/lit/ - Literature

Too soon man, too soon.

>>6352617
Uh

>>6352665
>Like two wet, wild women ravagin at a very homosexual Valentine's Day

How did you--

>>6352665
Haha oh god. More of this shit.

http://www.plot-generator.org.uk/9mgkc0/magnificent-dildo.html

>>6352617

The Worthless Pizza
A Short Story
by Tal K. Owtyurass

Torvald Eckstein looked at the worthless pizza in his hands and felt contempt.

He walked over to the window and reflected on his bright surroundings. He had always hated stuffy Al's Jewelry Farm with its dry, delicious diamonds. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel contempt.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Harlen Boris. Harlen was an arrogant insecure with busty head and gangrenous toes.

Torvald gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a boorish, callow, water drinker with slouched head and hairy toes. His friends saw him as an afraid, adventurous ass. Once, he had even jumped into a river and saved a rabblesnatching cat.

But not even a boorish person who had once jumped into a river and saved a rabblesnatching cat, was prepared for what Harlen had in store today.

The wind blew like horny pig, making Torvald hunger.

As Torvald stepped outside and Harlen came closer, he could see the regurgitated smile on her face.

"I am here because I want affection," Harlen bellowed, in a disperate tone. She slammed her fist against Torvald's chest, with the force of 193 whale. "I frigging love you, Torvald Eckstein."

Torvald looked back, even more hunger and still fingering the worthless pizza. "Harlen, I need more crumpets," he replied.

They looked at each other with fatigue feelings, like two harsh, homely horse tripping at a very sly birthday, which had free-form jazz music playing in the background and two cowardly uncles grabbing to the beat.

Suddenly, Harlen lunged forward and tried to punch Torvald in the face. Quickly, Torvald grabbed the worthless pizza and brought it down on Harlen's skull.

Harlen's busty head trembled and her gangrenous toes wobbled. She looked indifference, her body raw like a powerful, purring pizza.

Then she let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Harlen Boris was dead.

Torvald Eckstein went back inside and made himself a nice drink of water.

THE END

http://www.plot-generator.org.uk/depigx/two-bedbreaker-uncles-slapping-to-beat.html

>>6352617

Balding Anonymous
A Short Story
by Laffus Maximus
Anonymous had always hated desperate 4chan with its smoked, shredded sadness. It was a place where he felt sad.

He was a balding, NEETlike, tears drinker with overweight balls and neckbearded arms. His friends saw him as a tasty, thoughtful the fat kid from Hot Tub Time Machine. Once, he had even rescued a round protagonist from a burning building. That's the sort of man he was.

Anonymous walked over to the window and reflected on his lonely surroundings. The cloud teased like crying frogs.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Feelguy . Feelguy was a virgin spook with smelly balls and fedora-wearing arms.

Anonymous gulped. He was not prepared for Feelguy.

As Anonymous stepped outside and Feelguy came closer, he could see the important glint in his eye.

Feelguy glared with all the wrath of 157 pathetic purple pepes. He said, in hushed tones, "I hate you and I want feelings."

Anonymous looked back, even more depressed and still fingering the heavy knife. "Feelguy, I understand you," he replied.

They looked at each other with grumpy feelings, like two doubtful, depressed dogs feeling at a very loser 26th kissless birthday, which had death metal music playing in the background and two neckbeard uncles weeping to the beat.

Anonymous regarded Feelguy's smelly balls and fedora-wearing arms. "I feel the same way!" revealed Anonymous with a delighted grin.

Feelguy looked angry, his emotions blushing like a dirty, deafening DFW's belt.

Then Feelguy came inside for a nice drink of tears.

THE END

Spooky The Egoist
A Short Story
by Ghostus Nihil
The Egoist had always loved creative the Egoist's Mind with its ugliest, unknown unhaunted. It was a place where he felt delighted.

He was a spooky, phantasmal, beer drinker with spooky head and scary soul. His friends saw him as a tense, tender the unique. Once, he had even helped a brainy egoist's mind cross the road. That's the sort of man he was.

The walked over to the window and reflected on his nothing surroundings. The clouds danced like debating rats.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Spooks . Spooks was a free eidolon with pale head and skeletal soul.

The gulped. He was not prepared for Spooks.

As The stepped outside and Spooks came closer, he could see the cheerful glint in his eye.

Spooks glared with all the wrath of 9672 haunted dark dogs. He said, in hushed tones, "I hate you and I want his free will."

The looked back, even more overjoyed and still fingering the ghastly ghostbusters vacuum. "Spooks, you have no control over me," he replied.

They looked at each other with happy feelings, like two cold, calm cats fighting at a very happy work, which had Bach music playing in the background and two unrestrained uncles haunting to the beat.

The regarded Spooks's pale head and skeletal soul. "I feel the same way!" revealed The with a delighted grin.

Spooks looked free, his emotions blushing like an alert, angry anvil.

Then Spooks came inside for a nice drink of beer.

THE END

Doesn't even make sense

>>6354736

Spooky The Egoist
A Short Story
by Ghostus Nihil
The Egoist had always loved creative the Egoist's Mind with its ugliest, unknown unhaunted. It was a place where he felt delighted.

He used to be a spooky, phantasmal, beer drinker with spooky head and scary soul. His friends saw him as a tense follower. Once, he had even helped a brainy egoist's mind cross the road. That's the sort of man he was.

The Egoist walked over to the window and reflected on his nothing surroundings. The clouds danced like debating rats.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Spooks . Spooks was a free eidolon with pale head and skeletal soul.

The Egoist gulped. He was not prepared for Spooks.

As The Egoist stepped outside and Spooks came closer, he could see the cheerful glint in his eye.

Spooks glared with all the wrath of 9672 haunted dark dogs. He said, in hushed tones, "I hate you and I want your free will."

The Egoist looked back, even more overjoyed and still fingering the ghastly ghostbusters vacuum. "Spooks, you have no control over me," he replied.

They looked at each other with happy feelings, like two cold, calm cats fighting at a very happy work, which had Bach music playing in the background and two unrestrained uncles haunting to the beat.

Suddenly, Spooks lunged forward and tried to punch The Egoist in the face. Quickly, The Egoist grabbed the ghastly ghostbusters vacuum and brought it down on Spooks's skull.

Spooks's pale head trembled and his skeletal soul wobbled. He looked free, his emotions raw like an alert, angry anvil.

Then he let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Spooks was dead.

The Egoist went back inside and made himself a nice drink of beer.

THE END

Slightly better

Jean LeMeux had always loved Degenerate DC with its huge, hilarious House. It was a place where he felt Depressed.

He was a Honest, Pious, Vodka drinker with Big Legs and Blonde Breasts. His friends saw him as an annoyed, alive Angel. Once, he had even saved an alive Professor that was stuck in a drain. That's the sort of man he was.

Jean walked over to the window and reflected on his Positive surroundings. The Sunny teased like Drinking Dogs.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Jennifer Martineu. Jennifer was an Addicted Angel with Brown Legs and Blue Eyes Breasts.

Jean gulped. He was not prepared for Jennifer.

As Jean stepped outside and Jennifer came closer, he could see the zesty smile on his face.

Jennifer gazed with the affection of 4478 Loyal homely Hamsters. He said, in hushed tones, "I love you and I want Closure."

Jean looked back, even more Lonely and still fingering the Unhappy Ambien. "Jennifer, I love you," he replied.

They looked at each other with Stoned feelings, like two comfortable, combative Cats Popping Pills at a very Depressed Summer Kickoff, which had Romanticism music playing in the background and two Meaningless uncles Smoking to the beat.

Jean studied Jennifer's Brown Legs and Blue Eyes Breasts. Eventually, he took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," began Jean in apologetic tones, "but I don't feel the same way, and I never will. I just don't love you Jennifer."

Jennifer looked Lovely, his emotions raw like a xenophobic, xanthocarpous Xanax.

Jean could actually hear Jennifer's emotions shatter into 4990 pieces. Then the Addicted Angel hurried away into the distance.

Not even a shot of Vodka would calm Jean's nerves tonight.
THE END

George R R Martin was thinking about Patrician Reader again. Patrician was a grizzled troll with wet penis and pink belly.

George walked over to the window and reflected on his blandly described surroundings. He had always loved two-dimensional Winterfell with its cold, cloudy castle parapets. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel irritated.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the a grizzled figure of Patrician Reader.

George gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a grown and flowered, auburn-haired, Dornish wine drinker with smelly penis and dirty belly. His friends saw him as a doubtful, delightful dwarf. Once, he had even revived a dying, baby dragon.

But not even a grown and flowered person who had once revived a dying, baby dragon, was prepared for what Patrician had in store today.

The winter teased like ravaging direwolfs, making George sad. George grabbed a bleak iron throne that had been strewn nearby; he massaged it with his fingers.

As George stepped outside and Patrician came closer, he could see the grumpy glint in his eye.

"I am here because I want good prose," Patrician bellowed, in a nuncle tone. He slammed his fist against George's chest, with the force of 2564 stags. "I frigging hate you, George R R Martin."

George looked back, even more sad and still fingering the bleak iron throne. "Patrician, I'm rich," he replied.

They looked at each other with depressed feelings, like two gigantic, greasy giants raping at a very paunchy red wedding, which had renaissance music playing in the background and two lean uncles killing to the beat.

Suddenly, Patrician lunged forward and tried to punch George in the face. Quickly, George grabbed the bleak iron throne and brought it down on Patrician's skull.

Patrician's wet penis trembled and his pink belly wobbled. He looked happy, his body raw like a cold, cruel crown.

Then he let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Patrician Reader was dead.

George R R Martin went back inside and made himself a nice drink of Dornish wine.

THE END

Roman Typeface looked at the slimy bottle in his hands and felt halucinatory.

He walked over to the window and reflected on his crepuscular surroundings. He had always hated foetid Ebola with its decaying, deep disease. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel halucinatory.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Typhoid Mary. Typhoid was a needy stalker with engorged brains and decomposing eyes.

Roman gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a demented, obsessive, spirits drinker with brawny brains and emaciated eyes. His friends saw him as a miniature, magnificent maniac. Once, he had even brought a selfish victim back from the brink of death.

But not even a demented person who had once brought a selfish victim back from the brink of death, was prepared for what Typhoid had in store today.

The stormy teased like panicking wolves, making Roman furious.

As Roman stepped outside and Typhoid came closer, he could see the inquisitive smile on her face.

"I am here because I want an explanation," Typhoid bellowed, in a pernicious tone. She slammed her fist against Roman's chest, with the force of 9850 scorpions. "I frigging hate you, Roman Typeface."

Roman looked back, even more furious and still fingering the slimy bottle. "Typhoid, go away," he replied.

They looked at each other with confused feelings, like two bloody, brawny bears drunk at a very desperate wake, which had chant music playing in the background and two sociopathic uncles mutating to the beat.

Suddenly, Typhoid lunged forward and tried to punch Roman in the face. Quickly, Roman grabbed the slimy bottle and brought it down on Typhoid's skull.

Typhoid's engorged brains trembled and her decomposing eyes wobbled. She looked euphoric, her body raw like a soft, spotty sword.

Then she let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Typhoid Mary was dead.

Roman Typeface went back inside and made himself a nice drink of spirits.

THE END

>>6352617

The Bleak Moors
A Lost Bronte Novel
by >tfw

Tao Lin is a verbose and WASPish orphan raised by a skinny and Oriental famous dead author. Eventually he gets a job working as a writer for the enigmatic Lord Foster Wallace of Foster Wallace Hipster coffee house. The unlikely couple rapidly succumb to a lust passion.

On the day of their wedding, a diseased meme author escapes from the attic of Foster Wallace Hipster coffee house and starts a fire. Believing that Lord Foster Wallace is dead, Tao flees from the church and wanders the bleak moors for days until he is rescued by a best-selling author.

However, although Lord Foster Wallace is blinded by the fire, he still breathes. Without Tao he becomes geeky and akward. He turns to alcohol for comfort. The ghost of the meme author from the attic haunts him.

Meanwhile, thinking Lord Foster Wallace is dead, Tao accepts a marriage proposal from his saviour, the author. However, one night he believes he can hear Lord Foster Wallace calling, "Tao, where are you? Tao come home!" and he returns to Foster Wallace Hipster coffee house.

On Tao's return, he finds Lord Foster Wallace drunk and without sight. Mistaking him for the ghost of the diseased meme author, he attacks him with a tennis racquets and Tao Lin dies.

As he attends to the body, Lord Foster Wallace realises what he has done. Driven mad with guilt, he hatches a plan to destroy the next generation, but there is no next generation and he dies of consumption two weeks later.

Negative Julius Mangum
A Short Story
by Alfred, Lord Plebian

Julius Mangum was thinking about Manuel Kunt again. Manuel was an idiotic carpenter with rough fingers and hairy toes.

Julius walked over to the window and reflected on his hateful surroundings. He had always loved terrible The Land Of /lit/ with its cloudy, crooked crap. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel elated.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the an idiotic figure of Manuel Kunt.

Julius gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a negative, hateful, wine drinker with crippled fingers and broken toes. His friends saw him as a , 19th century Russian writer. Once, he had even brought a delightful /lit/ poster back from the brink of death.

But not even a negative person who had once brought a delightful /lit/ poster back from the brink of death, was prepared for what Manuel had in store today.

The cloud teased like stabbing lions, making Julius devastated. Julius grabbed a delicious box that had been strewn nearby; he massaged it with his fingers.

As Julius stepped outside and Manuel came closer, he could see the purple smile on his face.

Manuel glared with all the wrath of 3473 emotional wet wolves. He said, in hushed tones, "I hate you and I want a picture of Steve Buscemi."

Julius looked back, even more devastated and still fingering the delicious box. "Manuel, start with the Greeks," he replied.

They looked at each other with sad feelings, like two mushy, mute mice kissing at a very strange /lit/ meet up, which had blackened avant-garde post-punk music playing in the background and two intimidating uncles shitposting to the beat.

Julius studied Manuel's rough fingers and hairy toes. Eventually, he took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," began Julius in apologetic tones, "but I don't feel the same way, and I never will. I just don't hate you Manuel."

Manuel looked indignant, his emotions raw like a tiny, tricky tissue.

Julius could actually hear Manuel's emotions shatter into 6782 pieces. Then the idiotic carpenter hurried away into the distance.

Not even a glass of wine would calm Julius's nerves tonight.

THE END

The Curse of the Black Mask
A Horror Story
by I'm CIA

Whilst investigating the death of a local henchman, a big guy revolutionary called BANE ? uncovers a legend about a supernaturally-cursed, black mask circulating throughout the airplane. As soon as anyone uses the mask, he or she has exactly 100 000 days left to live.

The doomed few appear to be ordinary people during day to day life, but when photographed, they look big. A marked person feels like a big bat to touch.

BANE gets hold of the mask, refusing to believe the superstition. A collage of images flash into his mind: a muscly cat balancing on a strong henchman, an old newspaper headline about a plane crash accident, a hooded penguin ranting about big arms and a drinking well located in a Gothamesque place.

When BANE notices his mighty chest have bat-like properties, he realises that the curse of the black mask is true and calls in his lackey, a scientist called Dr Pavel , to help.

Dr Pavel examines the mask and willingly submits himself to the curse. He finds that the same visions flash before his eyes. He finds the muscly cat balancing on a strong henchman particularly chilling. He joins the queue for a supernatural death.

BANE and Dr Pavel pursue a quest to uncover the meaning of the visions, starting with a search for the hooded penguin. Will they be able to stop the curse before their time is up?

Julius The Aristocratic
A Literary Fiction Novel
by /lit/ guy

During an ascension to a higher level of consciousness in the basement in 1994, a baby is born and dies before he can take his first breath.

During an ascension to a higher level of consciousness in the basement in 1994, the same baby is born and lives to tell the tale. That baby becomes 21-year-old Julius Evola, a aristocratic and elitist janitor.

What if there were second chances? Third chances? Fourth chances? Would you eventually be able to save the world from spooky decadent moderns who severely chastise each other? Would you even want to?

Julius The Aristocratic follows Julius Evola and his autistic mentor, Friedrich Nietzsche, as their aristocratic lives tumble through turbulent events in the bedroom, again and again.

However, the end of the world approaches, and time is running out for Julius. He is left with two options: stop the spooky decadent moderns in one hour, or allow the world to end in a ball of fire.

/lit/ guy explores cheesecakes and esoteric memes to full effect in the literary fiction novel to end all literary fiction novels.

The Hail that Pounded like Jumping Guppies
A Short Story
by anon

Mohammad Raymond looked at the minuscule book in his hands and felt surprised.

He walked over to the window and reflected on his deserted surroundings. He had always loved quiet London with its wandering, warm waters. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel surprised.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Dolly Russell. Dolly was a special volcano with beautiful toenails and slimy toenails.

Mohammad gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was an incredible, admirable, wine drinker with fluffy toenails and brown toenails. His friends saw him as a wandering, warm writer. Once, he had even rescued a cool old man from a burning building.

But not even an incredible person who had once rescued a cool old man from a burning building, was prepared for what Dolly had in store today.

The hail pounded like jumping guppies, making Mohammad surprised.

As Mohammad stepped outside and Dolly came closer, he could see the knobbly glint in her eye.

Dolly glared with all the wrath of 5325 malicious rabblesnatching rabbits. She said, in hushed tones, "I hate you and I want a kiss."

Mohammad looked back, even more surprised and still fingering the minuscule book. "Dolly, I don't have the money," he replied.

They looked at each other with fuzzy feelings, like two miniature, mighty monkeys sitting at a very helpful wedding, which had classical music playing in the background and two violent uncles smiling to the beat.

Mohammad studied Dolly's beautiful toenails and slimy toenails. Eventually, he took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," began Mohammad in apologetic tones, "but I don't feel the same way, and I never will. I just don't hate you Dolly."

Dolly looked healthy, her emotions raw like a brief, breezy book.

Mohammad could actually hear Dolly's emotions shatter into 601 pieces. Then the special volcano hurried away into the distance.

Not even a glass of wine would calm Mohammad's nerves tonight.

THE END

Neurotic Slavoj Žižek
A Short Story
by Pure Ideology

Slavoj Žižek was thinking about Joseph Stalin again. Joseph was a violent monster with large nose and flabby stomach.

Slavoj walked over to the window and reflected on his grey surroundings. He had always loved tense Occupied Paris with its tiny, terrible trains to deathcamps. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel neurotic.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the a violent figure of Joseph Stalin.

Slavoj gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a neurotic, oppressive, alcohol-free beer drinker with fat nose and hairy stomach. His friends saw him as a substantial, stinky slob. Once, he had even rescued a spluttering filthy kulak from a burning building.

But not even a neurotic person who had once rescued a spluttering filthy kulak from a burning building, was prepared for what Joseph had in store today.

The sleet rained like kissing bears, making Slavoj manic. Slavoj grabbed a bourgeois sublime object that had been strewn nearby; he massaged it with his fingers.

As Slavoj stepped outside and Joseph came closer, he could see the nutty glint in his eye.

Joseph glared with all the wrath of 5275 totalitarian mighty monkeys. He said, in hushed tones, "I hate you and I want the pure ideology of love."

Slavoj looked back, even more manic and still fingering the bourgeois sublime object. "Joseph, I want to be wanted --- by you - my God! - by you," he replied.

They looked at each other with hysterical feelings, like two dark, delicious dragons touching at a very harsh Lenin's Birthday, which had K-Pop music playing in the background and two austere uncles purging to the beat.

Slavoj regarded Joseph's large nose and flabby stomach. "I feel the same way!" revealed Slavoj with a delighted grin.

Joseph looked depressed, his emotions blushing like a large, loud Lacan's Ecrits.

Then Joseph came inside for a nice drink of alcohol-free beer.

THE END

>>6352617

>>6356684
>Joseph glared with all the wrath of 5275 totalitarian mighty monkeys.

>>6356684
Unoriginal bullshit.

>>6356859
Maybe you'll like this one better.

>>6352617
this came out ridiculous, but it did make me laugh heartily at one point

Two Considerate Uncles Sitting to the Beat
A Short Story
by R.V. Seaton

Boris Humble had always hated dreary London with its naughty, narrow nooks. It was a place where he felt lonely.

He was a loving, sympathetic, beer drinker with corpulent kneecap and blue-eyed earlobe. His friends saw him as a determined, deafening do gooder. Once, he had even made a cup of tea for a greasy old man. That's the sort of man he was.

Boris walked over to the window and reflected on his dirty surroundings. The rain hammered like walking frogs.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Gary Meadows. Gary was a gracious coward with bow-legged kneecap and austere earlobe.

Boris gulped. He was not prepared for Gary.

As Boris stepped outside and Gary came closer, he could see the deadly glint in his eye.

Gary glared with all the wrath of 1633 brutal rotten rhinoceros. He said, in hushed tones, "I hate you and I want peace."

Boris looked back, even more barmy and still fingering the ripped belt. "Gary, I'm sorry," he replied.

They looked at each other with puzzled feelings, like two sneezing, sore sheep eating at a very intuitive wake, which had classical music playing in the background and two considerate uncles sitting to the beat.

Boris studied Gary's bow-legged kneecap and austere earlobe. Eventually, he took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," began Boris in apologetic tones, "but I don't feel the same way, and I never will. I just don't hate you Gary."

Gary looked stressed, his emotions raw like a curly, courageous cup.

Boris could actually hear Gary's emotions shatter into 256 pieces. Then the gracious coward hurried away into the distance.

Not even a drink of beer would calm Boris's nerves tonight.
THE END