period here.) his (His) flowing wealth much like an army of ants passing by; insignificant, irrelevant (utterly worthless). All he wanted was her, and when she was gone for good, there was no reason (would be no more reason) for blood to run through his veins.

For him to choose the easy path, many must suffer.

I desired to stay, but again the red ribbon pulled my hand(.) and so I was dragged away, with everything being sucked into the future(.) and I could only accept, wondering if there was any reason for the ribbon to show me all these (All these what? Memories?). Then I realized what it truly was. (Sudden P.O.V shift from the previous paragraph.)

A mirror. The red, flowing blood still on my wrist.

I refused to believe what I saw (In his head? In the mirror?), yet no longer could I run from the story, for memories of my life were coming back to me. The crazy times I spent with my friends, the joy and grief I shared with my parents, everything felt like yesterday: painfully close, yet inevitable unreachable and unchanging. The trip to Disneyland with her, the nights I spent researching with her patiently waiting for me, occasionally reminding me of how late it had been, although I never complied (listened) to her protests, everything was back. I was in a coffin, and now I’m here standing in front of myself. Then the last question remained: may I?

Yes, you may, answered the blood.

Thus I threw away the knife that was about to kiss my wrist, and the pain was no longer (more). I slammed the door open, and ran with all my strength to find her. I didn’t know who saved me, I didn’t know why I deserved such an impossible chance. But one thing I know for sure: that the blade was never an answer. What a fool I am to even consider (it).

 

This was a story about a man who is contemplating taking his life because the love of his life has left him. It is hinted at one point in the story that the woman is a succubus and that she is pregnant with the man's child. Throughout the story we see how with the man gone, who I believe is some kind of doctor, many people would be sad and she would most likely carry the burden of  his death for the rest of her life. The tone of the piece is sorrowful anf foreboding. The repetition of the red ribbon is very nice and shows how she is always with him despite the arduous task he is about to take. The red ribbon and the blood seem to be what connect them. Ultimately, he decides to throw away the knife and go look for her, deciding to live for her sake.

 

It seems that for the most part we are in a room with a third-person oniscient narrator and only briefly come to learn about the outisde world as the protagonist delves into his memories. I actually thought the story took place in some Vcitorian/Gothic setting because of the diction and tone of the piece, so I was a bit taken aback when the word 'Disneyland' appeared. I don't have a problem with this, but would have liked to see more clues scattered throughout the story that hinted as to whether this was all taking place in the present day or not. I really liked the amount of introspection that you included in the story and it felt realistic for the most part because we could see the protagonist struggling with the idea of leaving his beloved behind and putting a lot of people through a lot of pain. I'm curious as to the nature of the woman he is referring to throughout the story but I understand why the ambigous nature is there since this story is focused more on him than on the terms concerning their relationship.

 

Watch out for your tenses since many times within the same sentence or paragraph you had a tendency to shift between present and past tense. I would just keep it all in present tense since we come to believe that the first half of the story had happened already until we come back to the present moment. It'll make more of an impact when we realize the severity of the situation and see where things could have gone for the protagonist. There were few grammar mistakes and you have good control over your syntax which made it easy to read. The voice of the character is natural for the most part since he's a doctor so one would expect his vocabulary to be pretty robust. A friendly reminder, sometimes less is more and and you can give off the same effect when you use packed details and condense your sentences. Some of the emotional was dulled because you overdid it with the language.

 

Overall, it was a good read. Thanks for sharing!

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This is an original short story I wrote several years ago, inspired in part by anime culture.

 

Title: Memory's Burden

 

Synopsis: Eight years after a tragic accident claimed the lives of his father and beloved sister, Brian and his mother Clare struggle to cope with the rift their lost loved ones have left behind, as well as the growing rift between each other. 

 

https://www.fictionpress.com/s/2789148/1/Memory-s-Burden

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I wrote this centuries ago, I even had a thread for it. I kind of let it die for a while, however, since I got caught up in some unpredictable business. I'll be picking it back up soon though.

 

A Brief History of Portugal

 

Chapter 1 - Before the Roman Arrival

Portugal is situated in the 

Iberian Peninsula, nowadays constituted by Spain and Portugal, but it wasn't always like this.

 

The first known tribes in this peninsula were the Iberians, a bunch of nomadic people we know bugger all about. Maybe not quite, but they left no reasonable settlements or noteworthy anything, so let's skip ahead.

 

Later, the Celts showed up in Iberia, creating what is known as the Celtiberians, another unimportant lot who did nothing noteworthy at all. One of these tribes were the Lusitanians, we'll come back to them later.

 

This all happened a few centuries BC, mind you. Around this (unspecified) time, the Phoenicians arrived. They've got a good eye for these things and they were quick to notice how rich we were in gold, and being one of the first civilizations to create a currency, they made good use of it. Giving us a bunch of scrap clothing in return, they slowly stole our precious metals.

 

Of course, the Celtiberians couldn't care less about that malleable metal they just couldn't keep straight. Make a fine sword out of it and after one spar is already completely worthless. Shields would be useless too. This made the metal, essentially, rubbish.

 

All was well for a few years, but what's a business without competition? The Phoenicians weren't the only merchant tribe in this ancient world. The Carthaginians swiftly caught on to the Phoenician increase in income. They immediately headed to the Iberian Peninsula, what they assumed to be the cause.

 

Usually, one would say the merchant that arrives later has the disadvantage, but this wasn't the case for the Carthaginians. At least, not when backed by their unmatched army of sell-swords and mercenaries. The poor Phoenicians didn't stand a chance. Not that there was much of a fight, they "peacefully" left the place.

 

Mind over muscle, or so I've been told. Seemingly, the Phoenicians agreed. They made a call to their good pals, the Greeks. And then they came back, with a Greek army in tow. Trouble was bound to arise for the Carthaginians... 

Actually, scratch that, the plan backfired. The Greeks liked the place so much they just told the Phoenicians to sod off. The Greeks settled there, and neither them nor the Carthaginians dared make a move. Both had mighty armies which had no real need to clash.

The hapless Phoenicians simply had to take their leave...

 

With the pieces in place, and hundreds of years gone by, a new player joined the fray. Enter the Romans! The mightiest of civilizations with well-trained soldiers. Furthermore, sworn enemies of the Carthaginians and not exactly best friends with the Greeks. No wonder they took interest in Iberia, where the Celtiberians simply watched on as tribes and civilizations came, settled, and left...

 

Chapter 2 - Roman Arrival and the Lusitanian Tribe

Should've written this ages ago, but it was put in the back-burner and was left for the wolves. I'll be back though. Do count on that.

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I was expecting a part about the Arab invasion. 

 

Much disappointment

 

Anyways, I might add something myself here, (when I'm not as lazy as I am now). Do look forward to being dissapointed

You know, assuming I stop getting distracted by worldly desires I will continue this. The title should have made it clear I'm nowhere near the Moorish invasion yet, anyways.

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This is an extremely pleasant topic to read filled with remarkable stories, critiques, as well as writing advice. I'm hoping that with certain writers' permission, I may share their works to some personal philologist friends who would certainly enjoy the read! 

 

I would post some of my scribbles to share, but being as pessimistic as I am, I find myself unable to do so.  :P

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This is an extremely pleasant topic to read filled with remarkable stories, critiques, as well as writing advice. I'm hoping that with certain writers' permission, I may share their works to some personal philologist friends who would certainly enjoy the read! 

 

I would post some of my scribbles to share, but being as pessimistic as I am, I find myself unable to do so.  :P

Pessimistic about the quality of your own writing or about how people will judge it on a public forum? It'd be boring if everyone was at the same level or wrote about the same things so feel free to contribute a story or two in order to let the pool of talent grow and allow others to learn and be entertained. I'm more experienced when it comes to Fiction, but feel free to post anything you'd like to share on here.

 

It'd also be nice if other people would also critique stories so that we can see how others approach the craft of writing and which elements they focus on so that the author gets a diverse array of opinions from which to pluck from. It doesn't have to be a long post or go into depth at the line level. 

 

A simple summary that includes these three things in a short paragraph will suffice:

 

1. A summary of the story.

2. What you liked and didn't like about the story?

3. Some suggestions about how to improve the story, don't necessarily have to include all of these. (Plot, Setting, P.O.V, Themes, etc.)

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I agree with Pyonnu, this is a rather fascinating topic which shows some people's creative vein... not only that, you also get critique/corrections with a lot of work and depth put into them. I might post a couple of poems i had on my mind for quite a while but never bothered to write them down since i was too lazy and lacked guidance/critique. Keep up the good work, guys.

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This is one of my more liked snippets. No thoughts, no dialogue, not even a story. Just enough room for me to patch together some mildly dramatic descriptive lines without them conflicting with each other.

 




The sky is dark. You overlook a grand swath of deserted land. Occasionally, a weak gust of wind tumbles over around you.

Is there no one here? You see a man-made structure in the distance. The outline is but that, a regular blot over the luminous sky. Your curiosity pulls you forward, and you begin to walk. The ground is soft like hay-covered peat. Somehow, questions of food and water do not occur to you at all. Your thoughts seem to conform to atmosphere, the pace of this world. Your eyes wander as you walk, taking in the blue and green luminance of the heavens. The earth remains dark, though, and after a while, interest fades and your gaze returns. Is it just your imagination, or is the mansion a little closer? Wait? How did you think to call the building a mansion? It certainly is a possibility -- you scrutinize the faraway shadow -- though you really can't say anything for certain from this range. No matter. You end your contemplation and just exist for a while. Merely the sensation of one foot placed in front of the other is enough to placate you.

 

I'm pretty shy about my writing. Like I like thinking of concepts for stories, images/scenes to depict, explanations for events, causes for character development, but I don't know how to construct and tie together scenes in written text.

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@ERO!

 

As usual, my line edits are in the spoiler tags and my corrections and suggestions are contained within parenthesis. Some problems you have with your story are inconsistent tenses, insufficient details about the characters that allow the reader to distinguish between the two, and also details about the environment which will help add to the tension of the story.

 

Royal Flush.

 

L.A. (is) a beautiful city to live in with great weather, wonderful attractions and an amazing nightlife. This is where our story begins.

9:30pm in downtown Los Angeles and there is a poker tournament going on (Suggestion: Order of events is important so I would just flip it around: There is a poker tournament going on at 9:30 PM in downtown Los Angeles). Just the looks on the faces of the competitors (competitor's faces) is enough to make someone burst into laughter (What did their faces look like? Were they scrunched up in some weird way? Were they red in the face? Be more specific.). Everyone is so focused on this (them). Around the table are the spectators watching intently (Suggestion: Spectators are huddled around the table, watching expectantly,), making their own little bets on the side. In the middle of the crowd was (<-----Slipped into past tense here. Keep tenses consistent.) a short, bearded man, (End sentence with period here.) if (If) you had looked at him, you would have thought he was about 70 to 80 years (Why would anyone think this? Give more fitting details to your characters.) old but (Suggestion: You wouldn't have given him a second glance because he looked like any elderly man, and yet) this man became the world's youngest multi(-)billionaire at only 30 and is now 40 years old (Still don't get why someone would think he is 80 years old when he is actually 40.). The man's name was Vladimir Petroviç (.) and to say that he was well known would have been an understatement. He had his name on almost every mainstream brand on the planet (,) as well as owning his own products which made him £450,000 (alone) in their first week on the market in England. Petroviç had almost all the money in the world  which was fortunate seeing that he was an obsessive gambler who sometimes blew thousands or even millions (of dollars) on horse races, greyhound races and poker.

 

The pack was dealt. Everyone gasped as they saw the seemingly old man bet $300 billion, which to him was only pocket money. He hoped harder than hope itself (<---What does this mean?) as the dealer turned over the first card. Three of (H)earts. Petroviç smiled happily and looked down at his cards. He had a Three of (D)iamonds and a Three of (C)lubs. The next two were turned over. Three of (S)pades and Jack of (S)pades. The man was beaming, he'd (he) figured that he had won this and so he sat back and confidently went all out, betting over $900 million and smiling as all but one man folded.

 

That man's (Which man? You didn't transition properly to the other character. You can just say 'his opponent's name is' or 'the man opposite him is')  name was George Mykhals and not one of the people in this dark basement had not heard of him before (who also well known in the crowd), in fact almost everyone on the planet knew him as the owner of GMP (George Mykhals Petroleum) (The name doesn't really matter much in this case because all we need to know is that these are two wealthy men competing with each other in poker). Mykhals was a multi(-)millionaire with a feisty attitude and an obsession with coming out of things as the victor (winning), even if it meant using his assets to achieve that (What exactly does he do with his assets? Does he use underhanded tricks to win?). Mykhals went all out and let out a little chuckle as he slammed the money down as hard as a Bajan man playing dominoes (Never heard of this simile before, I'm just going to assume it's accurate.). Everyone who was cramped into the basement watched with intense focus (intently watched) as the dealer purposely took his time turning the next two cards.

 

Petroviç watched Mykhals trying to figure out what he was thinking (,) but Mykhals' didn't give a single thing away keeping still and donning a serious but not too serious face (face betrayed no emotion). Petroviç thought and pondered (Pondered and thought mean about the same thing, so just use one or the other.) over the possibilities of Mykhals winning and, (and) due to his excessive pride and vehement hate for losing, concluded that it was near impossible and decided to just get on with it. The dealer turned the last two cards over. Queen of spades and King of spades. Petroviç sprayed out his laughter along with a small amount of saliva (roared with laughter as he lay) and then lay out his cards. The whole crowd gasped when they saw the amazing hand that Petroviç had laid out and realized that it would be very difficult for George Mykhals to beat the best four card hand in the game.

 

Everyone was amazed at the 40 year old's (<----Just his name right here.) impressive hand. Petroviç was so pleased that his smile almost reached around his head twice (Awkward description, doesn't fit the tone of the story. Feels too cartoony.). Petroviç looked up at Mykhals only to see a smile break across his face and, annoyed with Mykhals refusal to yield, told him “©ome and show your cards, let’s see what you have up your sleeve.” Mykhals whispered something quiet but threatening to Petroviç, something so threatening that it caused Petroviç to sit up in his seat, looking a little more than worried.

 

Mykhals showed his hand. Petroviç stood up, everyone stepped back, (End your sentence with a period here.) the (The) old lady in the back fainted and all this was a reaction to Mykhals' hand (all because of Mykhal's hand). In the hands of George Mykhals were (was) a 10 of spades and an Ace of spades. On the table were 3 of hearts, 3 of spades, Jack of spades, Queen of spades and King of spades. A Royal Flush. As Petroviç cried and walked out from the crowd, in his mind, a sentence repeated over and over.

 

"It was nice humouring (humoring) you, but now I have to end this.

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This is a short story i made in 2012.

its not good because i just made cos i was bored but it was better than i though it would be at the time

 

Royal Flush.

L.A. a beautiful city to live in with great weather, wonderful attractions and an amazing nightlife. This is where our story begins.

9.30pm in downtown Los Angeles and there is a poker tournament going on. Just the looks on the faces of the competitors is enough to make someone burst into laughter. Everyone is so focused on this. Around the table are the spectators watching intently, making their own little bets on the side. In the middle of the crowd was a short, bearded man, if you had looked at him, you would have thought he was about 70 to 80 years old but this man became the world's youngest multibillionaire at only 30 and is now 40 years old. The man's name was Vladimir Petroviç and to say that he was well known would have been an understatement. He had his name on almost every mainstream brand on the planet as well as owning his own products which made him £450,000 in their first week on the market in England. Petroviç had almost all the money in the world, which was fortunate seeing that he was an obsessive gambler who sometimes blew thousands or even millions on horse races, greyhound races and poker.

The pack was dealt. Everyone gasped as they saw the seemingly old man bet $300 billion, which to him was only pocket money. He hoped harder than hope itself as the dealer turned over the first card. Three of hearts. Petroviç smiled happily and looked down at his cards. He had a Three of diamonds and a Three of clubs. The next two were turned over. Three of spades and Jack of spades. The man was beaming, he'd figured that he had won this and so he sat back and confidently went all out, betting over $900 million and smiling as all but one man folded.

That man's name was George Mykhals and not one of the people in this dark basement had not heard of him before, in fact almost everyone on the planet knew him as the owner of GMP (George Mykhals Petroleum). Mykhals was a multimillionaire with a feisty attitude and an obsession with coming out of things as the victor, even if it meant using his assets to achieve that. Mykhals went all out and let out a little chuckle as he slammed the money down as hard as a Bajan man playing dominoes. Everyone who was cramped into the basement watched with intense focus as the dealer purposely took his time turning the next two cards.

 

Petroviç watched Mykhals trying to figure out what he was thinking but Mykhals didn't give a single thing away keeping still and donning a serious but not too serious face. Petroviç thought and pondered over the possibilities of Mykhals winning and, due to his excessive pride and vehement hate for losing, concluded that it was near impossible and decided to just get on with it. The dealer turned the last two cards over. Queen of spades and King of spades. Petroviç sprayed out his laughter along with a small amount of saliva and then lay out his cards. The whole crowd gasped when they saw the amazing hand that Petroviç had laid out and realized that it would be very difficult for George Mykhals to beat the best four card hand in the game.

 

Everyone was amazed at the 40 year old's impressive hand. Petroviç was so pleased that his smile almost reached around his head twice. Petroviç looked up at Mykhals only to see a smile break across his face and, annoyed with Mykhals refusal to yield, told him “come and show your cards, let’s see what you have up your sleeve.” Mykhals whispered something quiet but threatening to Petroviç, something so threatening that it caused Petroviç to sit up in his seat, looking a little more than worried.

 

Mykhals showed his hand. Petroviç stood up, everyone stepped back, the old lady in the back fainted and all this was a reaction to Mykhals' hand. In the hands of George Mykhals were a 10 of spades and an Ace of spades. On the table were 3 of hearts, 3 of spades, Jack of spades, Queen of spades and King of spades. A Royal Flush. As Petroviç cried and walked out from the crowd, in his mind, a sentence repeated over and over.

 

"It was nice humouring you, but now I have to end this.

 

i dont mind critique so please share some on how i could improve.

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This is an original short story I wrote several years ago, inspired in part by anime culture.

 

Title: Memory's Burden

 

Synopsis: Eight years after a tragic accident claimed the lives of his father and beloved sister, Brian and his mother Clare struggle to cope with the rift their lost loved ones have left behind, as well as the growing rift between each other. 

 

https://www.fictionpress.com/s/2789148/1/Memory-s-Burden

Do you have a word document of your story? You can also just copy your story and put in the spoiler tags. It won't let me copy your story on the fictionpress website, so I can't do line edits. I can also just analyze the elements of craft in your story and simply format my critique that way if you prefer.

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