/lit/ - Literature

who /selfconcious/ about reading big books in public? At first I didnt really pay any mind, but after like two years of commute to work and back home, I've gotten several comments and questions about what I'm reading and the size.

I dont know why people are so intrusive, and why it bothers them, but every now and then if i'm carrying an obesse 800 pager or more I gotta deal with some shitty condescending remark or incredulous glare. I had several people come up to me while I was reading Underworld, two of them thought it was some sort of Stephen King-esque horror thriller and when they ask what the fuck am I supposed to explain? should I be a shit about it and tell them to mind their own business? because fuck if I'm gonna explain what Against the Day or Executioner's Song is about, they'll call the damn cops on me. This shit even happens when I remove the cover.

Intro to a short story I'm writing. it's my first attempt to writing something outside of college. I know it needs alot of work.

The Orange Box

10:10 am

a drip from his nose. the light ringing pressure behind his eyes. the single light reflected off a cold windshield on this mostly overcast day. As ray assessed his surroundings, the back of his mind prepared his real thoughts, the ones that would shape his 13,000th morning. Although Ray Asfault was practically standing at the corner alone waiting for the clunky orange box in his commute to work, thinking the cold wind was against him and only him was a bit pompous. There had to be others like him, this thought popped into his head every now and then but more so on cold days. Standing there shifting his weight between both legs on the desolate corner, decorated by seemingly endless dead leaves, crumpled drink cups and art gallery programs from last nights’ art festival, was there another Ray out there? is he also deathly afraid of a painful cancer death in a hospital?. "I should have gone to one of those galleries"-he mumbled to no one, but then remembered he didn’t understand art at all. Ray hated the orange box, the sights and smells it came with and what it represented. Life or the absence thereof, it’s insides physically full but devoid of any essence, or maybe the essence of something which he couldnt see or feel, either way he wanted no part of it. it gave him a cold sweat and bothered him enough not to make eggs or pour himself a bowl of serial that morning in fear of the “non-essence's” vomit inducing vibes.

after about twenty minutes of waiting, he noticed a shift in the wind, for a second it seemed to be picking up and pushing the dead leaves and dust particles harder than ever, then suddenly stop entirely and as if the axis of the very ground he was standing on were reversed, the leaves, dust, and other smaller debris started moving in the opposite direction. he’d seen this before every morning and realized it was no mere natural phenomenon. with nauseous anticipation he felt an acrid smokey smell reach him and immediately a heavy feeling of dread filled his stomach, the orange box had just turned the corner and headed in his direction, as soon as it straightened out on the road it let out a loud and low fog horn-like scream, that felt even deeper since they were nowhere near any body of water, which the retracting leaves and wind now started to sound like, some far away and exotic shore on a warm lively island, where the orange box didn’t pollute the soul or burn your nostrils.

introduction to a short story I'm writing it's my first attempt at writing a narrative after college, so serious critique would help. i know it needs alot of work

The Orange Box

10:10 am

a drip from his nose. the light ringing pressure behind his eyes. the single light reflected off a cold windshield on this mostly overcast day. As ray assessed his surroundings, the back of his mind prepared his real thoughts, the ones that would shape his 13,000th morning. Although Ray Asfault was practically standing at the corner alone waiting for the clunky orange box in his commute to work, thinking the cold wind was against him and only him was a bit pompous. There had to be others like him, this thought popped into his head every now and then but more so on cold days. Standing there shifting his weight between both legs on the desolate corner, decorated by seemingly endless dead leaves, crumpled drink cups and art gallery programs from last nights’ art festival, was there another Ray out there? is he also deathly afraid of a painful cancer death in a hospital?. "I should have gone to one of those galleries"-he mumbled to no one, but then remembered he didn’t understand art at all. Ray hated the orange box, the sights and smells it came with and what it represented. Life or the absence thereof, it’s insides physically full but devoid of any essence, or maybe the essence of something which he couldnt see or feel, either way he wanted no part of it. it gave him a cold sweat and bothered him enough not to make eggs or pour himself a bowl of serial that morning in fear of the “non-essence's” vomit inducing vibes.

after about twenty minutes of waiting, he noticed a shift in the wind, for a second it seemed to be picking up and pushing the dead leaves and dust particles harder than ever, then suddenly stop entirely and as if the axis of the very ground he was standing on were reversed, the leaves, dust, and other smaller debris started moving in the opposite direction. he’d seen this before every morning and realized it was no mere natural phenomenon. with nauseous anticipation he felt an acrid smokey smell reach him and immediately a heavy feeling of dread filled his stomach, the orange box had just turned the corner and headed in his direction, as soon as it straightened out on the road it let out a loud and low fog horn-like scream, that felt even deeper since they were nowhere near any body of water, which the retracting leaves and wind now started to sound like, some far away and exotic shore on a warm lively island, where the orange box didn't pollute the soul or burn your nostrils.