/lit/ - Literature

Not writing a 300 word story about why that person is sitting on the bench wrong

>>5909635
>writing exercises
is /lit/ this bad?

>>5909635

Once there was a kid who sat on a red bench. He had an umbrella because it was raining. There was also a tree on his left. There were also more trees in front of him but they were further away.

THE END

>>5909635

Despite her bleak mood the woman with the umbrella was very passionate about the nature she was envisioning before herself.

It had come to autumn and still she kept her word. Every Friday, 4pm, she would go to the bench and wait. The first few weeks had been summer, so she could while the hour away with a book, lift her skirt to her knees and give her feet some air. But then it had begun to get cold, dark, and she’d find herself crying when her watch rolled over again and 5pm came.
At home, her fingers would move slower than normal – she couldn’t clench a fist. The heat of her bath would steam the bathroom – create a hotel glow, an amber warmth that would treat her loss like aspirin treats cancer. No, it just reminded her of him. Everything did.
So she’d continue as normal, go to work, come home alone. Still looking forward to the end of the week, her early finish, the hope she clung to despite the mounting evidence.
Another week. A month. Christmas. Once the Friday fell on New Year’s Day – which would be their anniversary and she prayed to something she’d never believed in that this would be the time he’d come through the gates – a bouquet in hand, a smile and glossed, sorry eyes. She would wipe her tears and sprint to meet him. But no.
The cycle went on, once again their Friday fell perfectly on January 1st.
And again. And again until she lost count.
She shuffled, with the help of Claire – her main carer, a beautiful young woman who could be the daughter she’d never had – on a Friday she suspected would be one of her last. A romantic habit had grown to a compulsion and yet... yet there was still light, there was still a chance. Would she even recognise him if he did arrive? She couldn’t be sure.
‘Can you leave me a minute?’ she said.
‘Of course,’ Claire nodded. ‘I’ll get some ice cream.’
Once alone, she took the crinkled envelope from her pocket and unfolded the note – turned yellow by the sun, by the cruelty of time. Her wrinkled fingers shook as she read.
‘My darling, as you know, I must go. But I will be back. And I know you’ll wait for me – between 4 and 5pm, Friday. I promise, my love, I promise I’ll see you there, the place our lips and hearts first touched. Right there on that blue bench.’
She looked down at the flaking paint by her thigh.
‘Oh shit-tits,’ she said.

>>5909780

Wouldn't she be smart enough to realise the color of the right bench after so many years?

>>5909788

Evidently not.

>>5909649
No, it's just you lmao

>>5909660

I like this one.

Bump

a faggot sat on a red bench in a selectively colored world

>>5909635
The lady sat on the bench, which was very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very red.

>>5910285
another tour de force by tao lin

Why does that bitch can't even sit properly on a fucking bench? Why do people nowadays like to do these things?
No! You're not special! You're not a snowflake, go fuck yourself.
I hate you all.

>>5909635
"My ass hurts I want to get off." Abigail shouted to the photographer, though she did not look at him. She had responded to an ad from him in the newspaper for a quick twenty bucks but she was quickly regretting it. She knew she shouldn't trust people who would still put their ads in the newspaper, especially when Craigslist was free. Now she was stuck with a Mr. Constantine Crunchenheimer, or at least that's how he heard his name. His accent was too thick.
Today was an awful day to be out too, she fancied. It was oddly dark and foggy for this time of year, November was normally more pretty in her town, but instead she was to deal with ghastliness and nastiness outside. It was chilly too, the wind nipping at her nose, she had forgotten to wear her bra this morning and so her nipples also felt a bit hard. She was glad she was getting this photo taken from behind.
"Ach! Mein verk eez feeneeshed!" Conrad or whatever shouted out. "Ehbigel! Kam ant see!"
Abbigal got up and went to look at the finished photo in the digital camera.
"What the fuck is this, the bench is blue, not red you moron." She snapped before she left with the twenty dollars.

It was a dark and stormy day. There was mist. The air looked angry. A man, or a woman, or perhaps a transvestite (I couldn't tell from their silhouette) sat on an averagely-lengthed red bench. There was a tree above him/her/zer (it wasn't properly-speaking above him/her/zer, just the branches and a section of trunk were). In the end, I suppose we were all sitting on that bench, or watching whoever was—although I suppose there were only two of us there so that statement isn't so much philosophical as just plain accurate. I walked away from the scene, but wondered, if this were maybe more a horror scenario that maybe the bench could have been made of blood, or like calcified orphan guts or something equally sinister, and then the person sitting on it maybe like a monster or something. That Kanye song rang through my head at that moment "Bitch I'm a monster, no good blood sucker…" etc. You've heard it. Anyway, I thought of the bench of blood, and the monster sitting at it, and thought to myself well Frankenstein would have made a great carpenter because he was so strong. Imagine him planing a huge log, the dark bark coming off from the blade in flaky swaths. Frankenstein in a canoe, Frankenstein sitting at a furniture set in a dark oak cabin, drinking coffee on Mont Blanc, the snow coming down, a roaring fire in the fireplace, Frankenstein shaking off wood shavings from his enormous boots, his trousers and jacket. Maybe he would have a Frankendog and Bride to keep him company. Who knows. There would be no need for a bench of blood, or really anything sinister if he had some respectable hobby like carpentry or woodworking or pheasant hunting.

>>5910306

Is yours a sequel to mine?

>>5909780

Oh what a red bench here was! Thought Amanda to herself. In this bleak grey world, this park of concrete and sepia tones, what must a woman do to see a splash of colour now and then? She continued.

She stroked a plank, and added: ah, umbrella, my only friend, my twirly companion, what hast thou to add?

But seeing that language was beginning to go amiss, it held its tongue and pretended to be mute. Amanda gave the domed interior a scrutinising look, and let fall a foul comment, which if related to the reader would not endear her to them.

She cussed once more for good measure, and scowled at the colourless terrain. Maybe I'm inside a TV; a cheap old one, black and white and whatnot, she thought. Maybe this is what characters see when they're not onscreen.

She mused a while longer, gave her companion a twirl, before examining the sky, which was misty all over. Why does the fog have to hang for so long? Can't it just fall down at once--and what do you know that's just what happened; she drowned, the end.

Libreoffice said it was 140 words. Oh well, it's all I've got.


The woman twirled her umbrella idly in both hands. Rain twirled off the fringes and the empty parts of her thought were filled by the erratic timbre of the impacting rain drops.

The weather cast the world around in her in a monochromatic haze. Her bottom became damp and she moved atop the bench to avoid the wetness. Though she could see quite far the pallor about her gave her the impression of being nearsighted. She felt confined.

Looking far in all direction despite herself, the trees appeared her only company. No roads found her, no paths or trails could be spotted. She examined the bench. She rubbed the wood. It was rough but solid and promised no splinters. Adjacent to her was a glaring vacancy of deep red and she felt guilty. The woman returned to her soaked seat.

"why is this bench so red?
oh it is my period blood
I should go inside"

She was perplexedly perched upon the perfect little red bench, which at the time took the form of rich romantic red rosewood. A thought entered the brain of her ostensibly old orthopedic body and she gasped giving way to the gaunt gashes of wrinkles that gathered across her garish grim face. The previous day, that is to say around the general time of the early morning near sunrise she had discovered herself browsing through the local newspaper, her eyes moving from left to right at a quickening and quintasentially quackish pace. It was at that precise moment in time that the old woman with her wrinkled washed up wiggly face remembered the red resting roost at the rear end of a rambling road in rose ravine, and with the perfectly punctual preciseness of her pocket watch she danced daintily to the daunting doormat and zoodled zoofibly past the zoo to the red bench of red ravine.

That last bowl really did it for me. I wonder if any of these trees seen a murder in their lifetimes. I like the smell of mud. The feeling of being in a body is weird. I wonder what not having a body feels like. I guess it doesn't feel like anything

Ran 10 words over:

To watch a world melt was a new experience for Rose, and a pleasant one. Pleasant, like red benches in parks. To watch a world of matter be disassembled at the molecular level – solids misting, graying, becoming diffuse as one floated impermeable in the dislocation of order – was to experience, Rose supposed, a metaphor that reconciled the abandonment of entropy felt by all immortals.

Composed entirely of replicating machinery herself – her sentience stretched beyond recognition in the eons of her life since that fatal transfer, the grey that consumed this world around her – so much like rain, she thought it befit an umbrella (though the heat of the dissolution was in fact immense and held in check only by the utmost efforts of the nanites as they constructed fractal superconductors in the air, reaching deep into the ground of the planet, shunting the unleashed energies of order away in order to keep themselves from melting in the silent holocaust they perpetuated exponentially) – was utterly unable to touch her without becoming her.

She sat in perfect stillness, enraptured. Entropy as beautiful as it was unattainable. Gray and impossible heat could fade fast to black and cold. Substance was nothing but ordered waves standing in arrayed ranks, composed but insubstantial, existent only in that they decayed. Rainy days became her mood, Rose thought. And of course, one must look at what one cannot have. That was always what looking was for – for if it could be had, it could be subsumed, and introspection overtake the eye.

Alone in the blooming black, she relived again the process of becoming nothing. Nonpareil. She wished herself to cease existence – almost, but the caveat was inescapable. With that, beauty would fade, for it could not exist without audience, and the destruction of beauty was the worst sin of all. The witch must find another world instead.

>>5912058
trying too hard anon-kun

>>5912062
that's actually pretty funny, because I didn't really think too hard about it. took about 10 minutes from when I first saw this thread.

>>5912062
>>5912069
I guess I should ask what gives it that impression?

Why is red?

But if...

Red is red, but red here? red to the crayon with red. Not red but, why here?

So red is red but, if red isnt red, why see red?

It's not red, is it?

No.

Sometimes we see things.

"Andy!"

Oh no.

"Andy we've been looking all over for you!"

why?

"Andy, you can't run off like this, you can't do this to us anymore!"

We thought we saw red.

"Andy, you know they want to put you in a home!"

reddit tier shit.

>>5912084
I like to imagine this is Steven King, scratching himself irritably as he types it out, peering annoyedly at this imageboard he's fallen into.

>>5912087
I like to imagine strange men fucking my wife

>>5912091
she hot or.....?

>>5912091
actually, so do I, but they pretty much have to be black, because apparently I am a racist.

>>5912087
>Stephen King
>Not the embodiment of reddit
you've been had

>>5909635

Jonathan, or Mr. Allen sat uncomfortably on top of the thin back rest of the red bench deep in the park; he didn't feel he deserved to be comfortable. He held an umbrella against the drizzle that fogged the whole park around him. He thought about walking home from school on the last day, about the last time somebody called out, "Jonny!" Mr. Allen withdrew a cool silver flask from inside his coat, and tilted it drastically, his face and neck stationary. He was watching a point in the trees. "Jonny!" Elizabeth had called, excited, her voice as bright as the light coruscating on the seaside below the hill. He had turned to see her running, her pleated skirt leaping up, his heart leaping in his chest at the sight of her thigh. Mr. Allen cleared the rough whiskey from his throat, and licked his lips. In the fog, on the red bench, the startlingly red bench, in the quiet deep of the park, Mr. Allen felt as if he had wandered out of the earth. He sat there a long time, and then got up. He walked through the fog, through the trees, into the sounds of the cars, the colors of the street. He went back to the store. He put on his apron and stood in his place behind the bar. He said, "Hello," to a pretty woman, she said nothing back, and gave him an unhappy smile, and then said, almost thirty seconds later, "Martini."

Tadwell was expelled from the party because Marta told her friends that he tried to grab her bovine breasts, when really he was pointing to a button on her flaring lapels that said "free hugs."

It was raining outside, and he smirked to himself as he turned away from the party, feeling the weight of the umbrella in his hand. He pressed the button, and the plastic dome jerked away from him. He smirked because what Marta didn't know was that he had made out with Sandy in Marta's closet, pawing the warm patch between her hips as his tongue traced the contours of her teeth.

He entered Mansfield Park and walked purposefully among the skeleton crew of its trees, watching the waves of water pelting the asphalt, the puddles, the waves inside of waves inside of waves.

He saw the red bench as if it were an oasis in a long march across the Gobi desert. His legs were tired, from walking, from standing tense and excited against Sandy's warm soft body, from the walk up to his father's apartment on the 29th floor because the elevators were temporarily out of service.

He sat on the top of the red bench and remembered the Red Wheelbarrow poem he studied in his introductory lit course. So much depends upon a red wheelbarrow beside the white chickens, in the rain.

Those chickens appeared in his head now, headless and gushing blood, and this chain of thoughts led him to the tumour growing in his father's brain, filling his dad's head with paranoid thoughts and hallucinations. On Wednesday, he had nearly clawed Tad's eyes out, thinking Tad had poisoned his apple juice.

Tuesday, December 1st, 2009

It was a grim and gray kind of day. With a veneer of fallen rain, and a facade of fog lay a quiet park.Within this park stood a tree, barren and tall, and beneath this tree sat a bench of the most vibrant vermillion. On this scarlet throne sat, queerly, a parasol-ed figure in pointed shoes.

With a metallic clap and a bronze flash the man stuff's an oversized pocket watch into his coat.
"Late!" He started with a yell.
"He's unequivocally, irrevocably, unforgivably!"
He stops
"...Late."

A breathe later the man in pointed shoes ia free of the crimson stoop and is pacing under the sparse sentinel.
"I guess I have no choice!"
He continues, marching to and fro, his heavy footfalls seemingly ignored by the fresh and pliant mud.
"I mean seriously, what does he really expect will happen?" He asks the stoic wall of fog, throwing his umbrella to the wind only to have it sublimate into smoke.
"Fine! I see how it is my friend. Well, screws to you!" He shouts.
"And screws to you gray and grim Tuesday! And screws to you facade of freshly fallen fog! And screws to you tall and barren tree! And screws to you too vibrantly vermillion bench!"
He finishes, and with that, a laugh, and a puff of smoke he was gone.

>>5912168

You know vermillion and scarlet are different colours, right? The bench is more red than vermilion, and scarlet is darker than the bench. . .

>>5912180
Yes, and neither men nor umbrellas sublimate into smoke.

>>5912184

I didn't mind that so much though. The vermilion and the scarlet bothered me. Just sayin. . .

boring pic op, try this one.

>>5912187
that is far from the most offensive thing about that bit of narrative. Not going into detail only because it seems we aren't meant to take this thread seriously?

>>5912189
boring due to its specificity. Anything other than WWII as a setting will seem forced.

She had been walking for at least half an hour, and was just beginning to breathe more deeply, just beginning to daydream when the first drops fell. At first startled, then laughing at herself, then jogging, sprinting in mock desperation, she scanned the mist for a shelter to wait out the downpour.

Gasping for breath, and already soaked to the bone, she conceded defeat. She turned and squelched her way off the path, to a park bench gleaming with fresh paint. She took a seat and admired the view ironically, thinking of how it had looked just a few minutes previously, on an apparently fine, though chilly March morning.

Turning to look over her shoulder, she saw something sitting on the reverse side of the bench. She grinned and ran her fingers through her drenched hair. She stood up gingerly on the seat of the bench, then bent to pick up the umbrella, opened it, and playfully sat back down on the back of the bench, with her feet on the seat.

"I guess my guardian angel is having a bit of fun with me," she thought, then "I don't know if I've ever seen it as beautiful as it is right now."

Rattling marks the end of a seventy-six year journey, and instead of the rushing well of sad, hopeless nothing a fierce joy comes splurging out. She laughs, and she laughs. The Jamaican, with her fat lips and phoenix-ash hair and constant insistence that her name was 'Joo-lee' disapproves. Disapproves mightily. Ignore them, though. Ignore all of them. Mum sits with red-ringed eyes, her pale face a mess of life, pausing in her snuffling grief to glare. The minister, who has arrived guided by hysterical laughter to find he has missed the main event and is now left to stand impotently, robbed of his purpose by God, nothing left but to cough gently into his bible, try not to make eye-contact with anyone. And Dane, poor, sweet Dane. The apple who had finally awakened something tender in the rattle-ended former life. Looking up at his mother with open, naked shock. He is five, and has just learnt The Way Things Are, and his young mind cannot take this violation of rules so newly comprehended.

With another fit of orgasmic chuckling she excuses herself, and staggers through palliative, through the shabby corridors neglected in a not-long-for-this-world way, through the drab activity centre where once vital husks of humanity perch with their gray families and bright oxygen tanks, through the hospital-esque reception, and into a nearby park. She is in love with -esque, the suffix of her time, and marvels at its appendage to a word, and how such appendage renders the unacceptable acceptable.

Losing herself in the park, trying to find something to tie together the analogy of dawning spring and the end of an 'important' life in so dingy a hole, and she is racked again by a crocodile guffaw, and is unsurprised to find the first tear has fallen. Force a smile, walk on.

Later she finds a bench, sits, reflects on her earlier grief-esque hysteria, and in this waits for something new to happen.

>>5912271
who knew the internet could be filled with such a pretty little story. :')

On that red bench again. This time I sat on top of the of the backrests so Sloane would know it was me right when I came into her view.

i like something like this

My ass was itchy from sitting on the red bench for too long so I scratched it with my umbrella. However, this allowed rain to drench my hair, which pissed me off enough that I picked up the bench to use as a secondary umbrella. However, the bench had cracks in it that allowed rainwater through. In my anger I slipped on a puddle and hurt my knee. I curled up on the wet ground and began to cry. Suddenly the tree fell on me. It was a pretty big tree, so I screamed in pain. I saw the narrator taking a break after writing that sentence. He was writing about someone whose ass was itchy from sitting on the red bench for too long so he scratched it with his umbrella. However, this allowed rain to drench his hair, which pissed him off enough that he picked up the bench to use as a secondary umbrella. However, the bench had cracks in it that allowed rainwater through. In his anger he slipped on a puddle and hurt his knee. He curled up on the wet ground and began to cry. Suddenly the tree fell on him. It was a pretty big tree, so he screamed in pain. He tried to recite what had happened: “My ass was itchy from sitting on the red bench for too long so I scratched it with my umbrella. However, this allowed rain to drench my hair, which pissed me off enough that I picked up the bench to use as a secondary umbrella. However, the bench had cracks in it that allowed rainwater through. In my anger I slipped on a puddle and hurt my knee. I curled up on the wet ground and began to cry. Suddenly the tree fell on me.”

>>5912078
Wittgenstein/10

The good old internet..my safehaven..my home. It’s been my place of retreat for years, since I was a bullied young child in school, til this very day. I regularly visit so many different websites and forums for a range of different purposes and topics. Several sites I visit even serve many functions, and some forums cover a cornucopia of subjects. Today, I decided to visit one such site. I’d been going on it since I discovered it in middle school. At first, it’s perverse and dark nature scared me away; but it further served to draw me back in as the allure of this adult content truly ignited my curiosity ablaze. This website has several boards, and I go on many, but today I decided to visit a board consisting of posts about literature. After scrolling down and right-clicking a few posts to view in a new tab, I happenstanced across a post requesting aspiring writers to create a three hundred word story based on a single image. I’d be lying if I said the description didn’t pique my interest, being an English major with dreams of writing stories for a living one day. I then took a gander at the image I was supposed to use as a source for inspiration and was instantly filled with utter dread. The image was, perhaps, the most simplistic teenaged icon, and it left me with no idea of what to do. I stared down my screen like a female triggered by a misogynistic post on Tumblr. I began to weep. I asked whatever cruel god might hear me, “What troglodyte could post such a thing?” I began to yell a very primitive and tribal yell. This yell, that could belong to nothing short of a beast, continued as I ripped my keyboard away and smashed it against my orange wall. I ran out of the house in this such manner, gaining the views of people as they passed by in their cars. It took me nearly a half-hour of running through the streets like this till I even realized it was raining and creating quite a fog. My world has completely broken apart; I never thought I was capable of such a meltdown. I found a small park down away, and decided I needed a rest. I found a bench, and saw it was suitable to sit on, except for it being wet. I sat on it like I did when I was a small child, with my butt on the top and my feet on the seat. I could muster nothing more than the ability to stare out into the fog and ponder how a user on such a site could create such an interesting post, only to put it down like it was Old Yeller with such an image. But yes, the red bench was quite nice and comfortable.

There it was. The last coloured thing on earth. And a woman on top of it, no more no less.

It had been 10 years since it happened. Everyone went mad at the time. Some people never recovered, some offed themselves, some, went into finding the fix for it. Like me.

It was not personal. I recall screaming at her before aproaching. Damn, i was clearly shouting in her ear before blowing the first hit. The axe was heavy, but i didnt hesitate. She needed about 15 hits before everything went to normal. Added another 3 for making sure this dull gray hell was not reverting back. 'Let me rest, for fucks sake' i remember her saying.

Things went to normal. Almost. Newborns come with 12 pair of eyes since that day. And they are all blind. Quite an irony. Thats what you get for fucking with Gaia, i guess.

>tfw click I'm not a robot
>write a 300 words long story
>just the final sentence
>"session expired"
>ok I'll click it again later, just let me delete this part here
>press backspace
>it goes back a page
FUUUUUUUUUUUUUU
>mfw should've done it in Word.
eh it wasn't good anyways just wanted to save it because I actually did something

>>5912620
select and copy your text just in case when you write a long post, you can paste it back if you accidentally press a wrong button or your browser crashes etc

>>5912625
i intended to do that but I was quickly close to the end so I didn't even expect something to happen at that point.

The colour drained from his world. The doctors didn't have much to offer him in explanation or treatment. Things just started to get duller and duller. He noticed blue leaving first. A perfectly sunny day in July yet as overcast as the depths of a cold November. The flowers groomed by the elderly woman next door with lovely pale blue petals winked out of existence. He never knew what they were called, he was never much of a flower person, but he stole a glance at them every day on his way out, basking in the existence of perfect beauty for a few brief seconds in otherwise less perfect days. Then they started to exist only in memory. Becoming extinct forever, he realized. The other colours were of less importance.
He missed them all when they were gone, although he tried not to. I guess I'm living in a black and white movie now he told himself. Some misanthrope tale of the type, a life hard to live, making a harder man. He found solace in that. Step into a convenience store enveloped in grayscale and you're the star of a morose movie taking place around you. Buying a box of detergent the thrilling plot. It was hard to find any other redeeming value. In truth, his enjoyment of life eroded. A dark and foreboding world lay in wait at every turn. He began to not care for it. What else was leaving him besides all those colours?

The colour drained from his world. The doctors didn't have much to offer him in explanation or treatment. Things just started to get duller and duller. He noticed blue leaving first. A perfectly sunny day in July yet as overcast as the depths of a cold November. The flowers groomed by the elderly woman next door with lovely pale blue petals winked out of existence. He never knew what they were called, he was never much of a flower person, but he stole a glance at them every day on his way out, basking in the existence of perfect beauty for a few brief seconds in otherwise less perfect days. Then they started to exist only in memory. Becoming extinct forever, he realized. The other colours were of less importance.

He missed them all when they were gone, although he tried not to. I guess I'm living in a black and white movie now he told himself. Some misanthrope tale of the type, a life hard to live, making a harder man. He found solace in that. Step into a convenience store enveloped in grayscale and you're the star of a morose movie taking place around you. Buying a box of detergent the thrilling plot. It was hard to find any other redeeming value. In truth, his enjoyment of life eroded. A dark and foreboding world lay in wait at every turn. He began to not care for it. What else was leaving him besides all those colours?

>>5912686

Except the colour red. The one standout. Red remained perfectly visible all throughout. Brighter even now amid the backdrop. Stops signs screamed at him. Red lights commanded. He didn't even like red that much; it would not have been what he would have picked to remain. Surprising how little red there is in nature, for instance. An entire walk on a trail would pass without noticing any. Tiny red berries the only instance, too small to spot, not that often occurring. Green would have been a better candidate, worthwhile for its sheer abundance here.

Today he came with a paint bucket. Time to fight a back a little. Stop the collapse. No one would care at this bit of vandalism, this bench painted red. But tomorrow it would be his oasis.

>>5912686
>>5912693

This is actually very good.

>>5912620

This story doesn't really relate to the picture, but interesting premise.

They were up on a picnic table at that park by the lake, by the edge of the lake, with part of a downed tree in the shallows half hidden by the bank. Lane A. Dean, Jr., and his girlfriend, both in bluejeans and button-up shirts. They sat up on the table’s top portion and had their shoes on the bench part that people sat on to picnic or fellowship together in carefree times. They’d gone to different high schools but the same junior college, where they had met in campus ministries. It was springtime, and the park’s grass was very green and the air suffused with honeysuckle and lilacs both, which was almost too much. There were bees, and the angle of the sun made the water of the shallows look dark. There had been more storms that week, with some downed trees and the sound of chainsaws all up and down his parents’ street. Their postures on the picnic table were both the same forward kind with their shoulders rounded and elbows on their knees. In this position the girl rocked slightly and once put her face in her hands, but she was not crying. Lane was very still and immobile and looking past the bank at the downed tree in the shallows and its ball of exposed roots going all directions and the tree’s cloud of branches all half in the water. The only other individual nearby was a dozen spaced tables away, by himself, standing upright. Looking at the torn-up hole in the ground there where the tree had gone over. It was still early yet and all the shadows wheeling right and shortening. The girl wore a thin old checked cotton shirt with pearl-colored snaps with the long sleeves down and always smelled very good and clean, like someone you could trust and care about even if you weren’t in love. Lane Dean had liked the smell of her right away. His mother called her down to earth and liked her, thought she was good people, you could tell—she made this evident in little ways. The shallows lapped from different directions at the tree as if almost teething on it. Sometimes when alone and thinking or struggling to turn a matter over to Jesus Christ in prayer, he would find himself putting his fist in his palm and turning it slightly as if still playing and pounding his glove to stay sharp and alert in center. He did not do this now; it would be cruel and indecent to do this now. The older individual stood beside his picnic table—he was at it but not sitting—and looked also out of place in a suit coat or jacket and the kind of men’s hat Lane’s grandfather wore in photos as a young insurance man. He appeared to be looking across the lake. If he moved, Lane didn’t see it. He looked more like a picture than a man. There were not any ducks in view.

Please rate

>>5912686
beautiful

I'm not an aspiring writer at all, but it's actually a good exercise to practice my english (which is rather bad) so I'm gonna do it. It would be great, if someone could point out my langue mistakes in this. Especially comas, because they work different in my country, it's a hard part for me.

>>5912098
nah, it's just your excuse to imagine black guys having sex. Your wife is just a secondary thing in this fantasia, ask Freud.

>>5912686
>>5912693

>>5915944

I hate museums, I really do. Pointless pictures and pointless people staring at them with dull expressions, taking unnatural "thinking" positions. Each of them is just standing and counting seconds before they can move to another painting without being accused of not contemplating art enough. Worthless shams.
"I like this one, with the red bench. It is so expressive." broke the silence Juliet. She was the reason that made me come here. Dating young, semi-artistic girls is always fun, but I was never able to simply tell them things, that they wanted to hear.
"It is not" I said. "You only think it is, because of the color contrast. You feel like it's worth more, 'cause in your eyes the bench becomes the representation of this piece, and the boring surroundings are supposed to be the rest of this collection. Yes, in comparison to itself this one looks almost shocking. But every picture here screams, exactly like this bench: look at me, I'm interesting and different! I have something to tell, I swear! And it's always like this with art. You know, I don't like museums that much."
"Really? But you do like art, I know it."
"I like literature, not paintings nor music. All painters just pretend to be so deep, but they can only use little tricks taught in art classes, that will give you an impression, that there's more to their art, then there really could be."
"And the same can't happen to literature?" asked Juliet. I looked at her with some new-found respect. It was not a response, that most of people would give me.
"Obviously it can, and it often does. You see, there's an popular opinion on how good writer should behave like. You know, he must be a individualistic, moody, depressed and deep-thinking person. People would say that these are the things, that make good writers - but the truth is, that often first you decide to be a writer, and then start to follow these trends. That's why there's so much of shit-art everywhere around you."
"Well, we still have to go through them. In the end, that's the only way to find valuable things" she said, and moved to the next painting. And yet again, I looked at her with some fresh respect. Maybe I'll stay with her little bit longer then I initially though.

>>5915979
Oh man, I already see one. At the end I wanted to say thought, not though, sucks to be me.

>>5909635
And she noticed that her boyfriend's blood had added an intense radiance, glowing in a violent hue bursting in her face. He had sprayed all over the nice seat she made last summer. He was also out into the world now, and she would not follow him.

>>5909635

Dark bloom of winter, she was standing there, or sitting rather, on a bench. A red bench, mysterious ! Like her torned heart, red with blood, pouring the sides of him in the rain, the mere satisfaction of a long suffering. Yes she could have walked a bit, danced a bit perhaps, dancing in the rain, a gentle activity. But she was plotting, her husband had been a bit mean lately. Plotting about some things. Some insults, some act of disrespect had prompted her. Randy was her name, yes Randy, the name of the girl sitting under the tree.

It was that time of the month, she had said, as she whisked herself off to the park, ready to spread her blossoming vaginal deposits on her favorite park bench as she sang her favorite Benny Goodman tune. Salt Peanut, Salt Peanut. The bench had originally been a uniform gray, fitting for the dirty and dull park that surrounded her neighborhood. She swore to repaint that bench, inch by inch. And it took time, and effort; she had created a specific pair of jeans with a vaginal flap-door in order to facilitate the whole shebang. As it oozed out of her, she felt tingles of such an amazing kind, even in the cold, the rain, she bled her heart, and her soul, and her uterus lining, and she was content. Her umbrella protect her and her work from the dirty outside, and allowed it to succeed itself and dry. She was glad to have finished the underside of the bench- she was now finishing the area of the bench designated for normal seating- and now she could simply sit and allow her unused genital contents to spew, spew onto the hearts and asses of men, women, and children. She was doing important work, this, she knew, was clear to anyone. As the rain began to fall harder, her own stream began to lighten up, and the time for her exit approached. She had made some progress, today, and she hoped to finish the last section tomorrow before the section ended. She smiled, picked herself up, and stretched. Salt Peanut. Ah, what a wonder to be a woman, to wetten, to dry, to hunger. She giggled at the thought.

Satisfied, she bent down and sampled her creation. A long, unpleasant lick. Yes, it was a bitter taste, but hey, lipstick is expensive.

It was April. The air was brumous and bleary; all stood gray other than the lipstick-red bench in east Paris upon which sat Antoine's beloved mother of 62, Christine. It had been eleven years since she had first sat alone with an umbrella on this particular bench, in this particular mood of weather. Like a amnesiac, Christine rediscovered the same sullen emotional state whenever she forcibly ventured into the grounds in which her son lay silently in decay next to his father. Jerome went quietly, expectedly, with the repose of one who has welcomed his inevitable end with open arms. Christine wept when he died, and in the eyes of her friends, she mourned a presumptuous amount. But, with the fruit of her labor and love and life–Antoine–it was not so neat. She blamed herself, which was strange for an axe-murderer.

>>5909635
The Rains of Titan
Dessana’s rebreather echoed softly in the empty arboretum. After the glass dome had cracked during one of the food riots, the trees had all withered and died, and the ecoshpere’s only means of oxygen production had withered away as well. Seating herself on a bench, she stared out over the trash and bloodstains that littered the concrete floor of what was once a green and lush public park.
It had all begun with the nuclear holocaust on Earth. Funny how something so far away could have such a profound effect on life here on Titan. When supplies stopped arriving from Earth, the food shortages began to hit hard. Dessana spotted the large old oak tree and recalled with horror just how savage the rioting had been once the Planetary Governor had announced that individual rations had to be cut in half.
A soft methane rain began to fall, tricking down the glass dome, and casting a swirling grey mist over the planet’s surface outside. It was a barren, inhospitable planet, yet Humanity had decided to carve out a place for themselves here despite everything. The terraforming on Titan had not been as successful as Mars and Venus, and Dessana wondered if the people on those planets had destroyed themselves in hysterical rioting as well after the destruction of Mother Earth.
Dessana spread her umbrella over her head as the frigid drops of liquid methane trickled in through the shattered glass dome. Her own tears trickled down her face and over her rebreather. How could she help but cry? She was alone on a dying world, and would join the rest of her friends and family soon enough when she collapsed of hunger.
‘Pshhht… kohh’
‘Pshhht… kohh’
Her rebreather echoed through the ruins of her dead world.

>>5909635
"this is some dumb hacky bullshit to do to a picture" she thought. she then repeated the thought again and again until 300 words were reached.

>>5912058
I like it.

>>5916030

>>5912361
Oh shit that was actually really good.
Thanks anon.

>>5912686
>>5912693

Thank you. I enjoyed this one.

>>5913376
Great descriptions but I don't understand what's happening in this scene. It seems like something is about to happen but I have no idea what.

The world was lonesome that morning. She watched the fog descend from the skyscrapers and roll into the small decrepit park made by a politician fishing for votes lifetimes ago. She sat there propped up on the spine of the bench to keep her new boots from sinking into the mud. She sat there and wondered how many men it had been the night before. She remembered the first one because he was timid and brushed her face before kissing her neck. He had a friendly face and his hands were gentle and they made love. Well he did, she just laid there and made the usual noises to help him get off. She remembered the second one because he was not timid and he did not have gentle hands. His face was not friendly for it had a primal look of lust plastered on it. He reeked of cheap whiskey and cigarettes and when he took her he did it from behind and gripped the back of her skull and forced her face into the pillows. He took longer and he hurt her as he pounded away. She came before he did and when he finished and removed himself from her she stayed still and kept her face hidden into the pillow and waited for him to leave the small motel room. She began to weep and rushed to the bathroom and washed the sorrow from her face she then took some pills to numb the pain emanating from her guts and to kill the growing shame spreading through her chest. She remember the third man because he wore a suit and had a fine haircut and smelled of expensive cologne. He did not speak and when she opened her mouth to ask what he wanted he struck her and gripped her by her hair and shoved her down to her knees and took her mouth and when he grew tired of her gurgling sounds he flipped her on all fours and took her ass.

She openly wept this time and when the man noticed he came and left in a hurry. 'hunny' was engraved on the flask hidden under the pillows and it quickly was unearthed and the liquid inside was quickly gulped down. The fourth and fifth men entered the room with each other and both had beards and that's all she could remember.

Depression began to seep into her as she pieced together whatever memory could offer but she quickly took some deep breaths and looked down to her expensive boots and then to her leather gloves and then felt through her Prada purse the thick brick of cash stored away in one of the many compartments. She began to nod to herself before carefully stepping down into the mud from the spine of the red bench that some dead fool donated and began her journey back to her husband and children. She hoped that they would be happy that she had a productive business trip.

>>5909635
This coat is suede; so, too are those boots. Socks are cashmere. Off white gives way to drowned gray as puddles form. Suede doesn't do well in the rain. It doesn't do well in any weather, really. An umbrella prevents the fading effects of rain on a suede coat but the boots seem liable to go the way of the sidewalk. May as well find a bench. A bench that is surely wet. Coat or shoes. Coat... or shoes... To save the suede, sacrifices may be needed. Drowned suede looks good on nobody. Sacrifice comfort for fashion. Comfort for the suede.

>>5916417

+1

"Where'd you take that?" he asked, leaning over the stained oak desk, looking at my computer monitor.

"That little park next to Red's Fish," I said, lying. There was a park there. I wasn't lying about that.

"Liz was your partner, right?" He asked. He looked me in the eyes. We were the only people left in the computer lab. It must have been after seven PM.

"Yeah," I replied. "Liz was my partner."

I wanted to tell him the truth. That I hadn't gone out to the park with Liz for the shoot, that I had been lying for the past six weeks and stealing well composed photos from the internet for a mark. But it was easy. He didn't even know how to log into his email, let alone check for plagiarism.

"Josh, this is really good work," he said. "But there's one little problem with it."

"What?"

"It hasn't rained all week."

>>5916563
This is great

>>5916030
Could anyone critique my thing? I'd appreciate it.

The bench wore a fresh coat of red. Tom let his umbrella lazily rest on his shoulder. He did his best to look human. He whistled a merry tune beneath the spitting rain, which ran lines against the taut fabric of his $10 umbrella. His tune soared and soared, further away from his body, pushing air as hard as he could between his lips, nearly screeching his song. The bundle or rope quivered in his coat pocket. He had gone through the trouble of tying it off and everything, but didn't anticipate God pissing on him. By now he should have. He continued his tune. For a man soon to be swinging from a branch in the park, his song was rather chipper. He thought it was from somewhere, but he couldn't exactly place it.

"Damnit..." He sighed. He lifted the bundle of rope out of his pocket. Soaking wet, and it wouldn't do any good sitting in his pocket being- soaking wet. He tried whistling again. Once again, with all his might, he forced his noise away from his body, towards an empty playground not too far off. Ah, now he remembered. It was the theme song to an old cartoon he used to love growing up. He could remember watching it with his brother, in front of the t.v., shoveling cereal into his mouth.

His brother was an engineer now, dating what'sherface. He kinda wished he knew before dying. He looked down at his rope, whos' yellow had turned a dark gray beneath the rain. He thought that might hurt. He didn't think it would hurt, but a wet rope would be painful.

He slid off the bench, twirling the umbrella above his head, whistling again, heading for home.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________

Corny as fuck, right? I kinda hashed it out

The red was what caught his eye on a walk he seemed to constantly come back to. It was jut past dawn and the fog was thick after a rainy night.Sitting on a bench under an umbrella was the break he needed. Maybe it wasn't the red, but the chance to stop at the bench that attracted him. No more hurry. No more struggle. No more pain. The only thing happening was the moment, past became past, and shackles of time loosened. The sitting man was old, and he felt it. On the bench he felt no aches.He knew of better times where he had played with the son he lost years ago just down the way, but those did not trouble him now. The time was now 6 A.M. and thats exactly where he was.

This park use to matter in this town. The children played catch with their fathers while the mothers would lay out blankets in the grass. It's abondoned now. I'm sitting here in the pouring rain on the same bench that me and the boy down my street shared our first kiss on.
"Let's make out." he said.
"Okay." I said.
It was as simple as that. He was 14 and I was 12, I remember. That was all we had to entertain ourselves back in those days.
"Be back in time for dinner." My parents would tell me. There were no white vans to ask us if we wanted candy and snatch us up then.

It's the middle of the Summer and it's raining hard. That means tomorrow the sun will shine that much brighter and I better see some kids out here. So I'm going to fall asleep on this bench and wait until then.

When, during his walk in the woods this morning, John emerged into the clearing and saw the bench, he was seized by a sense of doom. He knew wut be happedin.
John looked down at the bench; its faded red was thickening. Looking at the lurid sanguine, John felt a jolt of revulsion. It was as if he had gorged himself on syrup. John quickly looked up from the bench. The forest was losing its color. John rose and took a few steps away from the bench. The bench pulsated and seemed to swell both in size and density. It was consuming the forest.

>>5917064
My god I'm sorry. It seems so hard to concentrate and to keep at something. I've been thinking about writing a story for days, but it seems impossible to write and remain gripped by the act of creation. My hope is that creating is what will give me a stronger will to create. It certainly does inspire my mind, but it also seems to quickly drain me of energy. Analysis seems so much easier.

Will it help to force myself to write more, or does this maybe mean that I'm not cut out for creative work?

>>5909635
On the 300th planet in the 300th constellation in the 300th year of the 300th Lord on the 300th day on the 300th hour on the 300th minute and the 300th second the 300th town by the 300th road number 300 sat the 300th son of the 300th ruler of the 300th town on a 300th day of rain with 300th raindrops falling onto a 300th umbrella purchased for 300 Three Hundreds sitting on a 300th bench in the 300th park with 300 trees the 300th son feeling the pain of 300 divorces he sits and he cries the 300th tear in hopes of finding his 300th ex and convincing her for the 300th time that they should get back together for the 300th time and have 300 children so that they would have 300 children who would watch replays of 300 the best movie that came out in 300 years and defined 300 generations of 300 that will read 300 copies of this text that contains 300 mistakes

>>5909635
There she sat, as always, perched up on her little red bench, umbrella in hand. Anyone familar with the park would tell you: while others ran away to look for cover, this girl would sit in the pouring rain with a blank stare across her face.
This was an odd sight for the unaccustomed, and an usual one for people living near the park. This lady, as anyone would eventually find out, lost her husband some time ago. Lightning, as it seems. So here she sits, everytime it rains, hoping that the storm would bless her with a mighty thunderbolt. Hoping that she'd finally be whole, again, at last.
>i'm not even native.

>>5917072
Smoke less pot

>>5917072
Just shut up and write. We all suck so get over yourself.
And these are words of love to get out of your crippling analyticism. That's not even a word! Does it get the sentiment across? Here's hoping!

Just get our of your own head, go and read a lot fucking more.

And don't fucking apologize. You make me feel like you're in middle school and you're dragging me with you.

Here's a story:
The man on the bench in the dead fogged park looked up between the transparent plastic sheets of his umbrella and saw the morning mist collect at the tip of the plane tree's branches and fall pitter patter before his nose. He had loved the umbrella for this very reason, and cherished it all the more for the relationship it had outlived. He gripped the worn pine handle along his own indents and closed his eyes at the fleeting memories.
When he opened them he realized someone had sat themselves on the bench behind him, his or her presence far less nonchalant for comfort. Actively or passively, he understood himself cast under the light of observation.


See? What the hell is that? Who knows, who cares!
Write for the sake of writing!
That's all you need in life.

>>5916030
You're fucked; It's great.

This bench is red. Everything around it is so colorless, but this thing is really red. My feet hurt. This is a creepy park. Where is everybody? I'm hungry. Why am I using an umbrella against fog? I wonder if I'm supposed to be sitting on the spine of this bench or the flat seat part of it. Does the former make me look cooler? I do look badass. Yeah. I'm sleepy. I should really start looking for my dog now.

McCarren park when her body gave ground. One o'clock, June 6th, sundown. God hid in amphetamine waves. Margaritas and disposable days.

Her folded arms as she felt her heart hum. Her speedy eyes and she wants what she wants. The truth, cut with adrenalized fear. The dead leaves and the ash tree seared.
McCarren park where the culture crashed down. Copy after copy til' its color washed out. She bet the future on an ice cream cone. The day split in two sides. She flipped a quarter, said

"I can't decide.". The leaves laughed, the bench burned. She knows I want her but I'm waiting my turn.
McCarren park where the beauty bled out. Twenty years in her cottonball mouth. Once held her hand, said

"Don't let me drift". She said

"I'd never even think of it."
She knew right there, I could have her but I'd have to share. So she slept, the sun laughed. It dreampt nothingness in shades of red.

It never stops.

In the great icy clamp of the winter air, and upon a bench that bore a redness that was at once both total and offensive to the eye, so it was that I took my seat. Behind me, though I could not see it, there lay a park, made barren by the winter - before me stood the skeletal forms of the oaks, made naked by the the frost. And I suppose there was an appropriateness to this, there being as well a nakedness now to my own person. The cold is for most a time of death - it snuffs life from the earth. But for me it is the greatest passion - and so unfurling the twenty-inch member that had until then lain coiled about my left leg, and cumming, as I always had, that strange omni-winged transparent and black membrane, I rose, member aloft in my right hand, and hurried forth:
"Wallaboo, wallaboo! Merry Christmas you shrimp dicked niggers!"
And so on.

The Man was staring at the dull black, whispering slowly, "I am a Man; God made me a Man...." He felt that the repetitious phrase kept something horribly internal at bay, and yet, between utterances of the phrase, he drew comfort. The real comfort was the clear harmony of his sadness with what was around him. Even characters he'd connected with in Hemingway novels always found themselves in rain when something brooding was coming.
But he knew, just like the phrase: "I am a man; God made me a man," that deep down all of this was impossible. He spoke and thought through throbbing waves of snot and tears, mired with his own naked vulnerability. He felt a black hole gain within him.
He wished he was a Hemingway character, or even wish that he could convince himself he was similar, but the brooding reality was inescapable. He certainly was in a trench, but he wasn't waiting for an Austrian shell to come crash. He had wished he had something to wait for, but he knew without a single doubt that would be no phone call, no call from home to return his guilt.
His wife had left with the kids and that was that. And so he kept staring, through waves of sorrow he spoke, "I am a man; God made me a man."

All Tao ever wanted was to go to become successful. Whatever that meant.

His parents constantly pressured him to go to a good school and to work for his immaculate grades, enter a lucrative field, marry a hard working woman, raise obedient children. He followed his parent's requests to the letter, and now he was forty. Six figures in the bank. One child, another in three months. A three story house in the nicest sector of town. A wife that cooked, cleaned, listened, and whose head was clear. Tao was probably successful. Maybe everything he had made it so, but for some reason, every time he woke up he felt as if there was some larger accomplishment to attain. There was a pressure, a tapping of nervousness that dug at his gut.

Sometimes he thought that it wasn't enough, but that was stupid. He had so much. He was doing so well.

At forty one, his two children were healthy and happy. Wife was content. Six figures was about to be seven. Nothing was wrong, but for some reason, no amount of work and saving and family was going to satisfy that ache.

At forty two, he left.

At forty three, he was in a city at the other side of the country. Smoking under his umbrella while the rain made everything a mess. There were a few thousand dollars left on his card. His health was gone; a cough and undernourishment took away his weight. His wife never answered the phone anymore whenever he did happen to call. He lived from hotel to hotel. No rational man would look at him and say he was happy, but Tao disagreed. The rain and the smoke and the bench were perfect.

His suffering is perfect. Freedom is perfect.

>>5917109
Thanks, I guess I'll see what happens.

>>5917141
This reads like poetry. You win.

>>5916624
Are you trying to make a connection between past and the playground?

"The world may be grey but this bench is red" she said to no one. She was alone. She sat on the bench improperly her legs rest in where her ass should be placed. She did this because the park bench had been recently painted. She thought she was being clever sitting rhe way she did, either unaware or forcefully ignorant of the fact she was still, in fact, sitting on a recently painted park bench and though her alternative way of sitting might cause there to be less paint on her paints it was still,in fact, a retarded thing to do.

Maybe she was a little retarded.

"Maybe I am a little retarded." She spoke, again, to no one.

Or so she thought...

TUNE IN NEXT WEEK

>>5909635
C'est l'histoire d'une grosse salope avec un parapluie rouge qui pue la pisse de chat. En parlant de chat, voyez cette putain avec sa chatte remplie de cyprine qui bave de partout. Grosse pute de merde, vas-y, va te faire enculer, vieille pute de merde sur ton banc qui pue la chiasse de sang de cul, ta mère la suceuse des bois. J'aimerai te faire trouer le trou de balle par un godemiché à double tête, histoire que tu te dilates bien ton trou de pute. Vielle merde qui sent le trou de balle, putain de ta mère, je te nique ton père le travelo dans sa putain de caravane de fumeur de shit, sale fils de pute de pute de merde.

>>5912686
>>5912693
Very anon, got me inspired now :')

>>5912686
>>5912693

You there, can I put this on my blog? Make yourself known to me, young anon.

Positioned atop the double-sided park bench, she took in the foggy, rainy surroundings kept in check by her plainly patterned umbrella.

The atmosphere such weather elicited for her was a complex one, closely approximated by a number of words, but none quite delivering the feeling beyond a quaint marker of emotional state. Gloomy would be the first guess of many, but while it was far from a conventionally cheerful mood, this would also be perhaps the worst. Somber is a bit better, denoting a more complex variety of "low" feeling, but deeming it altogether "low" would be a fatal conceit. The girl associated such weather with a sort of quiet, reflective state, one not joyful but by no means sad; those times, oddly enough, seem to find themselves as highlights of whatever personal era they occupy. It defined those periods where, without any aim or purpose, you just take in the structures and elements of the world around you, appreciating that which is otherwise utterly utilitarian in nature. Each tree, each walkway, each piece nature or infrastructure gave a tiny wonderment, a microcosm of fascination in the course of experiencing a paradoxical gestalt. And that gestalt, in turn, was much like the feeling of walking through a large, empty church, at the same time one of grandeur and simplicity.

She took in that feeling, as she is wont to do. In all the dynamism and keeping-up innate to human life, it was refreshing to take in such a still, tranquil world.

How shit is it, /lit/?

It was the late autumn, and she was feeling anxious. She didn't know where this feeling came from, she was just always restless and could never seem to become comfortable. Though this feeling completely consumed her mind, she couldn't seem to find the reason why she felt this way. The woman was walking around in the park, trying to release all of that energy and clear her mind. As she was walking, her mind began to race, thinking of all the things she has done so far in life. She began to think more of accomplishments and failures, her achievements and fallbacks, the good times and the bad ones. After delving deep into her inner thoughts, she became exhausted and looked for somewhere to rest. There next to some wicked tree, was a bright red bench that looked like it was itching for some white girl ass. she sat down. The skies were a dull gray, and there was a thick mist that was encroaching. the area had a solemn and eerie feel to it. The woman didn't care though, since she was some edgy "deep" stupid young woman. She sat down and rested her body and mind, and forgot for a brief moment, all of her problems. Shortly after, 12 negros showed up, raped, murdered, and stole all of her beloogings.

What ya guys think?

>>5912496
I like you

He sat on a red bench in the rain, his katana concealed in the handle of an innocuous umbrella that he otherwise would not have brought despite the downpour.
A man approached him.
"Are you Dirk Hardpec, the samurai ninja ronin shinkansen?" the man asked.
"I am," Dirk replied.
"This is for you," the man said, and handed over an envelope. Dirk took it in one fingerless-gloved hand and turned it over: no return address.
He threw it into a puddle.
"I have a message for you, too," he said, and stood. The handle of his umbrella fell out, revealing itself as the haft of an iridescent mithril blade. He stabbed the other man three times in the chest, and thus killed him.
His bloodlust sated, Dirk transformed into his natural angel-demon hybrid form and began to consume the blood and lingering happy thoughts of his erstwhile companion. A little girl saw him, though he did not see her, and she ran away.
The next day the murder was covered in page seven of the local paper and never mentioned again, except when Dirk wrote it up in third person and pinned it to a noticeboard of a Sudanese finger-painting club as a disguised plea for help.

>>5910303
>this guy
>not realising that the top of the bench has the least surface area
>which would make it the least wet part of the bench
Logic, muthafukka.

>>5918242
Yes

The lady sat in the red bench on a misty day with an umbrella. And it was also very spooky.

>>5909635
"Are you sure this will look good? It's not even raining!" Cassidy shouted over her shoulder. "Yeah I'll make it work" I replied. Cassidy was perched on a park bench during one of the foggiest days we've had in months. Me and Cassidy will have been together for two years this coming Friday, Mark asked if I wanted to have some pictures shot of her to celebrate. Mark is a good friend of mine, we both work in advertisement; Mark is a photographer and I'm good with photoshop. Working together we can turn my already gorgeous girl into the most beautiful creature to ever grace a park bench.
I watched Mark fiddle with his camera as he set up the shot, I don't know anything about cameras so I like to watch photographers work. Cassidy turned around for a minute and I yelled at her to turn back and she laughed. I laughed for a second before Mark asked me to grab his other lens out of his car. He threw me the keys and I walked to the parking lot to grab it. I found a lens almost exactly the same as the one Mark was using and wondered what the difference between the two was. I shrugged and headed back to the bench.
I saw Mark's figure through the fog, he was up against Cassidy. I stopped and heard a groan, then a shout. Cassidy saw me and said that Mark tried to kiss her, but her voice cracked while she said it. She asked me if I believed her before I had a chance to respond. I screamed a line of obscenities and chucked Mark's lens at him. Cassidy was crying, Mark looked guilty, I stormed off to my car.
Me and Mark were good friends. He volunteered to do a photoshoot of my girl, we were going to be together for two years last Friday.

>>5909804
lmao

>>5909635
Lauren loved days like this. Days where reality shed it's mundane blandness and took upon a veneer of mystery, and she could pretend that just beyond the mist and the trees wasn't a busy highway and just beyond that a sewage plant that on hot days caused the park to become uninhabitable. No, today she did not know what lay beyond the veil that nature had placed upon the world. Today, any truth she chose could beyond that mist. Perched upon a bright red bend she felt in control on her life, at least for awhile before the rain came or the dark descended. But when those things came, she would always have this moment to hold onto, shrouded in a world of possibility.

The woman sat on the bench and looked at the doves and looked at the swans and looked at the pond and fell back into her rest but not into a rest that would dim or obscure her Eyesight from drowsy exhaustion or so as to become detached from her task on hand but instead into a manner of rest as if to retreat retreat from standing retreat from gentle swaying retreat from the itchy feeling of legs getting still and warm with blood which would red her knee as she stood face facing face with man for which she waited with the yellow book in her head with her red umbrella with the sky blue boots and the blue red yellow would stand out in the fog So that when he would look at her he would see her colorful

Fishfuck McFish, light that looks all wavy and squiggly because it's being viewed from underwater, water of my loins. Ever since the first day I met Fishfuck I've wanted to stick my wiener in her. It was seven years ago next week, January 7, 20XX , the day my life was chewed up and generally changed in shape and quality like the pieces of gum that Mathilda stuck on the peepholes of the door of her and Leon's targets in a The Professional.
It was "at" "a" party a " buddy" of "mine" was hosting, meeting Fishfuck that is,I had been at the party for about seventy-nine hours already and was pretty wasted on a rad combination of alcohol-free beer and alcohol-containing beer, personally I can't stand beer, but I also can't stand the sight of my own blood and that doesn't stop me from taking my razors and slicing into my arms, legs, anywhere to make me feel, anywhere to make me human. Then, she flopped in, she was the single most okay-looking girl I had ever seen, but that's fine, looks aren't everything. She had just come over to my friends party from another party somewhere in Dublin, which is pretty impressive because my friend's party was in Texas.
Anywho, the second I laid my eyes on her, I turned away, but once my brain had processed exactly what it had just been blessed with viewing, I turned back. I needed her. With enough liquid confidence (alcohol) in my blood to kill me four times over, I strutted my sweet little ass right on over 2 that babe and said, "Sex me?" She simply nodded and then we had sex in a bed that was in the house that was with party, but not Dublin, Texas.
End.

Did I do well, /lit/?

I can't do things like this. I get too angry.

>>5923224
:>

>>5912438
i enjoyed this

The last day is here and everything is still black and white, aside from that bench, of course. Last night I dreamt in silvery-blues and shimmering gold; this morning I awoke to this unsaturated place. It is easy to covet that time spent in dream when the world is this way. I thought I saw the brilliant red blur of a swooping cardinal en route to my bench; I even stopped to look up at the spot, but I was tricking myself. Today is the last day, after all, and the color should return by tonight. The setting sun should reveal the familiar nighttime grey-blues across the ground. I presently find it difficult to remember the colored landscape, and I fear that my thoughts have turned grey. Why then, do I dream with color? I oughtn't trouble myself with the thought - the woman will be around soon to restore the color, I just need to wait. I saw a man bleed days ago, it was a strange sight indeed. He looked no different than a maple tree leaking that grey sap. I get a similar feeling when I urinate. Why, I wonder, did she do this to the world at all? Surely some reason exists, yet it escapes me. One mustn't agonize oneself with intrusive thought. Is she divine? Where must this woman come from, if she takes away the color from the places she visits? I cannot understand, yet I am gifted with the recognition that I cannot. Oh, I cannot wait any longer, but I must! When then, shall the woman come to restore the order of color! She is late. The red is fading from my bench and she is late. The color faded from me months ago, but I never expected this from my bench!

smoke weed everyday