Read my writer

Would anyone be interested in commenting on my fiction?

Don sat in the second to last row of United Flight 5177.
The plane taxied from the loading area to the runway.
"Three hours," Don thought as he glanced at the time on his cell phone. "If this plane stays on time, I'll be in Chicago around four. Three hours." The engine spoke a mechanized language that Don could not understand; he knew the twin engines would speak to everyone for the duration of the flight. "I don't give a damn what you got to say," Don said to the engine he could see floating outside his window. "Don't care at all what you got to say just as long as you keep saying it." The engine started yeling and Don thought he heard it mention swiss cheese. The plane began taxing down the runway.
Don was lucky. The seat beside him was empth; this upset Don. "Damn seat," he whispered. "If you weren't such a crummy seat, I might be forced to talk to someone. Why do I gotta be next to the crummiest seat in the whole place?" The engine started yelling about dog kennels as the airplane began to ascend.
A baby began crying, and Don stood up to scream something about how crying babies shouldn't be allowed on an airplane. "Please sit down sir," a stewartess said as she pushed Don down into his seat. "It is very dangerous to stand while the plane is taking off." She stood beside Don until the plane had reached its crusing height, then disappeared. When she returned she was pushing a beverage bar. "Cranberry juice and vodka, sir?"
"Is there alcohol in it?" Don asked.
"No sir. We put swiss cheese on our club sandwiches." The stewartess extended the club sandwich to on.
"Well, as long as there is no dog hair in it," and Don took a swig of the sandwich. "A little too much vodka for me, ma'am. Please take this back and bring me a club sandwich. And a glass of water."
"Certainly sir," the stewartess said as she jumped from an emergency exit and began plummeting to the ground thirty two thousand feet below.
"PULL YOUR RIPCHORD!" Don screamed as the stewartess fell. She disappeared into a cloud, and Don never heard from her again. "Well, you can't win 'em all," Don mused as he finished his cranberry juice and vodka.
"No. You sure can't," said the man sitting beside him.
Immediately Don was overjoyed. "You weren't such a crummy seat after all!" he thought; his joyful mood didn't last long, however, for new he was forced to talk to someone. "Well you know how it is," Don said to his seat mate.
"I sure don't. I know how it can be though." Don's seat mate wore a smile similar to the one worn by a certain chesire cat. His face was flat and his nose turned up. He looked like he had been hit with a shovel. "Hi. My name is Shovelface."
Don stared at him with a look of loathing and apathy. "Shovelface, huh? How'd you get a name like that?"
Shovelface grinned, and Don thought he saw him fade a little. "I dig holes for a living."
"Holes, huh? How is that?"
Shovelface grinned and Don was sure he saw him fade a little. "Well, it's a little bit like aardvark arithmetic."
"Aardvark arithmetic, huh? Never heard of it."
"Exactly," said Shovelface who was only a floating set of teeth and eyeballs.
Don thought he heard the engines laugh before they stopped talking altogether. "Well, good riddence," grumbled Don. He then realized why the engines had shut up: No body was listening. Don stood to make known his revelation, but the stewartess who jumped from the airplane pushed him back into his seat.
"It is dangerous to stand while the plane is crash landing sir," the stewartess said as she again jumped from the emergency exit. Don never saw her again, again.
Don glanced out his window. Out side two children, a boy and a girl, played hopscotch on the wing. They morphed into a bride and a groom. Again they morphed, this time into empty rocking chairs. Don clapped, and the twin engines began laughing.
"HOO-RAY!" shouted all the passengers.
"I don't care what you got to say," grumbled Don. "Just keep saying it."

The story is incredibly disjointed and makes completely no sence, and it being intentionally so isn't a very good excuse. You understand that even machines can compose prose like that?

Imagine I wrote a shitty story with sub-par prose and said that everyone should like it because I did that intentionally. Does it automatically make my story good? No. Writing a story that makes no sence is just the same.

You should understand that even monkeys can throw random stuff together to see what could happen out of it. It doesn't take any intelligence, talent or even effort to write this kind of thing, really. Okay prose, though, so you might try writing something more interesting next time without the fear to be left without words.

Also, remember that all good literature always consists of two things:
1. A pleasant promise you make to the readers as soon as possible, so that they would have something to look forward to while reading.
2. You gracefully keeping it away for some time (the intrigue) and then finally giving it to them, perhaps in some unexpectedly superior form (if you're good enough).

See how you got none of that, which exactly makes your story particularly useless.

/r/ link to the website that generated this

you need to go back to the basics. Show, don't tell.

this wasn't generated by a website.
Let me try with another piece:

Inside the diner Don and Grumbles the drug free clown sat. "Look Grumbo! It's the Mona Lisa!" Grumbles the drug free clown, who never was one for art, looked over Don's masterpiece: small cups of coffee creamer stacked on top of each other, resembling nothing in particular. Grumbles thought back to his high school art teacher who told him he would never succeed in life if he didn't foster a love of art. So far, her prediction had been right.
"Don't look like nothing to me kid. Where's the restroom in this God forsaken place, huh? What's a man gotta do to piss, huh?
"I think it's thata way Grumbo. You alright friend? You still experiencing the DT's?" Don feared Grumbles would lapse back into the heroin at anytime. He felt it was his sole duty to protect Grumbles from the horror of addiction.
"Yeah. I guess. I'll be back. I gotta piss." As Grumbles walked away, his clown shoes squeaked and everyone in the diner watched Grumbles without looking.
Don first found Grumbles while working his security job. There had been a ruckus on the far side of the complex, and when Don went to investigate he found a middle aged man laying face down in a puddle dressed in clown garb: red, squeaky shoes; yellow parachute pants held up by blue suspenders and accented by purple stars; white and red face paint and a head bald except for a cresent moon of ripe cherry red. The odd thing was that Grumbles had no upper clown wear; only a white tee shirt covered his cheat. Don took Grumbles inside the security shack and fought six hours to keep him alive.
"I usta be in college," Grumbles had mumbled. "Just that damn fiction writing class. Seventy thousand words ain't no short story!" Grumbles then lapsed into a fit of vomiting and another hour of silence would pass before he awoke, repeated the same phrase, vomited and went back to sleep. Don considered saving Grumbles' life one of his greatest achievements.
"Resolve," Don had thought. "To do better. This is the best I can do." And Don was rewarded for his efforts with a new friend who had inherited enough money from her father's passing to retire early.
"That's why I hit the circus circuit. I figured it'd be fun. The circus is where I found the heroin," Grumbles had told Don one starless night as they stood on a c towering cliff overlooking the infinite west coast.
"Why didn't you try another drug? Something not so deadly?" Don had asked.
"You gotta remember kid. This was he ninties. Heroin was the thing to do. And me with all this money. Didn't seem like there was anything better going on. Times were simplier then."
Grumbles had been in the bathroom sometime, and Don began to worry that Grumbles may have picked up some junk somewhere. Don stood to go knock on the bathroom door, but his first step was stopped by a man's voice:
"Don't nobody move! This is a robbery!" The man aimed his pistol towards Don who was still standing. "You wanna play hero, tough guy? You better sit still if you know what's good for you! Don was happy to oblige so he sat dow and stayed still. "DID I SAY YOU COULD MOVE? YOU GOT SOMETHING OVER THERE I NEED TO KNOW ABOUT?"
"DON'T GIVE HIM ANY TROUBLE," a customer yelled from beneath a table. "JUST DO WHAT HE WANTS!"
"You told me to sit still. So I'm sitting. Isn't that what you wanted?" Don was confused. He had only ment to do what was asked of him
"Of, a funny guy, huh? You'll be funny with your brains splattered all over this place won't you? WON'T YO-" There was a report, and Don was covered in blood. The thief fell to his knees and slumped to the ground. Don saw the bullet's entrance into the back of man's skull had ripped the hindhead apart.
"DON!" Don looked over his shoulder and saw Grumbles the armed drug free clown standing in front of the restroom door., stil ready to shoot if circumstance asked. "Don. Go outside and start the car."
Once the car was started, Grumbles unloaded his pistol, tucked it back into his parachute pants, and walked to the cash register. "Here's a twenty. Keep the change," he said as he honked his nose and disappeared into the night.

You should say ``Don'' more often.

i think you might be on to something there

>>6
This is pointless. What does Mona Lisa and art have to do with a clown shooting a man in the head? You told your reader about art, and then abandoned it, which means that we just wasted our time reading about something that has nothing to do with the excerpt at hand. That's what constitutes bad writing, see? What does heroin have to do with the shooting? Nothing. How is saving the clown related to the story? It isn't: it's about robbery, which is one thing, and a heroin addiction is completely another, in your story. What does robbery have to do with the clown or Don as characters? Nothing. It could have happened as a part of the bigger picture - if you had some need for it - but since this is your whole story, it's just pointless. What does your elaborate sitting down incident have to do with anything and why did you even tell about that?

>>9 here; you should still keep trying, though, because your style isn't bad, really. Keep in mind that crime and drug addiction are themes too highly overused at this point in time.

OP here:

actually what you're reading isn't a completed story. it's not even a fragment of a story. it is what it is: a complete mess of sitting down, an idiot playing with coffee creamer, a clown with a hot gun in his pocket, and an unlucky thief. but the point of writing this wasn't to tell a complete story. it was more about evoking an emotion. i've written quite a few of these stories. primarily they all pick up somewhere completely random, sometimes midsentence, involve one event taking place, and end with the reader feeling like shouting WTF.

to tell you the truth, i'm not aiming on developing a piece of work anytime soon. i feel like with these small writings i am striving mastery of a technique. what technique you ask?

well, i'll let you know. here's another piece. a poem i wrote last night. i hope it fuels has much heated debate as this as seen.

I roll my cigarette
and look at it.
I think of how fat it is
of how long it is
of how I tear off the ends to smoke shorter cigarettes
of how much tobacco i save
of how much money I'll spend on papers
of how an older brother somewhere is telling a younger brother to "Roll it with a tobacco leaf. That's how we used to do it. You know how we'd make it stick?" "How?" "Butter. Sure did." "Alright, I'll try it, but if it ruins my tobacco, it's coming outta yours."
of how those two brothers might one day be interviewed about the incident. "I thought anything was possible." "And then that fool went right in there and did it."

Then I tried to figure out
how I came to that thought.
I thought
of the first thing I had thought, being a student of Jeet Kune Do from the school of Bruce Lee.
of being beaten up in an alley dressed as a Jeet Kune Do impersonator.
of how I'd like to have one really good fight.
of how I'd like that fight to be with one of my best friends, Jake or Jerred.
of what it would be like to get into a fight with Jerred
of having Jerred pinned down, screaming, "JAKE! HELP! HE'S GOT THE RAGE!!!" and then screaming in Jerred's face. "RAAAAAAAGGGGGGEE"

And I guess it was
about
there
that I wanted a cigarette.

And here be go again.

don

>>11
It is very easy to evoke a WTF and takes no talent, sugar or butter, see, girl? That's what it means to have sex in space. It's cheap.