/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.1386670]

It was said by George Gordon Byron that truth is stranger than fiction, and as such that reality is always crueler than fantasy. I did not ask for this reality to have been imposed onto me. In that regard, I am innocent. I was born into this.
On a bone-chilling December Wednesday, on one of those bleary and awful evenings when the sound of the dry wind blowing through the bare New England trees was enough to cause frostbite, I found myself in the dim of my room, on yet another day off from term. Guillaume de Machaut played from the radio and I was working on history homework. If I had to write any more I'm sure I would have torn the sheet to shreds, but my father called from the bottom floor and told me that dinner was ready.
I tramped downstairs and the old house shook, and the smell of soft broccoli and pasta came from the ancient stove. Taking my habituated seat between my mother and father, I speared and ate.
“Aren't you hot?” My mother asked, sweat dripping down from her freckled and middle-aged brow.
“No,” I said in my gray tuque, “You look pretty hot.” She was having a hot flash.
“Thanks! What a nice thing to say to your mother!” She jolted after a second of thought. It was a knee-jerk reaction to make a disgusting joke. In her sweat and her falling frizzy Semitic hair, that's what she was. A knee-jerk reaction.
I shook my head and ate. My father talked about work.
That night I lay naked in my bed. I imagined some girls that I had known wincing as I fucked them hard. I imagined that my Facebook said I was in relationships with them. I masturbated to Facebook. I creamed and Phil Phillips talked about the sea of love on the radio. My eyes closed and, laying in my jizm, I fell into a deep sleep.

[Anonymous No.1386673]

I was in some hellbeaten wooden room, firebrands lining the walls and everything dyed a sickening red. I fell up the stairs of a narrow hallway and my bones broke like chalk. I'm not good at remembering dreams. It was hot in there and I was scared for some reason, a primal burning shard of a cracked poison splinter. There was a woman. She was hurt, no; there was something wrong with her. She had no skin or something. Instead of a vagina she had a big bloody hole with seeping blisters and cuts. I crawled to get away from her, I crawled on all fours and I crawled backwards across the stained purple floorboards of the chimeric room.
I wasn't going to get out of there. There were no doors and no exits. So I went up to the woman and I fucked her hole. I fucked it and I got blood on my chest. It hurt like gnashing tin foil between my teeth. It hurt like swallowing mercury. But I liked it and I fucked her until I woke up.
When I woke up I thought of my mother and a pain burned in my heart like I ate something I didn't chew. I turned over and humped my bedsheets, thinking of girls kissing each other and licking my penis.

[Anonymous No.1386724]

... Any thoughts?

[Anonymous No.1386735]

>>1386724
Wait, was that serious?

[Deep&Edgy !pSkjEcB9sQ No.1386737]

typical basement dweller garbage obsessing over sex and death, we have seen this shit a thousand times over on this board. Christ you people are so boring and simpleminded

[Anonymous No.1386748]

lol 8th grader angst