/lit/ - Literature

An Orange County writing thread?

Mite b cool.

"I think we're done here."

That's what the woman said. She said it, and at first I didn't believe it, but, in retrospect, I think it makes more sense now than it ever could have at the time. I had just gotten back from work and I wanted some pleasure. My dear hand and its greasing agent sought for my relief, but I denied them for something better, something I had been waiting a month for.
Forever alone had been the custom, but not the desired custom. I wanted some heartwarming action, something with just enough to push me over the edge and pull me back again. I had the money, and I had the spirit. So, I picked up the phone and called the number my cousin recommended.
It was an Asian service. It was a peculiar service, but a service of which my mind had been dreaming for a while. The process was simple, and it awoke in me a burning heat of lust familiar only to those whose fetishes have been met with full recognition. The girl was to be summoned to your domicile, greet you as a master, and abide by your every wish.
Now, it isn't necessary to ask what I did as it will come in time, but, needless to say, I did exactly as I wished and even more than that. I found things to desire that couldn't possibly have been awakened in my sheltered soul otherwise. It was something of a miracle.

Write about which couple from The OC is best?

>>1938395

Do you want /lit/fags to steal your work?

"Do you ever get the feel that, you know, the one after sitting there listening to music for hours, or staring at art or reading books, that feeling that makes everything sound like white, that feeling that makes everything look like nothing, you know? That feeling like there's nothing beautiful for you, nothing beautiful in the world, for you, to destroy, to tear down, to utterly end?"

Cigarette ash fell gently into a pure white porcelain ash tray. Thin lips drew a smoked filled breath and breathed a ball which rolled to fade in the air.

The man behind the counter showed no physical reaction to the question, save an expressionless response, "No, can't say I do, but it sounds like either you want another beer or you want something beautiful," A hand turned a mirror from the back counter to face the patron, while the second hand grabbed another bottle of beer, and after a nod, popped of the cap and placed it before the patron.

A different hand, from a different pair reached out, a long, aging, veined, thin hand, a soft un-calloused un-worked hand, a strong gripping hand, grasping the empty bottle and then after the reflection jumped into motion, two objects of glass shattered along the back counter.

"What the fuck?"

A head turned in time to see the second, full bottle dance into the vodka and bourbon and others along the back shelf.

>>1938549
continued.


"Fuck! What the hell? That shit is expensive and your paying for it just before you get out-"

A hand struck a match. The two sets of eyes met and locked for the first time that evening. A snap of the fingers sent flame flying into flame. The fire jumped and skipped across the broken glass, the wooden shelf, the wooden back wall, the wooden counter.

"Man what the fuck? Theres no way your that fucking drunk! Youre paying for that! Oh Fuck!"

"Yeah. Yeah I will. Every damn penny."

A laugh rolled to fade in the air out of those thin lips. A business card slid onto the bar. The patron fixed his tie and walked out.

"Do you ever get the feel?"

>>1938519
meh, I could care less. Why would it matter?

The bright morning sun shines unwelcome through the tattered blinds. Dust, stirred up by my slightest movement wafts though the violent beam of sunlight. I lay on my back, eyes closed, cracked fingernails digging into my scalp as I force my rough palms into my eyelids to block out the world. My half naked body, coated with sweat begins to chill. I crack open my left eye just long enough to grab the dirty sheet off the floor beside my bed. I sweep the thin cloth over my body and roll over, curling into a ball. My stomach churns, nausea rising like a wave in my abdomen. I want only one thing, but I force the thoughts away. I have to resist.

The pill bottle looms on the nightstand, barely out of reach. The translucent orange tube teases me mercilessly. The delicate white capsules inside will surely bring relief, but not the euphoria I used to seek. I have to stop; I know I must. I roll over, turning away from the bottle as a terrible chill sweeps though every bone in my nearly emaciated body. I haven't eaten a proper meal in days, but still the thought of food nauseates me.

After a few minutes, I slowly sit up and wipe greasy strands of hair out of my bloodshot eyes. With a forced movement I reach around somberly, grasping for the bottle.

I softly say the same words I've uttered daily for the past month.

"Just one more time."

As a general question (to whoever), is a large amount of dialogue in a story a turn off, or does it really keep you going?

Posted a thread for this awhile back.

Re-worked it.


On the floor rug, laying in an ejaculate swamp of sweat, the full breasts from the woman in my dreams turn into hazy circles. My face locks a grimace as I lie there, still trapped in an awkward dream paralysis. Erasing her image from mind seems impossible, though, I can't say I am trying to; what comfort there is in those curves a woman curves, in the same form as some rave-light sticks wildly dancing in the dark. For me, imagining a large squabble of scientists examining a hip-healthy physique, all under a guise of research, is comforting. There is reason for what they do, all driven by the same dreams we share; the same woman speaking softly as the clothes come off. Being a scientist wouldn't be too horrible, no, but the actual science of it - on cue, my bones sunk into the rug, a growing shadow of my over-weight body encompassing the measly under-skeleton in the shadow below me. While difficult, I watched the shadow bulge out below me, perching my view downward on my second chin. Physical pain resolved, the day could actually begin.

The cashier at Hop N' Shop was too fucking slow.
 
    Her size was also an issue. Felix did not have the aesthetic tolerance for asses of this magnitude. On top of that, her voice sounded like some kind of cat getting raped by some kind of dinosaur. She also had an unjustifiably snooty face that made Felix instantly wish her out of the world the moment he first saw her, with no success. He hated knowing that she existed. But there was nothing he could do. He just had to stand there and take her bullshit.
 
    Being a skilled multi-tasker, Felix effortlessly stood in line while actively hating all the people in his proximity. Every one of them was stupid or obnoxious. He could tell - he was a people-watcher. One person there was ugly, but she couldn't help it, and because Felix was ugly too, he actually felt a sense of solidarity with her for a moment. But she didn't even acknowledge him, so fuck her and her hideous face.
 
    The last customer in front of Felix asked for a pack of cigarettes. The cashier could have grabbed one pretty quickly - they were literally two fucking feet away from her. But three minutes later the aforementioned customer was still cigaretteless because the cashier was waddling around behind the counter and yelling at her coworker for no fucking reason. That happened for 180 seconds. Imagine someone wasting 180 seconds of your life which you shall never be able to regain. Now you know how Felix felt.
 
  

>>1938568
This had gone on too long. Felix never complained about things like this. It was rude. No, not rude. Just ballsy. Too ballsy for Felix. Felix had no balls in the figurative sense of the word.

And yet he spoke.

"I know this is your whole fucking day, but it doesn't have to be mine. So...I dunno...maybe you could like, have some courtesy and try to move the line along as quickly as possible. This is, after all, a convenience store, and right now this...thing that you're doing is not very convenient for me."

The cashier glared at Felix while trying to think of a retort. It was obvious that nobody ever called her out on her bullshit. She eventually said something about respect, and how she didn't come to Felix's place of work and tell him he wasn't doing his job correctly (Felix wanted to point out that he was a writer and worked at home, so she wouldn't be able to get in there anyway, because he always locked his apartment door, so she'd just be standing there knocking on it all day like a fucking idiot.)

He stopped listening to her rant when he became distracted by her hair, which was ostensibly supposed to be some kind of statement about how she didn't care what people thought, but it was really just one of those weird hairstyles that fat girls wear to get attention because nobody looks at their body (Well, people looked at her body, but only because they didn't have a choice. So they didn't really look at her body, they just saw it. Fat bitch.)

The corpulent cunt eventually rang up Felix's circus peanuts and he strutted out of there like a fucking pimp.

>>1938570
After leaving the store, Felix felt pumped. That incident had been the most exciting event in his life in several months. He actually wanted to fight somebody. If anybody tried to fuck with him, they would get like, a leg in the ass or some shit. An entire leg. He didn't care who it was. They were fucked. Even a big black guy. No one was more manly than Felix after The Incident.

He could probably even seduce a woman right now. He'd approach them in a bar or coffee shop and they'd look into his eyes and fall under his spell. Then they'd just take his pants off and start blowing him right there. And nobody would complain about indecency because Felix was so badass he could just get away with that kind of shit. Yeah, I'm getting my cock sucked in your coffee shop. You mad? Go ahead and try something. You'll regret it. Now walk away with your little dick.

The Incident had made him feel empowered. He didn't have to sit back quietly and let people get in his way anymore. He could tell them they were assholes. And that was better than nothing.

>>1938566
>Erasing her image from mind seems impossible, though, I can't say I am trying to; what comfort there is in those curves a woman curves, in the same form as some rave-light sticks wildly dancing in the dark.

You lost me here. I had to go back and reread this sentence.

Also,
>ejaculate
What is this doing here?

A great flight up, over the walls, spiraling virulently in the angry winds, sliding effortlessly between the branches of a massive Cryptomeria, its shadow blanketing the neighboring bight, contorting aimlessly in the unsteady, rippling water, extending over to the opposite bank where the occasional splash reaches, its murk ending semi-abruptly at the border of a polished stone path, channeling across the degrading brick-mortar rooftops of ancient, uninhabited houses whose white walls, in the late afternoon light, have gained a more brilliant spectrum, ranging from the yellow of a just-ripened lemon in Paris to the regal orange-red of Cezanne’s apples, brings us back to the broad brown shoulder of New Jericho.

>>1938578

Thought it was a good analogy for a wet dream.

Guess not; sorry Anon.

Any tips for clarification? I tend to write poetic prose too often.

The supply ship was limping around Arcturus when the raiders found it. The supply ship didn't even have a name, just one of the thousands of KarmaCorp covered in blinking lights like the void surrounding wasn't swallowed by the blackness of that star, that guardian of the bear. Chiropterous Abernathy swore to himself and then perjured himself for good measure. He didn't need this right now. He really fucking didn't need this. The hitch was critical and critical and the cargo would have been on fire if it could.

Out of creative juices, that's the most I've written in years. I'll write more though, that was fun.

banpu

>>1938666
lol i got trips

>>1938667
>>1938667

>posting as Anonymous.

for shame.

All around me animals called into the night like a great orchestra. The wolves howled. The owls inquired. The frogs called out. I felt at one with the universe like I had never before. I lied there in my tent, submerged in the complete darkness listening to nature’s symphony.
Yeah, I know it sucks

listen to me young thug this is some advice
you do a stint you'll be paying the price
catch you at the dice game, blow you out the frame, crab cheater
cause my niggas is grimy, all we really love is reefer
iraq, the name alone got you shook
back on the island you got your manhood took

>that feel when you don't exactly write stories, you just vent by writing romanticized observations about life

This is not metafiction. is what Billy thought as he read the manuscript that began “This is not metafiction.” It was quite a surprise to him that it wasn't metafiction. After all, it had begun with “This is not metafiction.” and the average reader would be lead to assume that the pronoun would be referring to the text itself, as pronouns like “this” “that” “these” and “those” tended to do when there was no clear antecedent (at least in Billy's time), and particularly when in a sentence right next to metafiction. The fact that there were no quotation marks around the sentence, which would, Billy thought, be the only real way out of the whole 'this' not being 'metafiction[al]' thing--that is if the whole darn sentence were a quotation--did not help matters at all. Billy briefly considered that perhaps the writer could have taken a McCarthy sort of minimalistic approach and used as little punctuation as possible, thereby omitting the quotation marks because, Billy thought, let's face it, they're ugly and should be the first punctuation to go, but definitely just before commas. Fuck commas. Fuck commas' aesthetics, I guess commas aren't really all that bad as far as they're used. They just kinda throw off the looks. But I guess they can confuse the reader sometimes.

>>1938700

Then again, reconsidered Billy, rerailing his train of thought, it wouldn't be very McCarthy-like to play such obvious metafictional games. I mean if you're gonna go ahead and fuck with punctuation to make the text more smooth and natural, it doesn't really make sense to tax the reader with meta-metafictional games, thought Billy. Then Billy thought that it was lucky he was thinking all these things, because if—and this was something that Billy often thought about; it was kind of like the way every once in awhile a person (such as the reader, Billy would think if he were reading an explanation of his behavior as compared to 'a[n]' unspecified 'person,' Billy living in a time in which metafictional games were played a lot), a completely sane person, will think I know you can hear me. when they're in a waiting room at the hospital or something—he was trapped in a text, the writer would really be up shit creek without a paddle, especially if said writer was trying to make a point about metafiction. Billy had stopped reading the manuscript right after he'd come to his name in the text for two raisins. They were laying on the ground in front of him. A bird came and ate them. He also stopped for two reasons. The first reason was that his name was in the manuscript, which seemed strange to him. The second was that he was starting to do some mental legwork in regards to metafiction.

What do you guys say if we make a
>That feel
OC thread?

>>1938703

Everything aside, Billy thought, the statement at the beginning really wasn't metafiction, but it could really have benefited from some quotation marks. But then again, a lot of people don't use quotation marks for thoughts. The author really didn't need to put a period after the cognition though, that was just inconsiderate to the reader. This was what Billy thought. He was pretty confused by his mental use of the word 'cognition' and its clunkiness. Billy thought maybe he really was a fictional character and the author, instead of being a good author, had just gone to http://thesaurus.com/ and typed in 'thought.' Billy was very worried about his corporeality, which was a wise thing to be wary of, in Billy's day and age. It was a wise thing because Billy's friends were all very cynical. They got this way because they were raised believing that everything was bullshit and a lie. They were raised believing in solipsism and that instead of being one of a great many, they were one of just many. They doubted everything they heard and saw and perceived and much of what they conceived. This was because everything had, many years before they'd come around, been deconstructed and proven to be bullshit and rather than building something to take it's place, these deconstructors had gone ahead and left everything all muddled and fragmented and doubtful and such. Billy felt, a lot of the time, like he had never had a chance, like where some other people might say “I never was able to get it together” or “I never was very happy” Billy always pictured himself saying “I never was.”
Poor Billy.
this is what Billy thought.
This is not metafiction.
this is what Billy thought, too.

>>1938607
I thought you might like it if I broke your writing up by sentences (at least I can say I enjoy doing it).

>On the floor rug, laying in an ejaculate swamp of sweat, the full breasts from the woman in my dreams turn into hazy circles.

The breasts are lying (http://www.grammarmudge.cityslide.com/articles/article/992333/8992.htm)) in sweat? If so, am I to assume that her body is in a prone position? Even further, am I to assume that the shape of a breast in prone position still looks like a circle?
You probably were probably trying to say that the woman is lying on the rug (a swamp of sweat on the rug? yuck!) with her breasts fully exposed to the protagonist.

>My face locks a grimace as I lie there, still trapped in an awkward dream paralysis.

He's in a dream. He can't see his own face. Try something like "I can feel my face contort" or "The expression on my face must look strange."

>Erasing her image from mind seems impossible, though, I can't say I am trying to; what comfort there is in those curves a woman curves, in the same form as some rave-light sticks wildly dancing in the dark.

"Those curves a woman curves." Really? What the heck?
Also, that whole sentence is just a long, confusing ramble. You could get at least two sentences, if not three, when breaking it down.

>For me, imagining a large squabble of scientists examining a hip-healthy physique, all under a guise of research, is comforting.

The word squabble isn't correct here. Scientists are doing what? Examining women erotically? I suppose.

The rest of it is kind of creepy and unclear. I'm not sure what to make of it.

>>1938730

Shit man, maybe I should just stick to poetry.

Piece one:


“Dialogue, dialogue, and more dialogue, don’t you understand?” He said, fingering the hem of his jacket in what looked to be some kind of vain attempt to rub away his fingerprints. “That’s the soul of the work. It’s what tells the reader why the characters have the motives they do, what they want and how they treat the poor fuck who decides to try and stop them. That is of course if the character has any real passion whatsoever.”
“That’s fantastic Bard, shall I grab a notebook and write this down? Because obviously the opinion is that I need to repeat Basic Writing Fundamentals.” I said looking down at the diluted remnants of my drink.
“Damn straight you do. But what’s worse is that that’s not even the biggest issue here. What kind of passion can you hope to inspire in someone if you can hardly muster the nerve to go out and have a sincere conversation? Go ahead and sit there, day after day producing nothing, watching movies and reading ‘classics’ attempting to emulate real life thinking to yourself oh I’m so smart and I’m so talented. Do that and call me when that works out for you.” He said opening the door and leaving.
And now here I am, alone. Wanting nothing more than a clean slate but knowing that’s the last thing I’m going to get.

Piece two:
Part one:

Truth, that’s all he needed to represent, just put all the vastness
and intricacy of reality, and how the human mind perceived it on
canvas. To do what people have struggled to do since the dawn of time.
It should be easy to start at least, he though confidently, his first
time walking into the art store. All there is to it is putting colors
on canvas. Those very same colors that had defined the world and
surrounded him his entire life were strangers to him now. With brush
in hand and a palette freshly stained with its first oils he stood.
Scared and at the same time angry with himself that he couldn’t even
commit. But there in an instant of courage and blind faith it began.
Wrought in the fires of frustration and nervous jitters was the first
stroke. A bold shapeless thing it was, without any recognizable
derivative. Once hewn it stood there boldly showing the world that it
could stand on I’s own against the vast vacant spread of canvas.

Piece two:
Part two:


Quickly so as not to lose his new-found motivation Clark made another,
and two more. Vivid wounds in the skin of a once mighty monster.
Admiring his small triumph with an equally small and mischievous grin
he dove back in. Brush dancing elegantly back and forth from page to
paint and back again for what seemed like a lifetime and at the same
time but one beautiful moment in eternity. With the tender touch of a
grandmother caressing a newborn he gingerly gave the final touches.
Stepping back Clark gazed upon his work, so unlike that work which he
was used to. It was something halfway between a car accident and a
symphony made still, out of place but at the same time comforting and
confident.
And out of place it stayed, drying, striking its pose against a
backdrop of pressed silk shirts and bank statements, ties and stock
portfolios. A discarded apple-and-pear still life originally intended
to be subject of a nubile artist’s work soon thereafter became the
subject of the same nubile artist’s breakfast. Work, so unlike that work which he
was used to.

i am writing a gay fanfiction about me and /lit/:

Without a word to me, Anon splayed himself on the opposite end of the sofa and began thumbing through the pages of a thick novel. He hooked his leg over mine with familiar carelessness, already wholly absorbed in whatever it was he was reading and apparently indifferent to my presence. I attempted to make myself interested in the little volume I held in my own hands, but as you may imagine I did not have an easy time of it. After a short while Anon toed off his shoes (jabbing his heels mercilessly into my thigh for leverage), then his socks (thankfully, painless), and rested his bare feet in my lap. My eyes slid off of whatever page I'd been agonizing myself with and onto the two slender white fish that sat airing themselves on top of my legs. Anon crossed them, then uncrossed them, then scratched at one with the other, and crossed them again and so on until I had a mind to take hold of the pale bastards and dump them onto the floor. With a protracted sigh and a laborious roll of the eyes I discarded my book and laid a heavy hand on Anon's ankle to carry out my plan.

>>1938781

"Holmes Guy," said he, hurriedly scanning a final sentence before fixing me with his most genial gaze. "Would you pass me that glass of water?"

I spied the glass on the end table and reached for it with my free hand. Midway through the action I winced; for all my displays of indignation I remained Anon's eternal bitch. Defeated, I released his ankle and handed over the cup.

"Thank you!" Anon drank the water down and set the glass on the coffee table, relaxed himself into the sofa pillows and again took up his novel. At this moment there came a rap on our door. Anon sprang from his seat and tossed his book aside, leaping clear over the table to answer. I'd hardly had time to sit myself up straight and adjust my moustache before the door swung open on an attractive young lady.

"Ah, Miss OP. Do come in," Anon guided her to a chair by the fireplace. "You are a newfag, I percieve."

The girl gave a start. "What? How could you possibly know that?"

"Only a newfag would carry around such an image as that with no shame." His eyes alighted meaningfully on the DoublesGuy.jpg jutting out of her purse. Growing red in the face the girl jammed it further into the depths of her handbag.

>>1938755
I don't think so, but I do think you can give it some more work and come back to us.
Also, if it makes you feel better, I only have a high school education with some introductory English and literature from my college's general education program. I'm hardly the law when it comes to writing (as if anyone could declare themselves that), and I believe that I can be wrong quite often.

>>1938763
>>1938765
>>1938766
i like these

>>1938781
>>1938785

Truly delightful.

>>1938953
i hope you mean that

Basically it's gonna be about me and Anon going on an adventure--penetrating the bowels of 4chan--to investigate the mysterious disappearance of OP's thread.

>>1939007
It was actually pretty good in my opinion. Humorous.

Posted a part of the story in another thread, but because of OC thread I'll post the rest here:

I kissed a girl today.

As her bloody hue of lipstick smacked into the only provision of a kiss I could provide, being completely dry in a state of terror, the sensation of flavor and pain crumbling into my mind all at once was exhilarating; to a degree I've yet to feel in ten year old soles. In the first moments, there was a rustle occurring as our faces fought for just a sliver of sight on the other, producing the most awkward of effects as there was a multitude of naive young faces shining on us as a little shop of horrors.

Oh god, now it's all just before me! here lay me, barely attuned to the world of vulgarity outside of watching church lads peeking up skirts in confusion, in a state of premature drowning coated in childish passion that I had practically initiated in a pathetic attempt at rape. Luckily enough, I've not such intentions – she just so faithfully had my gesture coming to her.

On steeping myself back to our histories between one another, there is little to linger on outside of such similar day. Yes, to think that my lightly painted kissing partner did make her so angelic appearance once more at a previous occasion of such vulgarity, such mediocrity! At times, this recollection could be called upon as stupid and even miniscule in the most serious cases, and yet, what a moment it was to such a blank slate as myself.

>>1939052
>>1939052

The memory fades in – I am nearly at the end of my sixth year alive and I'm so terribly happy. The sun, mere moments before utter desolation, dripped lower into the backdrop of mountains surrounding my otherwise average lower schooling institution, as to paint the scene for prepared murder. In a flash – or a bell really – a riot squad of giggling girls surround me in a sick ritualistic coo regarding the celebrations of one's near birth, in which I remain afloat in the clouds as a clear superior to such runts; however, there is no God that could curb the bolt just ready to strike. I-I look and they chatter like little monkeys, and as their words blur as one collective horror show, the faces seem to follow suit in their deformation – then, in a sudden jolt of silence, I drown in her gaudy lips the first time. A single hole in the circle, a single step ahead of the ring, a single moment of our kiss; there lay no sense in the forever that strung beside her girlish favor.

She looks away, red as the blood that seemed to be feeding into each of our hearts too fast, too furious for the stupidity of the moment, to the awkward cheers and chirps of our mates. Amazing! surely I was to accept the blind happiness that lead the moment on – yet, my mind had a way of assuring truth. There is only what was visible to base my feelings on – the little crowd is alive in drunken rage of love and adoration for the moment, as their eyes hold as mirrors to my face, dead. Dead in a naive loss of innocence that I hated not to understand, alive only to breathe and keep standing as she, and the ever shrinking crowd, took my joy with them to their homes in stories around the dinner table. To think, as if they were the ones dealing with such crisis!

>>1939057
>>1939057

Upon the actual date of my seventh year, the muddy replays began to take some sort of toll on my mental ability. Screens before my eyes, the only thing worth seeing to me anymore just seemed to be her, and oh, how sick that I only cared to relive a moment of oxygen loss. Red – wine stained splash of the Gods; she had passed the wrong nectar to the wrong fool. School days in the memory seem to rust and slow, however, there was no mistake in my youth – she would have her kiss in return; pleasant or not.

My creed, the idea of reliving that day in another more positive light, proved no better than the moment itself; with the utter twitch of mention regarding the day so surprisingly soon to come, the neurons wept in a frenzy of emotion. Clocks ticked and nights fell, as living realizations arose only to tear away at me in a constant feud; they pierced through my petty lies when I considered my position to be one of great power with regards to my "awesome revenge"; beyond, there only lay fear of her lush face touching mine once more.

>>1939062
>>1939062

As our fates, even with her ignorance of it all, came into bloom, I struck myself sly in obtaining some luck – the avoidance of history's God-given grasp on repetition! and yet, by today's incident of higher terror, there was nothing of the sort to be found. Trembling clothing fades in a slow mist as the story, alive in its origin from such a recent occurrence, paints only my dainty blue eyes in a dumb gaze over at her budding grace in juvenile growth. Time, ill in its general tone, only seemed to boost at the moment of insanity that I had birthed within my mind; that bobbed yellow apple of hair just years before, now, the locks of a Valkyrie, seasoned in the temptation of her fellow Vikings; the cheery aura brought by her entrance to a scene now left malice in its path, for, with trendy school-wear upon her slender body, why bother with the common filth? I found it so intense, my description of her alluring essence, that as I continued on within my mind, my motives almost were wholly for personal kindness. However, there remained nothing that let the sweat bleed as what I had so come to rob – those puffed cheeks, bloated as ever with the same coat of blushed red ripped from within me. To her advantage, she was in grave luck to have such an upstate youth enact the most humbling of revenges, even if there remained so many other more appetizing options.

"A little slice of stake and garlic pie, my love?"

>>1939066
>>1939066

In a suave stroll to her boisterous herd of friends, drunk as ever in their situations regarding their petty school lives, the floor seemed to clack! along with me as the target of my suicide mission became clearer, as if to announce the arrival of the end to nearby enemies. A quick look around – as the sun oozes down the mountains around the outside quad area I feel myself shrinking back into that six year old outfit, and if nature was going to force me to relive my day of anguish, my wimpy steps now left plenty of time to retreat. In a flash, however – death arrived.

"Jesse Arnold, is that you? Ooooooh my god, it is! Where have you been? I feel like it's been forever since I've even seen you! Do you still attend?"

She was mocking me, as if there would be any other answer but yes, why on Earth would I even be here? As her voice left me in a literal daze, the voices of the crowd fell silent as a theater audience, our meeting but an act in this afternoons show. With no training, with not an ounce of boyish charm born into me from my father, my plan towards any sort of flimsy revenge tore apart, sickly as the day it was made.

"Um, yeah, yeah. Actually, Elena, I kind of had to…oh god! This will be a bit weird…"

>>1939068
>>1939068

I don't blush, I can't. I seemingly inch over to a closer position for my assault, the faces around me seem to morph with every tip-toe of mine. A group in disgust – they perhaps see right through me? – some still so ignorant in their happiness, others simply disappointed in my return into their ring of existence, how kind! I had finally made my way close enough to Elena's airy fragrance, and it was when I had looked into her face clearly did I see true bliss for my situation. She had read me as an entire novel within mere seconds of my arrival, and frankly seemed quite ample with it. A surge of electrical heat surfed through my bloodstream as all fear dived below into darkness within my mind; she was surely prepared.

"Just returning something to you, my love."

The dedication ended as my graceful plunge of revenge took action among the blinks of the ever mounting crowd, faces all powdered in their awkward first greet with revenge. Just before impact – the wind sits still, and for just a moment, I cherish the ability for me to breathe such luscious air, yet, time never is enough for me. As her bloody hue of lipstick smacked into the only provision of a kiss I could provide, being completely dry in a state of terror, the sensation of flavor and pain crumbling into my mind all at once was exhilarating; to a degree I've yet to feel in ten year old soles. In the first moments, there was a rustle occurring as our faces fought for just a sliver of sight on the other, producing the most awkward of effects as there was a multitude of naive young faces shining on us as a little shop of horrors.

>>1939071
>>1939071

Sharply, snapped from a dream, I recall her ripping away from me in a violent rasp. I smile dumbly, assuming victory, but my eyes look onward in flames to my hellish outcome once more – there she stand in a furor, cheeks blushed like little beating hearts on her face upon each side of snarled lips. As she began her vent of words, I could not contain myself any longer. Today, I cried like no other time, among the pathetic laughter of my peers, the utter hatred of my only lively desire in life so far. In the stretch of the failures somebody as young as I could achieve, I've yet even now to understand wholly what kind of cruel God could watch over such scenarios, finding completely justice. The eventual strength I could muster to drag my wounded corpse from the battlefield forced me to leave behind the extra weight for the dogs – dignity, courage, joy; thick flesh for a full meal. My recording of this situation, I hope, provides a guide for myself in age towards any sort of moment that may reoccur, that I may fight the unbeatable with even more diligence than can provide now.

Oh, but what a kiss it was.

>Crawlspace Guy

>>1939092

Oh I wish, but I just love writing about kooky love!

>>1939102
I really like it. I hope you write more. There's some really attractive bits of writing in there, and the whole thing strikes me like a love-driven version of the Underground Man

>>1939123
>>1939123

Sure will, Holmes; I like when /lit/ is willing to return some comments for any writers; I'd rather have some more /lit/ related authors besides Tao Lin.

Scatology I: Flatulent Harbinger

A quick, almost but not quite silent burst of air emanating from the anus wafts up to greet the unsuspecting nostrils, the excremental stench permeating, nauseating, like the smell of a thousand corpses rotting in the summer sun for a million years, a harbinger of something wicked, this way coming from the bowels, stomach cramping, churning, gurgling, burning.

Sweet relief must come soon, but not yet; for now, unholy suffering entails enduring a special kind of agony reserved for those completing constipated bathroom journeys.

Sat for hours in familiar seats, crapping kings reign realms of fecal fortunes while sat upon their toilet thrones, until at last a thick deluge of liquid shit comes pouring, plopping, splashing, slopping, into septic receptacles designed to do away with unappealing anal offspring, bowls of noxious clouded water washed away with momentary depressions of metallic levers, displaced by what compared to that which came before is almost aromatic.

>>1939200
Scatology II: Unflushed

Upon opening the lid of a toilet in preparation of emptying oneself, piss found present and unflushed is always an unfortunate surprise. That sickly yellow liquid, faintly yet foully odorous, some negligent soul's outpouring left thoughtlessly behind.

Shit's even worse, decomposing scat and vulgar soaking white streaked with excrement sat together in a bowl of filthy brown, forgotten by its creator that I might behold its wretchedness with impotent rage, leaving me wanting to scream in an explosion of exclamation and accusation at the man or woman or child who abandoned it there, "Flush! Flush, goddamnit, you uncivilized swine!"

But instead I invariably flush the thing myself and mutter futile profanities.

Traffic from the Central District swarmed the tollway like rabid animals, boiling in a tight conglomerate under the hot Australian sun.
A man in a suit growled at the man in a suit in front of him, then tailed his car with fevered madness as he pressed down his wheel and held it there in obnoxious elongation. This achieved nothing, however, as the man could move no faster; the car in front of him suffered the exact same thing. But the tooting continued nonetheless.
So the men in suits chased each other to the toll way exits that led to their respective suburban fields, growling and cursing all the way there till they got off – one with a smirk, the other with a grimace. The smirking one had a more expensive car.

Melvin Ponerson was faced with an uneasy task:

Three hundred thousand of His Majesty's limited edition autographed trading cards would need to be forged, stamped, and sent through the Royal Electronic Dispatching System by dawn.

The time was now 2:43 AM and not a single one had been prepared in the proper manner.

Under normal circumstances, Melvin would call upon his skill as an Elite among the kingdom's cubicle dwellers; he could put aside any petty distraction, such as eating, sleeping, breathing, etc. and focus entirely on what lay before him. In doing so he had the ability to finish a week’s worth of work in under sixteen point eight two seconds.
Flat.

However, there were two things which hindered Mel from actually doing so.
The first was that frankly, there are never any normal circumstances. Ever. Period.
The second was a bit more problematic, for as of 1:57 AM that same mornight, Mr. Ponerson had no hands.

>>1939228
>>1939228

> Mr. Ponerson had no hands.

This actually perked my interest. I don't know if the idea would work as a novel, but it was a good shock.

>>1939234
It started off as a short story, but right now it's looking to be at least novella length.

Basically, while he goes on a quest to get a new pair of hands and finish before the deadline is up, other characters show up with their own subplots and they basically manage to turn the entire kingdom on its head overnight when everything comes together in the end.

I can post more if you're interested, I kinda just wish I didn't write it so slowly and neglecting it for months at a time.

>>1939254

If the novella would be intended as a comedy, I'd definitely like to read more or for you to continue.

>>1939277
Here's the next few paragraphs:

His Majesty had been releasing merchandise for quite a while in hopes of redeeming his reputation. For despite abolishing taxes, dismissing the entire committee of Public Suffering, and providing free food and housing for all the denizens under his reign, he was not a very popular monarch. Some theorized that His Majesty's father, His Royal Majesty, had such a strong connection with his people that his son would never fully live up to the standard that had been set, even if he did prove a more effective ruler. Others said that His Majesty was just not the type of individual that people found respectable, and blamed his immaturity and reclusive antics for alienating the kingdom.

Here is the truth: His Royal Majesty was indeed universally adored, though not for his bond with the people. In fact, he was a sadistic and insane tyrant, whose rule was characterized by widespread poverty, disease, famine, corruption, and warehouses containing the remains of those who "opposed" him.

Except no one opposed His Royal Majesty. He was just paranoid delusional.

In the mornings, after breakfast, shaving, and killing a small animal, His Royal Majesty would consult a one-eyed parrot in the matters of which minority group was plotting against him at that point in time. Some days it was insurance salesmen, other times it was freckle faced adolescents with reddish hair pigmentation. All were innocent and made no protest as they were brought to a brutal demise, in fact they LOVED it. Dying because of accusations made by a bird was, to them, on par with sacrificing their lives for the good of all humanity.
Too bad the parrot was a hallucination.

/There are parts that need editing and jokes that need reworking. The first part of the story is mostly just gags that don't really come into play until later on.

>>1939288

Pastebin is banned, seriously?

>>1939313

http://pastebin.org/eYVxJ5NH

replace org with com

>>1939386

I like it! Honestly, you've got a Doug Adams touch that sort of makes the story seem naturally funny. It's like the story, to the character's within the story, see nothing hilarious about their plight or reasoning but it makes it that much better for the reader.

I commend you, Cup! You've got a good read here!

Also,
> Too bad the parrot was a hallucination.

I honestly lol'd.

George wondered why the next sentence was a fragment. Actually, he didn't.

>>1939400
Heh, thanks.

Honestly, I think I better start seriously working on this bugger. It's just hard for me to write more than 500 or so words at a time.

>>1938699
i dont think a post has ever effected me as much as this one