/lit/ - Literature

Guys, I dont have the energy today to write more of the lemur story. I am sorry. I'm very hungry because I have not eaten dinner. This has left me without energy.

Nah you seem a little too smug buddy

>>17759717
understandable lemur poster. Have a good dinner.
>>17759734
no no please...its just a filler image i use for these threads. i promise i am nothing like that wojak irl

If the landscape did not soon change, it would tear him apart. Boredom-induced insanity would be the cause, murder-suicide the charge. Double or triple or more if he got lucky. Anything to take his mind off of the dulling effect of his black content box, anything to make the repetition stop. He'd given up on trying to make others see it. Given up on being amazed that entertainment companies could literally just slap on a new hair colour and change a single letter in the character's names and cash in on rave and starstruck reviews from professionals and laymen alike. He had wept and laughed heartily and maniacally in the past. He tried, he really did. The angry consumer WANTED to believe it, wanted to buy it wholesale and be just as dazzled and bezazzled as everyone around him seemed to be. Yet try as he might he could not bring his mind to sit still, could not blot out the memories which cried out for, if not justice then atleast recognition. He hated them. The production companies, the critics who acted like Bora the Italian merchant friend of Marco Polo wasn't an obvious ripoff of Cora the Belgian Anthropologist on the Kongo. He hated his friends and colleagues who scoffed at him for bringing it up, hated the internet people who called him a schizophrenic in need of his meds for drawing obvious and simple connections between Avatar the airbender and Bavatar the bearbinder. He hated them all and could not take it anymore so he decided to do something about it.
At this precise moment an alert for a new show popped up on his screen. Incredulous, he read it and read it again. Could it be that the universe had heard his pleas? Could it be that he would be saved from self-imposed annihilation? He read the title again. The Sopranos it said. The bewildered man sat down and stared at the poster. With sweaty hands he resolved to watch it, to see whether his shooting rampage would at last be justified.

>>17759848
loved it

It was that fleeting hour of day when the moon and the sun are high and bright at the same time. Like many things in my life, these summer nights wouldn’t last much longer. I sat quietly on the stacked brick walls that lined the alleyways overlooking the harbor to the west. Watching the many fishing boats and fisherman who elected to call their daily harvest off at a proper time to tend to their families; or the pub, pull into harbor. Fishing an apple from my pocket and taking a not-insubstantial crunch, I couldn’t help but marvel at the industrious, relentless, almost monotonous labor of the hardy folks below; hardly mentioning those seemingly demonically possessed boats which still remained skirting the further waters of our shore. Desperate to haul in every last ounce of silver the waning daylight would bring them,

A fool's errand, no doubt.

It seemed to me, at the ripe age of fifteen, that I had figured out what this fervent mass of men below me could not. What was there in this life worth working yourself to death for? I swayed my feet carelessly in the warming, salt touched breeze of evening; for I wore no shoes, and chuckled mildly in self-satisfaction. Enjoying my ill-gotten dinner at the expense of those tired souls below, for I rarely “honestly” came by any meal that I obtained, I hardly noticed the sun begin to sink so low in the horizon that even the most devoted ships had pulled into harbor.

We rode East, past the curtain of Dawn. My first foray into the blackened wastes of winter's clutch.

I was a man when I left. Among my companions, I am only a boy. My place was not one of hard labor, as I was fortunate to receive the tutelage of master chemists and metallurgists. My waking hours were spent in workshops and laboratories rather than tending to fields or driving the endless rolling convoys of civilization. My skin bore no blight from the cruel overwatch of the sun, but in that absence of light I had come to know the torment of the wretched cold.

A hand presses my shoulder. It is not the sort of hand that has rolled dough, cradled infants, or penned letters into the pages of a book. It is the sort of hand that has spilled blood, and held the dying screams of other men in their own throats. It points to a distinct outcrop of the horizon that obscures the starlit sky, and it is in my best interest to pay attention.

The oldest two men of our party have been here before. If I survive this treacherous plot, then In some thirty years, I may once again tread upon this path.

A fortress looms on the distant horizon. It was abandoned to the Day, some short time before I was born - it's chambers becoming kilns and ovens under the ensuing decade of light. Anything left behind would have become glowing cinder, wafting away upon the currents of air that could melt lead. This one castle of our House was now entombed beneath the ice, and it would be up to the men who delve past the Dawn to see it fit and functional again.

Many leagues to the North, another such expedition is underway. Men of the cold and night, outpacing the creeping advance of Dawn's terminus. They have their own castles and keeps in the North, with fields of tundra that will soon feel the warmth of the sun and the iron tip of the plow. They roll ahead with wagons of timber and larders of dried meat. Their clothes are stuffed with fine insulation, and they brandish weapons with gleaming polish. Their very presence meant to ward off encroachments from those stricken with envy and desperation.

Our rifles are not sophisticated, and our garments are not befitting the vanguard of our House. Like many houses, it is our fate to tread within our lattitudinal lane. Yet, in this dark night, we find ourselves in good spirits.

Behind two horses is a wagon. It carries a cylinder, with several smaller concentric cylinders within it. All were machined to the highest specification. The cylinder walls do not touch, save for where it is structurally prudent. The very air itself was removed from the internal cavities by glass tubes of falling quicksilver. Within these cylinders, a cistern of water that wishes to boil. We draw the effluent steam through insulated hoses, and it warms us through our intricate clothing.

We are many leagues south of the expedition, but many leagues ahead. We do not carry timbers, but long sticks of explosive.

We turn North.

>>17759687
I do enjoy these threads