/lit/ - Literature

It's hard to believe McCarthy died not too long ago. Just happened out of nowhere right when Blood Meridian started getting popular for some reason.

This is the first short-story-like thing I have ever written I am sorry if it is awful.
context: two weird private school boys first meet

The students’ reposed posture parallelled that of the seats, their head hung on their stiff necks, and their faces deliberately painted with decrepit concern. Abel admired the Ego that was glazed over the students, brimming and spilling to the deepest crevices and folds of their uniforms. How prideful they were, and awfully obdurate. The unsleeved coffee all held between the students’ legs allowed each reluctant sway of the bus’ springy core to urge the bitter nectar an escape.
An “Old Soul,” their grandparents would snob-about proudly, but all knew the orison had lost its original freshness long ago. He observed the Vonnegut covers that decorated the interior, such diligent care was there to face the proud bold-yellow-red-shit-coloured cover outward, and the eyes that danced vigorously with those around in desperation for any, O any attention at all. Had their parents praised them for their dilettante “literary mind,” this could have been all avoided; however, that was not the case, especially not for the West of the city.
The classic jingle played and one by one the White Elephants followed one another, getting off their stop with a single, routined turn-and-step. To most, the jingle was like an olive from the rotting Garden of Gethsemane but they picked and nibbled at its taste with sour faces. As far as the boy could understand, the reaction was akin for all students- even the Adults. Some quickly rested their half-sipped coffees on the ground, others held it close to their face like an accessory and so they went. The bus now moved at ease, no longer a drunken snake.
He looked across only to face another uniformed boy, irresolute in the patterned chair and analyzing the cars that passed. Through his parted lips he mouthed words to himself.
“2002 Toyota Corolla, 1992 Honda Accord, 1999- No, 1998 Chevrolet Silverado 1500,” the dissociated boy murmured.
Abel, now fascinated, moved his soft, effeminate shoulders to an erect position and watched the boy, who, at closer examination, had a diminutive yet beautifully sculptured face.

>>8962853
>when you start talking about hyperstitial deterritorialization and she blocks you