/lit/ - Literature

>>6964483
well fuck. Here's an excerpt from the thing I've been working on this summer:


For lunch I think I had something like a Cuban Panini and raspberry iced tea - not water; you can't show weakness in the face of corporate leisure. I tried to seem curious in the work, pretending like another pipeline really could just (Car Salesman here) jump start the Economy of the American Heartland! Somehow we got around to the topic of the associate would be starting in the next week or two, how she might be onto a few odd jobs, here and there.

"We've actually - I've actually had a hard time getting someone into the open position..."

Trying not to seem that over-interested type.

"Well, Kim left for another job, and we had another lady all lined up, had her in the office, then she had some family issues, she said it felt like the timing just 'wasn't right.'"

This is where real interest starts, but I won't try to show it at all: age thirty-three, White, male, two daughters in their teens, married (first wife). The tell is that he slides his ring with his thumb, maybe unconsciously, as I say, "Gee, that's weird, I wonder why."

And I'll tell you this too, as insignificant as that was, there's been a lot of quiet days in that office between the two of us. Sure I looked through her old things; pens, business cards, Thank You letters & envelopes: nothing. The only other things was those big oak tables I would put binders on, after a day running the printer, like a cushion on that waist high slab, empty, the right height for everything.

Huehuehue looked and all there was was 13 shitty threads. Here we go!


At my internship this summer I built the training version of an actuator.

This block of metal and little pipes that come in and out like scaffolding, it makes adjustments to the main valve of the pump station in really subtle ways.

They had me put it together so field technicians could come to our office and get practice.

Practice at making little adjustments, from 26% to infinity.

Practice at keep the oil flowing, the most singularly valuable black thing in their lives.

Even the new secretary - who we call an associate for politically correct reasons - feels inferior to me for some reasons...everything she does is in some way to keep it profitable: that hidden pipe, buried Midwest of discovery.

We never say it, but we're all feeding that long white cock, lazily thrusting it into the American everyday.

The gestation for it is longer than you'd think, but from what I've heard, it's too late to pull-out. In a reverse 'have-your-cake-and-eat-it-too' scenario, we get to spill it all over her and still leave her irreparably fucked.

Maybe one day the child named Wasteland will leave her, but we've changed her: torn her labia and raised this bastard son into comfort, for walking dead.

And it's on our hands, the slippery yellow-black cum.

We sleep, we live, in that post-orgasmic ignorance.

>>5973158
Here's my favorite painting from this decade