/lit/ - Literature

I one time got a lot of attention because of a big autofiction story I wrote.

I wrote it late at night. The kids were in bed. My wife was in asleep. I wrote it straight through, no corrections, no revisions. I was shaking, trembling. My hair stood on end. I felt as though I had my finger stuck in the electrical socket of the universe.

Ive done it, I said to myself, Ive finally done it.

I had finally alchemized years of agony and private suffering into gold—pure autofictional gold.

My story was rejected by 27 online lit mags. It was rejected by Muumuu House, House of Vlad, Hobart, 3am, Forever, Believer, Expat, Backpat, the Three Penny Press, The Tin Cup, Cutty Spot, Heavy Traffic, The End, n+1, Swamp Lit, Bullshit Lit, Last Ditch Lit, the Shit-tube Press, and 22 other online lit mags unworth mentioning.

My wife hated my story, my wife didn't care, but I knew I had done something big. I knew I had written a story as good, or better, than anything Robert James Waller, Elizabeth Ellen, or Delicious Tacos had ever published in any online lit mag.

I had done wrong in my life. I made a lot mistakes. But I had done this.

It was late November, gray and bare. I visited every billboard in Madison County—billboards for cheap cremation and hair removal, billboards for East Side Electric and Rocket City Motors, billboards for personal injury lawfirms, billboards for Jesus, and a billboard for an enormous Italian combo, at an Italin import delicatessen—there were no billboards for rent in Madison County.

There WAS a billboard just outside Madison County, over a six lane highway interchange that locals called 'The Mix Master.'

It was like a third world country. Scaffolding and orange traffic cones everywhere, flashing signs pointed every which place. The breakdown lane and the liminal space beyond was littered with the anamalous detritus of the American roadside; broken glass and nails, blown out treads, plastic lawn chairs and—inexplicably—a microwave.

I popped a poloraid. The flash went off needlessly. The film fed out like a half limp dick.

blues run the game, said mr frank. his sad eye, the one he had left
looked like a fish in a bowl, held the guitar low

if i could be that guy instead of me, sang a certain mr e
if i could be anyone else i would but we're all stuck
don't knock on my door anymore
i may not be there
out instead

to become whatever one should
i'm nothing much i know it's true
it's the one thing i'll push on you
my possessions are so few

what is there to do besides all the hurdle
all the caring and being there
the everyday routine of traffic cones and madelines
they burst on the cement of cracked skull bones
these thoughts are all i have
want to go out somewhere, a nice italian restaurant
where mobster exchange diamonds inside garbage trucks

there's one thing i will miss from this
and it's the assurance of a future open wide
someday the wheels won't cart no more
and the tracks will be beaten down so low

you just gotta let it go

the eyes so blue i dreamed about
they're somewhere else, i can't see them around
it's not the first time and sure won't be the last
a sweet remembrance of summer days gone past

take a boat to europe baby, maybe to france
join the french army baby, learn how to dance
spill your blood on foreign lands and
have a go at romance and
see it's all the same

everything that once was there, won't be no more
drift with the surf away from shore to shore
there will be no port of call
home is nowhere

sing praise to jesus saviour and savour the grapes
the wine flows freely and the fresh feeling fades
nero smiles and hands you the keys to
the streets that you once walked along

towers of white marble against the watercolour blue
the drapes dancing shadows cast forever on these walls
a stranger's look, a maiden's song
the alleys with the clotheslines and the foreign looking cats
let it all sink in
man's true desire to release his very soul
death itself is freedom forevermore

stones piling up to the sky
signal stories sealed off by time
stars swimming up drom the eastern sky
as the sands slide from far and wide
ruins of man stand with dignity
king of kings
oh release me
from mortality

Express your long-kept erotic desire for traffic cones.

Let's see whether it's possible to turn something as mundane as traffic cones fun:

Come up with a joke about traffic cones,
or
Change a quote you like to be about traffic cones.

Make your favourite quote related to traffic cones.

Alternatively, try coming up with a pun or joke about traffic cones.

Try coming up with a pun or joke about traffic cones.

Hello /lit. I wrote a poem and I want you to read it.

"Pretty Little Unwashed"

hair scraping cross artist’s notebook

lessons ignored forever

joining pretty words together while teacher mixes terms up

trying to find a string of letters that will bristle up his cum

so lovely to kick pine cones into traffic walking home

fuming over teacher’s joyless fuck all antics

the dumbshow doesn’t know what cum was or ever is

his dick so dry it’s falling off in sheafs of paper round his ankles

screaming out “you’re dying soon, you’re dying over these”

Hey /lit/, I wrote a poem. I want you to read it.

"Pretty Little Unwashed"

hair scraping cross artist’s notebook

lessons ignored forever

joining pretty words together while teacher mixes terms up

trying to find a string of letters that will bristle up his cum

so lovely to kick pine cones into traffic walking home

fuming over math teacher’s joyless fuck all antics

dumbshow doesn’t know what cum was or ever is

his dick so dry it’s falling off in sheafs of paper round his ankles

screaming out you’re dying soon you’re dying over it