/lit/ - Literature

It was hot in Vietnam, though not in the way Nick's father had told him it would be. The old man, who had served in the war that hung over his family like a thundercloud waiting to roll back in, had told Nick that the country reminded him of the shore in more than one way. Nick knew what he meant when he found himself amidst the tourist traps, the stands of shrunken villagers hawking tchotchkes, the bicycles crowding every dusty street, the noise and confusion that made him regret his vacation just as he had all before it. What his father had failed to mention, however, were the crocodiles. They migrated in droves through the town every afternoon around 3 PM, and few had the balls to stay outside when the not-inconsiderable beasts crawled through. It was as if the animals had finally taken over, which, Nick thought in his alcohol daze, was not an entirely unrealistic or unpleasant concept. He would watch from his hotel window as the horde slithered through, snapping at each other and at a few unfortunate chickens, emerging from one lake and passing through the streets and submerging themselves in the lake on the other side of town. Every morning at 3 AM they would migrate back. Aside from the crocodiles, though, Vietnam felt just like the United States.

>>4819980
Not half bad, man. Crocodiles taking over Vietnam most certainly isn't a dull subject.

Our assault went all shit because the boys got scared. The sectoids didn't even engage in full mind rape mode. Some guys bought it and our whole team froze and hid in fucking ditches. The captain hardly tried to keep the shit in his hands. I charged one bug and took it down, found out it was still alive and dragged his fat head into the Skyranger, and off we went.

>>4820156
sounds like some jarhead science fiction. can dig.

Rodney sat alone in the empty classroom, magnificent colors dancing around him in brilliant fractals and spirals as he leaned back in his chair and admired the Japanese calligraphy hanging on the wall on the other side of the room. The symbols were unknown to him, but he would never tell his superiors in fear of punishment more severe than what he'd known frauds to get back in the states. His degree in English was absolutely legitimate, despite taking an extra year to achieve it due to the sudden acquisition of this terrible disease. The colors drowned out the cries of the children outside, and he watched in awe. Ever since that night in New Brunswick, the colors plagued him and tore at his sanity incessantly; he found it to be a crying shame that his pride held him from suicide. A small Japanese girl's face appeared briefly in the lowered window of the classroom door, and looked at Mr. Fontaine in confusion. Rodney didn't notice. The colors were too bright today...

>>4820207
Damn, I was actually writing something similar to this. I thought it was somewhat original; I guess I was mistaken.

The hallucinations are intriguing. Care to explain? You've peaked my interest.

>>4820050
That is in no way what I was going for, but I appreciate the compliment.

>>4820479
Twas a joke, my nigga.

Al stared into his reflection,contemplating the previous nights' happenings. He did not want to believe it had happened,although that very unlikely. Him and Timmy had been out hunting. It was his first time.
The image of the his only son's body smashing into the rocks below seemed to be permanently engraved into his mind. It had been on his watch. "Timmy was 10 years old," he thought stubbornly. "I turned around for a fucking second to take a piss and he slips off. If the little shit had just sat still like I told him,this wouldn't have happened."
His stare switched over to the picture of Sam on their wedding day. Her beauty surpassed everyone living. Her death came from stomach cancer, 2 years prior. It was a slow, and painful from what you could see. Sam would never let you know,however,acting as strong as the day of diagnosis on the day of death. She was a comforting sight on this morning.
"Morning," he whispered to no one. "More like mourning."

"It's all about letting yourself go," he used to say. "People think too much, have too little faith in themselves. That's not how it's supposed to work, though. That's not how you're supposed to work." He was a car salesman, my mate --hardly a more fitting job for the bugger, either. By night he'd talk circles around women (there was always some gimmick, too, and you'd get a sly wink with its execution) and by day he'd fleece men for all they had -- and never a shred of remorse to be seen was the best bit, he reveled in it, and I did too. "A tiger doesn't think out its strides," he'd say, "it just strides."

It was only a couple of nights ago, then, he had a little bit of competition -- two strapping young bucks down from the north -- oh, it was a joy to watch! Of course he had the home advantage, I suppose, but you can't fault a man for milking it -- didn't he take them for all they were worth! And beat them too, mind you -- that little prize princess; where else was she going? But he makes an art of it, he does; he deserves it: the way he'd cut across those northern boys whispered attempts, the barman's positioning instantly utilised; the way he'd proffer a state of mind, all high and mighty like (and you'd believe it too; it's often I get caught in it myself), and it's all a ruse: he molds the man to his need, he takes what he needs, leaves them speechless: little lost boys, don't know whether he's coming or going: oh, it certainly is a laugh! "Poor fella," he'd say, "he'd love a bit of that now," but there's no moves made for that "poor fella", no; it's he that's the "poor fella" -- or by the ways, and you'd get the wink -- or some other old fool's an alcoholic, by all appearances, and all of a sudden he's buying my boy a pint in a bid to justify his alcoholism --and money in my boy's back pocket, mind you! and freshly fleeced from some other poor fool at the pool table!

Meh, I have no idea where I could go with it, but it's a bit of fun, I think.

>>4820774
lol, I fucked it up bad too... It's hard to not take the credit when you're actually writing about yourself, I guess :D

>>4819893
A while ago I thought of trying to write a character purely by describing their environment, and this is what I came up with:
>She sits in a room of burgundy-lavender; a kind of deep scarlet-purple. A desk lies in front of her. Stacks of books form a wall around her oval face. A weariness in her eyes, lines creep down below them like spider-legs from under an arachnid-abdomen, or like wax flowing down a candle from a burning flame left to kindle too long. Mouth red like inner tissues come alive on her face. Her teeth yellow and brittle from age, and coffees drunk, and cigarettes smoked. Her eyebrows little threads repeating over and over again in long, sad strings coming from her eyes like terror and sadness. Clear little droplets of cyan hide under her eyelids, afraid of the world outside. Her hands trembling, her legs shaking, she watches images of phosphenes self-animate.
Any feedback is appreciated.

The perspiration makes my shirt cling to my skin. A rail on the bottom of the chair is bent, I can't tell whether it is intentional. An old man in the front row must have a box of napkins or something because he keeps on giving them to the people who cry when the begin to speak. It seems that everyone is crying but me. My cousin Luke in the front row lost his two conjoined daughters yesterday. This is his fathers funeral.
An unknown young relative in the row adjacent to mine is young and attractive. I plan on getting her number after the eulogy until I see she is crying too and I begin to feel like shit. My sister is next to me, crying. Which is odd because she knew him even worse than I did. Suddenly I'm anxious. I should be sad, grieving. I blink my eyes rapidly until tears roll down my cheeks. Maybe the girl in the row adjacent to mine will see me with tears in my eyes and comfort me after the eulogy. Now I'm back to feeling like shit.

>>4819980
7/10
Liked:
>What his father had failed to mention, however, were the crocodiles
>They migrated in droves through the town every afternoon around 3 PM, and few had the balls to stay outside when the not-inconsiderable beasts crawled through. It was as if the animals had finally taken over, which, Nick thought in his alcohol daze, was not an entirely unrealistic or unpleasant concept.
Disliked:
>It was hot in Vietnam, though not in the way Nick's father had told him it would be. The old man, who had served in the war that hung over his family like a thundercloud waiting to roll back in,

>>4820156
Hard to rate because of length but i liked what i read.

>>4820207
Work on word flow.
>superiors
>plagued
>acquisition

>>4820680
3/10
Liked:
>"Morning," he whispered to no one. "More like mourning."
Disliked:
>Al stared into his reflection,contemplating the previous nights' happenings. He did not want to believe it had happened,although that very unlikely. Him and Timmy had been out hunting. It was his first time.
The image of the his only son's body smashing into the rocks below seemed to be permanently engraved into his mind. It had been on his watch. "Timmy was 10 years old," he thought stubbornly. "I turned around for a fucking second to take a piss and he slips off. If the little shit had just sat still like I told him,this wouldn't have happened."
His stare switched over to the picture of Sam on their wedding day. Her beauty surpassed everyone living. Her death came from stomach cancer, 2 years prior. It was a slow, and painful from what you could see. Sam would never let you know,however,acting as strong as the day of diagnosis on the day of death. She was a comforting sight on this morning.

And as im on the bus this bubbly girl sits next to me, at first we dont say anything, as strangers normally do but after 3 hours, she begins to start a conversation, "so where ya heading?" "toronto" " thats quite a trip, im hannah by the way, but you can call me hope". At this point i didnt know i would be spending quite some time with this bubbly , awkwardly named stranger.

Where is my rating motherfucker?

>>4820774
8/10
Liked the second paragraph a lot. It could be the part of me that likes reading about intelligent/charming people coming out, but still, good job.

Didn't like that dialogue intro though, you're writing a story not a screenplay.

>>4820789
Well, first off, you are obviously a good writer.

But, you said that you were trying to create a character by describing their environment, and yet you describe the actual character.

>>4820789
>Stacks of books form a wall around her oval face
seriously? oval?

>from under an arachnid-abdomen
wut?

liked the rest though
6.5/10

>>4820839
Yeah, you're right. I am somewhat proud, though, in some of the other phrases.

>his pride held him from suicide
>tore incessantly at his sanity

>>4820864
>bubbly
made me laugh for some reason

not long enough to rate but i liked what i read

Haha, I won the thread

>>4820947
And which was yours?

>>4820924
By environment I meant to include her appearance. I suppose, more accurately, I should have said that I wanted to create an impression of someone's personality through aesthetics; to convey a character by talking about (essentially) everything /but/ the character itself.

Now that I've made that due clarification, what do you think of the piece? Any criticism, advice? Did you enjoy it (maybe give an /10 rating)? I really appreciate you responding at all, so thanks.

The road was dark and the night was cold. He could see the faint silhouette of the imposing mountains surrounding him and the bright spots of his headlights on the asphalt. His heart was pounding, he was breathing heavily and he was driving way too fast, but in this moment, it didn't matter. He had to get away. Now.

>>4820955
I'm the charming guy, gracious in victory of course

>>4820864
2/10

Just too damn short. There was no setting other than "a bus", and the dialogue was... iffy.

These are all completely forgivable considering the spontaneity of the writing though.

Also
>begins to start

c'mon son

>>4820819
Made me smile, I like it.

>>4820963
Ah. Well. Allow me to give you a 2nd critique

7/10
Loved the depth and wit of the character establishment, and loved the dialogue at the beginning.

The only criticism that I can give, really, is on sentence structure. Even though it is more of a SOC narrative, you still must have some proper grammar.

Would most certainly enjoy reading more of the like, though.

>>4820962
>imposing
>silhouette

don't you ever use these words again
i feel like i'm reading something from an ACT prep-book
It's fine to use small words

>>4820978
Yeah, it's a curse being Irish and looking to write, I figure; there's a fundamental part of you that rails against the English language

>>4820978
>Write a poem, paragraph, short story, anything, in which you create a character off of the top of your head without any revision whatsoever.
>without any revision whatsoever.

srsly guys

>>4820983
>imposing
This is considered a "big word"?

>silhouette
My first language is french so the only words I had in mind to describe this idea were "silhouette" and "contour".

>>4820989
OP Here, I thought it was implied that it would be critiqued.

>>4820998
the word choice doesn't flow with the rest of the sentence

>My first language is french so the only words I had in mind to describe this idea were "silhouette" and "contour".
you being from a third world shit hole is supposed to justify your shitty word choice?

>>4821031

heh

>>4820929
What would you suggest in replacement of those phrases? I agree that the arachnid-abdomen part was a bit unfitting. Thanks for the critique.

>>4820845
thanks I'll use it is something else then. I don't have much experience trying to write fiction. I normally only write essays and poetry,and even my poetry is incredibly awful and all of it is too long.

Another night, another loneliness. He took his coat and stepped outside for his midnight walk. He always took refuge in the comforting caress of the orange light of the streetlights on his skin and in the sublime sight of the cold and distant stars above him. As he was walking faster and faster, he could feel the cold and silent breeze surrounding his whole body and hear his earphones playing the best music.

Lost in his thoughts, he was carelessly walking through the empty streets when he walked straight into her. She let out a little scream of surprise. They looked at each other, both intruders of the other's castle. Just as he was opening his mouth to apologize, she smiled. Her pretty face with its charming ginger hair and emerald eyes was the prettiest thing he had ever seen. He smiled back and their hearts both melted with joy.

Kero-whack

Skit

GMan: Now, Mr. Millions, we know you're the greatest agent the CIA has ever known, and we know you've got more money than the rest of the top ten put together, but you've got to be reasonable. You cant just shoot people for touching your weed stash. So we gotta lay low for a whole.

FM: Pssssh. Yeah whatever.

GMan: So that means we gotta get everyone out of the mansion. No more chocolate fountain, no more Mercedes Benz's.

FM: Now I don't care about the rest of that shit but you ain't gonna say shit about my car crashes. That's how I wind down at night. I swear if you shoot off that lip I'ma-

GM: I'm sorry Mr. Millions! Don't kill me!

FM: What's my name, bitch?

GM: I'm sorry Young Foreign Millions.

Lobby Boy: Mr. Millions? The president just called. You got time for a blowjob?

(Phone rings)

FM: Hold on, i gotta take this.

Uh, my boy in Jamaica got ganja connection
Don't fuck with us when you in Kingston
We got that mobbin' protections
Majoun like Bill Burroughs
High like the top of the world
That's kush in confections
That hash in my pipe is magick
Formula ABRAHADABRA
And I need to call you right back homie
I just done Rasta Connection

(Rasta Connection) x6
And i need to call you back homie
I Rasta Connection

Brick in the tip of the knives why they call me the hash slinging slasher
Always the tokin' foreigner blowing out words in Sanskrit
Cant nobody make sinsemilla
Hookah a thousand degree-a
That's the good strain of Indica
Fuck if you ain't agree-a
Uh, Barack Obama's a rasta
I just put weed in my pasta
And gave the rest to my pet lobster
Rasta Connection

When i die imma meet Jah and Lee Perry on heaven
And toke in the back of the seven eleven

(Hangs up)

>>4820965
How can I make it better? Im writing a short novel and have trouble

>>4820965
How can I make it better? Im writing a short novel and have trouble introducing the character who will be the deuteragonist.

It's a fucked up thing.
That the air stings
when you're near me

That there's a sun
inside my ribcage
and it burns

just like the house
in which we spent days
stoned and marooned

and happy

>>4821098
> He always took refuge in the comforting caress of the orange light of the streetlights on his skin and in the sublime sight of the cold and distant stars above him.

The rhythm to this line owns

The nets come back emptier every month. She huffs and swipes the hair clinging with sweat to her forehead. Pulls the net in, legs and arms burning, knuckles so cold and clenched so tight she can't feel them. She'll bite curses once home, applying cream that does little against the stiffness and the lumps in the joints. She'll have a moment of doubt, her conscience pressing heavy against making a profit from her catch. But she's one of the very few down south with a stable job.

The net spills her wealth onto her boat, and she sets for the shore with a glance to the petrochemical plant up north, with its fixture of a white plume going up lazily to the sky.

My blood is all wrong and the sun is my god. The muck comes up to my neck. All day I suck shit in the desert. But it feels good. I feel like a slave in dead chains eating opium. I'm ashamed of my body. I'm about to fall apart. My hair and my teeth have abandoned me like god and everyone. I am the skeleton. I try to drown myself in the muck, but I can't. Then it burns my eyes for days. Tears and silt leak out from my tear ducts like leakage from a prolapsed anus. They are wet for the first time in months. The muck is my life. I eat it. I piss and shit in it. I lubricate my cock with it when I masturbate. Occasionally I slurp down an unidentifiable vertibrate. The muck extends for miles without change in color or gradation. It is grey and I cannot distinguish my own elephantine skin from the unpleasant crust it leaves on my body. The only thing to look at is the sun. I like the sun. It shines light on the world. It rises and sets at the same time. It knows what to do. I want the sun to fuck me. It will violate me when I am not looking and make me slurp the muck I shit in like the dog I am. The sky is red like a blood.

And as im on the bus this bubbly girl sits next to me, at first we dont say anything, as strangers normally do but after 3 hours, she begins to start a conversation, "so where ya heading?" "toronto" " thats quite a trip, im hannah by the way, but you can call me hope". At this point i didnt know i would be spending quite some time with this bubbly , awkwardly named stranger.
We start chatting about everything from the weather to the current whereabouts of MH-370 (she tells me it was abducted by aliens, I laugh at first but then i see her face and then part of me becomes scared), and then she asks why I'm alone and going to Toronto, why I'm not accompanied by my parents or even any friends, which is weird considering she looks younger then me, around 16. At first I'm hesitant to tell her about my plan, so I tell her I'm looking for someone , fortunately enough she doesn't ask who, I ask her where is she heading, to which she replies " same place as you.". At this point I really feel like asking her why is a 16 year old girl like her going all the way to Canada alone, without parents or even any friends, which would be a weird question considering I'm 16 myself. So I ask her, to which she replies "I'm looking for someone."

brilliant sunset over the highway belongs to last night's fading, waxing, elastic light
not to me, goddamn it, not to me
And now the sun is a hothouse and I'm a barelegged commando, wishing I had time
but I have none, goddammit, I have none.
Because twilight, cold as ice, descends upon
the solar plexus, shot with color film
what visual effects!
I want to go to the planet of love,
where contrail streak the skies, like smudged
spurts of mucus inside a woman's sex.
Still I walk, the oncoming thoughts rush in like a flash
flood, but I move slow as a snail across the
the desert floor

>>4821122
Well, if there's more to it, then its fine. But don't use the phrase "begin to start". Its redundant.

>>4821248
Well.

That was... different.

>>4821406
Here's some more
>>4821325

Behind those trees was a camp of people he’d known for a while but still didn’t really at least not that well and whose tents he’d pitched his one man swag beside and who were very in their element here, apparently in the mood to dance whenever the possibility was found -- and it was everywhere -- and who were always cheerful and from whom he’d retreated to this riverside and with whom he wanted just one conversation with no time limit, when he felt the extremely rare equilibrium of mood that let me be confident about his fear and misery and approachable and open about his misanthropy just to see if he could really show those things to them in their absoluteness and find out if their purity could destroy the purity of love and kindness or at least if his practised discourse could, polite and open to suggestions but firm and you know if this guy’s not only confident about this shit but can talk on top of that well then maybe he’s right because personally I don’t have a fucking clue.

You’re right, you don’t, but sorry, neither do I. Charm is just a palatable cover up. For what? For nothing. There is nothing inside you except a bunch of lies that stop you from seeing that.

>>4821416
I think that you need to read some good lit, my friend.

>>4821574
I know I suck, but hey , no one started good

>>4821574
How can I make it better? I'll completely revise it if needed.

here's a spontaneous writing exercise: write your fucking story

>>4821619
Go ahead.

>>4821601
“Read, read, read. Read everything -- trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master. Read! You'll absorb it.
Then write. If it's good, you'll find out. If it's not, throw it out of the window.”

William Faulkner gives the best advice.

>>4821660
The 2 most recent books I read are silver linings playroom and the perks of being a wallflower.

>>4821681
Well, that's no good. I'm assuming you meant Silver Linings Playbook, as well. There's suggestions all over this board, go to literally any thread and you'll find a good book to read.

>>4821715
Everyone on this thread seems to hate young adult, I can see why but I'm trying to write a YA Novel

>>4821759
Try reading some John Green. He's a very successful YA writer.

>>4821778
I've read around 3 of his novels, how do I get a similar feel without totally mimicking him?

>>4821790
Try mimcking him for a while. You won't be able to COMPLETELY emulate his writing, so in turn, you'll start out with a similar writing style to him, and as you write you'll eventually develop your own shtick.

>How could you do this to me? To your baby?

>I would never put Angela in danger. How dare you speak to me like that you fucking swine!

BANG. Jennie squeezed the trigger of her 9mm and Hugh dropped to the ground with a thud. The concrete walls of the parking garage Jennie had chosen for this distasteful little venture magnified the sound of the gunfire far more than she had anticipated, but that was good. The police were coming now, and everything was going to be all right. Blood was leaking slowly out of the hole in Hugh's head; gravity led it down the gentle slope upon which Jennie's 2001 Honda Accord was parked. Jennie looked down at her wrists and saw her own blood dried there.

At least he's gone now.

She slumped against the wheel of her car and folded her arms protectively over her swollen belly.

"Soon you and I will be together again," Jennie whispered quietly at the creature growing inside of her. "Soon it will rain fire and blood, and our children will snack delightedly upon the crunchy bones of this sickening, degenerate human race."

She smiled and closed her eyes as the sirens slowly faded into earshot.

>>4821798
Thanks for the advice.

>>4821248

Delightful read delightfully fucked

>>4819893
Spent a while writing this. Was inspired by this thread. Please read and offer feedback.

>Manic Man
I met my Prince Charming in a mental hospital. Tall, dark, and manic-depressive. Sweet and suicidal. An angel cycling through Hellish dreams and Heavenly nightmares, no Purgatory insomnia to save him. A somnambulist by day and daydreamer by night, floating through waves of mood and mind, a victim to extremes of each kind.

He was a paradise of paradoxes.

A perfect confection and a lemonlike lemon. Syrupy citrus and saccharine acid. The immaculate blend of sugar and sin. His own pro- and antagonist, rival of his reflection like a self-sick narcissist. Melancholic martyr in morning, manic egomaniac in eve. Equal parts devil and daredevil, victor and villain, friend and fiend.

Never faint, always fierce. Never mild, always wild. Never subtle, always severe. He was my paradoxical paradise, my heroic villain. Caressing me like meth, holding me like heroin, he was twice the roses with thrice the thorns. More rush, but more ruin. More high, but more hangover.

We were a duet of delirium, a bittersweet, bipolar tragedy. Lovers borne not from love but self-loathing. Spiritless hate-soulmates and frantic heartbeats, circling madness, sadness, insanity. We were Adam and Eve and Eros and Thanatos and God and the Devil and Juliet and Romeo. An endless repetition of crash and climax, crash, climax, crash climax... Crash. He broke through the mirror and murdered his rival.

No manic depression, no Hells and no Heavens, no heroes or villains, no rush and no ruin. Purgatory, Limbo—no leave either way. Trapped in grey prison, no black, white, night, day. Even one rose is worth all the world's thorns, and it's better to live than to never be born. There's no God without Satan, no "end" without "began," and now no world to me without my magical, manic man.

Confusion is a poison I enjoy, but in excess it's like word games with schizophrenics don't even speak each other's languages and don't even know they're playing and I am speaking from experience. Once I was out, the world was still the same, and mostly so was I. I thought to myself that damn, it's good to be out now I can finally go back to doing whatever I want. It took about the usual 15 seconds to realize that fuck all, I don't particularly want to do anything. So I settled for getting a beer and drinking it sitting on the park lawn and watching nothing in particularly, the sky generally.

"Magnus Jacobian: Paranormal Investigation"
That´s what´s printed on the heavy and old leather suitcase that lies on the thick oaken floorboards.
Shamefully I got to admit, it is mine. I´m Jack Jacobian, heir of my fathers business, and his gifts.
The Jacobians always had something mysterious, there was not one family in this shitty and god forsaken town with that many cases of suicide and madness. And the Jacobians were an old family.
The branches traits, on which end I sat, were mildered by the influence of my mother I think. You couldn´t call her reasonable, with all her esotericism and the LSD faible but at least she wasn´t psychotic.
My father on the other hand was the spotting image of a mad scientist, underground laboratory , tangled hair, chaotic stare and all.
I, as the crossbreed between two eras, the1960´s from my mother, and from my father maybe the 50´s to 90´s of the 19th century, I looked like a crime noir cliché.
Hell, my uncle dressed like a cowboy and pronounced himself the "Ghost Herder", so my style is very moderate I think.
Anyway, the reason why I´m starting this with the description of my suitcase lying on the floor is that I got a pretty good view on it. This view was provided by my momentary situation beeing bend over the table of my office, hands locked behind my back, legs spread. This scenario leaves two possible interpretations..
But no, I´m clothed and this is an arrest.
"Can you make this a little less erotic, or I´m drilling myself right into the table and you´ll have to get a saw to get me out, which I won´t like since I think I still need my old companion to do some raping in prison." ,I said trying to turn my head to the side to see if I could escape. The female officer gave grunt like a boar and put little more weight on my arm.

The sweat glistened on his pulsating pectoral muscles as I rubbed his burning thighs. I listened to his voice, raspy, tired, heavy. He moaned as I gripped his toes. I began to run my tongue in between his largest and second toes, and felt his body shudder from the pleasure I knew he was experiencing. I knew he was experiencing this pleasure because I was going through the same thing. I turned my head downward to watch as Ru slid his tongue in between my toes, slowly. Warm, wet, sticky. It was magnificent. "Spurt Spurt..." Derpius began to chant, low, softly at first, but soon began growing in not only volume but tempo. "SPURT SPURT SPURT!" he said. I rubbed his toe faster. A bead of sweat dripped down his forehead onto his foot. I licked it off. "SPURT SPURT SPURT SPURT.... SPURT!!!!!!!!!" he exclaimed, right before exploding. "boom boom chicka~" began Ru. I turned to face him, as I was curious in regards to what he was doing with his mouth while it was supposed to be on my toes. "chicka boom boom~" he continued. "B-beatboxing?" I asked carefully. "chickA BOOM~" I began to grow worried at this sudden outburst of mouth music. "St-stop..." A sinister smile flicked across Ru's long, dark face. "I'm beat boxing, Vince. Nothing to be afraid of...yet. Soon I'll be beating your box, if you catch my drift..." said Ru, as the sentence trailed off into more maniacal beatboxing. "N-no you won't..." I managed to utter. I started crawling toward the open window, but alas, Ru was quick on his scrumptious toes. "Oh no you don't..." he snarled as he gripped me by the ankle and sunk his man fang into the neck between my knees. "S-sempai...." I muttered. He began rigorously beating my box, and I caught his drift. After long, painful minutes of his beat boxing, he paused and glanced towards Derpius, probably judging his anal capacity for later. This was my chance, and I knew I had to take it. I threw all my weight toward Ru, and he flew backward off of me and landed on Derpius. "OI!!!!" he exclaimed, as he was penetrated. I shot up and sprinted toward the window. Only right before I jumped through did I remember that this room was on the fifth floor of an abandoned hospital. It was too late. I felt my feet leave the floor and suddenly I as soaring through the deep blue sky above Bangkok. I spread my arms and began to fly. But only briefly, as I felt a massive weight land on my back. I twisted around. It was Ru, who seemingly followed me through the window. "YOU AIN'T GETTIN AWAY FROM ME, BUSTER" he yelled, as we both screamed across the sky, racing toward the ground. He began pounding me once more. "AWWWW YEAH, I'M GONNA SPURT" he said. "No, please... no more spurting..." I begged. The ground was approaching fast. "SPURT SPURT!!!!!!!!!!!!" he moaned, right before impact. He exploded, then I exploded, then we both exploded as gravity spurted on both of us.

>>4820050
>>4820829

Thanks for the feedback, gents. I actually plan to expand this out into a short story.

>>4821325
How do i make this better?

>>4821985
>We were a duet of delirium, a bittersweet, bipolar tragedy

I fucking love this sentence

8.5/10

Just... pretty.

"hnnnggghh". One of the strands of the web of limbs stirred heavily. "mmmnnppp". It began to crane about, fingers plucking like spider's legs. The skin was bespattered with blood and what looked like lumpy tartar sauce. Johnson, who was hard by the pile, caught sight of it exclaiming “SHEEIIIITTTTT" loudly. He waddled to the end of the pile where the arm was now flailing wildly and clasped it in his own hands. "aight man! I gotchu", “we gons have you outta dis mothafucka”. He looked down noticing his jeans around his ankles. “ayo, let go my hand a second nigga”, “yo yo, ima need you to let go my hand”, “ya herd me?! LET GO MY HAND”. “mmnnhpppphh” the pile replied. He stuck his ass out and leaned back trying to free his arm using his own weight, “sheeiiit you strong nigga”. Just as he began to yank he heard the squeal of tires. The sound of the engine was soon audible and he could hear the pounding base. The last thing he heard was the engine revving up before a hot stinging sensation sprung up all over his body, ears ringing, he slumped onto the pile. Then everything went dark. “mmmppphh!!” said the pile.

>>4822356
Gold.

>>4820358
I just thought it'd be interesting to create a character who is constantly hallucinating.

>>4821116
Holy shit fucking lol'd for 10 minutes

English is not my first languange, but im gonna do this anyway. So fuck you.

I saw him dead on the floor. Pieces of once joyous kid whose life had been chopped away. It brought smile of both satisfaction and relief to my face. Now no-one would know about our past, things what better not to be told his parents nor police. I sit here lonely, trying my best to supress that crooked mouth. I hide it behind plastic gloves. Stentch of fresh body always did something to your guts, there was no escape no matter how many times you'd smell it.
Is there way to retreat?
Mission, task, job, it doesnt suit me at all. Im too fucking seasoned for this. But they dont know, and if they would? Cage. There should be no arousal, but i embrace it in my memories, past what entwined us both in experiment and lust.
Beyond there, was slight hint of sadness. Sadness that could be dug out in time of need, in time of burial or pretend. Its so fucking weird how you start missing someone when its gone. You make up your own fantasies about them, what should've been done and said. But its too late now, its always too late and people never learn. Clock is either the best or poorest teacher.
I guess i have to stick with the memories for now.

Maybe more to come if you like it even slightly.

>>4823134
What is your first language?

>>4823155
Finnish.
Its bad. Right?

>>4823165
The story is there, but the grammar needs work. The vocabulary is there, I'd say in about a year, if you keep writing like that. you'll be able to write in English with the best.

>>4823177
Oh c'mon man, thats pretty huge statement you making in there.
Anyways, i hate it a little i cant put anything in here for reading in finnish. Im writing this bigger novel right now wich has gotten pretty mixed reviews/input.
Would love to hear /lit/s opinion about it.

He could feel the shakes setting in, the usual ridiculous sick cold flickering green wicked flames in and around his arms, and he hurtled out of the green room and through the lobby, into a night that didn't bother with being warm.

It always happened like this. Fucking fevers. Fucking chills. He'd flubbed a line, completely blanked on it, buried somewhere in the, what, second act? The bit with the murderers. He doesn't even really care anymore, anyways. He just wants to get home into the quilt and sweat and drink and breathe. Blessed breath, the thing he's been missing now for so very very long, it feels, he's been catching half-real gasps out of a senseless maw, the nostrils of his crooked nose a clogged holocaust.

He works too hard.

>>4821325
How can I make this better?
I'll completely revise it if necessary

>>4819893
Ég er með þýðandi að skrifa á því tungumáli. Ég held ekki að neinn muni nenna að þýða eða sannprófa skrifin mín. Kannski að móðurmáli muni átta sig á hversu mikið af hálfviti ég er og staða meðaltali skít um mig. Typpið.

i shed my robes; i'm in ceremony.

christ, i hope this water's ore's
sans rust&phony:
this daze of spent silt sounds
of downy widow dust has left me
shirking deities
& false speaking pretty
tipsy i am on this (still learning
just to show since my base isn't level).
i'm shaking and rinsing out
below you, i couldn't wait to revel
&fall to shards.
please, don't let my moans
create a space in the cards.

There's this fat woman that none of the kids in the neighborhood is allowed to talk to. Dad says she was hurt in an accident and cant tell whats going on anymore. He says that makes her do things. Quigly told us he went over there on his bike and she said he needed a bigger car if they was to ride together. Maybe she is crooked in the head. I saw some people go in there before. Some guys older than us. They had some beers with them and when they walked up on the porch you could hear her laugh and she went inside. they went too.
i think i saw them at school.

bump

>>4822356
this is actually good, despite the... curious... subject.

The building is beige, but the shadows make it shadow-color.

>>4821985
It's about me, isn't it? "Hate-soulmates" --that's hot.

>>4824386
It isn't about anyone I ever knew, so I can confidently say that it wasn't about you, no. Do you have any feedback/criticism?

>>4824490
It was beautiful :3

"Get it out! Get it out!", cried Denise. I wouldn't have imagined my first time like this. It wasn't that she was actually in pain. No. I imagine it must have felt quite sensational. But it must be weird having a thing speak inside of your body. Dad later told me, that all of us in the family had this syndrome. Of course, it was too late by then. Never would have dared to do it with Denise, had I known earlier. The penisses in our family are sentient beings. And now the secret is out and everybody in school will know. It's not like she will keep quiet. It was just a random drunk fuck, after all. "Oy,cheer up, mate!", comes the gravely voice from within my pants. I motion for Dad to pour me another whiskey. He doesn't say a word and does it. That apologetic look in his eyes. He really doesn't have to say anything. His dick will do that for him.

>>4821098
10/10
>tfw this is my fantasy night when I go for a walk

>>4824562
fuck, *every night

"I've never liked the smell of the beach" a fallen angel of a man declared. Then he returned a golden pocket watch, engraved with a depiction of a woman and a heart, to the front breast pocket of the deep blue coat that he wore. The old withered man in antique regal military dress stood there on that tropical beach,facing the ocean, the cold salty wind kissing his long abandoned lips, he was unable to forget. After he'd taken in his fill of the vast churning blue, he walked, shoulders slumped, slowly through the sand. The deep blue coat he wore was framed by the dark gray storm clouds and his slender figure stood much farther above the sand than any other mans would. then he stopped a moment and seemed pensive, "let's go now." he commanded of the other man. The other man obeyed and the other man followed dutifully.

There is a lot of bad in the world, there's no denying it. There's a lot of pain, there's a lot of malice -- it's a veritable symphony of the sinister, at times; wicked winds blowing hard and there is absolutely nothing to hold onto. But then there are other times -- and I find it most with music -- that will set you upon glorious fire, when the dread cacophony subsides and angels rule the skies -- and it's just ordered noise.

"Without music, life would be a mistake" -- Fredrich Nietzsche

>>4824866
Or whatever his name is :P

>>4819893

Holy shit. My fucking head hurts. Fuck these people. Fuck my life. Why do I even work here? I should just kill myself. I mean, I can't even afford heat in the apartment. Look at that fat fuck in the corner. What a piece of shit. Doesn't he realize how fat he is? If I were that fat I wouldn't even go out in public. Look at those fucking fat folds. Jesus Christ.

Oh, a customer. Fuck. Smile and say hello or something.

"Hello, what can I get for you?", Good, they don't even realize how much I fucking hate them. Look at that stupid grin. Quit looking at the menu and decide all ready. Keep smiling. Look patient.

"I'd like a latte please".

"Ok", What a prick.

Sputtering to a halt, Joe's bus was dusty on the outside and half full of passengers on the inside. In a city like LA, being a bus driver meant you were going to meet a number of odd characters. This is really why Joe enjoyed his job at all, getting to see every kook and crook in the area. And though the bus was owned by the city transit department, Joe had a certain marriage to it, feeling a bit like a cruise captain. He had around his beaded seat some photographs of his son, a little Popeye figurine suction cupped on the dash, some sweet roasted nuts, and his thermos with ever-so-slightly brandied coffee; he liked a little zest in the morning. En usual route, Joe had been staring out through his decade old glasses at the lines in the road, watching them pass by one after the other. On the job, it was hard to think about anything in particular because there wasn't particularly anything to think about. With 68 years under his belt, Joe was just glad to even be employed, thankful really. Having worked nearly 40 years in the lumber industry, he didn't mind the relative safety of a cushioned seat all day. That is, until Keanu Reeves got involved in everything.

Critters and fritters and profiteroles too,
Fried things and boiled, baked a bit too,
Gentry was a greasy, oiled, chubby Jew.
His hair look pubic, and his nose like Sinai.
He groveled and modeled all the money,
he could get his meaty clutches upon.
Even if it meant a thousand a coupon.
That kike, that jew, that goy big and blue,
God I love Gentry, for Yahweh he knew.

>>4824954
hehe

Why do you want to read me? Better to not read me at all. Read the Illiad. Yeah, read that. It's much more interesting.

>>4822356
you're wasting your talent ya dork

Sarah looked in the mirror. She saw red lips, blue eyes, and mascara running down her face. She had just learned that Paul died. He was maimed in a car crash. She didn't know what to do. The police officer was sitting on the couch in the living room, and moments earlier she was sitting in the love seat across from him that Paul used to sit in. She had gotten up though, to look in the mirror. The officer continued to talk, but she didn't hear him. She just heard a ringing in her ears. She looked down and saw her bright red dress. She hated that dress more than anything else in the world right then. More than the drunk driver who had killed Paul, more than the officer who refused to stop talking, and even more than the bitter tears rolling down her cheeks and the heavy feeling in her stomach. That red dress was everything that was wrong and evil in the world.


meh

As he lept off the edge of the towering oil rig, he heard the yells behind him. Gunfire spattered in what felt like the distance, though only feet behind him. Why are they even shooting? he wondered. He knew he would hit the water like a ton of bricks, and it would be over with. Surely they knew this too. Sure, they were angry, but shooting at him now? How idiotic. A waste of bullets, if anything. Wasteful. Typical of these brutes.

He felt the crisp air crash against his skin as he fell. He fell faster. 20 feet away, maybe. He considered that he would be colder still when he hit the water. Bummer.

He never quite felt the pain upon impact, never felt the cold of the water after all. All he felt was a jolt, much like a sharp knock to the skull, except on his every inch from heel to hip to head. That, and the tear of his back. But no pain. He sunk, unknowingly, and deeper by the minute, towards the drill beneath the rig. He half-floated, half-whipped against its base. The drill was in no way exposed; he never would have wasted time building a drill with design flaws that would allow for something to be caught inside its gnawing teeth and fantastic steel. What a waste that would have been, a waste of time, a waste of money, a waste of steel. As the life left his limp, shattered body, more bullets were wasted above him in victory, fired into the air with pride. A single shell found its way through the water and half-floated, half-whipped against his cheek. What a waste.

thankless blankets mages makeshift
pages pages pages face it
take this drink this think this be bliss
mission to mars bent broken behind bars
fields and farms and the feeling of alarm
guitar armed but meant no harm
stepped in tar
mesh mold for gold but be bold and behold
the ceiling's low and I should have told
the day from the year
the shore from the pier

>>4825258
Eh. Good ideas, could use cleaner writing.

>>4825337
This makes me want to read more, but is a little melodramatic, no?

>>4825346
I like this.

It was a Saturday, I think. Everything was melting. The trees, the grass, the clouds, the sky. All of it. I was a nomad searching for reality and consciousness was teasing me. I could feel the grip of gravity on my shoulders, yet I couldn't shrug him off. He pulled me backwards into the green sea of blades with a splash. I searched the expansive jigsaw puzzle of blue and white in front of me for but found nothing. I found the vast nothing and expansive everything up there behind the puzzle, up there where the eyes of night were watching and the gods were playing.

This is about an acid experience

>>4825346
this is cool

>>4821169
hey this is pretty good, I especially like the last lines and line

>>4823560
I like this one, sounds like your deck is nice and shuffled

>>4825357
>>4825413
thank you guys

>>4825346
this is really fucking good

Challenge: Write a 100-word short story about a mediocre superhero fighting a mediocre supervillain.
Without using the same word twice.

Hardcore mode: Cannot use articles twice.

>>4819893

He wondered whether lighting a cigarette now would be considered in bad taste. Did it still matter at this point? This was the end. Finis. The last curtain fell two hours ago, now it's just cleanup. Now he got to sleep.

He'd already said goodbye to mission control. There's nothing they could do anymore, and that's ok. He didn't get to say goodbye to his sister, but that's ok too. He wasn't sure he wanted to see her right now. She'd cry, he knew, but that wasn't his fault, and that made it bearable.

There was really nothing to be done. He was really and truly out of options, and that made him smile a little. Finally. No more loophole, no more ace to play. He could finally die. It was his pride that'd kept him alive this long. Giving up meant losing, and he wouldn't lose. Not when he could something about it. So he soldiered on, convincing himself that he was too strong to give up. A Byronic Hero. He was the one who would triumph over every obstacle and win despite the inner void, and he did. He made it here, didn't he?

But there was nothing more to do now. Nothing to try. He could finally sleep, and that's ok.

Speak now or forever hold your testicles in an upright fashion holding your breath before charging headfirst into a runaway torrent of stolid pilgrims, leaving their icon behind and you know their faces and know yourself only just enough to vomit huge embarrassing chunks into your sister's kale salad, but you know it's all hype anyway, all hype anyway.

>>4825709
... well then.

A part I'm contemplating adding to a story I'm working on. Also a character who came to me from nowhere the other day. I still am not sure of her name.
-
The backup plan for eliminating life from the island, and in the form of my friend, no doubt, was a plague. She was the host and embodiment of a fever that caused the infected to literally melt to death. To a sizzling puddle of flesh and blood that swirled into a sickening fertilizer for the Earth--no, for the Hydrakos.
When the Gabriel clones had failed to suck the life from the chain via the goo that would seek out of the monster's scales and invade the islands with a life of their own, they turned to her. When they'd injected her with the primary contagion for this thing, I'm not sure, but it was because she'd been with us that they chose her. I'm sure of that.
If only I had known that everyone I was tied to had some kind of involvement in this, maybe I could have spent more time with them in real life rather than online.
If I hadn't been such a fucking coward. All of those years trying to hide from the Hydrarkos and now here I was having to face it again, anyway.
Everyone coaxed me into thinking I couldn't get over watching that thing devour my friends, and I believed them. I made myself weak.
And now everyone was paying for it, because I was too afraid to open this damned vial and join Adrian in demonhood. Why was I so afraid of losing my humanity, when it was weak, mortal fear that had gotten me into this predicament to begin with?

>>4825759
Anything working?

Everything is sex. Simple daily interactions mean little to nothing, each is but a stepping stone on the journey to orgasm. Each word spoken and each moment shared only seeks to either burn into hot pursuit or die in dissatisfaction. Not much matters after you climax, for desire is the only driving force that keeps tomorrow reality. Behind every person is not their story, but how their libido dictates their lives.

mounting thrifties; we parked by in old buicks, began poking around in hardly mobile rooms. our noses were stuffed to each others' scruffs and we laughed as babies hid their shiny faces under the skirts their mothers' tried on over naked thighs in the open.

young teens don't come here. we forgot they existed as the projection room is all they ever looked at. our mothers warned us when we were young that looking was bad for your soul.

six walls, white sheets draping. the old movie theater was turned into a rabbit skinning factory when they stopped making films. you can't stop recording what you see or it never existed.
dehistoricalizing is just a start; demoralizing comes from the heart.
ours were all torn out and replaced with tin as newborns. they've turned out so-far; we all die under sixty now. plans are plans are plans and we know nothing of them but hey, neither do bunnies as they're live-trapped and dropped into boiling waters still writhing with oxygen.
we're all boxed in, locked with our own keys.

where did our spleens go? mercury overrode us and an orange fell on our heads.
i wish we had a dinner to sit down to.

>>4825892
>le painfully average and generic modern teenager face

suicide is your only option

bumpin

A faint trace of smoke in the distance. A Small grey wisp on a grayish-yellow horizon of the winter sunset. Probably from one of the chimneys in the village. Andrew fastened the upper part of his long coat to protect his throat from the chilling wind and trudged on through the snow. His bag was heavy with medical instruments and supplies, but he was almost out of food and water. The reason why he took on such a journey on foot is because the chariots and other transport systems refused to cross the mountains through the snow and blizzard. He, as a doctor, took his hypocratic oath very seriously and has been making his way through the snowy landscape for days in an effort to visit the village and those afflicted by the disease.

The small grey wisp almost disappeared, but something else appearead. A small wayshrine made out of wood lay before him. By the look of it, probably made by the locals. A tall cross made out of dark wood and Jesus, nailed to it by long iron nails. His skin was sickly pale (probably made from white birch) and his face looked completely grotesque. The maker was obviously trying to make a grimace of pain but failed miserably. It looked more like it had an involuntary muscle contraction in sheer terror. Some of the wood fell off from the body and the inside could be observed - burrowed, rotten and eaten away by termites. It looked like flesh was falling off his arms and legs. The whole thing had some eerie terrifying presence beyond the crucifixion itself, it really looked as if Christ was writhing in agony from flesh rot. He thought of it as a bad omen.

My face is heavy, my philtrum raw and painful. I want someone to take a scalpel, bonesaw or needle and open up my face, score along the lines of my sinuses and expose their insides to the world. Just remove this mucus. Rid me of this cold.

Last night, I had left my bedroom for a piss, and while I pushed the urine out of my body I heard my mother call me. "What are you doing?"

I followed her into the kitchen. "What do you mean, 'what am I doing'?"

"Uh, you know," she said. "What are you doing?"

"Well, you said it before like I was doing something strange. I was just using the bathroom."

"Oh. Well I just saw the bedroom light on and the door was open. Listen, what do you want to do about (retail service job)."

"I said I'd call Tuesday."

"Right. Okay."

I walked over near her to the pantry. "I'm not really sure what I'm going to do if I can't get this job."

"What?" She hadn't heard me.

"Nothing." I reached about for something to eat. "I was saying I don't know what I'm going to do if they don't give me the job."

"We'll figure it out."

"No, I mean if I don't get this job I'm going to go broke." A click sounded and the room went dark. "Keep the light on, I'm talking."

"Sorry."

"I spent (a good amount of time) working there already and the people I spoke to said I'm a shoe-in. I hope they didn't just decide to give it to someone fresh, to give some new guy a chance. I need the money."

"Don't sit on the table."

"Whatever, I'm not worried about that." As I pushed myself further up, my mother clicked the lights off again and walked to the doorway.

"I'm going to bed."

"You know I wish you hadn't brought up (retail store). I feel awful now."

"I was just asking what you were going to do."

"Looks like I'm taking a Klonopin tonight."

"I don't want you taking those pills when you don't have to."

"Well I have to now."

My mother sighed and walked down the hall. I heard the whine of her door closing.

As I sat on the table the thoughts I wanted to talk to her about flooded my mind. I thought about how five years ago I graduated from the best school in the country for journalism and how I had resorted to part-time service work to float my bank account in the face of my monthly student loan bills, and how I hadn't written anything publishable in half a year. Who would hire me for reporting? I thought about how I lost the nerve to find stories on my own, and how with every new thing I try now there seems to be this giant block stopping me from moving forward. I thought of losing my newspaper job again, and then felt worthless. I thought of how I must have gone to school for the wrong degree.

I slid off the table and walked over to the sink. I reached for the yellow pills that would ease these thoughts and let me sleep tonight. They rattled in their orange tube as I brought them close.

>>4819893
"It was a dark and stormy night. How does that sound for the beginning of my novel?"
Jack glanced across the small dormroom at his shitty roommate Kyle. There were very few words that Jack could accurately place from the tip of his tongue that wouldn't end up around the knife that would slash Kyle's throat.
"It's too Snoopy" was all he had the heart to reply.

>>4827881
Clonazepam is my latest drug, a new prescription on top of the Adderall. I began taking legal speed again in (insert month here) when I realized I couldn't hold conversations with the people I called during my reports without spending half an hour plotting out my conversations each time. ADD. I was diagnosed for years but ignoring it felt empowering. Maybe if I lost my hubris sooner then my boss would not have smoked me out of the job. I still take them to remain active while trying to figure out how to code in different languages, a track I've spent (a number of) months on. Everyday seems to end sooner than I realize.

I became more at peace with myself after leaving the paper. I told my latest psychiatrist about how I'd spend hours off work making sure I made no errors in the articles I would submit to the newspaper before anyone else found them. I spent the last hours of some nights with heavy breath attempting to find the truth to a fact I wrote without relying on my notes or calling up sources. One night I made so many google search requests that the site asked me to fill out a CAPTCHA code to make sure I wasn't a robot. After I proved my sentience, I spent a few more hours trying to see if directors for commercial shoots ever lied to reporters before--he claimed the commercial was not affiliated with (company), despite how the logo tailed his video two months later. Sleep came at about 4 a.m. that time.

I twisted off the cap of the orange tube and dug out one of the tablets, yellow like the chalk at school. I dropped it on my tongue, leaned my head just under the faucet and let the cold water run. I brought my lips to the stream, brought in the water and swallowed. I closed my eyes. My face scrunched in on itself, forming into what I knew was a grimace. "Fuck." I took my glasses off and placed my forehead on the faucet like I would on Jake's chest but cold and metal objects can't tell me that I'm stronger than this.

Five minutes later I stopped crying. I walked back to hall and saw the door to my parents bedroom remained open. I walked into my own room, turned off the light and laid down. I thought about fading away from life, ending it. Then came sleep.

>>4827886
"It was dark stormy night. How that sound for novel?"
Jack glance across room at shitty roommate. There very few words Jack say, he want to take knife and kill him.
"Is to Snoopy," is all he say, fuckin faggot.

>>4827719
My face is heavy, I want someone take knife and open my face. I have cold.

>>4827707
Is a faint trace of smoke in distance. Probably-a come from chimney in village. Andrew put on coat because is windy and walks through snow. His bag is heavy with shit, but he has no food or water. Is no chariots. Andrew is doctor.

Smoke disappear, but shrine appear. Is Jesus on it. He looks ugly as fuck.

>>4825973
>this guy is faggot

Kill yourself

>>4825892
Everything is sex. Means nothing but orgasm, yeah?

I didn't want to go to the asylum, but the only other option was jail. After six long weeks at trial, my lawyers said that the jury wasn't likely to rule in my favor, and that I should take a plea for insanity. They didn't say the judge would put me here. I knew before I stepped foot inside the main lodging at the Lawrence C. Wakefield Institution, before I even got out of police car that delivered me there, the very instant that I saw the 10-foot-high fence that surrounded the one-hundred-and-thirty-five-plus-one-half acre plot the institution lay resting upon, that I was going to die in this place. I tried to resist, but the police escorts would have none of it. They pushed me up the two-man-wide path up to the reinforced doors of the build, where they transferred my being to the nurses within. The lobby smelled stale, of old cigarette smoke mixed with some foul chemical.
That's all I have.

His hair is starting to go and
his beard if starting to grow
His eyes are as blue as they go and as deep as they go
and they're cut suddenly by his frown and they look around
the room as if there're nothing behind them
He hears imaginary children chanting and they say
''rapid aging is followed by death
and what is gone can never come back''
In his mind there's a mercenery eye in every corner
In his mind there's pedophiles and stanists
In his mind thoughts come in smooth and come in hard
and they're round and square
and you can feel them walking about
making circular motions round and round

Peace, Love and Joy
Does not matter
Girl or Boy
From east to west
From west to east
There will always
Be some Peace

I was browsing 4chan when I burnt my penis in a bowl of instant ramen.

It was shrimp flavored, and something about the fishiness was getting to me. It was too hot, anyway, and I kept bringing up mouthfuls and biting them off with my teeth, letting most of the noodles fall back into the bowl. I was hungry when I started, but now it was beginning to look like a task I'd never complete. Ninety-nine cents wasted.

Then I saw the spontaneous writing exercise thread, and knew this was going to tie into my noodle consumption experience somehow.

First, I took out my weiner and flopped it across my desk. It looked preposterous next to my keyboard, mouse, and steaming plastic bowl of noodles. I started splashing the hot shrimp water on it. Even though I saw it coming every time, each drop that hit my exposed member startled me.

Fuck it, I thought, I'm not here to make friends. I'm not going to make sweet love to this bowl of noodles, nor am I going to eat it. Nobody cares about some bullshit I write on an anonymous imageboard. The least I can do is burn my penis.

I picked up the bowl and held it over my head. I closed my eyes, counting to ten while I tried to build up the requisite courage. I think the counting was more of a distraction, really, and I focused on the numbers instead of what I was about to do.

When I reached ten, I was so lost in the sequence that I was barely aware that I was slamming the noodles down on my exposed genitals. Whatever hypnotised, distracted state of mind I had conjured up dispelled itself instantly as the near boiling, crustacean scented water hit my dick. The water rolled off, but noodles hung like starchy napalm, further burning my penis.

Now I sit here, my pants and underwear soaking wet and pulled to my knees, my desk chair and groin covered in soppy noodles. My penis is swollen and red and starting to scab in places.

I may have to go to the hospital for this.

Hank was chilling in his crib, drinking his young scotch and watching the basketball game's final minutes. The Door flew open and hank, startled, started getting up as the young punks walked into the root. One had a gun and squezed out a shot that took out the television as Hank started moving towards him.

Hank swung a fist that had swung a wrench for the last 25 years at the punk. The punk cracked and went down wetly. The other punk looked in disbelief as Hank picked up the gun and held him there.

Hank called 911, 'Do you know the score of the evening game, cause some goddamn punks just shot my television and I have one of them here at gunpoint'.

47-43 sir.

God Bless America Hank Said

>>4829316
word repetition of "punk" needs to go
get gud

>>4829326

What would you suggest for a replacement in the second paragraph. I was trying to show and not tell but that left me repeating the same word a few times.

>>4829316
>>4829349
Hank was chilling in his crib, drinking young scotch and watching the ball game wind down. The door flew open and hank, startled, jumped up as several punks burst into the room. One raised a gun and squeezed out a shot to silence the telivision. Hank swung a fist, strengthened by 25 years of manual labor, knocking him down wetly. The others looked on as hank retrieved the gun from their partner's unconcious body, and held them at point.

Hank called 911, "Do you know the score of the basketball game? Some goddamn kids shot out my television and my trigger finger is itchin' something fierce."

"47-43 home, sir."

"God Bless."

>>4829394

I see what you mean now, thank you.

>>4829401
sure thing

>>4825436
Thanks anon!

Really appreciate it.

>>4819893
“Stardust Enterprises. In the Cerulean District.
Christ.
If I had known, If I had been informed that Stardust Enterprises was to be the butt of our little- well, what I guess could now be seen as a “joke”, I would’ve never gone through with it.
There were 9 of us, nine men. Nine men, only things in common were where we were every Friday and Saturday evenings, and what we liked fermenting in our cups. Men. Not soldiers.
Half of us had hardly seen the goddamn building before, and with half a bag on the each of us, we weren’t going to remember it either.
Simple, he told us.
‘2 men outside, 3 men in the foyer, 2 at the lobby desk, and 2 in the office. The men outside let no one in, they carry these. The 3 inside carry these concealed Tek SCABs, and stay seated at these benches marked on your NavAids. The 2 at the lobby moderate the monitors and surveillance, while also sticking these to the back of each screen. The 2 men in the office, and this is important, the 2 men in the office stay in the office until 12:10, as soon as it hits 12:10 we have a 60 second window for you to input this password into the login screen on the first computer to your right when walking in. You will then insert this zipdrive into the slot, it will execute an administrative program. That program will run for 15 seconds. After those 15 seconds are up, torch the room, the lobby, and the foyer, with these. This little excursion should take no more than about ten minutes, and nobody has to get hurt as long as everything goes according to plan.’
According to plan. Hmph.
The money he offered was too good to be true, but we were all inebriated enough to believe it. We swore we could’ve done it, this was the job market nowadays. Stealing tech. We weren’t thinking. Now that I look back on it, I should’ve called it.
I should’ve known that he knew we weren’t going to be able to do it.
I should’ve known it was too good to be true.
I used to be able to go off my gut about situations like this, but that’s pretty hard when it’s soaked in alcohol.
Plus, the only thing I knew then was living off the last coin in your pocket and the last drop in your bottle, and I was craving a change.
To make a long story short, we were set up from the jump. “

Was going off a thought for the intro to a cyberpunk-noir, lemme know what ya think! I'll be glad to give my opinion on anyone else's as well.

Cold.
It thought. It’s glazed eyeballs rolling to and fro.
Peeking out from half adjacent lids.
It tried to lift it’s arms. Stuck.
Ah.
A breath wheezed through it’s cracked teeth, yellow; decayed.
It grew frustrated, shaking the steel table it was bound to, it’s eyes forcefully hidden from the fluorescent light looming overhead.
It felt it’s skin twist and flake, crackling like sandpaper beneath the leather belts.
Thirsty.
It licked it’s lips, what was left of them. Old, torn strips of flesh, either half rotten away or chewed from the gums. It’s fingers outstretched maniacally, jerking back and forth, before settling again.
The doctor, silver-haired; a scholar. He strode to the head of the table, examining it.
Thirsty.
“Marvelous,” the doctor exclaimed, leaping to the bench opposite the room, clipboard in tow. His pen scratched the paper like a razorblade through wood. Making notes, comparisons, calculations, assumptions.
It writhed again, popping vertebrae as it tried to loosen the straps. The doctor turned and looked, ambition glistening in his pupils.
“Absolutely marvelous,”
The chrome door thrust open, clanging against the laboratory wall. A woman entered, pajama bottoms, rings under the eyes. Her coffee steams as it falls from her hand to the floor, her palm clamming as she holds it to her mouth.
“Look Dina, I found it, in Bermuda,”
“Peter, I… cannot believe it,”
Thirsty.
It felt her hand run along its arms, gracing every lesion and abscess with her fingertips.
It jerked again, it shoulders contorting to loosen the belt’s grip.
“Is it human?”
The doctor rose, strutting over to it, bringing the fluorescent light ever so closer.
“95% sea water, but damn right, she’s human,”
“Peter, is that?”
Its fingers gripped the metal siding of the table, straining the wrist, there was pop, but not its bones.
The doctor turned back to his bench, shuffling through papers, books, findings, maps.
“Yes!” he shouted, at the top of his lungs. He held up a paper, a huge map, a cartography of the sea. She turned to him, staring at the circled red dots, the marked coordinates, the fateful “x” marking the spot.
“I was right, Dina, all it took was a little elbow grease, and I knew, I knew, there was an anomaly that could not be explained, that could not be ignored,”
The buckles pop echoed to a whisper. It felt it’s skin stick to the tight leather, before slowly sliding off. It’s eyes jarred, fixated on the light. The looming sun.
She moved closer to him.
“Here, you found her?”
“I found everything, the plane, Noonan, the whole lab,” his sweat beaded off him in little droplets.

>to be continued in next post

>>4829573
She moved closer to him, only to be tugged backwards. A mangled hand latched to her shoulder, oozing gunk and goo, meat hanging by tendrils. Its jagged teeth pressed against the nape of her neck, its breath cooking the worn coat on her shoulders.
The doctor dropped the map, falling backwards, mouth agape. He looked at it matching focus with its milky stare, corrupted by cataracts and sea algae.
“Amelia,”
“I’m thirsty,”

Little somethin' I wrote about the Bermuda Triangle, got a lot of other shorts that take place in the same universe, recurring characters, etc.

She was the afterimage that sizzled in his eyes whenever he closed them. She was the red-haired candle that he couldn't get close to. She was 5'4 and prone to mood swings. She dyed her hair every week, and only listened to the Beatles in the morning. She drove a beat-up Honda Accord that her grand parents gave her twelve days before they both died on the same day. She smelled like cinammon and rain. She was who he wanted to curl up against on cloudy days.
She is dead.
He is delusional.

He was delusional