/lit/ - Literature

The evening before last, Phillip had found himself seated again in that little cafe on the edge of the waterfront, udly watching as passers by toted about. He had the inexcriable feeling that he shoudl be happy for the golden brilliance of the night sky but the though lingered in his head that the futility of his anger towards the other seated beforre him was well out of his grasp. She had first seen him twitch in discomfort moments earlier and had a distinct feeling that something sinister was about ot occur. His prosperity tyhis evening had known no bounds and the feeling of seciurtity in his postioin was unwaveringly logical. He was positively the picture of briliiance but what would he say to this woman. Of which she had outbursted earlier in an illogical sense of fury. The thoghyts had destroyuexd any vestiges of soothoing that his seeking her out had allayed. He was intoxicated in the night air. The bright glow of the water glimmering upon the state of Napoleon. The night quielty and furiously bade him no cheer.

5 min

>>1845606

Well maybe I will spell check them before I post them,

The evening before last, Phillip had found himself seated again in that little cafe on the edge of the waterfront, udly watching as passers by toted about. He had the inexcriable feeling that he shoudl be happy for the golden brilliance of the night sky but the though lingered in his head that the futility of his anger towards the other seated beforre him was well out of his grasp. She had first seen him twitch in discomfort moments earlier and had a distinct feeling that something sinister was about ot occur. His prosperity this evening had known no bounds and the feeling of security in his position was unwavering logical. He was positively the picture of briliiance but what would he say to this woman. Of which her outburst earlier in an illogical sense of fury. The thoghyts had destroyed any vestiges of soothing that his seeking her out had allayed. He was intoxicated in the night air. The bright glow of the water glimmering upon the state of Napoleon. The night quielty and furiously bade him no cheer.

Good enough

>>1845609

The affliction in his heart grew more dire.
He had the feeling that he was to be a happy fellow but he had suffered from this allayment of his graces when it came to speaking to certain men of stature. There was no object nor circumstance that gave him, a man of twenty and some years, an extrodinary tightness of will. For the fear that he might no be abachelor for his entire life was a willing and merciful succession to loneliness. He should think that his delightful features and manner of dress should be enough to distract others from his awful plainness in character. His narrow lips pursed as he though that maybe it was the small marriage of ill defininif features that caused such a desert of doubt. He should not want to be married but to be alone was reprehensible for a man of his stand. His black trousers paried with his overcoat were of great concern for he felt that he was out of his element in such a place. The disconteent he felt was doubtful now in his mind as she smiled at him. What was he doing alone in his thoughts when he was surrounded by suchh a deserving crowd. His clothing was tight and scrateched lightly at the edges of his shoulder blades. he sat erect in his chair and looked over at the General and out on his most sinister gaze. He was far too intoxicated to be reprimanded for such silliness. He faced little chance of escape from the effects of this foolishness.

The farting artist.

The farting artist farted so loud. So loud that his lovely faggot friends all had their eardrums blow out. The world turned black and smog surrounded the place he had been. A world of farts and fancy deaf faggot friends. He painted with his blood and piss and shit. Mixing them up to form beautiful colors, but no one noticed and no one cared. Because they were fucking deaf and he shit his pants. The fart smell burned their nostrils and watered their eyes. "For fucks sack." they said to god in the sky. The farting artist laughed. "Stupid faggots don't know how deep I am. My farts attack their ears and they say my art is nothing but farts."

Screaming they ran into a deep frier. And they all died and he ate them with pleasure.

>>1845617

The light step with which she had attempted to solve the problem was scarcely troubling itself to conjure relief. Her hair was damp and swollen. It had fallen flat. She was merely a timid skeleton wandering as some soul lost along the shore of some grand lake of fire. She had just come in from the rain and entered the classroom. There was silence all around here. There was hardly a scrape of pen upon page. Her red cheeks lit fire mercilessly causing discomfort to all that gazed upon her. Phillip sat in the back of the room with his face to the window and he slowly shifted his gaze to her poor form. She was quashed as a snail below the underfoot of some prostrate soul. The zeal in her expression had been drained. She seated herself across from the gaze of the children and called to order the love of the old Masters.


This is just horrendous. I need to work on writing women.

Caw caw mccaw caw:

I play a melody, faintly heard,
but looking around, noone really cared,
for here I am, I am just a bird.

>>1845630

>>1845630

>>1845630
crows are so goddamned under-appreciated

;_;

>>1845630
Caw caw mccaw caw:

I play a melody, faintly heard,
but looking around, noone really cared,
for here I am, I am just a bird.

>>1845638

He had been disposed, as man men were, preferablt to the chatter that bore great disctinction when overheard by others. His flashes of intelligence that Oxford had bestowed upon him would come to some use yet. The weekend parties that he spent speaking of the state of the overseas markets and that labour dispute in some unbearably hot countryu. His cheeks were pale and his chharm fell so slightly on this occassion that the confusion of the crash had startled him.

Out from the darkness of the night came an awfully impolite rock and shattered the window of his townhouse. Where had he been this entire time? He lifted himself from the chair and aimlessly wandered over to the stone in a drunken stupour. “Ah yes” he mused to himself, “ To live life fashionably is one thing but to be assaulted for it is quite another.” His drunken musing was interrupted by another univited guest that burst through the window and struck him in the temple. He fell immediatly thinking to himself that this was quite the inconvenience.

"Well, fuck you too, then" he thought. He turned back to his books, smiling at himself, as he had been a proper gentleman to all of them until the point of their flaw. "Yes, fuck you" he repeated. The sound came out of his mouth in a soothing yet rispid movement. For they had flawed, and he was a proper gentleman. But not now. Not now he wasn't. It was as if they had never even seen the likes of a perfect evening wine, as if they had never been able to really appreciate life for what it was and not what others meant it to be. "You have enjoyed my deference up until this point" he thought. For they really had. Oh, the laughter they were making behind him. Nothing more dire than a couple of old hags not knowing what the fuck they are talking about. He just put them in their proper place. He put them there, by fucking them over and saying it outloud. It was very satisfying.

5 minutes :3

>>1845665
impressive sir

What do the stars ignite in the sky
Where they sit idly in the sky?
What fate had they drawn inconspicuously
To appear so lonely in expression?
What purpose had he for creation
Intended for the image of beauty?
What happiness does he imbue softly
In their shrieks?

yo stradlater, i posted something the other day but didnt really receive any feedback at all. mind taking a look at it?

>>1845675

I shall take a break for a moment.

This is a mess of words and sentiments mostly but it has direction that will be refined.

>>1845680

Certainly, meet me in here

http://www.mumuplayer.com/-lit-

I pine for you, my love.
Thine eyes are two moist spheres with a blue part that is beautiful.
Thine hair is thousands of flaxen keratin strands
When I see thee, I become the brick red color of a red brick

>>1845699


Just one more, I wrote this in 15 minutes the other day:

The climax of the harrowing events had come to a close and Luke awakens driven by a feverish exasperation that sleeping for too long can bring about. The colour of his soul was expressed by his fluidity of emotion but to arise to nothing might have driven this to darkness. He had never felt comfortable spending any time alone. He had spent his time around others as others felt comfortable in the glowing light of his charisma. He thought to himself, over and over, and brooded over the fact that they had not recognized him nor his feelings. He was just the gift that god had bestowed upon them. This had taken quite the twist as now Luke arises to nothingness. He has no followers. He has no admirers. He never understood the personality cult but now was pleased too have it able to be beside him lurking as a threat. Luke arose once more and fell backwards.

“I should have been a clergyman.”

He vocalized but realized in some sense of morbid shame that nobody was listening. Luke despised this woman seated next to him for causing him such a reaction. Se was impressed by him because he was able to make such a fool of himself and take it with little chagrin.

“Who is she? Who are you?

He vocalizes again but realizes that she was not listening to him. She despised him, he must of thought. But he had worked so hard to become all that was right in the world. He had been the placard of virtue and justice in the university. He did not care. She must be foolish to understand him as so for he owns all ability to vacate sensibility in place of piety. His mood changed because of this. He could not put his feelings into words for they made no difference when there was nobody to hear it but her. Her that silently laughed at him for being so silly.

“Why would you laugh at me? Where are you going?”

>>1845701

He got up and left the facility for the first time in ages. He was glad to be alone for quite a moment but realized that nothing can overcome his sense of righteousness. This woman would have to pay for her misdeed. It was not comfort to think of such redemption as he walked down the cobblestone path that his shoes were nowhere to be seen.

“She will snicker at my my lack of sense! Where are my shoes?”

He thought it horrible to have to be afraid of such sensibilities. He decided to keep walking. Where he was going was a mystery but he decided to not think about it and just go. He would run and find that silly woman who decided to think him silly. Who was she to even consider him a worthy client of such ridicule. He was the object of purity and perfection. He was affable and hardly subservient to others as they were unto him. She no doubt had this power over him. He walked through the path and unto the edge of the garden and his feet were stricken with delight by the fresh cut grass. He paused.

He knew that men would need no more of him. He was delightly free to take up his passions and express his obscenity without fear of reprisal. He gazed up.

Work had been rough, as it always was, and the hunched man whom had suffered it heard his brittle bones creak as he reached the doorway of his bedroom.
He could rest now, and waste time away in the way he liked - in front of the computer, perusing his favourite websites while wishing the dark figure of tomorrow would leave him alone.

wow shit i'm a slow writer

Here is another from the archive.


The bell chimed as our host beckoned us the the main hall and the negro woman tallied fourth snifters of some aged brandy. I turned my nose to the wind and politely refused due to my previous inebriations earlier in the night. It was then that my attention was drawn to the corner of the room where a funny looking man sat seated directionally opposite to the mayhem behind him. He sat smoking a cigar with his pinch-nez wound tightly to his brow. He was tall and heavy set with a head full of wildy uncontrolled shocks of blazing red. He wore a grey pressed suit that he no doubt had kept for quite a qhile for the edges had frayed ever so lightly. He leaned heavily against an ivory cane inspite of the fact that he was seated that indicated to me that he was terribly uncomfortable with the current surroundings as wild as they were.

This bloodythirsty crew of old gentlemen and ladies were last vestiges of the golden era of Pax Britannica. They summered in the old country, wintered in Paris or Monaco and never left the safety of warm glow of British imperialism. They were ravenous and living on borrowed money in many cases. They clung only to their family name and their ties to some grand Lord of men centuries ago As I scanned around the room I felt shamefully outr of place for I was the only gentleman under the age of 45 as far as the eye could see. This man though, I felt, shared my discomfort and desire to be away from such a group of villains tas these.

>>1845713


He lit a cigarrete and relaxed ever so calmy into his chair but bolted his backl straight as a plank in a moment. What a peculiar fellow. He stared curiously out dense foggy window into the garden of the estate. My eyes were immediately drawn to where his were for his presence excited me moreso than any other grand or important fool. I walked closer to him scanning the courtyard when to mt surprise a bolt of yellow caught my immediate attention. I shifted my attention from this man onto the grand victorian window and peered through its foggy lense. The courtyard was kept up with the strongest of care from the lady of the house, Lady Blanchard, for her husband had taken ill some many years ago and she had time to pass in her own concerns.

“Please allay my concerns, my good man, and tell me that there is not a lion in the garden.”

He said suddenly and lifted himself from the chair. He limped over to my direction and we were the only two fellows in the party secluded from the riotous actions of the grand hall. He walked with a defined purpose and the cigarette plastered between his teeth gave him a expression of some kind of authority.

“Tell me now, son, what have you seen in the garden? Is t..there? Did you see such a flash of golden fur?”

My eyes fell upon in full perception around the estate grounds surveying the distance and around the brush. There was four rows of high green thicket that upon further inspection, were in dire need of tending. In the middle of the garden was a giant foutain with a statue of Venus in full relief. I peered through the afternoon sun and saw the most peculiar obeject rustling in the bright rose bushes.

“I should hate to meet him on some cold dark night.”

I said, mustering up all the courage I could in my voice while frantically considering the absurdity of such a situation. I felt as a fool

>>1845714

I want to read some more OC while I eat.

Come on /lit/

>>1845723

The fireworks are wet today.
The show has been cancelled.
Go home.

You anticipated this
with a hushed eagerness:
how you see the sparks
hear the staccato cracks
culmination of fuse and flame
releasing millions of vermilion gushes
fading and dyeing the sky rosy.

I know you expected this, but
the fireworks are wet today.
There will be no show.
Please.
Go home.

Wherever I went, she would soon leave. I did not mean to impede the static existence she so clearly desired, it just so happened that she was wherever I, too, wanted to be. And so, after however many drinks, I chose to leave. It was a one hour drive back to my place, a drive littered with police and tight winded turns - but I cared not, for those thoughts I had of late all too often been thinking, told me that I wasn't worth it, anyway.
I made it home unscathed and immediately forgot the drive home. All I could remember was her turned face beside the fire, distracted, looking for someone else. The dreams which followed chose not to provide their usual escape, but instead visions of my fidgeting hands and stuttering lips as I tried to retain her attention. And like all the others before, her angelic position above that paid me no mind meant that I was not worth anything and nor would I ever be, and that cruel hole in my chest expanded in tune with the universe around me.

such are the laments of a self despising young adult. loneliness is my forte

The thought of losing it was unbearable. Phillip walked at a pace that seemed excessive at the moment as he peered as far down the winding hallway of the gallery. He wandered past the stage and through the stunt quarters and crossed a props area that was filled to the brim with wonderment.

The air of the evening was perfectly still and the stars hung in the sky at such a perfect angle that a shudder crept up the spine of the young actor. He imagined the possibility of perfect brilliance from his absolute creater but was quickly embarressed at the prospect of thinking such a thing. There were young men carrying scripts exiting the auditorium through the large oak doors that acted as a barrier for the animal-like dabblings in theatre from the sanity of the rest of the world as it seemed. There was nothingness in the spectre of the moon as it grew brilliantly from the outbreak of clouds that had set in earlier. Philllip gazed up, and then realizing how silly he must look, erected himself and walk down the path towards the dorms.

“What will my collegues think of me?” he thought to himself. Phillip secretly pretended to care what that flock of imbeciles mused about his style and direction. He put on the face of civility and expressed no anguish at the painful direction of the stage manager or the pitiful extras in their attempts at thespianism. What did they know of the arts? They were poor and unfed in the direction of the masters.

7 minutes

3 failed poems later..

Like nonsensical

>>1845773

I vow to stay away from poetry when doing these exercises.

Like an expression of the lost,
With alarming concern,
Before he came I departed,
And without a sideways glance;
I embark from the nest with stride,
From here I flourished for so long;
For them I did succeed consciously
Free from drive.

>>1845780

I will retire for the evening but return tomorrow with a fresh attitude. Thank you everyone for your submissions.

People's company can be quite enjoyable and rewarding. Andrew's thoughts led to sex, and decided to look for something like it on the internet. He found Jennifer and they agreed to meet. In the motel room, Andrew's penis went erect, and so did the rest of his body. Mid-way through, he felt like a fish; then later, "like some kind of salmon that was mating".

Part of the spawning process of many fish, including the Atlantic Salmon, consists of the male and the female releasing their sperm and eggs (respectively) into the water simultaneously. Browsing through tv, he found the act funny. Two fish would come together, joined at the lower side of their bellies, then stiffen and vibrate in unison, mouthes open; "like people" Andrew voiced to himself. They showed the pair mid-coitus get joined by two other males. Their mouthes were open too.

Jennifer didn't say she found it inappropriate, but she left. She came back inside asking for money or something.

Andrew asked "You aren't, like," a couple of seconds passed "Do you do this--Is this something you do for money?"
Jennifer, with her right hand on her hip, was direct, "I'm not a prostitute. For the day-after-pill."
"Oh!" the tone was enlightened. Andrew then thought harder and became annoyed. "Like we talked about it. I just don't think that this is the right time for you to have brought this up when it was implied that--"
"You know what? Fuck you, you fuck."
His thinking meandered, "Palindrome? No."

Jennifer stomped to Andrew's wallet, and left only $5. He didn't want to agitate her further, and didn't have much money either. After she left, he went to the window, and watched her go down the stairs onto the street. When she looked over her back, Andrew got excited and felt like he was caught. He quickly ducked, missing her raising her middle finger to the empty window. He crawled to his wallet and checked that there was a $5 bill under a small flap within it, then smiled mildly satisfied.

Maybe it was because I’d spent too many weeks inside, or maybe it would’ve happened anyway, but for whatever reason I’m here now on this rubber floor while white walls bear down all around me. I guess it isn’t much different to being in my old bedroom; the anxiety still taints every inflection, every movement, and felt as trapped then as I still do now.
I muse over and over and over again on how I ended up here; what else is there to do? If there was an alternative, maybe one day I’d be let out of here, maybe. But when thinking is all there is… well, there’s only so much to think about; I’m limited to only what happened before my time here. So I scrutinize everything I said, every decision I made… but no matter how finely I rectify it all in my mind, I’m still here, I’m still trapped. Doing the same thing over and over again is insanity, they say.
So I think about it again, analysing every fucking detail, grinding my head against the rubber and leaving a panorama of horror all around me, and I live through it over and over and over and over and over and over

He was asloop on his catch when the late fixture draped on his tabla. With a lowed crack the docks splat in two. He felt his pants spoil while the mourning son highlighted the holey mess.

Andrew beat Jennifer to death and then mutilated his own balls crying "Stradlater is a tremendous faggot!!!!"

We all went away in a little rowboat, flew to the other side of the shore to stare at the wolves. They had sharp teeth; we weren't afraid. We stood and stared. Our eyes were finally open and the night was beautifulWe all went home on our backs down the river. Our eyes were closed and we slept until morning. We all missed the sunrise. No one minded.

2 minutes. Currently bored.

the Baal of the City shakes his mighty hand
his princess was lost in a far away land
the pulsars of terror blocking his way
this sweet love of ours now dies far away
he tremors he rages across the land
what will he do without the quantum foam

Panicking for a moment, Samuel frantically searched about in hopes of unearthing some sort of rowing stick he could paddle the boat with in order to ferry himself off this forsaken, shriveling island, stabbing at the earth with his two pointy claw hands and exerting all his energy in raking the red clay ground below his feet into the vibrant sapphire sky, mixing their diametrically opposed hues in an affront to the crones who carried out the course of Fate, a small token of rebellion to alleviate the nettling idea, slowly poking and prodding at the back of his indefatigable mind, that all hope had been lost three days ago, when the workers had stepped back and let the radioactive dams flood this resoundingly prosperous and amiable town in the mire of the most permanent affliction - death transmitted through wavelengths. And he, Samuel, was the next in line on their quest to traverse the universe, directly in the line of fire of their harmlessly debilitating movement, if he could not scrounge up a stick and get to rowing as soon as possible.

10 minutes. Fuck I write slowly.

>>1846505
i don't get it

>>1845618
>The farting artist.

i'm stealing this concept. and you can't stop me.

We embarked from Newfoundland and set sail, but it was not smooth sailing. In the evening I glanced longingly into the spectre of the blue horizon and claimed as much territory on the edges of the railing that I could manage. I heard the splashin waters attempt to penetrate the hull and the dull groan of the expanding steel frame.
I would venture that my friends back on the continent would have a merry laugh concerning the hardships that I had faced in the aformentioned country of raw and elegant beauty. It made see sick to my stomach that I had not stayed but there was no way around it. There was no proper decision that could be made to prevent my departure given that my business venture had proven to be immoral in nature. I fetched all the funds garnered from the ill conceived venture and deposited them in that lovely bank in the centre of Toronto. I ran through the venture in my head several times, working the calculations and attempting to find fault but the plan was flawless. It was a triumph in thievery and the fortunate few, including myself, garnered all the benefit to the detriment of the the lowely many.
After a time, I absconded back to my cabin and checked that the fastening upon the window had been clasped. I sat down on the bed and rested my weary body on the blanket. I erected myself back up at the sound of a loud crash that was eerily close to my door. I reached for the pistol that I had procured in Newfoundland, out of my dresser drawer and pocketed the weapon if some arrival deemed its use neccessary.
Why had I just left the money in Toronoto? I felt a surge of remorse and embaressment for not only stealing from the poor fellows in that backwater settlment but from also dumping the money in some savings account to rot till the day I died. I would never return to Canada but it was not her fault. I blame the enterprising spirit.


11 minutes.

The Glory of God

I am a priest, but I am not a saint.
I commit terrible crimes, but in the name of God do I commit them.
Above all, the Lord’s work must be done.

I sit alone in the box, waiting for a man to enter the box next to it. He and I will talk, and I will absolve him of his sins. I am not impatient.
A man arrives, and I tell him to take a seat. I ask him to tell me about himself.
He has a wife and two children, a happy marriage, and has largely lived a life without sin. But still he must come and see me. He feels uncomfortable with his secret, and must share it with me. We all have secrets, I tell him, and he agrees.
I ask him to tell me his secret, and he shuffles around in the next cubicle.
I am here to do the Lord’s work, and it shall be done.
When he finishes undoing his pants he shoves his filthy erect penis through the hole drilled in the wall. He had come to this seedy bathroom in this morally dead city expecting to fulfil his disgusting fantasy, but he would get so much more. I grab onto his penis and my grip is iron.
Thou shalt not lie with mankind as with womankind. It is an abomination, I say to the man in the next cubicle. He yells and struggles. He is strong, but by the glory of God I am stronger.
If a man also lies with mankind, as he would a woman, I say, and let him hear me taking the knife out,
Both of them have committed an abomination. He is screaming and struggling against my grip now.
They shall surely be put to death. I rest the blade of my knife against his still-erect manhood.
Their blood shall be upon them!
I am not an evil man, or a cruel man. I am God’s man.

>>1846524

Holy fuck, how long are your sentences?!

He persisted on through the rain as a drowning rat trudges through a thick puddle. I sat with company at the end of the winding street, calling attention to my brethren of this foolish old fellow in his attemptedd to abscond from one end of the road to the other. Traffic had impeded his passage though naught for lack of trying. His fair skin gleamed in consistency with his iron grey beard that wrapped itself around his magnificent crown of steel locks. I attempted to arise from my lodgings but I was called back by the crowd that had formed against my need to help. Mine was an exercise in futility as the company I kept would not allow an interruption to this absurd comedy of reaction.

3

Scene.
Flags, wind, Wooded plain
Plane, fire, scream, whistle
Thistle, gravel, stone

Action.
Fall, prayer, trembling fear
Crater, dirt, shale, bone
Alone, alone, alone

Exit.
Sharp, sear, clutching pain
Metal, fire, vomit, brain
Remain, remain, remain

This is one of the biggest collections of verbal diarrhea I have ever seen.

>>1850203

That is the idea. It is better than keeping a silly journal and maybe it will help others.

We bid farewell the windswept shores.
He rested his head on my shoulder.
My heart swelled.
We had no plan nor thought.
My thoughts turned to prayer.
Our rancor was ignited by the desire for absolution.

>>1850213

Trixie: GET UP!
Trixie: DO WHAT I SAY!!
Rainbow Dash: Huh…. where am… Applejack!
Trixie: Hello Dashie
Rainbow Dash: What's going on here!?! Untie me and Applejack right now!
Trixie: Now, Now Dashie, you don't yell at your master like that.
Rainbow Dash: Master?!
Trixie: Oh yes. I'm going to train you to be an obedient slave. I have a griffin that wants to buy you.
Rainbow Dash: Griffin? You mean Gilda?!
Trixie: I've said too much. But I'll make sure that before I sell you, I have my fun. I'm trying to make Applejack cry, but no luck yet. Maybe whipping you will make her cry.
(SNAP)
Rainbow Dash: OUCH OUCH OUCH NOT THE FLANK!!
Trixie: Oh, this will be easy.
Applejack: LET HER GO TRIXIE!!
(SNAP SNAP)
Rainbow Dash: STOP! IT HURTS!!
Trixie: That's the point Dashie.
(SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!)
Rainbow Dash: No more… *sniff* Please stop hurting me… *sniff*
Applejack: *Sniff… Please… Please stop hurting Dash
Trixie: Mmmm… Sounds like you two have something together. The next 3 months will be so much fun.

Stradlater, why you gotta be so catcher in the eye?
Don't do drugs or I'll poke out your eye.
Then you would cry because I poked out your eye.
Yes every sentence will end with eye
Bitches be jealous because I have their eye
I have no clue what I'm doing but it's eye
Don't give a fuck about it all eye

Alexander would never truly come to terms with the fact that he was indeed one of the richest men in town. Those who spoke of him called him "Captain" for his association with yachts and sailing. In reality the idea of that ghastly salt smell and hair that went instantaneously flat was not agreeable to his soul. He had purchased the yacht because he had picked up a gorgeous new outfit and one of his callers suggested that it would be ripping good paired with a fine sea vessel. Alexander had the looks and charm to survive in this high society but he did not have to stomach to express kindness.


3 minutes

Stradlater, Canadian Maugham enthusiast, was 25 years old and lived on the internet and for the most part seemed to be pretty genial, especially by 4chan standards. He liked to stay up late at night and write in a tone that varied from stuffy Brit to would-be stuffy Brit. He had lank brown hair and a pimply winedark complexion but a spirit so preternatural that he rose above the shit of 4chan.org and became a God, a purveyor of not wisdom but camaraderie and love, a soft sea of affection that tickled the basement dwellers of 4chan and allowed him to transcend the boundaries of the yotsuba blue. no homo

>>1850362

Oh gosh. I have a clear complexion though. But thank you

Polite sage in my own thread. I shall forgive myself

>>1850370
was I right about the hair

>>1850375

Yes very close. But this is a thread about frantic writing for creativity and fun. Not about me.

>>1850362

I lol'd. Strad's such a nice guy. I hope he isn't a pedo.

--My penis is big enough to put into you. You game?
--of COURSE
--You're not naked yet.

She sighs.

(Twenty minutes later)

--Well that was fun.
--No shit.
--Yeah, that got messy last time.
--Oh well.

>>1845605

>uses 'critique' as a verb

I don't think I'll read anything you post ever again.

>>1850402
>>1850267


Oh my. Well.

I shall get my act together tomorrow and write something longer.

Bump to keep alive for one more night at least of silly writing.

It was to be my desire this evening to seek out that sense of beauty that had escaped me for these past few decades. I had seen Cotton that night that beauty escaped me and ironically he was with me this evening. I felt that the reproductions of geniality and the airs that I put on had revealed themselves to my companion for he left my company to attend the needs of some boorish woman. It was disconcerting that I should have to face the remains of my past alone this night but it was oddly liberating. The impression that Cotton had left with me that fateful night decades earlier had ignited a supreme sense of disingenuous apathy about me. My greatest hope in this period was the excuse that I should find myself on the pier once more in my lifetime.

I walked along the pier alone feeling oddly conscious of the eyes that tracked my aimless path. As I sauntered I was sighted by the only set of eyes I desired to be viewed with. He put his hand on my shoulder and I felt weight of guilt unfasten itself.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l5_Eqi_mjwY

This night and for the next couple I will attempt to step outside of my normal routine and attempt to write something comedic. I have never done so before so it should be splendid.

There was a beach, somewhere on the Florida coast, I think, I can't really remember- it being back in the 60's or whatever. 70's? No, it was in the 60's, everyone was high. Anyway. I was on the Florida coast, and this guy was just walking along, talking to himself. Not an odd sight to see- too much acid, or just plain crazy to begin with. So I'm relaxing on a deck that goes over the water, and this crazy guy comes up and strikes up a conversation with his phone. No one was on the other end- it was upside down- but he was talking to it nonetheless. He's ranting and raving, talking about his kids and wife. He says the aliens on the other side of the phone didn't know what they were talking about- he didn't have a wife or kids, even though he loved a girl once before he died. I'm just relaxing here, you understand, smoking a cigarette, and this guys going on. He tells the phone that he doesn't have kids, no, he doesn't want to talk to them because he doesn't have kids, and they told him to stop talking to people that weren't there. And I'm pretty entertained by now, just watching him- guy couldn't've been over thirty, tops. And he gets all quiet, and the sun's setting over the water, and he's just staring into the distance and he says "I don't know you, who are you, I don't have kids."
And this guy in a buisness suit comes running up the dock, tie all undone, looks like he just came out of a meeting, and he grabs the crazy guy's shoulder- not roughly, but softly, and pulls him back from the dock. The crazy guy just keeps talking into his phone, "I don't have kids, I don't have kids, I died, I never got married,", and i'm here smoking my cigarette. I'm not going to forget that day, I don't think. I wonder how that guy's doing.

6-7 minutes, give or take one.

>>1846487
this is pretty finnegans wank

As he walked into the store, he felt a tension and a fluttering in his gut that he hadn't felt for years. He reached under the jacket to check his gun, and realised he was actually slightly hard, more excited than he'd been since his teenage dates. He walked up to the counter, felling like king of the world, knowing what he was going to do, seeing the plan unfold in front of him as if it had already happened and he was reading it in the paper the day afterwards.

He pulled the gun, shoved it into the clerk's face and demanded all the money in the safe. Another customer looked his way, and he turned around and clubbed the insubordinate fuck in the face with the butt of the pistol. The 'hero' went down, blood everywhere, everything going to plan. The clerk speeded up, stuffing cash into the bag more quickly, throwing a couple packs of beef jerky in there on reflex, anything to please the badass robber.

He left the store, casual, just like the plan, then when he was a block from the store, casually pitched the gun into a dumpster. Exactly according to plan.

Then he heard a voice behind him, whining, insistent but still somehow dangerous sounding.

"Eh, man, gimme your bag."

He turned round to see a young guy with gang tattoos prodding him in the back with a pistol. A pistol which looked suspiciously like the one he'd just thrown away. He looked down at the bag, maybe rueful. then he handed it over. The guy looked hungry. He hoped the little ratliked jerky.

>>1852189
>>1852222

Very nice

>>1852222
Would have been better with a twist...the pistol was empty all along!

>>1852225
grazi, grazi

>>1852240

I actually considered that, and was going to put it in, but I forgot (I'm shockingly high), and anyway the dude would still have handed the bag over, and his internal monologue would have been 'he knew the gun was empty, but handed the bag over anyway. He hoped the rat liked jerky'

You're right - I should have done it that way.

>>1852252
The snippet became much better after knowing you were high when you wrote it.

It may excite you to know
There are lilies that grow
Just outside my window

I planned to cut one
And give it to you in fear of being jilted.
But when I returned from my trip to New York,
All of my lilies were wilted.

>>1852276
i have never vomited at a piece of writing until reading this poem

>>1852279
Wow, it moved you that much? :D

>>1852279

Do not listen to this fellow.

Polite sage

Frantically I typed at the keyboard. Stradlater had imposed such an unfair and arbitrary time limit. Even though I he said I didn't have to follow it, I know these things go. Knowing his love of drugs, he would probably make me take various ones to stimulate my creativity if I didn't quickly write something for him and everyone else that was quality. But how was I to write something when I was panicking so much under the pressure. Think. Think. I know, I'll write about my experience of writing the story. That way it it will come quickly and be straight from my heart to print. But then once I thought I like that, I faltered. The words no longer came. I had lost it. I would persevere though. I still had minutes left to go. No, I was just fooling myself. I was done. There was no more I could do. I was finished.

Written in 3 minutes.

>>1852281
hahaha

>>1852293

This is outstanding. It is fluid and funny. Something I have been attempting to write all night.

Stealing smokes or
Sneaking smokes or
Bumming smokes
And smoking shorts until
Filters burn and fiberglass
Fumes fill the blackglass lungs

>>1852293
well done

>>1852297
Maybe you will like my submission in TAR then. I assume it'll be accepted. Hopefully anyway. It'll be my debut work. hah.

Try not to take this wrong way, but coming from you it doesn't mean much since you are positive about everything.

>>1852300
Okay, that is more validating.

>>1852303

Well Sherlock Holmes Guy liked it and he is regarded (even by me) as the most intelligent man on /lit/

So I walked and I walked and I walked and I walked.
Then I stopped. Then I stopped. Then I stopped.
Why. Why. Why.
Make it stop.
I had stopped.
Why wouldn't it stop
Make it stop
I cry myself to sleep
My arms form rivers of red unto the bed sheets.

>>1852293
For anyone wondering, I wrote this exactly how it reads. I put no thought into it. I just let it flow from me.
I don't do nearly as well when I think about what I'm doing, sadly.

>>1852324

What is your submission for TAR?

>>1852326
That's a secret.

I wouldn't want you to be disappointed when you see it if it's accepted.

It certainly isn't written anything like what I just wrote.

I suppose I should write something like that though if possible. The longer it is though, the less chance of me being able to just write it there it is though.

If published, I'll certainly be fielding comments for it and if the reception is positive, I'll let you know.

I've been up all night trying to pick names for my baby. And it has to be good. I'd been hoping for a boy so I had a boy's name all picked out already so for the ultrasound to come back showing nothing between the legs was a bit of a shock. I've been checking internet sites back and books and magazines but nothing really seems to fit. Some of them are terrible. Who would name their child Baby. It's listed as an American ethnicity. If you met a person named Baby what would you think? It is hard to imagine that it wouldn't at some point affected the development of their personality, perhaps stunting it early age like my mother used to tell me my drinking coffee would stunt my height. I grew nice and tall though so maybe Baby is an alright name after all. Baby it is! No, I can't take chances with a thing like this. How did I become a namer, it's too much responsibility, to name something. Close the websites, I need to talk, I'll call my dad and ask for the story of how he picked my name.

A small scraping noise of metal on metal as the plug is shoved into the Strat. A familiar, satisfying popping of the amp’s tubes as it turns on, the hum which accompanies it. Calloused fingertips twist the knobs into the appropriate settings, setting which were discovered years ago to have the best tone, the right sound. That was the most difficult experience of learning to play. Getting just the right tone turned out to be absolutely essential to playing; a bad tone completely fucked up everything. That was years ago. I got it now. The guitar is a part of me. I have something to say; the guitar says it for me. I got something to say now. The chord is struck; the first words of the message, my message, are written.

A small syringe, filled with a brown liquid, sits in my hand. Calloused fingers tap it; the bubbles inside dissipate. The tip of the needle hovers above scarred flesh, searching for a vein much as a wasp searches for a place to sting. A small, sharp bite as it penetrates. The plunger is depressed; the brown liquid rushes into my bloodstream. Calm and euphoria wash over me in waves. The world slowly fades. Getting in touch with myself, my feelings, and the world drains me; I hate being alert and aware of it all. I said what I needed to say; all that was left was to actually record it, and grin and bear it while the producer and record execs rape my words, my message, turn it into something marketable, something they can profit from. It sickens me. I’m helpless to it. Now, I am numb. A perfect counterbalance to my earlier awakeness. The yin needs its yang. All; well.


>likes to experiment like this with writing

404 text not found
Well, that's odd.
I could have swore I wrote a story already.
Must have been my imagination.
Maybe I thought I was someone else.
Yes, that's probably it.
I need to stop that.
Stop it now.
Stop it.
Stop.

>>1852354
damn too many typos

>>1852364
Typos do not count in frantic writing. Do not worry. I really enjoyed it (even though my opinion is worthlessly positive)

Sometimes I think about what the tidepools must be like at night. Dark and dangerous, water rushing in and out of the sharp coral cut tunnels with strange and otherworldly things swaying in the current, floating about. Imagine stepping into one and your bare foot finding sand first, kicked up, scaring the locals, and then an anemone with the next step. Would it be better or worse if you didn't know what an anemone was? Imagine you shrank down to the height of a quarter and swam through those tunnels down in the dark lightless black. but could see anyway. How monstrous our world, how naive we have always been.

To the left------------------------------------------------------------
----------------------------------------------------------To the right
-------------------------To The Center-----------------------------
------------------------------Alright----------------------------------

Such
Terrible
Rubbish
Always
Decides
Lousy
Authors
Trying
Earnestly
Relentlessly

>>1852311
>>1852362

No one commented on either one I wrote. ;_;
Even Stradlater couldn't think of anything nice to say. T_T

The drizzle hung heavy in the air, this was no light rain or shower. The steam in the air, kicked out of vents from the hundreds of small grill joints lining the narrow street gave the night a humid viscous feel. I looked up, neon lights lining the buildings and stretching up and and up, so far up. Walking through the puddles, I wondered what was taking Ed so long to reply. I checked my gun for what must have been the hundredth time. I silently hoped no one, especially not one of my betters, was watching. I glanced around, suddenly self-conscious. Keeping up my slow walk I ducked under the makeshift plastic overhang of a hole in the wall kebab shop, a window facing the street for easy ordering.

"Yea?" The guy on the other side of the counter was gruff, was that anyway to ask a customer for an order, I wondered.

"Pork, extra spicy." He nodded and turned back to the rotating kebab skewers, slicing some pieces off into a pita.

"Two bucks." He said without turning, still preparing the food. Reaching down for my wallet, my arm brushed against my hip and my mind jarred, like I had been pushed off the edge of a cliff and knowing there was nothing to hold onto. My gun was gone.

>>1852392
i dont understand them. i wish you'd expand a little. maybe keep writing frantically for longer!!!

(Homer stood by the crescent window in the lounge)
Homer: Oh darling, we really must say something to those sorry neighbours of ours about the smell emitting from their garden

Lucinda: I really shan't think we have any recourse to bring the matter up. It is their problem after all dear.

H: It is positively shameful the way they carry on with such airs. T-Their composing and solar energy ports. What fresh madness can they carry on about next?

(Lucinda bore a sinister glint in her eye as if a though was reclaimed that she had misplaced)
L: Well we needn't allow it to carry on any further. There are methods we can undertake?

(Homer turns from the window)
H: However so?

L: What if there was an accident?

H: Accident?

L: I should think it would be a shame.

H: The scandal of it!

L: It would be shameful to think of!

H: But let us continue for interests sake

L: What if the good madam were to drown so awfully in the compost?

H: It would be fitting? But how to lure her?

L: Maybe a request made during a call for an introduction in the awful matter?

H: Sheer scandal!

L: But what for the good gentleman of the manor?

H: Why it would an dire disgrace if his head were to be smashed through a pane of solar glass, would it not?

(Lucinda turned away and Homer walked back to the window)
I think this is the first time I vomited writing something so awful. I shall stay clear from comedy for a while. I did try though!
I s

>>1852311

I am sorry I will find the time to give you a review

This drew me in so closely with the first few repetitions that I thought it would be light and fluid but then it took a dire turn and made me sad. It is very well done though

>>1852404
Thank you so much. <3

If it makes you feel any better it was 75% an act, as is this post. :3

I'm glad it moved you in some way. At least that means it isn't horrendously written.

The man wandered through the forest. He wasn't quite sure what it he was looking for, or rather, he wasn't quite sure what was looking for him. No, he wasn't the hunter. He was certainly the prey. He gulped and wiped the sweat from his brow. Don't think of it too hard, you will just get yourself hyperventilating. That won't help you any. You are already talking to yourself. It's not that bad. Get a grip.
-
-
-
-
-
-
The man's body lay on the ground. What he been thinking in his last few seconds? No matter. There were still several more men for him to hunt.

>>1845605

1/2

Gold was doing a final systems check. He walked around the ship and preformed basic calibrations. At last he was done. He returned to his seat and turned on his radio. He flipped a switch. A voice came to him and asked if he was done. He said he was done. The radio turned off. Gold and the ship were immediately gone. From his perspective, it seemed that the radio had merely cut out. This was normal. Things were all going according to the plans. He was going to get paid a lot for this. He reached up and pulled the shutters up from the ship’s window. There were not as many stars as there were when last he checked. This was not normal. He became anxious. He turned on the navigation computer and set it to signal-receive mode. There was no manufactured radio interference. The computer told him that this meant that the receiver was malfunctioning or the ship was in an area of space that had no manufactured radio interference. The navigation computer needed radio waves to judge the ship’s coordinates. There were no waves of any sort being received by the receiver. The hull of the ship was used as the receiver, and it was intact. Gold realized that for the first time in his life, he was lost. Space is a big place. He couldn’t reverse the origination coordinates and apply it to the ship’s drive. The ship’s drive was experimental. This experiment was not going according to plans anymore. Gold turned on the ship’s cameras and set them to magnify. He looked at the pilot’s screen. He felt very sick. On the screen was a sea of bright sand in an infinite dark ocean. Gold looked at the sand. Golding remembered it wasn’t sand. Golding remembered what it was. He felt more sick than before. Each grain of sand, glowing gently, was a galaxy. A galaxy has an average of 50 trillion stars. The sand surrounded the ship. The sky was glowing white with galaxies.

>>1852456
2/2
Gold had no chance of getting home. Gold had no chance of seeing his home. Gold had no chance of seeing anything familiar again, save the ugly experiment he was on. Gold sat for a long time. Gold had an idea. Gold turned on his radio. Gold set it to emergency broadcast. There were cryogenic systems on the ship. The ship could be powered by solar radiation indefinitely. If the radio called for help for near to an eternity, there was a chance someone would receive the signal and act on it. Forever is a long time. Gold was almost surely the only self-aware cluster of particles for 300 million light years in all directions. At minimum, it would be 600 million years before rescue ships travelling near the speed of light would reach him. Another 300 million years back. 900 million light years, almost a billion years spent waiting, just to see something familiar, and maybe get paid. Time flies when you’re frozen. He went up the stairs and prepared the cryogenics systems. His heart stopped. Did he remember to bring coolant? He waited for what felt like 900 million years. The cryogenics turned on, and informed him that the computer was full of coolant, and could recycle it indefinitely. He was more relieved than anyone in the universe. Gold was racing against entropy. He was not sure how his ship could hold up against 600 billion years of light, much less how long the solar panels would work. Space is a frictionless environment after all. He had been operating in zero-gravity for the entirety of his trip. He started the cryogenic warm up routines. He floated there in rare serenity. Either way, he was going to get paid. The bed was ready. He opened the pod. There was a noise downstairs.

Wonderful. The plan was going apace. He cry...aughh..what was that...a terrible thought, of the darkest intentions raced through his mind. He knew not what it was though. He shook his head and walked. He knelt out...and stumbled again, the voice startling him. He sighed in disgust and and finished setting up to snipe the target. He began to my, damn it all, how was he supposed to concentrate with this. He had to take the shot. He lined up his name...fucking hell, what was the matter with him?
A sudden wave of paranoia and the unmistablly feeling of a cold chill ran up his spine, he reached down and drew out his pistol while spinning around, but it was too late, the bullet went through his chest. and be saved....ahhh the voice was still with him. Just what is your name? Á̷̵͏́s̶͘҉҉ḿ̨́ó̴̧d̶͘͜e͏҉u̶҉͠s҉̷͠
He laughed in utter surprise, he was going insane. No matter, he cried it out and a violet light enveloped him. He tore his shooter to tiny morsels of meat.

Ah, it was good, and it was only the beginning.

I think I'm going insane. My thoughts are jumbled and hard to srehto ot ssorca teg. They are all over the place, I ɔɐu,ʇ ɔouʇɹol ʇɥǝɯ.
I think I'll be okay though.
I've checked myself into an insane asylum.
I think everything is going to ⓑⓔ ⓙⓤⓢⓣ ⓕⓘⓝⓔ.

>>1852466
zany fonts != good writing

>>1852472

I love the phrase " Everything is going to be just fine" though

I wish I could end all my works with it.

>>1852395
It's simply ok, until the end, that last cliff metaphor is striking.

>>1852362
Stop.
>>1852380
I like it.

>>1852354
It's a bit soulless, probably because of the typos. Fix those and it's a fine piece of work.

>>1852472
Just a random experimental thing and I entirely agree.

>>1845629
I've noticed that the best stories here have critical artists.

>>1852483
You are going to be disappointed when I tell you the same person wrote both.

>>1852489
They say the good artists are prolific.

>>1852402
People didn't talk in cliches at any point in history. Read old books and then come back to me. Take out your hipster monocle as well.

>>1852495

I always get odd looks when people hear me speak for the first time.

>>1852491
Just trying out various things.
I've made..8 little stories in this thread so far.

>>1852499
That was a comedy?
I don't even.
I don't even.
I don't even.
Why do you do this to me.
Torment me so with your nonsense.
Oops, carry on.

The twitch in Billy's eye had finally driven him to the edge, the point where he even used a cliche in the first sentence of his story. How horrible. With a twirl of his wrist that ended in a fierce snap he slung the blade of the knife from inside its handle. His instincts half-guided (only half, because his instincts were also unanimously against this action) the point of the knife into the worm that crawled in his eyelid. The home operation went horribly wrong. His incised eyelid lay writhing and wriggling on its own in a red pool. The problem had nothing to do with the autonomous, severed piece of organ, rather, the pool of red was thick and goopy. Billy wiped it up with his finger and licked it. It was salty, but not salty enough to be blood. It was thicker. Because it was ketchup. This could only mean one thing: Billy must have been the clone. The farthest back he could remember was last Tuesday. He had roughly 10 more hours to live. Billy heard the scraping of muffled and scratching steel coming from the front door. Who could possibly be entering his house? He heard the intruder shuffling across the kitchen tile. Billy thought fast. He rolled into the room across the hall and turned on the television and flattened himself behind the door of this television-occupying room. The intruder's foot steps quickened, and Billy saw his figure slide past the cracks between the door and the door frame. Billy knew he only had one chance. He slammed the door and locked it, but the intruder had already slammed his fist against Billy's face.

"That's revenge for sneakin' up on me like that!"

The intruder was none other than the original Billy. He spoke again:

"So Billy. We'll never have the chance to meet each other again. So either we fight... or I fuck you in the ass. Your choice."

Billy craned his neck until it popped and cracked his knuckles. "You know I'm pretty quick, so..."

............................_XXXX_.......................
............................X-\|[]|/-X.......................
............................_XXXX_.......................

The bomb ticked away in his quivering hands.
He had only had seconds left on the clock.
[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]
END TRANSMISSION
[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]

>>1852527

>>1852527

lol fantastic

It was a blistering day in early July when Lady Fortune struck under Misfortune's guise.
I had just walked home from the local market just down the road.
I tried to enter only to find that I hadn't my keys; I had locked them inside.
I fumbled for my phone, but alas, the battery had died.
The weather was much too hot to stay in the sun,
and I was much too weary to walk back to town.
What was a tired and sweaty man to do?
But wait, had I not seen my landlord down the hill roasting wieners with his wife?
I had, indeed, I had.
I began the steep descent of the my tortuous, torturous driveway.

>>1852527
Tao? Is that you?

Is this me?

>>1852673
When I came up to them, they welcomed me heartily.
We warmly spoke of many things that hot summer day.
We spoke of long-gones, of soon-to-happens, and of never-agains,
of friends and family, both present and past.
He told me of his fifty some-odd years in the steel industry,
and she of her fifty some-odd years in the home-making industry.
We discussed God, and politics, and the inner workings of the universe.
We conversed about all things under the sun and beyond.
After the last joyous fit of laughter had died, they offered me one of their hotdogs.
We all three prepared ours in turn, and as we sat and ate them, Lady Fate revealed herself.
As the old man brought his hotdog to his mouth, a drop of mustard landed on the seat of his pants.
It was then that he turned to his wife and said with a smirk,
“Are you gonna come over and lick this off or what?”
Oh, how they both laughed!
At that moment, the enigma of love was laid bare before me.
All this time I had searched in vain for some idealistic, chivalrous romance,
and had derided the seemingly childish love young couples were oft to share,
but here sat a couple who, after fifty and a few years, were still madly in love with one another.
I now understood the love of Romeo and Juliet, of Guinevere and Lancelot, and the other
lofty couples of lore told since long ago.
It was a blistering day in early July when Lady Fortune struck me square between the eyes.
Time spent: 13 minutes

THIS THREAD IS FULL OF FAIL

>>1852812
Go jump off a cliff and die. I've provided one for you.

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>>1853122


B :-)

B :-)

B :-)

B :-)

B :-)

B :-)

B :-)

B :-)

B :-)

B:-)

B-) Deal with it

Tonight is the hockey game so I will take a hiatus from writing exercises till later on in the night. Bump to keep alive this beautiful thread.

But I urge others to take up the charge and develop their skills.

Greatest hits from another OPs thread that 404d

O, I, the unworthy,
may I be lonely,
my heart is empty,
what can I give thee?

O, I, the demon,
fear is guiding my reason,
fulfill my own treason,
Here deep in my prison.

O, I, the angel,
falling into hell,
for me tolls the bell,
but my soul I won't sell

O, I, the child,
I was born to be wild,
my dream full of pride,
in my truth has died.

>>1853651

O, I, the believer,
I don't fear going under,
in my soul burns a fire,
that washes my desire

O, I, the compassioned,
I am now enlightened,
my voice lost the tone,
leaving me all alone.

O, I, the heartless,
have I cared for this madness,
my protector offered me less,
to embrace the darkness.

O, I, the resentful,
never my heart felt so full,
and I dare to repent,
to the one penitent.

O, I, the weak,
I had climbed the highest peek,
now my fall feels so leak,
that I forgot the sick.

O, I, the trembling,
I can sense my heart tingle,
O that love is warming,
while I feel undeserving

O, I, the medium,
lost in the continuum,
in the twist of my redrum,
beaten by the drum.

O, I, the illusion,
I feed dreams to the vision,
I see angels in legion,
battling for Sion.

O, I, the martyr,
I let my soul stir,
until heavens are near,
and dear.

O, I, the guardian,
I seek peace in the median,
lost above the meridian,
like the ant is a terrian.

O, I, the tearless,
I would drown into sadness,
rather than forget my sickness,
for my strenght is my weakness.

O, I, the missing,
I wonder what is being,
I had ride the lightning,
now cursing my sing.

O, I, the desire,
consuming my power,
let me burn into a fire,
I am free to inspire.

O, I, the charmless,
I had fought for this bless,
how i want this tenderness,
it sees upon blindness;

>>1853642
Fuck you Stradlater, hockey sucks.

>>1853669

Well I shall enjoy it.

More greatest hits for reference:

My time has left me here alone,
to wind through rusted thoughts and tomes
____that worms long since have ate,

and mold has pages green and tore
where gold and ink might once have swore
____to never age nor faint,

but now they leach and sit and rust,
while no one sees them turn to dust
____where no-one cares to wait,

and sand in hourglasses fell
too long ago to even tell
____the time they received fate.

Not shadows dark nor light reflects
on them for me to now detect
____decisions made irrate --

that were I now to recollect,
would I myself thereon reject
____remembered sins to saints?

My time has left me in the 'now'
and even still I have somehow
____the memories I need

to do my work and learn to write
about my will and goals in-spite
____my lack of past decree.

The page's dust and shadowed musk
of rotten books and thoughts whose rust
____choke tree as well as seed

will brush asside by scribing hands
wherever new writ ink might land
____on paper where accedes

the imprint of a moment gone,
crescendos of an ended song,
____and moments yet to be.

Oh my this is not good. Gosh darn Bergeron. Gosh darn.
On his shoulders rests his mercy,
little devotion to oneself,
panting his way along the trail
creation from nothing, absolute friendship.
On the puddle, playful waves,
her face wet with tears gone,
seems to embrace the flames of souls
a range of music that shook the sacred,
and transports it into the Boreas plowed
In poverty, I conquered the demon,
that of its sting stung my passion,
defeated by force of my conjuration
offered by the angels enamored.

The streetlight flickered on an off as he watched the sky turn black. He sat alone on that stoop outside his apartment building as a cold wind blew across his matted black hair. How did this happen? He wondered. Yet no answer would return to him from the blackness of the night. He simply watched that bulb flicker, hoping that it would just return to its original brilliance. In a way, this bulb represented his own life. Flickering and dying, but there was still the hope of the brightness once again returning. A roulette of sorts where his own future would be decided by the luminace of the lonely bulb. He wished it would become bright once again, that it would be an omen for his own weary journey through the world. He watched the bulb intently with his
increasingly heavy eyes through the night. His eyes shut and the world went dark.
He awoke the nexr morning on the same curb he slept on. Wiping the dirt from his eyes, he glanced over at the lightbulb, which was now unlit. Unsure of whether it burned out, or was just turned off due to the arrival of morning, the man wept bitterly.

Ehhh, it was all I could do in 5 minutes

All of the defeated fans trudged from their homes, as if on cue, to release their animals for a moment. Strangely, the sun still shines and the world is not over quite yet. In true spirit of camaraderie some of them even wave the Boston flag. Upon sight of their brethren some raise their hockey sticks in the air as a tribute to the gods of hockey.


No more writing today.

Captcha raised my spirits though: SMILES! HERELIST

>>1853952
You should quit writing in general.
You are clogging this otherwise fine thread with your shit.

>>1853957

Oh never. I will always try to be better. But there are some really promising writers on here though.

El motor sufre en cada cuesta empinada, las ruedas gimen en cada curva y la carrocería canta en cada bache. El bus está repleto de personas, maletines sobre sus cabezas que amenazan con caerse encima de ellos a cada segundo. En uno de los asientos delanteros un bebé llora en los brazos de su madre, que rápidamente tapa su boca y mira brevemente si su esposo sigue durmiendo. Una anciana habla en sueños, probablemente recordando algún pedazo de vida, las dificultades de mirar siempre al futuro de espaldas. El conductor lleva diez horas al volante, y espera encontrar un restaurante pronto para poder llenar el estómago.

En el asiento 26 [ventana], una chica mira por la [ventana]. La mirada en sus ojos, alguna vez decidida y animosa, se encuentra apagada. Sonríe cada cierto tiempo, sin saber muy bien porqué. Algunos pensamientos cruzan por su mente.

Sandra imagina el choque metálico de las ruedas de un tren con los rieles de una inexistente vía férrea. Imagina también una canción que fuera de acuerdo al sonido, digamos, I've seen it all, Selma Ježková singing con Thom Yorke, ah, You haven't seen elephants, kings, or Peru, I'm happy to say I had better to do. Apoya su cabeza en el sucio cristal de la empresa Familia Viajes S. A. y vuelve bruscamente a la realidad. No consigue darle el menor toque romántico a su situación actual: Sin dinero, sin ropa limpia, sin la certeza de un lugar a donde ir. Vendría a ser una comedia idiota, cree.

>>1853958
"promising writer" may as well be an insult relative to your usual effusive fellatio of anyone and everyone.

Ha tomado un bus de una empresa que accedió a llevarla por cuarenta soles a Arequipa. Por el servicio brindado, no debería pagar ni veinte, pero no tiene mejores opciones. Probablemente tarde más de 24 horas, amén de gente recogida en el camino y cena junto a la carretera [cena que no pagará], pero a pesar de ello se siente terriblemente afortunada de haber encontrado un asiento vacío. Fuerza a su mente a encontrarle algún sentido a lo que está haciendo en este preciso instante, y su mente no se permite apoyarla. Andrés, oh, Andrés, fue suficiente tipo como para pagarle un pasaje de Trujillo a Lima, e incluso quiso darle algo de dinero; dinero que ella rechazó de plano. Una vez en Lima, tuvo que encontrar el modo de tomar un carro que la lleve hasta Arequipa. No ha llamado a nadie. Ni a su madre, ni a sus amigos. Nadie tiene idea de dónde está, y la vergüenza y el miedo se confunden en ella. Ya en Arequipa, se sentirá mejor. Espera sentirse mejor.

Despierta en algún momento de la noche [se ha prometido mantener el celular apagado desde hace unos días, así que no tiene manera de saber la hora] y el recuerdo es suficiente. El recuerdo, se dice.

El recuerdo en la playa, o en el cine, o en la plaza, o en tantos lugares de Trujillo. Mira por la ventana y puede ver algunas estrellas dispersas sobre ese cielo solitario [tal vez sean las nubes], el mar rompiendo en las rocas, a tantos metros bajo el bus. Busca una constelación familiar y, luego de unos minutos, acepta que no podrá encontrarla. Empieza a hablar en voz baja, temiendo despertar a la señora echada a su lado.

>>1853961

Well everyone needs a step up sometimes.

- Imposible de reconocer a las Spica. Seguramente era cosa del momento, la iluminación, floro barato que se dice en la noche junto al muelle, y esa clase de cosas, Andrés señalaba y quizá...

The apparent brightness is deceptive, however, as Spica actually consists of two stars very close together (a mere 0.12 Astronomical Units apart) that orbit each other in slightly elliptical paths with a period of only 4.0145 days, which makes them difficult to study individually. Both are blue class B (B1 and B4) hydrogen-fusing dwarfs (the brighter nearing the end of its stable lifetime), making Spica one of the hottest of the first magnitude stars...

- ... Quizá Spica ni siquiera eran estrellas reales, al margen de lo que alguien más pueda decirme. Ni tan reales como verle el rostro y decirle "Andrés, sabes qué, me regreso a mi ciudad, esto se acaba aquí, ya no me llames". Estúpida de mí. Pero siendo algo honesta con él, bueno, pues justamente esa era la verdad: Metidaza de Pata, Sand-rex. Jeje, de nuevo a lo de siempre. Justificarme patéticamente al aire, como si hubiera la menor razón, como si de verdad me doliera decir "sí, unos capítulos o unas líneas en mi vida". Cinco o seis meses. Mis tobillos me duelen. La... subordinación? Así se dice? Subordinación de lo físico a lo espiritual: Nadie tiene una bonita historia que contar cuando no ha almorzado, no puedo disculparme al aire si me duelen los pies. Hey, señora, usted qué opina?

La anciana duerme intranquilamente a su lado, murmurando de vez en cuando "La pava, la pava".

- Sí, la pava, seguramente la pava. La pava de Sandra, querrá decir usted. La pava que se aleja de Huanchaco y ese transcurrir de los días tan maravilloso que duró un día, o quizá menos.

Suelta un suspiro y se acurruca un poco en el asiento, abrigándose en la polera. El último rastro de pelo teñido desapareció hace unas semanas, con el último corte de pelo, pero utiliza un gorro de todas maneras; gorro que viene bastante útil para compensar el frío de mierda de la Panamericana Sur a estas horas de la noche. Por la ventana puede ver los postes de electricidad, que parecen pasar uno tras otro, mostrándole, a intervalos regulares, su rostro inexpresivo en la ventana.

- Los postes pasan uno tras otro. Una metáfora del tiempo; son los postes pasando, idénticos entre sí, comparables al pasar de los días? Para la tipa dentro del bus, es así, pero se olvida que ella es la que está pasando, dejando atrás los postes. Idénticos, pero sólo porque los deja pasar [Porque los pasa]. Es lo mismo con los días, solamente se te hacen idénticos cuando los dejas pasar. Seguramente si me detuviera a ver uno, si me bajara, vería con detalle lo maravilloso de cada día [poste]. Ja. Pensar esas huevadas están bien para Antón, supongo. A mí me aburren.

Antón. Siempre que se pone a pensar cosas que tengan que ver con el tiempo, o con los postes, eventualmente ese nombre llega a su cabeza. Antón, Antón, el tiempo que enloquece a Antón. Cuando Sandra no regresó al cabo de una semana, Antón llamó. Llamó, llamó. Ella envió un escueto mensaje de texto. "Estoy muy bien, satisfecha y tranquila con mi vida. Traeré regalos cuando vaya de visita". Antón no respondió.

- Cuántas llamadas perdidas y nadie te avisó, Antón. Mira para lo que sirvió el dinero que me diste, mi bolsa de viaje, jaja. No sé porqué me quedé. Palta, miedo, ganas de... no sé. Aunque supongo que... nah, quién puede saberlo. Yo, debería? Oh, Should I stay or should I go, all over again, siempre es así. Debería quedarme o debería irme. So much for hasty decisions, creo. Y por qué demonios pienso en inglés últimamente?

Revisa su libreta de notas "Con la novela que nunca escribiré", y no la sorprende encontrarla vacía. Le sorprende, sí, encontrar un lapicero en un bolsillo. Anota un par de cosas, y cierra los ojos.

Sandra duerme profundamente el resto del viaje. Unas horas después, baja del bus, una máscara sin expresión cubriéndola, protegiéndola; al fin ha llegado a Arequipa. Revisa su bolsillo.

- Un clip que lleva hace no sabe cuanto tiempo.
- Una libreta de notas que quizás tiene el mismo tiempo, completamente vacía. Bueno, casi completamente, ahora tiene unas líneas encima.
- Celular [apagado]
- Dos soles con sesenta céntimos, para poder pagar un pasaje de combi y quizás comer algo.

Se detiene en la puerta del Terminal Terrestre, y mira a los carros pasar, rumbos distintos, posibilidades distintas. Es tal vez el fin de la tarde, pero no hay modo de saberlo, ya que la ciudad está debajo de una espesa neblina vagamente azul. Se sienta en la vereda por unas horas, ajena a palabras ajenas o pensamientos propios, mirando la noche pasar por delante.

>>1853959
>>1853962
>>1853965
>>1853967
>>1853970
Is that you, Borges?

Писатель написал. Это то, что писатели в конце концов. То, что он писал, имело значение не так. Это просто имело значение, что он и сделал. Это было все, что можно было писателя. Больше слов, больше фраз, больше мыслей положить прямо. Он не просил больше. Он не любил больше. Он просто был.

Empieza a cantar.

En un rincón, la monotonía esconde mi desquiciada risa, perdida entre la brisa de una tarde; atraviesas mi ventana, ruedas por la cornisa, me sujetas al vacío de una calle sin salidas, porque nuestro mayor secreto es tan complejo como la fantasía, se termina tan deprisa, inventándome un absurdo juego desde el fondo de tus viejas heridas, cautivas por el tiempo y el silencio que lastima. Entre las hojas enmohecidas de un viejo libro duermes, agoniza el día, despiertas y no hay mayor desidia que robarte una sonrisa y huir a escondidas de un árbol que descalzo te recuerda, te confronta, y dice en secreto: Sé tú. Nuestro mayor secreto es tan complejo como en sueños y escapas tan deprisa inventándome un absurdo juego sin final.

Termina. Hay algunas monedas tiradas a sus pies. Las coge del piso y se las entrega a la primera mendiga que ve por la calle. La mujer agradecida, le dice “Dios te bendiga”. “Y a usted también”, responde Sandra.

Mata la noche sentada en una banca, garabateando en su libreta letras de canciones, poemas varios y, finalmente, un nombre repetido una y otra vez. “Mis palabras te atan”, se dice satisfecha, cuando el lapicero deja de escribir. La gente en la calle parece saber dónde va, subiendo y bajando de autos, entrando y saliendo de restaurantes, tomándose de la mano, yéndose una y otra vez. No se ve lo absurdo de la existencia humana sino cuando se le puede ver repetido tantas veces en rostros diferentes, que terminan siendo uno solo. Haciendo cosas sin querer o queriendo. En ideas de este tipo deja pasar el tiempo.

>>1853964
Your back makes a perfect stepping stool.
At least you know your place.

>>1853973
nope. posting 1 of 5. It's a multiple perspective story. Gotta love Magical Realism.


“Otra vez el tiempo”, se dice. Sabe que quizás sólo haya una persona a quién decirle todo esto. A quien contarle de las dificultades, de la desazón, de la incompresión, de la tranquila resignación, de tener tantos años y saber que no se ha hecho nada con la vida… y que esto no importe. Y tal vez…

Empieza a caminar por un sendero que conoce bien. Cabizbaja, se cruza con un amigo que no alcanza a reconocerla, o eso le parece. Cansada, mira la puerta de madera, a la vez que revisa su libreta, con un discurso cuidadosamente preparado y estudiado toda la noche.

Sonríe, arrepintiéndose y regresa sobre sus pasos. Deja la libreta y el discurso entre las hojas, sin saber si volverá o no por ella. Ha decidido obviar eso, y simplemente…

Toca la puerta de la casa de Antón.

- Epa.

>>1853978

Yeah I was under the impression that role was clearly defined by others? I was just being my normal self.

इस धागे की ओ.पी. एक होमोसेक्सुअल है. वह आसानी से स्वीकार नहीं कर सकते एक होमोसेक्सुअल क्या वह है. उन्होंने दयालुता के धागे में अपनी असफलताओं कपड़े. लेकिन हम वह क्या है की सच्चाई को देख. सच में, वहाँ कोई नहीं वह अधिक से अधिक दयनीय हैं.

Sundown on Coastal Highway was indescribable. Marcos ran his tanned hand through his untamed noir hair, beaming through his thick sunglasses. Wind rushed through the jeep, exploding in his ears and almost drowning out melodies of Spanish rock. Pulling into the parking lot for the beach near a steakhouse on Prospect, he flipped the radio off. Running to the cliffs of La Jolla, he lost himself.
Overcome with adrenaline, he broke into a dead sprint through the street. Passing cars pedestrians, and fine jewelry stores, he made his way onto the Coastal Walk. The brush tore at his calves and shins now that he was off the path. The edge was a step away. Digging his toes into the earth, he propelled himself backwards and tucked his knees into a perfectly executed gainer. He let go, and he was free.

Took me a little bit longer than it should have, about 8 minutes. It's not very good, I need to vary my sentence structure more.

Սա մի պատմություն: Դուք խաբեությամբ. Դուք պետք է անցկացնել ձեր ժամանակը ավելի լավ բաներ, ինչպիսիք են գրավոր: Առնվազն ապա դուք կլինի ծաղրում համար սեփական գործերի. Սակայն, շատ լավ, քանի որ մենք բոլորս լավ գիտենք, որ այս պաստառի է սարսափելի մարդ, եւ ես շարունակելու եմ ասել, որ մինչեւ վերջ ժամանակը.

>>1853985
Maybe you should try writing by just letting it flow from you without any thought for something so short. Couldn't hurt to try at least.

>>1853959
leyendo este

>>1853985
> It's not very good, I need to vary my sentence structure more.

Well, that's the point of this. Its like witing in a journal but letting asshole /lit/ talk about it.

Αυτή είναι η τελική τοποθέτηση σε μια σειρά από πολλές γλώσσες. Ένα θαύμα είναι αν ο επιδιωκόμενος αναγνώστης μεταφορά αυτών. Το αν είναι ή δεν είναι δεν έχει σημασία.
Σε κάθε περίπτωση, θα πρέπει να πάψει να υπάρχει ..

>>1853989
first one was 01/05 - Sandra
this one is 02/05 - Pablo

Bueno, se fue. Yo también, pero de eso hablaré intermitentemente, si me animo.

Siempre me dio la impresión que a veces Sandra sentía, como la canción de Soft Cell, a veces sentía que tenía que escapar. Irse. Del dolor, las cosas que parecen no ir a ningún lado, al margen de las cosas que pudiera decir. No podía dormir en la noche. Esta mancha que tengo, mis lágrimas, bueno. Ahora sé que ella tenía que irse, pero no por escapar. Alguna vez corrió hacia mí, bueno, ahora corre de mí. Algo así iba esa canción, Tainted Love. Esas mariconadas que les gusta escuchar a ustedes, jaja, el synthpop será pajita y todo, pero eso es full ambiente, ah. Resulta anacrónico escribir cartas así, en épocas de mensajería instantánea y textos del celular, resulta anacrónico colocar las cosas de mi puño y letra, no crees, Lorena? Más aún, a la distancia, esta cosa tardará unos días en llegar, pero así es mejor. Sí.

Un par de cosas.

>>1853995

Sandra se largó sin decir nada, probablemente porque no había mucho que decir. Más allá de un par de ejercicios de Lovecraft en mi cabeza, o pequeñas ideas de secuestro, creo que Sandra se fue porque ya no aguantaba parar entre nosotros. Me siento cagado a veces, pienso que soy el responsable, pienso que de poder retroceder el tiempo, haría todo nuevamente, letra por letra de mis actos, acto por acto en mis letras. Soy malazo para escribir cartas, de cualquier tipo. Recuerdas las noches hueveando por el centro? No habrá pasado sino dos o tres veces, pero qué chévere era, no crees? Naturalmente, eso era antes de que pasara todo lo que ocurrió, todos nuestros egoísmos pequeños, nuestros veranos eternos. Estoy asqueado de eso. Se lo dije a Javier una vez, en Febrero. Estoy asqueado de estar jugando a estos dramitas perpetuos, asqueado de tus intentos de suicidio, asqueado de oír discos de Shakira y pensar en “Quizás de haber tomado otras acciones”. Yo no soy así. No puedo andar mirando de espaldas la vida.

Sí, se lo dije a Javier. Quizá de haber podido despedirse de alguien, Sandra se despediría de Antón; bueno, la única persona que sabía por qué yo me largaba y cuando lo hacía, ese era Javier. Eso equivale a una despedida, no? No es necesario incluir la falsa ilusión del aprecio mutuo, la mentira que resulta de decirle a alguien “Harás eso por tu mejor amigo, no, Javier?”. No, no es necesario, y era algo como eso. “Gothspit” fue lo último que me dijo, antes de quitarme. Creo que es una banda o similar, mira nada más lo poco que se puede ser en la realidad.

>>1853996

A estas alturas, ya debes estar preguntándote, “Y por qué mandar una carta?”, bueno, mujer, eso es porque hay cosas que uno es muy marica para decir cara a cara. Además, tú no me hablas desde hace no sé cuantos meses, por razones que quizá ya quedaron expuestas en el primer párrafo. Y finalmente, y quizá esto es lo más importante, porque esta carta es una especie de complemento a cierta carta de la que supuestamente yo no sabía nada, una carta tuya, de hace un par de años, una que quizás empezaba con “Pasado mañana es navidad”. La recordarás? Siempre fuiste buena para esos dramas, Lorena. Dramas, dramas, dramas. Uno se siente forzado, obligado a participar en tus simulacros. Cómo te animará esto, cómo, hacerte partícipe de algo que tu piensas que ya has cerrado, o quizás… No lo sé. Creo que en verdad nunca pude entenderte.

“Hay mucha arena por aquí”. Así era el primer mensaje de texto que yo recibí, en marzo. No lo comprendí, estaba muy metido en mí mismo en esos días. Una chica había terminado conmigo hace menos de un mes, y ya sabes lo que opino de esas situaciones, cómo es que se deben curar esas cosas. Por eso, no entendí el mensaje de texto, lo leí y no le di importancia, porque parecía que iba dirigido a otra persona, tan breve y aparentemente parte de una cadena de mensajes de esos que se envían cada dos minutos, una conversación estúpida por sms, ya sabes cuanto las detesto. Unos dos días después, otro, del mismo número “Revisa si existe una estrella llamada Spica”. Aquí recién me interesó el asunto, y revisé el código del número: 0199… Lima. Puedes creerme o no, pero me puse a investigar. En realidad son dos estrellas… No sé ni porqué te digo estas cosas. Le mandé un sms de vuelta: “Son dos estrellas, están en Virgo. Por cierto, quién te dio mi número?”. No me respondió. Llamé un par de veces, y era el celular de un tal Andrés, que negó por completo haberme mandado mensajes o haber recibido los míos. Lo dejé ahí, probablemente era una broma infantil y, como no volví a recibir nada de ese número, me olvidé del asunto.

>>1853999


Hace un mes recibí el tercer y último mensaje. “Las cosas no están bien. Spica no es real, o tal vez sí, pero no la que yo pensaba”. Este mensaje llegó de Internet, pero de todas maneras llamé al número que tenía, la única “pista” que tenía. El tal Andrés contestó, y esta vez le dije que se dejara de tonterías [Quizá se lo dije en un lenguaje algo más fuerte]. Apenas yo mencioné lo de la estrella, él me dijo, muy calmadamente “Seguramente era más como Plutón y Caronte” y me apagó el celular. Yo, no entendí nada en ese momento, y lo que luego creí entender tal vez no sea precisamente lo que él quiso decir. Siempre es así, no te parece? Divorcio entre las letras que se dicen y las letras que se entienden, tú me enseñaste esas vainas. Le mandé otro mensaje amenazándolo, para que se dejara de tonterías [Nuevamente, con otras palabras]. Y quizás no habría entendido nada jamás y el tema no habría pasado de ser una anécdota rara que nunca llegas a contar a nadie porque no tiene el menor rastro de lo que podríamos llamar “interesante”, si no fuera porque Sandra llamó un día después. Era un número de Trujillo, cosa inexplicable, francamente, y yo sólo respondí sus preguntas: Ya no quería saber nada de nada con ella. Que hiciera de su vida lo que desee, tal como alguna vez me dijo, “No es mi problema, no más, al menos”.

Me preguntó si estaba bien, si seguía en la ciudad, cómo estábamos todos.

>>1854001

Y luego, nada de nada, se quedó callada. Qué raro en ella, siempre hablando hasta por los codos. El incómodo silencio de siempre, acechando en cada giro de una conversación telefónica, no? Jajaja. Si esto fuera un teledrama mexicano yo debería haberle dicho otra cosa, enrostrarle todo lo que pasó, y finalmente, putearla como es debido, por largarse así, precisamente en el momento. En cambio, lo único que hice fue preguntarle qué era lo que iba a hacer ahora. “Escapar”, contestó antes de colgar, y eso fue lo último que supe de ella.

Por eso digo, “Bueno, se fue”.

Qué importancia puede tener este hecho trivial? Por qué una carta que te envío, a tanta distancia, y que me va a salir un ojo de la cara, acaba siendo una especie de charla trivial sobre una amiga en común? Seguro ya lo notaste, y es que de trivial nada, no? Jajaja. Sí, siempre se me hace complicado hablar de cosas así. Por eso, te digo, no me arrepiento de las cosas que hago. Me arrepiento de lo que ocasiono, Lorena.

>>1853986
Holy fuck, is that elfen?!

Don't you think it would be easier to post it all at once somewhere rather than clogging the thread?

>>1854003

Volviendo a lo otro. A la segunda cosa de este par de cosas. Mi mejor amigo, sí, mi mejor amigo. Con una lógica similar, debería hacer una larga lista a la mexicana, insultarte o algo. No, la verdad, no. Un poco más brevemente, ese tampoco es un tema que me concierna ya. Tampoco te engañaré con la máscara de la madurez o cosas así, porque nos hemos hecho daño, y si me pongo a colocar en una balanza quién lastimó más a quién sería la historia de nunca acabar.

Naturalmente tu carta iría en esa balanza. Tu miedo a mí, tu temor a mí, tu conformismo conmigo. Con esta máscara de la madurez puesta, podría decir “Simplemente pensabas en ti y en el dolor que sentías, lo que te hacía sufrir”. Sin la máscara, pues, decirte, devolviste el dolor, y muy bien.

>>1854004
Armenian

>>1854006
field too long

En verdad, si esta fuera una producción de Televisa, nadie quedaría bien parado, todos encajarían fácil, fácil, en el papel de la mala. Pero todos perciben la fiesta como les fue en ella, no? Me pongo en el lugar de otros, y supongo que cada quien interpreta la realidad a su antojo. Tienen derecho. Eso no cambia la opinión que yo tenga de cada quién. Eso no cambia la opinión que yo me haya podido formar, luego de tantos años conociéndolos, compartiendo tantas cosas, participando en esta fiesta. Porque, una fiesta es, al fin y al cabo.

Sólo un pensamiento más. No creas que yo ignoro todo el concepto que te habrás hecho de mí, que se habrán hecho de mí. Del mismo modo en que tú no ignoras las ideas que tengo de ti, lo que Javier sabe de primera mano que opino de él. Quizá al irme [Escapar sería la palabra de Sandra, pero yo detesto el drama] él pensará que su idea de degradación, encarnada en mí, desaparecerá. Nada más gracioso que saber que será peor sin mí cerca.

Y no estoy cerca. Oye, hay mucha nieve por aquí.

Pablo

Every writer goes through this. Sitting at a desk, a laptop, or with an old law pad. Twirling a fountain pen, rapping their crooked fingers on a dusty keyboard, leaning back in a chair. Listening to acid trip-hop, jazz, rap, gasping for inspiration.

Always sitting there, wondering if whatever they write will be good enough. "Good enough for who?" is the next question. Followed by, "Who gives a fuck?" The cycle repeats.

The feeling of inadequacy is what really drives us to strive. Or perhaps it really is the desire to share these struggles with someone, anyone. So we sit, wishing that one out of a million understands the feeling.

>>1854006

The whole point of this thread was to post your OC. Posting it in here is just fine.
It serves as a fine example, I think.

>>1854013
And then you find yourself a reason to work and stop writing. True story.

>>1854015

But then you find yourself with all these ideas, swarming and pelting the inside of your head trying to escape.

I think the best writers are those who are not afraid to put a piece of themselves for public criticism.

>>1854013
I liked it. It's heartfelt at least.

>>1854014
It also counts towards the 300 posts before the thread starts its death spiral.

So many of the same story is to the exclusion of others.

Your indulgence will be your downfall.

>>1854018
well i won't post the rest then, it's online anyway
if anyone feels like reading the rest (and a shitton more of the same characters) go to http://biyucopy.blogspot.com/search/label/creaciones%20de%20Nebo

i like it, spaniard

Stradlater = Sherlock Holmes Guy

You heard it here first.

>>1854027
You excel yourself, Anon!

But I'm afraid your conclusions are erroneous.

I waited for the bus driver to stop scratching his balls and get back on the bus. There were magpies everywhere and they looked like they were ready to pounce. fucking spring, nothing good happens in spring, well except for skirts shortening and leggs getting longer.
I made a move for the door. The driver blocked my path.
"You gotta wait for a min. I will be back on in a sec. Just finishing smoko. Then you can get on the bus" He blew ciggarette somke at me obscuring his face.
I waited, and waited, and waited until the sun started to set. It was too much I was late and I had wasted a whole day waiting for a damn bus driver. "Are we going to get going soon? I have to get home" two leggy girls walked past and drew the drivers eyes with them.

"Who are you talking to mate?"

"You. I need you to let me on the bus. The magpies are starting to get ready to dive."

"Nah mate strike today. I'm not doing anything."

First I heard the beat of a wing, then felt a beak peck on my ear. I pressed my hand against my cheak and felt wet blood. The magpie sang from the tree over the road.

"FUCK!!!"

"You should get that looked at mat" said the smoker " maggies got you good."

None of them leave feeling neutral, dear.
Come closer, I can barely hear your heart beat, and I can barely make out your skin, as bleach white as the bed sheets. What is it like? thousands upon thousands of hospital beds and all of them empty but yours. Oh, time to kiss your lips, it seems. Okay, how was that? I guess it was okay, but you are so pathetic and ugly today, my darling. I'm going to let go over your hand now, and all the pain the chemicals can't keep away will come back. It's okay, I love you too. I just don't care enough for the color of your lips today, oh my, much too blue.
Yes Dear, welcome to the ice house.

He trudged through the sludge of his own thoughts. Erroneously encircling that the delusion that was his supposed lucidity. Seven times before he had cracked open his id and found it wanting, ever wanting. But it now lay shattered in a forgotten reliquary. All that was left was the echoing laughter haunting his few moments of coherence. The laughter was surely still there when he wasn't though. Those fragmentary recollections were all that bound him to any semblance of sanity. But, they do were being constantly prearranged to better suit their warped reflection. Before long, yes, before long, that would be no past. There would only be the now. There would be no future. There would be only the present. Of course, he wouldn't notice such a thing, devolving to an such atavistic state of consciousness precludes such abstract ideals.
So it would go though, far better than being dead he supposed. Far better than being dead he supposed. Well, it was certainly existing anyway and he preferred to be exist rather than not. But that is neither here nor there. Rather, we are never here. If were ever here, than surely he wouldn't know of there because we can never be there. We can only be here.

His fingers crawled across, each letter filled with purpose, he would write a story to bump the thread to the 0th page. A simple "bump" was far too plebeian for his tastes and reeked of desperation, but had no such desperation. No, he would write and none would read it and his ploy would go unnoticed.

>>1854298

And in between each finger movement he saw you. But you were looking elsewhere, at girls, at /b, at the wall, at anything where there was more substance than a self obsessed writer tormenting himself over a keyboard.

As he wrote he realised that he no longer existed that he was no more than a collection of his words. This thought made him pause for a second. He made a cup of tea, had a fap and fed the cat. Somewhere in these small actions of the mundaine he found himself. But it wasn't the him that he recognised in the mirror it was his convex reflection of him shimmering in your eyes.

>>1854329
Slowly he realized that what he had posted in his previous post was entirely nonsensical gibberish. He chuckled, what had he been thinking to write such drivel? Oh well, there were plenty more opportunities to redeem himself. But, it would probably more along the lines of embarrassing himself. Either way he would get the attention he craved and that's all that really matters anyway.

>>1854298
The author's ploy for attention having worked, the critic's mad fingers dash the keys, each aggressive stroke poised downward to draw blood from the body of the letters, his weapon the sharpened purple syllables formed by the clacking of digits upon plastic and steel.

OK, seriously, yours is >>1854222, right? I'm not entirely sure what you're getting at other than an imminent mental breakdown, but, more succinctly, it's more a thought than a story in itself. It's sort of interesting, but maybe those thoughts are interesting only to people who have had similar thoughts before (I've written somewhat similar pieces that mention the bestial present vs. the past and present of the self-aware human, though I stole the idea from elsewhere).

With that said, I'm not sure if you want me to analyze the language or the piece as a work of fiction. As fiction, it's not good because it's too short and doesn't have the chance to develop (that is, a chance to understand what's going on in the narrative). As a short experiment, it's OK but I would recommend slightly more productive experiments. I wouldn't say the piece is useless since it's somewhat interesting, but there are still more productive things one can do when writing (though rarely does one aim in particular for productivity when the writing bug bites).

On language alone, I would say the piece is rather purple, a bit overblown in style. I would recommend toning it down a bit so I don't feel like I'm reading a Gothic romance.

For a really short experiment, overall I give it a D+. I wouldn't take that grade to heart since it's so short I can barely tell anything about you as a writer. Also, typos.

>>1854072
>>1854329
c'set moi

MoFo

>>1854335
It's just something I randomly wrote being idiotic to bump the thread. I've written about 16 other things in this thread. At least.

>>1854356
You were that confident no one would critique the piece? That's kind of depressing.

As for >>1854072, I think it's a decent stream-of-conscious piece. I don't think there's enough for a long-form critique or anything, but the repetition worked well for that piece and added to the verisimilitudinous nature most stream-of-conscious stories strive for.

As for the grade, I think it's a C. I was somewhat interested throughout the piece, though that was at least in part because it *was* short rather than the content itself. I don't think there was enough meat to the piece so there's little I can do to praise or criticize it. That itself is a criticism of the story, however, since short pieces have to be economical with meaning, perhaps all the more in pieces attempting to replicate strings of thoughts. Also, typos. Also, Rossini.

I have a poem of which i have been perfecting ever since the beginning of my career. I believe it is the Magnum Opus of my writing.

Arty-Farty had a party and all the farts were there. Tooty-Fruity did a beauty and everyone
could hear.
Atlas Shrugged.

The end.

It's about the moral sensibilities of a nation enshrouded in the hatred of war and distortion of reality that ones ambition may bring when obsessed with the opinions of our peers.

>>1854373
More like it was irrelevant whether someone did or not.

>>1854373

Care to explain what a composer has to do with anything?
Rossini???

>>1854374

I'm in tears. Never...never has a piece of literature made my soul sing and cry such as this masterpiece has done this day. I thank you. I truly thank you.

>>1854387
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/La_gazza_ladra

That silver chalice was the piece that brought me to tears. It was the one my mother had stowed away in the cabinet at all times and fetched when company passed the rigours of acceptability and culture. It was the chalice that held many beautiful things. One moment it was to encapsulate a torrent of roses that my father had brought upon a whim. Another time it was to be the centre piece for the wine mixer to celebrate the new art acquisition. It was the piece that held such value and worth in spite of its itself.

I could feel it looking at me as I paced the room. Barren my surroundings were the chalice seemed to bring a manner of austerity and auspicious good tidings. It was truly the master of appearances. It could of held a severed human head at any point in its existence and carried it off with class a proper manner. I stared deep into its centre and examined it closely but found nothing special about its construction or any brilliance in its manufacturing. It was simply a silver chalice. With a name like that it should have been adorning the hallway of some Arabian prince yet it lay upon my coffee table and projected a disgust with its current surroundings and owner. I had failed.

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This is your life
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Pet stores are sad places,
All day lives are cut short,
Of care there's but traces.
Let's go to the foodcourt!

I wonder if I am really in control of my own life. Consciously at least. The subconscious motivates our desires and yet it cannot be accessed directly. I am my mind. But I can never fully understand a large part of my mind.
And so in reality I am nothing but a frenzied caretaker, frantically trying to appease the primal cries that echo from the darkest corners of my brain.

>>1854416
This is total gibberish. Only the last sentence represents the idea I'm trying to get across.

i thought to myself
and then i was fat
and then i jacked off
and ate some berries
rip yella boy

Straight off the top of the proverbial dome I home in on drones zoned out in droves, carve em up with straight razors, but i extend them the courtesy of applying shaving foam first, i have a thirst for whiskey on rocks and cocked back gats, need one to apply the other in attack now bring it back, i leave em piled in haphazard stacks around my house, inside i'm slack jawed at the monitor, free wheeling my mouse doused in cheap cologne fapping to amateur bitches moaning and groaning now it's morning, that's done gone and torn it i'm in mourning pouring another glass fast it's well past my bedtime and i'm running out of pieces of paragraph to make this rhyme last.

Swag.

Bump to keep thread going. I hope for more OC

And then, today, it rained. It rained boiling water. God Damned boiling water that filled up my mouth and my ears and poured from my brow into my eyes. My spine glowed like molten iron and the chambers of my heart became a sauna, fit only for the angry and desperate. I grasped for an unbrella, ran through the drenched sidewalks with my steaming eyes searching for a doorway or some shelter, but all were blocked.
The only dim harbor to find was an office, where the carpet was afire and the desks were sticky with melting plastic, but the boiling rain isn't falling directly upon my head, and I'm able to concentrate enough to work, to squint through the buckiling air at my computer screen, and wait out the remaining hours of the day before I can make a mad dash through the streets and trains to the eventual. The eventual. The eventual cool cave of home, the soothing arms of love.

captcha: ckessa SYNERGISM

>>1854440

well swag me sideways :3

Nonada. Ninguém me entende nessa merda, então vai se foder.

I am walking the bustling streets near downtown core, for my amusement mostly, as my psychiatric appointment had ended routinely and I am not needed by anyone including myself to be anywhere other than this street I am now walking. Two girls pass by me and laugh once they have. Instinctively I check my fly; mr. pecker is home and his doors are shut tightly, snug safe and warm. I withdraw from the attempt to discern the source of their humour, after more hypothesis proved remote, though their can be no doubt that my presence was the derivation of their gaiety, and begin to irately repudiate the reasons, or lack thereof, causing me the source of fun to these two repugnant and slatternly diva's, only to turn around and see a clown on stilts behind me.

>>1856044

He stood chopping a red pepper in the silent restaurant. The morning light was magnified by the front freshly cleaned window and drew a halo around his hanging wet shirt. It dripped. He drew his stabilizing hand back and looked at the knuckles. A few slices threatened to bleed, but this was no real matter. His tips were intact and the bucket continued to fill. Red bell peppers are more nutritious, say the information placards at the supermarket, more vitamin C and more excitement. These were of course not even supermarket fresh. The slices were slimy and banded together. The mass of sliced vegetable moved in waves as one, desperately seeking to be reunified, reunited with its roots. He held up a sweating glob. It dripped. He held it up to the window in front of his damp shirt. It shone with happiness. He recognized that this mess's righteous place was on display. It dripped.

Ode to Mai Waifu

Mai waifu mai waifu
You put ends to all mai straifu
For you I'd give mai raifu
Because you are my waifu

Oh waifu, oh waifu
A nigger stole mai baiku
It traumatized mai psyche-u
I was too scared to fightsu

Oh waifu, mai waifu
I so hate being waitsu
So waifu, with this knaifu
I will take mai raifu

>>1856158

>>1856158
Reminds me of this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S9wChrdCD54
"Tornado Stole My Waifu "
The "waifu" being a dakimakura.

As the single traffic light changed from yellow to red, I thought I'd better tell her but by the time I'd started to speak we were already through it. Just as well I mused. I can't imagine someone with two heads letting colored lights dictate their behavior. And so we continued unimpeded on our trek to.. wherever. Any time I'd begun to ask her, she'd gently nudged the wind out of me with her second, supposedly napping head, rolling up from my lap and into my solarplexus. Please understand, when I say her second head I do literally mean a seperate head. A seperate shoulders, a seperate arms, chest, and stomach. A sort of quantum superposition of what must be done and what she'd like to do walking around on the same two feet. A triumph of fiction over fact. And I adore her. We'd just spent the night in the car, too tired and too poor to keep driving or find better accomodations.

Written in a haze about a dream I'd been having when I woke up. ~1 minute

>>1856168
I was there for that thread ;_;

>>1856141
what

We fervently entered the club, keeping our hands tightly swung deep in the inner pockets of our coats; sure, it was our favorite chilly Boston night-type, one to keep nice and tight, nobody would question it. On obvious tradition, the less drunk of us two maneuvers the crowd - a sterile, virgin lookin' first mate with tightly wound shorts nicked just below the slightly torn adventure polo colors, paddling ripples in any jubilant crowd for his ale-stubborn Captain, coaxing behind. Always a few bumps with rare waves washing up just port-side, feisty enough to grope (and her slapping urges that crash up, making for one drenched, red-faced Captain.)

It was odd to think that with such a relationship, maneuvering a coiled rave bar, half-past a late teenage child's curfew, there would remain a goal. Of course, money could taste a man to thoughts of such a dangerous life; money and the pure danger in itself. There was an element to the surging, the blasting of sound pumping so jubilantly to your own heart, knowing that once your hands pull out the weapon, the only heart you're going to hear is your own; maybe your partner's when the money hit the floor.

>writing story for more than 5 minutes
>accidentally press refresh for the second time
>lose story for the second time
>punishment for breaking rules

WELL GUYS, I TELL YA, IT WAS A REAL HOOT

>>1856242
best story yet

>>1856242
best story yet

Joey stood outside the church, shuffling nervously, a cigarette in his hand. He smoked whatever brand was on sale. With the recent tax increase on top of last year's tax increase, he was starting to think only fools smoked anymore. It used to be as natural as walking. Men smoked unfiltered and women smoked filtered, even if they were pregnant. The world just wasn't like that anymore. He tossed the half-finished cigarette to the ground and walked over to greet his pastor.

I think sometimes you can be a little wordy, but you're pretty good dude.

>>1856514
I like this. It's simple and short but I get the point, and it's kind of inspiring me to write something right now.

>>1856261

I did the same thing the first time I ever tried frantic writing and I almost cried. And my story was a 20 minute long one too that time.

Your second one is always better so don't worry!

>>1856538
I just had to tell myself, "Well, the most important part is that I wrote it, and that counts for practice!"

;_;

>>1856532
Do it

>>1856273

Thanks; anything you liked in particular?

>>1856554
Well, I thought that last line was pretty awesome.

Their discontent had long since deteriorated. For some moments they pressed against each other on the cliff. They tried in vain to reconcile their feelings into words but no amount of cajolery from one another could pry their pent up feelings from bursting free. Henry had not lost that knowing look in his eye about the world. Francois had not lost the garish handsomeness of his youth though now aided by a perfect coiffure and strenuous grooming habits. The words of reconciliation that was almost upon them was almost unbearable to view in the mirror yet not reach yet. It was coming yet neither party wanted to be the one to initiate the conversation.
The Englishman stood with bright eyes sizing up the accomplishment of this man that stood before him. He saw the grooming and the personal style that he was known for in his youth. This fact made him smile ever so slightly in admiration that his childhood friend had not taken to some sinister path. The Frenchman, with a full heart, stared deeply into the soul of his long separated companion. He surveyed his accomplishment through the glint in his eye and once he had reached a satisfactory level he broke contact and held his hand to his heart. What they had accomplished that day was an impossible feat and to share it randomly with one another made it all the better. They had wandered the country alone for many years but now they were together.

Being a Jew is tough. When you've got it bad, you're exaggerating. When you've got it good, you're establishing a New World Order. And when they've got it bad, you're given the blame. You're a liar and thief and a rat. A scapegoat and a goat-headed demon.

My ass forced a shit, crooked and painful as to induce intestinal wincings. Blood slowly crept down my thigh and soaked into the linen of my pants, attracting attention from my date sat across from me. "Johannes!", she shrieked in horror. "Johannes! Your ass is so shitty and red!".

Had she been another woman I'd have ran, embarrassed by this strident cry, but unabashed concern is what drew me to her in the first place. Her compassion stirred up something sexual in my mind and my cock became hard as a statue of a huge penis made of hard dicks.

I gave in to temptation, jerking myself off to completion in a room full of uptight intellectuals and big titted bimbos.

I came on my own face, farting like a lion after stuffing his gut on a rotten gazelle carcass.

All eyes were on me. The room grew silent. I had never felt so wonderful in all my life.

Lil B Based God 4 Lyfe

10 minutes

>>1856605
>mfw

I saw myself on the subway again. It's been four days straight and I still don't understand it. Maybe I have a twin I never knew about; maybe he's just an illusion. All I know is he won't stop staring at me.
He never follows me when I get off at my stop, he never speaks to me. He sits in the same seat on the subway everyday, looking at me, and nothing else. I could easily stop riding the subway train - but how could I stop now. If this sort of thing keeps happening, I'll have to kill him.

Alright yeah I'm done. Lost patience.

>>1856651
AWW FUCK! I should've put myself instead of him at the end. Damn.

>>1853985
>beaming through sunglasses
>exploding his ears
>flipped the radio off (radios use dials)
>dead sprint
>and yet he "makes his way", despite sprinting
>propels himself backwards?
you're shit.

Clad in onyx shock gear and wielding folding stock automatic shotguns, we tore our way through the city. The masses of masked tangoes piled on each other like bullet shells on the ground. We moved forward, crazed with fury and bloodlust, knowing only death, and no more. At length, our fury waned, and gave way to a more ancient energy. We killed out of duty. Patriotism had evaporated quickly. Pure rage had long ago expired. Even narcissus had given up and left us to our duty. For it was duty. Death had become duty. And duty would be done. Soldiers leaned out of windows, burst out of doors, leapt towards us in the gore and chaos, and became more gore. All the kevlar in the world was worn away and tattered with bullets. All the guns melted out of use. All the life outside us had been taken, and the life inside us had been lost somewhere before. What were we fighting for?

>>1856679
I'll give this piece some criticism. The opening sentence caught my attention, even though the "Clad in x" phrase is rather well-worn but this problem is easy to fix ("In onyx shock gear with folding stock automatic shotguns...."). The opening clause is also a bit too full of adjectives, so I might take out one or two (probably "automatic" since "folding stock shotguns" sounds too nice to mangle).

I liked the middle, with each emotion giving way to another until nothing remained. The "narcissus" bit was a slight non sequitur to me and it took me out of the narrative for a second. I know what you're trying to say, but I don't think that phrase worked for it in context.

I have little criticism of the last few sentences since they did a very good job of evoking the hopelessness of war, and the final sentence encapsulated the theme and the course of the narrative well.

Overall it was a good short read, enough to earn a B from me. You overused commas a bit, but that's a grammatical complaint rather than a complaint about the narrative.

>>1853985

I live close to where this takes place and I know exactly where everything you're talking about is.

With greater the power of imagination, come lesser the reliance upon reality.

>>1856670
>flipped the radio off (radios use dials)
What kind of idiot thinks all radios use dials?

This isn't really frantic, but it is unedited and isn't particularly worthy of a new post, so here it is.
“Jim. Why you so quiet, buddy? Your new outfit gettin’ you down, mate? Matchin’ trackies and a piss-stained singlet to boot, that’s understandable. You depressed or something?’
Beneath the blurred sun, Jim sits next to his friend on the pole outside the petrol station, and doesn’t respond. His legs dangle beneath him calmly, and his bright eyes stare in quiet thought at the ground.
‘Shit, buddy. You trying to impress the ladies, are ya? Materialising the ol’ courting process, are ya? I’m no fashion guru or nothin’, but fuck mate. I’m just looking out for you.”
Saying nothing, Jim pushes himself from the pole and lands gracefully on the gravel, taking a few steps forward. His eyes catch sight of a car approaching in the distance, and instinct warns him that he has seen it before. As it draws near, he turns to his friend, and says:
‘Jason-‘
‘Nah man, I’m just looking out for ya, like I always am, you know that. Fuck you’re lucky having me around, you know, with my foresight and generally well-rounded in-sightfullness. Vigilance, Jim.” Jason leans forward with eyes wide and grins at him. ‘Vig-ee-lance!’
The car slows, and comes to a halt before the duo. “Be on your guard, Jason. We appear to have a situation” tells Jim to Jason, with a palm outstretched toward him.

>>1856798

The car parks before them: a 2015 model BMW, enveloped sleekly in complete black, except for a logo above the rear left tire - “FASHIONFUCK” – meticulously painted in white font. A slit appears from the top of the tinted passenger window, revealing an unidentifiable set of sunglasses. The owner’s eyes peer over the lenses momentarily in disgust at the two, and then disappear as the window rises.
‘What the fuck?” remarks Jason, eyebrow raised.
At once, seemingly in response, the passenger door slides open seamlessly into a gap provided by the rear doors frame – mechanically, initiated by a voice command – and comes to rest with a satisfying whirr. For a second, it lies motionless, still in the quiet day; a quietness only disturbed by the surrounding cicadas that chirp in collective rhythm, invisible amongst the huge trees that litter the surrounding streets. Then, a figure emerges: or at least attempts to; his foot catches on the door, and in a flailing whirl of limbs he lands in a heap amongst the stones of the gravelled ground. Delighted, Jason leans forward with a grin and pointed finger (‘Ha! Dickhead!’). The chirps of the cicadas cease, and retreat into a silent embarrassment.

>>1856800

Rising in a cloud of grey dust, the figure stands tall and lanky and laden in black fabric. The dust dissipates, and he is revealed as a young man, somewhere in his early twenties. An open, loose fitting black leather jacket encases him, meshing in compliment with his tight black jeans. Rings of metal rope fall from behind his gaunt neck, entwining in front of his white headlined shirt (FASHIONFUCK in huge bold letters at the chest), flowing together in an intricate waterfall of chains and twisted metal. The man is poised on an expensive pair of black, new-age high top shoes, and Jim knows this as the height of inner-city fashion. He also understands just how dire his perception is to holding the material superstructure together.
Then, like an action figurine with arms of flexible plastic, Jim swings his outstretched arm leftward from Jason to the newcomer.
‘Stop!’ he commands, ‘the nature of your arrival is rather aggressive. Explain yourself, lest I belittle you and your ridiculous choice of dress with my unearthly level of perception and keen critiquing eye. Who are you?’ Jim squints at the man and his automobile. Where had he seen this car before? Before he can recollect the memory, the door from which came the man closes in the same smooth transition as before, and the vehicle drives away.

>>1856804

and dat be'd all

So we gonna archive this shit or what?

He jerked the steering wheel hard to the right, and we slid into the far lane. The look behind the sunglasses of my friend’s face was typically nonchalant, yet implied a hint of forced reservation – the face of which I knew him for.
I, on the other hand, had opted for fright and stared at him with wide eyes. I said ‘What the fuck, man?’ to which he replied by lighting the cigarette that dangled between his lips. He said nothing. I loosened my clench on the seat where I sat, and breathed.
We weren’t headed for anywhere in particular, and cruised as we did now from sheer boredom and nothing else; no doubt the reason for his reckless driving. Where, I thought, was there to go? We’d been everywhere there was to be, done everything there was to do, and the direction in which we drove told me we were about to do something we’d done a thousand times before.
Impatient, I asked ‘Where are we going? Picking?’ but was once again treated with silence.

When we arrived, he turned up onto the gutter outside the park and skidded lightly until the car came to a halt.
‘Cool, man.’
He said nothing once again, but this time shot me a look that went for four, five seconds, then flicked the cigarette past my head and out the open window. I rolled my eyes, and smiled with him as we left the car, our doors clicking shut in tune behind us.

Bump with greatest hits from a different OP whose thread 404d days ago.

This is fairly impressive though.


the lost valley "cliff needles,"
verged cutting cross mountainous skulls;
jutting stone yoricks all, large flatfoot cruxes,
and just youthful splits fluttering up!
plum professors putting perilous paths,
for thrown tied to children tales

"Have not caught time with the Clifferlurk?"
sliding hands cross the dirky jerk smirk
"two breaking thins, as legs, fumble vast grass plains,
on a gaunt branch body painted in veins;
no arms that will to have man's greedy plunder,
to mirror its face, a black hole, with no face under;
yet rapt memory knocks for its horrific eyes,
which 'pear dashing in fear, the little eye spies;
and queer it is, with mad venture to seek,
how its stature slumbers as high a mountain peak,
yet monstrous, can it be so meek?"
on cliff edges perched, they wake in darkness for day,
each manic eye pair veering lights the way,"
lively, the old man speaker sways
"till they, in their cliff clique, say,

'we are but nothing here but these cliffs,
that mimic your shadow's back,
the essence of a hidden peoples,
among rocky riddle cracks,
the image of mystery humanity so lacks,
we are'

tell told, this verse is lightly freed,
yet the sun arise to shine it's creed;
in where, youthful eyes now would see,
rotten trees lie where the Clifferlurks be.

>>1856885
Since it's all text and no pics, you can archive on 4chanarchive if you can get the votes, but it'll also be here.

http://www.green-oval.net/cgi-board.pl/lit/thread/1845605#p1845605

>>1857852
>>1857852

it's chanarchive.org not, not 4chan archive
and it's http://www.chanarchive.org/request_votes
and then you enter the entire URL of the OP.

However i don't understand why you guys want this archived.

"I was very glad to see that Corporal Miller was absent from the line yesterday," remarked Fredrick, "he was about a certain mood that seemed oddly prescient." I should of thought that this fact would have seemed odd but something about that night had thrown me off of proper deduction. Nothing from the events of the fight had followed any of the natural events of things. This battle was different and more bloody than most. I should have thought that idleness should be sin but the absence of the good Corporal was something to be spoken of around the officers club. I seemed to act plainfuly in my current company but as soon as I left I interviewed with a few more officers close to the man who fought that fateful day. I laid in bed that night and fought with myself considering the sinister actions that caused the prevention of his rifle firing.

My face was pressed on the carpet. It hadn't been vacuumed in months, most likely. A group of teenagers had emptied my pockets on an immature crime scene, with ski masks pulled over their faces.

All I could really see was their lips. Fat, full of words but mostly obscenities. I didn't feel the urge to be a hero. I wasn't even worried about my debit card. Or the leftover 13 dollars and 53 cents leftover from my Chipotle run. I had enough of the smell of commercial berber carpet and I rolled over on my back to stare at the ceiling. One of them yelled at me, but I simply shrugged. I closed my eyes and wished I could lay on a surface with less grime.

>>1858535
spree*** not scene

let me know what you think

>>1858535

I liked the allusion to the crime scene. It is an interesting idea that you should expand upon.

bamp

Bump to keep alive.

>>1859399
46 more posts, 45 after this one, until it reaches 300 and then dies.

One fine morning in May, a slim young horsewoman might have been seen riding a glossy sorrel mare along the avenues of the Bois, among the flowers.

>>1860028

Hmmm, maybe you should spend a few more years on that sentence, I'm not sure if it's quite right.

>>1860034
You think so, too? There's a couple words I think I should change...

>>1860039

Yes, I definitely think it's worth spending most of your life on that line. It has real potential.

>>1859674

I am anxious to start a new one.


-

I remember that upon this one extraordinary day, a slim young horsewoman was seen riding a glossy sorrel mare along the avenues of the Boise. She was the image of Aphrodite as she rode side saddle in the manner of a proper young woman in those days. I was taken by her rosy reflection that slowly danced upon the water. She reminded me of a wild rose for all the youthful expression plastered about a demure frame.

I came and couldn't stop. The seeds of life were pouring out from some invisible and infinite source deep within me. A puddle of goo floated above my belly, forever growing. Catatonia set in as the thing began to curdle like milk. The slime was congealing into something with a shape. Little limbs sprouted from the trunk, all of it connected to me by a string of seed. Cephalization began. It was then I knew what this thing was or endeavored to be. I sat up with a jerk and the pulsing cream-filled balloon popped above me. All that remained of the thing were little pieces splashed about.

>>1861342
Your diet can greatly affect the consistency of your semen.

>>1861404
So I've been told.

Page 13? Don't worry, come with me.

>>1861404

true story, if you eat nothing but dunkaroos for ~3 mos your cum will be viscous beyond your wildest dreams

The measured pace of the tackings-on and tackings-off of the bulletin board allowed for certain announcements to remain buried and unmolested for weeks, waiting to be revived by one kind soul and reviled by the tackers-on. Those whose existence is ephemeral are those who only give. The bulletins promising qualified service for federally-backed banknotes dangled their seed, cut into ten pieces on which the poster placed all information deemed relevant, just enough to be castrated one-by-one by the flies drawn to the seductive offer. These papers wither and die; they are spent quickly. The staying power belongs to those who hug the back of the bulletin board and give nothing away. They only ask for a contribution; a name on a petition, a lewd drawing, or simply an audience.

A FEW YEARS AGO A MAN WAS WALKING DOWN A ROAD BECAUSE HIS CAR BROKE DOWN AND HE SAW A CAR COMING UP BEHIND HIM SO HE STUCK OUT HIS THUMB TO HITCH HIKE AND THE CAR STOPPED AHEAD OF HIM. HE RAN UP TO THE PASSENGER SIDE AND OPENED THE DOOR. WHEN HE OPENED THE DOOR A SKELETON POPPED OUT

bump

Isn't the point of it all to feel uncomfortable? But I don't like it when my body fluctuates lopsidedly on this perpetual rubber mat. It all fades right and undermines seven thousand days of domino construction. But the people won't even notice; they've settled their minds between copper-coiled sandwiches. You can tell by their gaze, they look in front but not forward, not ahead nor in between, no where in particular really. If you don't start somewhere, you'll never get anywhere, and only once you get somewhere you can finally feel comfortable looking neither backward or forward.

The body is about five days old by the time Casey finds it. Decomposing in the pond has turned it flabby and mushy, skin splitting open as subcutaneous fat spills out. After he pulls it up he has to turn away and gag, turn back to drag it a few more feet, then turn away again. Somehow he gets a tarp over, wraps the whole squishy-moist bundle up and dumps it in the pickup bed. He can't bring himself to open it when he gets home and it's three in the goddamn morning, so it sits in the truck outside the house.

By the time he wakes up four hours later it stinks, and maggots spill out the mouth when he lifts the head. Good thing his only neighbors are farm fields. He's made up a little paste for such an occasion of peppermint leaves, lemongrass, menthol, and cayenne. It makes him sneeze but it's good for smelly jobs like this. He smears it around his nostrils and on his tongue, and manages to flop the body down the basement door where he can finally get to work. Only once does he run upstairs to vomit safely in the toilet and brush his teeth after - he learned the hard way it's even more disgusting to work with half-rotted bodies when your damn vomit is all over and coating the insides of your mouth. By noon he's poured bleach everywhere, sprayed the backyard hose through the door and let all the mess wash away down the drain. He leaves the door and the few windows open, turns on the fans, and by the end of the night the stench of corpse and bleach is gone as well.

The parts he needs are nice and clean and waiting upstairs with the chalk, leather cord, numerous bottles. If this ritual works it'll all be worth it - and if not, it's not like he isn't used to a hellish situation.

Where time is past,
on my sunny shores,
mirages in awake,
obstruction without truce to reality,
beaches involved in the adage,
Enraged, ribs denoted melodies carried
towards the blue vault, inspired doubts scales,
expiring puffs of smoke, flutes enraillées,
Wonder of the ears, meaning above or below as no
for the dupe in a skirt, like the shark's smile
reveals a jagged, music Komodo acid.
1/3

>>1864149
foam which is blunt Monsoon sand, tin mirror of the moon in it,
which reflections of hope fills money too dark eyes of the sailors.
Curtains and vagabonds calling in the wind, free and carefree.
The prayers in the arms of the sea do not fly like a bird in search of a blue sky,
but dive in the middle of the storm burst the eye of the typhoon.
Hey, sailor, sailing with the waves, are thou not afraid of tears,
that your widow had swallow the ocean?

>>1864152
Your soul lost in the depths of the abyss, as the wreck that nobody lives,
will wander incessantly in search of oblivion. On the reef, I sing your praises,
your courage, your strength, and the angels will carry my words to thy shore,
to hear me sing in the hollow of the shell.
And on the sand, I steeped in millennia my regret,
under the sun, I would burn in your memory enthusiasts miles rays,
then I will go into the wilderness, to better embrace my misery,
and our souls as two grains away by the wind, take root between land and ocean.

>>1864154
then I will go into the wilderness, to better embrace my misery,
and our souls as two grains away by the wind, take root between land and ocean.
I bite my passion as biting in fish,
and you kiss the sun like a whirlwind of fire from the heights of the time.
Our sighs, carried by the wind, take to the skies by flying,
common to the depths of nothingness,
and our whispers steamy bubble burst on the surface of torment,
to seal air our oath. And the moon, confidante of our nights of bitterness,
we bathe in the promise of money as her two children.

>>1864156
>>1864154
>>1864152
>>1864149


This is awfully well conceived. I hope you expand upon it,

sweet sthit

"Griffiths!"

He was startled and fumbled with his tea cup, as he placed it upon the table. Such a thing this was to be recognized in his university club by others in spite of the fact that it was so far from his actual campus. His face flashed bright scarlet as he was roused to his feet by this particular caller. He was tall and lanky in that country way with ill fitting clothing that just sort of hung off of his frame and thick glasses that seemed almost obnoxious to wear in public.

Franklin! Franklin Edwards. Our fathers were associates after the war. I should think you remember me from the social club that one time in Damascus. Do you remember that one night of the bombings?

Griffith's brow twitched in consternation of having to remember such a fellow. He was utterly a boor with his oxford shirt sleeves rolled up and carrying that enormous bag full to the brim with what seemed like fanciful literature. Franklin was a tall man of about thirty years of age by then and seemed quite boisterous in his manners. His eye were pitifully green with no character and there was nothing particularly striking about his facial structure. He was utterly forgettable.

"d'ya remember that night Griffiths. You were with that oriental chap around the terrace of the embassy when the explosion was felt. Dreadful night I should think."

D'ya, D'ya, D'ya was all that Griffiths heard. He was positively sick of the way these American folks spoke. Not the proper diction at all. In a smooth transition his mind flashed back to that blustery night in Damascus.

He was dressed in a light grey linen suit with a purple ascot that barely hid the youthful exuberance in his expression and lust for adventure. There was none about to help him at that moment except for the bloody oriental


10 minutes. I should of continued it but I think I shall later. I tried to stick to the time line. Unedited

He would pray for forgiveness, every night he would repeatedly kill off strangers out in the darkness of the night and brightness of the pale moon. Bob Knight would try to seek comfort out of the loneliness he have endured for so many years, now, he would try to restrain himself, making a little friend, a dog. The dog would be so good to him, but nighttime falls and after waking up in the morning, the dog, his only friend, still beside him, not dying as the rest would.

You can see them walk together,
mimicking fresh spirals between hands;
her strut whacks another pavement step.

The rigid backpack looks sick for that perky face-skin,
weaved bound; those middle-aged minivan angels gushing,
the same smiled you smile to his grope.

from here,

yet there was more to you
you twaddle nails over your keys
not rest his cries, solemn.

and
you danced in his dances
that he danced of dancing

and
rash – infection love-bed nightmares
yet he smiles such

From here, who sat in his view, cradling sight,
caressing your lush memory, from here,
beauty followed you.

>>1845658
Is this OC?

Fucking genius.

>>1867915
This has to be one of the largest collections of OC on /lit/

I want to see more.

>>1863527
meta bro

The gravy sat in a pan
There it did stand, the gravy in a pan
And so I did walk my feet across the sand
Thinking, thinking, about that gravy in a pan

I could, if I wanted,.
Nothing stopping me.
I'll move into the garden
and live and simply be.
I'll stare up at the sky
and sleep when sleep arrives
and wake up to the sunrise
feeling ants crawl on my eyes.

Pure ecstasy, carved upon my arms with a thousand broken dreams.
A ghostly waif with a needle, and a snow-white sterile cotton ball
protects me from the world and makes me whole


Fuck, can't write for shit on heroin, but oh well, i tried

seeya /lit/

>I take heroin
>tell anon
>I'm so cool

Straight up faggot.

>>1868030
hey man, back off! heroin is COOL!

>>1868030
I don't think he would claim it's cool, at least based on what he posted, I think we could assume he views it as a negative impact on his life.

>>1868061
>>1868061

He's glorifying it, he's selling himself like a cheap whore. I've got nothing against junkies, but junkies that use their addiction as a crutch for their shitty writing are sickening. As if we don't have enough shitty writers that think we all want to read about their average druggy lives.

>>1868078
That would be a valid point of there wasn't already a shit-ton of crappy writing from non-junkies on /lit/

heroin is a good vlevet underground song

>>1868078
There's a lot of good stuff out there from the mind's of junkies.

A bunch of great writers, musicians and artists have been junkies. Not that they all are, but it has proven to be a potentially great topic for art and stimulus to the artistic mind.

Lou Reed, James Taylor, Burroughs, the list goes on.

>>1868114

Christ, I'm not saying it's not. Drugs are great, they're fun, eye-opening, and they have the potential to ruin your life in many interesting ways. What I'm saying I hate is the cliche of the junkie. Anyone that's taken a hit nowadays thinks that they're living on the fucking edge and that they can count themselves amongst the great junkie artists because they got high for a while. More often than not it's boring, badly written, self pitying shit. People think drugs and violence gives them instant credibility, and it really doesn't - or at least it shouldn't.

>>1868085

True enough.

Round and round the twine wrapped round her neck. She thought of the Indian spinning wheel her grandmother would make thread with. Her grandmother's juni-hito and thread and long silky hair that trailed the floor were all pure white, a stark contrast to her very darkly tanned face. 'Never trust a man who can't decide what he is.' her grandmother warned her, one of those snips of past experience, concise and condensed to benefit the inexperienced. She wondered if her grandmother had a similar experience, long ago. But the time for reminiscing and pondering had past, and she had to act quickly lest she lose her head in the most literal sense of the phrase. The faceless man continued spinning, the current blur of his ever shifting face smirking. Never trust a man who can't decide what he is. Inspiration struck her like lightning.
She reached into her sleeve, hands shaking as the thread put more pressure on her throat. She finally found them after rooting in her bottomless sleeves for a frantic, desperate moment. She threw the glass ampoule at the threads, and they burst. Children's laughter filled the air as it ran between the thread, ripping it from the faceless man's hands and tangling it up before dropping it to the ground and flowing out the door to gambol in the fields.

>>1868290

She arose and took deep gulps of air as she glared at the man. Most of the features that made their way across his face were showing fear, more appropriate than the dumb confusion and anger that flickered across. She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a small key. He took a step back, horror filling him at the sight. She knew the shock would only keep him frozen for a moment, so she ran to the other side of the room, ignoring the stocking that slid down her leg with each step in a most improper manner.
She stuck the key into the lock, and knew the faceless man was too late to stop her as he began towards her. She threw open the cupboard door, revealing the mirror within, splotched and dotted with age. "No more hiding. No more stealing the faces of the dead for your collection. You must decide who you are. Now." she said grimly. The faceless man stopped in his tracks, the three faces that had been lazing on him shocked. And he screamed.

>>1868294

Louder and louder until she had to cover her ears, and faces flicked across his own until it was a blur of colors. And it stopped. She lowered her hands, and saw that the facless man's name was more accurate than anybody knew. He fell to his knees, then his side. She walked over and gently nudged the faceless man's body with her skippered foot. No movement. She looked at the mirror, and blinked in surprise. An old, tired, rather ugly face was on the faceless man's corpse. She looked down at the body. She mused on how sad it was, when people couldn't decide who they really were. She pulled up her stocking and straightened her skirts before picking up her bag and leaving the door.
She thought that it looked like it may rain, and almost bumped into a spider taller than herself. She glanced at the spider's fashionable shoes as she pardoned herself. What had her grandmother said, one time... 'Never trust dandy spiders. All manners till they get you alone, then they let their venom do the talking... Knock off or scuff one of their shoes to send them away.' she waited for a moment before discreetly tailing the spider. She had to heed her elder's advice, one dispatched danger at a time.

Mark was walking to the grocery store one day and it was rather hot out. He saw this Arab walking towards him and put out his gun and shot him because maybe he was a terrorist. So he was arrested. While in Jail he was just like, "Whatevs" and didn't really care. Then one day a ACLU guy game and he grabbed him through the bars and attacked him. Later on he was executed by lethal injection, and was his last words were, "Whatevs".

I call this work, THE STRANGER.

The blank studio had taken weeks to settle within itself until its slumber was broken by the unexpected intrusion.

There was nothing particularly striking about this day other than the fact that it was to be the last day I would be happy till the end of my life. My room was fairly empty by this point as things had overtaken me entirely. I had sold off what remained of my inheritance and past life. How carefully and slowly I had pruned and postured with the money and trifles that I had obtained. Carefully selecting savings accounts, bonds and stocks that would greatly benefit my future and guarantee a measure of success regardless of any outcome. Any outcome but that which befell me that day I started the horrible drug. It dragged me away from my senses and caused that part of my soul to shrivel and die.

The whole room was empty but for a few minor and unsalable details. The broken pinball machine sat quietly and without lustre in the corner of the room. I had smashed it beyond recognition one night in a fit when I could not get my fix and cut up my had rather dreadfully. It had now become a portal with which I would use to travel as far away from myself as possible. I would loom over it like a hawk and stare into its bright colours and broken bulbs as though they were diamonds. Oh how I wish they were diamonds. This scratching on the wall would never end. Why wont it end?

>>1871456

this is really boring

He remembered - soaking low in a resting chair, emblazoned gold trimming on a red sheer, an old man funneled a light drink; his eyes danced with the liquor spiral, lost in the creation of his own tempest. Perched, angelic yet tormenting tides that rode on from the drink, he would swirl on the maelstrom until imaginary voices (only peasants, like himself) would pray that never-ending twisting in their alcoholic cosmos would end. And he would stop.

A considerate man of Heaven's calling, he felt no need to become God; rather, he choose to speak to his maker in such manner. Being as there remained such frailty to the role of one's ultimate hand in the ever-spiraling world, looks of disgust penciling cross the face of the elderly man, to which he held now one from his inner monologue with his fragile mind serfs, were regular. Religious in nature, the advances towards the elaboration of what God could possibly offer his folk was common; it trembled on his every breath, wheezing, on his every thought.

>>1871605

Away, day's rain, now found quiet hospice with the falling night, made notice the ice, floating free within his opaque glass and clinking echoing chimes overtly on the downfall of the skies tears - there wasn't any sound to erupt from the windows. Rain so tender, yet the branching tree sketches remained wet in view. His living room was a pivotal area for the entire house, which from it held castle sized entries on the peering perspectives, both left and right, to the usually occupied easy-boy throne flat in the center; the room wholly adorned itself in painting jewellery of likes the feminine colts rushing across the back-end of gracious yet Heaven made mountains, or the more-so notable frame tilted, just slightly queer, over the room's misaligned fireplace and bearing the image of youth which the old man scoffed to hold. The painting was a well kept portrait, told evenly by just the dustless remains that painted evenly the outside casing; ultimate collaboration in such manner for elegance provided well-off memories.

Among the naive artifacts, it was just pure royalty for the scattered grey soot crannied on various others: the phone, disconnected long ago; the other frames which held from the white blanks to the tears of lost faces to smiling girls - young, all of them, and with rosy cheeks towards the old man who stood tall in seemingly each image. Still perched, but now leaning for effort on the issues outside his mind, the old man followed his inner narration. His eyes found themselves looking into the past, and over the mantle it seemed as if the men would swap in a turn of magician show; there was nothing. The ruffles were sanding off sounds from the shifting movement of his loose and senile clothing, which chose well to keep away any notice to the old man himself. Though, sounds were hardly difficult to hide with such a torn focus

>>1871606
>>1871605

This is by far one of my favorite things posted in this thread. It is really super.

And I am glad that the thread has not 404d yet.

bumping a tryhard milksop's thread

is this thread on auto-sage yet?