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2023-11: Warosu is now out of extended maintenance.

/lit/ - Literature

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1106637 No.1106637 [Reply] [Original]

Sup /lit/
>Write the first paragraph to a totally original story right now. Right this second. just go with it. No planning, no current projects, something totally new.
>If others find it interesting, start working on that shit.
>You can do it /lit/
>Because you're a fucking winner.
>What are you waiting for? fucking do it.

>> No.1106643

You're now aware that all these types of threads are essentially variants of those "corrupt a wish" forum threads you wanted to escape from

>> No.1106654

>>1106637
It has turned out fortunate for me to-day that destiny appointed
Braunau-on-the-Inn to be my birthplace. For that little town is situated
just on the frontier between those two States the reunion of which
seems, at least to us of the younger generation, a task to which we
should devote our lives and in the pursuit of which every possible means
should be employed.

>> No.1106661

>>1106643
>>1106643

no clue what you just said

also

The ginger strand floated across her eye, her arms moved in a wide arc, the muscles stretching, straining in the light of the morning sun. The hair was moved, callously pushed back. The morning ritual began, a leap out of bed, a sharp acidic intake of oxygen to the lungs, a spasm of muscles, sluggish and slow, as her arms and legs jerked in and out. Waking herself up.

>> No.1106674

Harry looked out the window to see the lake sitting complacent in the lazy heat of the July sun, and his stomach dropped. He stood up, being sure to look away, to look ANYWHERE but out the window, and scurried over to shut the curtain. It had been more than three years since he had been in a body of water larger than his bathtub, even shying away from swimming pools, and he felt the full power of that anxiety, even as the lake sat more than a half mile away. As he walked back to his chair in the now dark room, he could feel his knees weakly holding him up.

NEEDS REVISION, but I feel like that violates the spirit of the thread.

>> No.1106692

In the morning the alarm went off, and jimmy and abigail didn't wake up. jimmy was wearing nothing but a cowboy hat and abigail was just wearing puked up bile all down her chin and it was bubbling out of her nostrils too. they were alive but would be unconscious for the rest of the day and night, because the tina kept them up for exactly five days straight. the weather was getting cold outside and frost was on the window. the window in the kerosene heater was all black. the alarm was playing static.

>> No.1106705

I stared blankly into the monitor, as if its LCD screen would give me some sort of sign, whisper like a muse something worth writing. But of course, I came up blank. Where does writing come from, anyway? Inside or out? Some say it's like a force that cannot be channeled, but rather, channels you, chooses you. It cannot be forced, not if it's going to turn out any good at least. Was there a time when it was like this for me? What changed so dramatically that made what was once my favorite pastime such an ominous prospect? I look back at some of my old work. It wasn't that bad, actually. Not perfect of course, but not excruciating. I want to just put it aside, not think about it, but when I'm not writing, I'm thinking about writing. It's like a painful love affair.

Ugh, inb4 shit sucks. I couldn't think of anything.

>> No.1106729

"Holy fucking cow shit look at the size of that nigger!" Yelled the drill sergeant as he pointed at the black skinned giant.
The drill sergeant stalked over to his victim with long strides. When he reached him the drill sergeant stood up on his toes and started to berate him viciously.
"How fucking dare you step into these baracks you oversized monkey! You are clearly not wearing the proper attire of a little red cap and a fucking pair of crashing symbols!"
The sound of hushed snickering spread throughout the ranks. The drill sergeant turned around and screamed. "SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU GREEN COCKSUCKERS! HOW DARE YOU EVEN BREAK A SMILE! ARE YOU TOO FUCKING STUPID TO REALIZE THAT YOU ARE NEXT!"

>> No.1106755

A complex thing, the human mind, the neurons firing and firing, constantly, it's incredible that i don't turn mad with the noise. Oh and i can hear them firing away, the steady click, click, click. Spaceships leaving their stations, in an adventure across my mind. Only i hear them firing away, going about their business, expecting me to be an unknowing, abiding host. But no. Not i. Not me. I can hear them firing, hear their plans, they live in my brain but expect me to be stupefied to their presence. HA. i would burn these motherfuckers to the ground before i let them continue with their schemes, their plans, their madness. They will tremble in fear at the whisper of my name, they will cower down before me, the omnipotent being. THEY WILL FEAR MY NAME. For i will conquer their world, crush it into grains of sand. I will become their God. And i will not be a merciful one.

what do y'all think?

>> No.1106769

>>1106755
pretty middleschoolish stuff brah

>> No.1106788

>>1106654
pretty nazish stuff brah

>> No.1106791

The room had been empty for an age. The shape and lay-out of the room seemed to suggest that it, in fact, had never been occupied. Loneliness had descended upon this place years and years ago and now settled heavily upon the space. Not a soul had stirred here; all life stifled by the impenetrable darkness and loneliness. Absence had settled and spread its touch to every corner of the room, driving away even the smallest of life. Nothing could penetrate such complete and powerful emptiness.

The one solitary figure that had dared to brave this room and its oppressive air was a single chair that stood in the centre. It was barely visible as no natural light could access this sealed area. The chair, laden with a century worth of dust, seemed to have suffered physically from the crushing loneliness. The chair, simple and wooden, sat contorted and at a slant. The wood had begun to split and the rungs that once lined the back of it were broken or loose. The presence of this object in the centre of the thick emptiness gave the chair as strange dignity, a battered yet resilient character that had endured this room longer than any soul could ever hope to. Time existed only outside of this vortex, this one untouched cavern of dead space. Man had built it, and man had placed the chair there, but man had forgotten this place thus time washed past it. One could not help but wonder what had brought the chair there. Had someone sat upon it in this suffocating room, no bigger than an attic space? The ceiling was at an angle that would suggest this room was indeed an attic attached to a house. Surely if this was an attic, then there surely should be life beneath the floorboards, in the rooms below and the streets outside. However, an attic abandoned for such a time could only lie in its oppressive solitude if it were attached to a house that had rooms of a similar, lifeless nature.

>> No.1106845
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1106845

>>1106755
I don't get it, you hate your brain?

>> No.1106869

>>1106845
>>1106845

i just kinda went with the whole ramblings of a mad man shit, thinks he can hear his brain activity, plots to stop it, control his mind. mind over matter shit.

dunno where i was going with it, probably throughout his last days before he killed himself or some shit.

>> No.1106890

Enjoy some 16 year old writing, lit

Thunder billowed forward before her eyes, carried on the burgeoning clouds of the first hurricane of the season. It had been so strangely quiet, as if every single living being had been waiting for the coming fury, died, and decayed, waiting. She could actually see the thunder now, see the air vibrate in waves off of the storm front, making lanes in the sky miles wide to carry souls to heaven on. Souls the storm would send.

>> No.1107136

The screen, a star in my minds darkess. Day after day, week after week, i return to it's warm glow. This screen is more than just a piece of technology, its a gateway. A gateway to anything in the world. But of all the things on this planet or this universe to see or learn about, i choose 4chan. A board called /lit/. Filled to its thread capacity with U MAD trash. Darkness, as I shut off the monitor, and die.

>> No.1107142

>>1106890
I have a hard time believing this was written on the fly.

>> No.1107168

>>1107142
Why is that so hard to believe?

>> No.1107169

FUCK, you're becoming the demons john!

>> No.1107201

The clouds were slowly turning from pink to dark purple and the blue sky became golden as the sun set in the distance. For once in their lives they actually saw the sun set, they felt the dirty air of the outside world turn into a cool breeze and then a gust of wind which blew their hair and clothes about. For almost everyone else this was not a moment to be cherished or even though about but to them it was the first time in their lives that they could remember where they saw the sun dip below the horizon.

>> No.1107234

---

"So you'd let him tell you about yourself because, for goodness sake, who else is likely to know him as well as he does? Of course you'd let him. You'd let him sit there for hours and you'd seldom interject, and then only to ask about details here and there or prompt him to go on. You'd like the idea of 'knowing him better' more than you'd like him you know. What'll come of it, in the end? Nothing. You'll literally feel emptier afterwards than when you started. He's not going to enrich your life in any way, there won't be a moment of enlightenment, there won't be any sudden realisation that the two of you are meant to be, and there won't be any real connection. You're just going to do what you always do and shoulder his problems until you realise that it's going no-where and he finds someone else to fuck, and then you'll come back here, and the cycle will start all over again with some other cunt, namely me. For fuck's sake, when will we change?"

>> No.1107417

>>1107234

You a playwright, son?

>> No.1107578

“I’ve never been fond of driving. It wasn’t until I actually started driving for myself that I realized that it wasn’t just the car moving at sixty miles per hour; it was my body too. I kept telling myself that my body was moving at speeds that it probably shouldn’t be, but that didn’t stop me. Well. It didn’t stop her. Our bodies were hurling down this god forsaken speedway that was filled to the brim with people who couldn’t drive, people who were on their phones, and people who were getting blowjobs from their ex-girlfriends; or maybe that was just me. I heard her moan a little bit as she inched down my shaft. A familiar looking vehicle slowly pulled up next to me in the fast lane and kept its speed next to my car, which was now flying down the freeway at ninety-eight miles per hour. “Can you get up?” I frantically asked her, “Mia. MIA. GET UP.” She did get up. She actually got up so fast that she slammed her head into the steering wheel, which caused me to veer directly into the highway patrolman that was driving so calmly next to me.” The girl looking at me from across the table giggled and smiled as she touched my hand. “What did you say you were again?” I grinned sheepishly and took another drink from my glass. “I’m a writer.”

Please tell me.
I really want to know if I should continue.

>> No.1107608

>>1107142

I don't have any trouble believing at all.

>> No.1107612

"You know what bugs me about all of this?" I asked as I shoved the knife into the still twitching head of the recently decapitated zombie.

"What?"

"The complete lack of appreciation I get. I mean, 40 days of killing these things with nothing but a knife, a scythe, and some food and water to keep us going while we sleep in shifts and all I got to show for it clothes covered in gore. The only other person I can brag to is you and your kill count is higher than mine."

"Can't help it, I am a light sleeper." Dan said in his usual laid back tone as he shoved his scythe in the twitching remains of a five-year old girl whose lungs hung uselessly from a gaping hole in her chest.

"The only reason you sleep so hard is because you snore like a god damned bulldozer."

"C'mon, man, you know I don't like that kind of language." He replied as his boot crushed the skull of snapping ghoul so deteriorated its sex was indiscernible.

"Sorry, man." I sighed. "Just how many of these things do we got to kill anyway?"

"Well, there was only supposed to be about 6 billion people on the planet. So I am guessing no more than that, but hopefully it will be a whole lot less."

>> No.1107648

Night-times are below my radar. when they arrive, they're ready, and i'm not. They swoop across me while i'm wondering where the day went, frightening, really. it's like being knocked out, day after day, the knockout punch, the one that got you, and it got you now so it'll get you again. And no matter of all the articles you manage to devour, the stepping stones of daylight hours, when you know it, you know when nothing offers its presence to straddle the passing of normal, avancing time, I am merely ground moraine, sluggish shed skin of the better lot of workers. Night-times can kill some things about you, but they live; they remember. Day-times come as often, and i find their blandness cleansing. That's why I decided to become a private investigator. Blandness comes with the territory in lots of professions, but there's not many left where it's in the job description, where nothing but the most non-descript will suffice.

>> No.1107655

>>1106654

I'm a big fan of your work.

>> No.1107873

bump

>> No.1107933

Conrad sighed as the world came flooding back. Shouting neighbours and crying children carried to his eardrums. The stench of rotting food, long time ago spilled liquor, and human misery penetrated his nostrils. He was back in hell. Lonna must be sick again, ergo the puking. Conrad put down his sanctuary and made his way to a door whose ancient paint peeled. With doorknob long gone, he pushed his way past the useless barricade. Conrad was greeted by the startlingly normal image of empty liquor bottles strewn about, some atop the chipped and missing tiles, others almost floating in pools of vomit that had missed the toilet. Lonna lay in the fetal position inches from the bile covered toilet. She opened her mouth to communicate something, likely an insult, only to be muted by dryheaving.

>> No.1107940

Pregnant with rain, the gray sky whispered lies about clashing thunderheads and grumblings of uneasy gods above. The sea rolled with crashing painted waves. From the sea side fortress, the soldiers waited for the universe to catch up with them.

Telegraphs asked the captain.

No said the cannonier, london hasn't sent word all week. The Pearla hasn't been spotted in a fortnight.

Shit said the captain. we have to launch one and two if liverpool is going to get this weeks work.

It's going to leave us vunlerable to attack having both ports open said the cannonier.

That's something we'll have to deal with is it comes to it. Are both reels spooled asked the captain.

Yes said the cannonier, I verified the cards and respooled them yesterday. The magazine still has a leak, but we still have five barrels of powder left.

Fire both then, by noon it should go through.

The cannonier went massive guns of the fort on the outer terrace. The massive iron tube were mine shafts of cold unforgiving iron. Shielded by drab looking canvases, the stood as a testament of perpose in a grey world. The cannonier checked the powder one last time time. The charges, enough to end worlds, were dry. He let loose the fire.

Pinwheeling away from the fort, the blurring ball of data shot forth from the fort to its end point. Waxed and sealed, the punch card sailed forth, datapulted with powdered fire as fast as modern man dared bid. To be fed to the logic engine at liverpool, Lovelace's darling child.

It was at this most intimate moment when french guns beat their malicious bass note. Even for war the gray weather did not lift.

>> No.1108006

http://oneword.com/

>> No.1108012

Twenty million. Twenty million bodies thrown into the gears of the fascist war machine before the Dragon sputtered its last and left the pages of history. The masses can have their Saint George driving the snake to its lair. The statesmen can speak of the righteousness of our cause triumphing over the baseness of the beast. The philosophisers can postulate over the historical processes that inevitably washed the charred carcass onto the barren banks. But we, we are a simple people. We remember the twenty million.

>> No.1108023

>>1106637

Peter ran through the darkness at a striking pace. One block, two blocks, onward he chugged. Time was never kind to Peter, he could feel its weight with every step. Peter's cheeks were large, and with every footfall his his fat face seemed to remould itself into that of his mothers; saggy and unforgiving. Wheezing and puffing he slowed to a disco two step as he approached the library. Arching his back, he let out a ferocious groan, distorted with age.

Lol what am i writing?

>> No.1108027

>>1108023

"PETER, PETER, PUMPKIN EATER!" a voice boomed behind him. Peter jumped with fright, and dashed inside the building.

Damn it all, he thought frantically. He had wagered on buying himself more time.

>> No.1108049

One night after lights out I lay on my stomach and dangled my neck over the side of the bunk-bed to see Caitlin's pale face protruding from the darkness. We called this upside down syndrome, and it seemed funnier at the time. I asked her, "What do you miss back home?"

"The river," Caitlin said.

"But I can hear it sometimes. Like from the windows of the chapel block, or when we go out to town at night to eat or dance. Underneath the footpath, out into the big fields full of Patterson's Curse, then spreading out across the coorong and into the sea. I can't see it, but I can hear it, and it's like a chant. Om, shanti, shanti. Om, shanti, om." She closed her eyes took a long, slow breath through her mouth. "And when that happens, I can't help but just zonk out."

"Zonk out?" I said. "What do you mean?"

"Well, for instance, once I had to give a presentation in English, before I transferred here." She scratched the tip of her ear with her left ring finger. "And just as I was getting to my point, I could hear the water all around me. I heard it splashing against the rocks in the middle of the stream, and I heard every frog and cicada along the banks. I could even feel my shoes filling up with water, and the yabbies coming along to inspect my ankles. Every detail of it was there --- but I just couldn't see it, that’s all that was missing. What I saw was the same classroom of people, and the little red light of the laser pointer on the screen.

That was real, obviously. But another, just as real part of me was standing in the middle of the river, walking out into the deeper water, and losing my grip against the current."

I said, "So what did you do?"

She laughed. "Well, I fell down, obviously! What else would you do if you were standing tits-deep against a raging river?"

>> No.1108059

Ten minutes had barely dragged themselves by when Liam came to the quick conclusion that this carnival sucked.

Sure. The children loved it. And yeah, it was a break from the normal monotonous pandemonium of life. But seriously, if he didn't find something to occupy himself with relatively soon, he was sure something in him would break and he would be self combusting all over the place.

Er. At least, in the metaphorical sense. A heavy sigh (approximately #327) left his lips again.

>> No.1108068

The ringing bells beyond the walls of his home struck the hours, urging a score of birds to twist and dive mid flight. His poor sight turned the world sepia, belaying the reality and fixing clearly in his head the romance so longed for. The jackknife gripped tight in the left hand cut at the seems of his shirt, plucking threads and curving towards little black buttons. he thought of the act, right hand trembling as it gripped his trouser leg, and the ice-cold features that betrayed her true feelings.
Sickened by her disdain he had rammed his knife into her body and twisted out balls of flesh to reveal her insides. actually she was an octopus, the end.

>> No.1108110

bump for potential

>> No.1108120

"My dicks hurts" said the poet to the pauper. Please, your papal princehood, people prefer poetry over papacy in any predicament.
Pope says: "Purification or perversion, which does your person prefer".

Pauper professes "purification is for the pigs, us poor prefer perversion for it provides us with peace of mind whereas proper pontification probably doesn't"

My dick hurts

>> No.1108206

Alex B - medical student and citizen of the World - was not a young man known for his remarkable convictions. But if there was one thing Alex could tell you for sure, it's that the funeral of his best friend Bernard C had been an absurd, tragicomic affair.

Young Bernard - thermopane window installer and occasional drug dealer - had met his tragic demise when a failed safety cable sent him hurtling towards Eternity from the sixth story of an apartment building.

Bernard died unmarried and as it is the custom in that region of the world, he was lain to rest in a bridegroom's suit, signifying his symbolic marriage to Death (who in Somethingstan is portrayed as a female)

Alex found this tradition rather inappropriate and morbid, far less however than the practice of hiring mourners to be part of the funerary cortege. Their professional wailing served as accompaniment to cries of his female relatives, who seemed to square off against one another in their theatrical hysterics.

One who is not native to Somethingstan might consider this point of view to be cynical. It is not. Such displays of grief are often part of "funerary etiquette". What would the neighbors think if a proper amount of grief was not displayed?

>> No.1108786

bumpb

>> No.1108839

call me morbid
call me pale
call me hammer
call me nail
call me bucket
call me pail
call me ish
call me mael

>> No.1110546

moar bump

>> No.1110572

It was all too surreal. My body shook with a wave of shock, and the hair on the back of my neck rose with every second that went by.

25... 24.... 23.... 22....

How was I suppose to know that crazy jackass wasn't lying?

18.... 17.... 16.... 15....

"Oh, God." I dropped the gun to the blood stained floor, and fell to my knees before the body of my deceased mother. "Oh, God!" My voice quivered in the stale air mucked with gunpowder.

10.... 9.... 8.... 7....

Everything he said was true. And now the countdown was almost over. It wasn't just stupid predictions but all of that- now, none of that mattered. None of that mattered cause it was real! It was happening!

And when I felt my fingers and my heavy head fall, I heard Randy approach me from behind.

3.... 2.... 1....

"Goodnight, Charley."

0...

Bang.

>Ehhhh. It was lame.

>> No.1110575

Ted Kaczynski held a candle as he led me into the underworld. His face had an undeniably vermin appearance.

>> No.1110606

He always wished that she could muster the strenght enough to sustain that vigorous feeling that you rarely get. That feeling she knew she will change and succeed and the odds did not matter if she tried.

wow this was horrible.

>> No.1110655

Sleep is difficult in space, at least at first. And when it finally comes, dreams are fleeting and quickly forgotten. The first week is always the worst, no matter how prepared you think you are. Twenty assignments in, and I’m still not used to it.

> Please tell me what you think. It's only the first paragraph, but I'm curious.

>> No.1110658

>>1107578
I like this. I think it's pretty good, and I'd like to read more.

>> No.1110663

>>1108049
This is quite good!

>> No.1110725

It's body was of what appeared to be a man that had suffered the punishment of the whip. Long, sharp legs awkwardly held it up, bent like that of a spider. It's head was too large for it's tortured neck, the eyes and the teeth were too big for the inside, popping out and stretching the interior. It's teeth were all sorts of wrong. They were sharp and long and misplaced, digging into the gums whenever it bit down. It shrieked out, moving it's mouth to a monstrous level before closing it and digging the teeth into flesh that was riddled with dry blood and wounds. "Shut up! Don't make me come in there!" A man yelled. This monster lived in a cage much too small, and was the pet of none other than the great scientist, Pavel B. Triddle.

>> No.1110733

Vaurn closed his eyes. His muscles were relaxed, yet ready. He took in all that was around him from the high trees filled with the little rodent like creatures native to this land, to the strange moss on the forest floor. Suddenly something moved in the trees off to his right, and without even thinking he took a step, and in perfect throwing form released the small knife he had poised in a throwing position. It sailed throught the air with ease, and he heard a sharp crack followed by a pained moan. Then another sound, this time behind him, and another directly in front of him. He lowered his hand to the curved sword he had found in the strange cabin, and readied himself for whatever might emerge from the dense foilage.

>> No.1110746

For the last time in his life, Chester Wentworth was going to see his friends. A group of people who had followed him, helped him, fought him and loved him at different times in his life. Chester Wentworth, aged 64, looking out the windows of his apartment, his friends waving to him and wishing him a happy birthday. Alicia, his fifty-two year old girlfriend was blowing him a kiss when he felt his heart kick against his ribs, his time was up, but his life wasn't over...

>> No.1110765
File: 63 KB, 676x450, Type writer, glasses.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
1110765

It was getting pretty late and I’d been wandering the streets for twenty minutes now with no luck. I checked the address written on my palm for the third time even though I knew ‘Twenty-one Smiths Street’ by heart now. I had an idea what the place would look like but when I found number twenty-one I was met by an overgrown lawn with three garden gnomes facing the boarded-up door of the house and to say the least that wasn’t what I expected. The gate squealed giddily as I followed the cracked flag-stone path up to the door and rapped upon it four times as requested. There was bumping and fast footsteps as if someone was bounding towards the door like a dog after a postman’s hand. A slam from within the door knocked flakes or dull blue paint spiralling down to the ground, I also stepped back accordingly.
“Who is it…?” a man‘s, slow but high-pitched voice called to me. I collected myself with a clearing of the throat and replied:-
“John sent me, I’m here for John’s stuff,” there was a few seconds pause then I heard the tumblers of a rusty lock twisting as the door opened to reveal a musty hall with peeling wall-paper and a shirtless thin man not about my age, twenty. He was holding the door open with his hand gesturing for me to come in with an overly-polite manner with greasy curled hair falling over his brow.
“After yooouuu-…” The slimy construct said whilst falling further down in the hall in what was probably an intoxicated stupor of sorts.

>> No.1110784

>>1110765

I'd read more. You've got me interested.

>> No.1110794

>>1110784
My thanks, sir. I will post a continuation later tonight.

>> No.1111908

>>1106637
My silly doorman had gathered himself to his feet and pushed, or rather fell on the door to a close. I could hear a faint whirring coming from a doorway lacking a door down the hall and the smell of ‘John’s stuff’ coming from the same direction. The doorman placed his hand on my shoulder and parted his dry lips:-
“Fly.”
“What?” I replied whilst taking his and from my shoulder.
“It’s my name, sorry. This way…then we head left and down.” I was guided to a dark black door at the bottom of a basement staircase. The door had the words ‘LOCK THE FRONT DOOR, FLY!” crudely painted upon it. Sure enough Fly slapped his forehead and scampered back up the stairs, dropping what I assume was a key on his way back up. Deciding against waiting for the junkie, I pushed the door open slowly, seeing as there was no handle, and called out in greeting.

>> No.1111959

Morgan Finn ran a hand through his hair; his fingers glided slow through the greasy moss, soaked wet with fresh, off-white semen. Tiny unborns of an older suit-and-tie closetcase sparkled under fluorescent lights and suddenly our Mr. Finn's subconscious is begging the following question:

How did I get here?

With that, a thousand answers flood his mind, most accompanied by grim, senseless images. In his mind's eye he watched his skin disassemble itself on the orders of tiny blender-shaped men.

Are you taking notes? This will be important later.

As he watched his pupils turn obnoxious, dead-sun orange in a mirror that wasn't there, he remembered that this had something to do with reading the Diary of Miss Lillian Wholesome. He could vaguely recall making a Wish for a Magical Sex-Change to the hallucinatory backdrop of a Very Sad Car Crash.

Are you writing this down? Well, don't. I've done it for you. I'm doing it for you.

>> No.1111975

>>1106692
I like this.

>> No.1113124

>>1107648

I'd read it

>> No.1113134

To begin, I would like to emphatically state two things.
1) I am perfectly sane and
2) I did not have sexual relations with an inflatable Audrey Hepburn doll.
Yes, I owned the doll. And yes, I understand how odd it must have looked when my friend Steve saw the credit card statement with, in large capital letters, HEPBURN SEX DOLL. I also understand that the doll had fully functioning holes in...the appropriate spots, but I swear I never did anything inappropriate with her.

>> No.1113232
File: 145 KB, 500x375, 91199481_3b16533180.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
1113232

I'll always remember you. You were always my favorite.
You were waiting at the crosswalk, and as usual I could pick you out of the crowd. You weren't that different from them, your hair wasn't anything special to look at, no fancy shoes or bag, but the green jacket, I do have to admit, that it happened to catch my eye.
You had the expression most of the people that stick out to me have; one of complete normalcy.
You were probably running through your morning routine in your head, or wondering what you were going to do with the day after you got off work.
I step up to you and strike up a conversation.
"Chilly for this early in September, isn't it?"
Not very original, but it got you talking.
I didn't try to be clever or anything. Just talking for a moment while we waited for the crosswalk. Just enough to get you at ease, though you probably weren't that nervous to begin with.
But you, of all of the people I've talked to, there was some unique feeling about you from the beginning. It was almost like you knew me, knew how our paths would cross.
You weren't like any of the others. When I gave you the push, you instantly knew what I was. I could see it in your eyes, the instant realization paired with hatred. For me, for how I'd fooled you, for how I'd taken advantage of you for my own needs.
It was too fast for any of our audience at the crosswalk to notice.
A literal second.
Hate.
Gone.
I could see it in your face as you fell in front of the bus. I knew the thoughts, the curses that filled your mind before it was gone forever.
That is why you were my favorite. Of all the people I've met, you'd have thrown me under the bus and trust me, you would have loved it.
You'd have made a good killer, if you hadn't been an unfortunate example of the alarming rise in automobile-pedestrian accidents plaguing our dull city these last three months.

>> No.1113310

This is the sorrow I’ll hide from the world, a rampaging rage in my lungs and dominating my heart, a barrage of clichéd infractions that only ring true now that I’ve joined the ranks of bereaved. If anything made sense before, it sure as fuck doesn’t now. Sometimes memories are so strong that the footprints are still leaving small impressions in the carpet or echoing off the walls. This grief is a solitary thing. You’re locked into it like a bad habit, you hate it and love it… but even more insidious , you take it into you over and over because its better than nothing. I would spend a thousand decisions imbibing that addiction if it gave me the certainty that I wouldn’t forget.

>> No.1113318

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; it ws the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness; it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity; it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness; it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair; we had everything before us, we had nothing before us; we were all going directly to Heaven, we were all going the other way

>> No.1113363

The first time I killed a man, I was not prepared. Sure, I'd had the training, talked to the psych people. I knew it wouldn't be easy, but I'm a tough guy, I can handle some trauma. I'd been through it in my head a thousand times; I was ready for anything.

I wasn't ready for nothing. And of course that was what happened: nothing. His body fell from my hands, pathetically limp, and I felt nothing. Not a twinge of guilt, not an ounce of regret. I was not prepared for that.

>> No.1113976

interesting thread, bump

>> No.1113995

Waiting for a bus now could take anywhere from minutes to hours. They ran so rarely and unpredictably that many people who had little else to do had taken to crouching on their haunches at bus-stops for long periods of the day, though very often they could not tell you where they were planning on going; when asked, they would simply shrug. If and when a bus actually arrived, they would shuffle towards the door and crowd around, awaiting their turn to mount the steps and fill up the seats and aisle. When the driver deduced by some indeterminate method that the bus could hold no more (anywhere between forty and seventy depending on the driver), he would swing the doors closed silently and without looking at the remaining would-be passengers, who were left to return to their patient waiting.

>> No.1114004
File: 69 KB, 292x400, Marx, Groucho.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
1114004

>>1106890
>Thunder billowed forward before her eyes
>Thunder
>before her eyes

Even if you meant to do that, you're a jackass.

>> No.1114029

The festering inside hurt. It hurt just thinking about it, yet it was all there was. The hurt continued day to day, without reprive. Although he was not a particularly extroverted man, he shared his pain with those around him, in ways that even he would be unable to describe.