/lit/ - Literature

> chapter about flying over natives
> chapter about mountains
> chapter about flying over attacking natives
> chapter about flying really high up
> chapter about flying over natives

VEEEERRRRRRRRRRNE

Oh, oh, do one of mine!

>>1954030
>>1954030

Unfortunately, no.

I would never, never, never, never go to Brazil.

I've got a large group of ties with Russian people - I think I'll just follow up that. But we'll be doing like the same shit across the globe.

If you're writing a book, we'd be like equals completely.

>>1951047
>>1951047

WOW FUCKING META-FICTION THREE THREADS IN A ROW FOR THE PAST LIKE MONTH MY ASS IS SO FUCKING FRUSTRATED
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When I had realized that the only object I had kept in my possession was still buckled in my back pocket, and the murderer had surprisingly missed in his search, I shimmied in the pool of blood on the floor till my arm was free to reach to it. I was in pain beyond words and nearly on the edge of death as a pale glow began to devour my vision, leaving the excess shock that arose from bending my limb awkwardly for the pad to be only a minor deterrence to Death. My hand trembled as it poked repeatedly out, in, out, in of my pants, not even particularly searching for anything with a sudden bout of depression but simply begging for something to hold onto, something to keep me tied to the world.

I bit down on my tongue for a jolt at my dying nerves, spewing out a copious amount of blood from the battered muscle and nearly flooding out the air I was already choking on; the pad thinly remained between the iron grip of two of my fingers as it pulled around to my chest with a flop of my arm.

The time now rang for my opposite arm to gracefully clutch at my chest pocket for the supple group of pens I always kept on me, begging that one remain. My eyes kept dazed up at the ceiling of the house, occasionally glancing over at my own blood soaking even larger rivers from below, but there was no other place for them that could withstand the damage of the view. A triumphant hand of mine came up with the pen, dabbling down once more to hold the pen with the pad just under it in the same grip. The dying hand that originally squeezed for the pad would be the only thing to hold it up as the pen moved.

Comfortable as I could be in the seemingly last moments of my life, I wrote grotesquely on the first open page: "I'm going to tell you how I was murdered."