/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.19404519]

Greetings, /lit

I was hoping you'd be willing to partake in a small writing exercise with me. It helps sharpen your descriptive and storytelling skills, as well as your vocabulary. If the threat is slow to go, I'll post some of mine; otherwise, I'll refrain and let you take the ropes. The rules are as follows:
>pick an object near you
>describe it in text

That it.

There are all sorts of different ways to approach this exercise, which I might post later if you're interested. As for now, I don't want to imply any means of tackling this problem; as it would spoil your particular viewpoint; this is a creative writing exercise after all; damn the rules! Have fun!

[Anonymous No.19404808]

Toilet roll; not the fanciest of brands nor is it very soft- I bought it in bulk because I'm autistic and like organizing things and reducing my need to leave my home to get necessities. I got sent to prison as a young man for being a little shit and ever since then I've been unable to abide soft toilet roll. The stuff just feels like wiping with a silk pillowcase, very bizarre feeling.

How's that you weirdo?

[Anonymous No.19404834]

>>19404808
Pretty shit, if you catch my drift. Crude, simple, short, to the point. I'd make it even cruder if I were you. Kinda like it though.

[Anonymous No.19404848]

Plant. Green, it nice, It in the pot. White pot. Has earth in pot, I planted plant in pot with eart. Hands dirty then. Buy plant on street, plant filthy. Had to clean plant with cloth. Leaf by leaf. Plant nice, plant name Gerard. Plant grow good, not much sun, still grow good. Me give water plant. Plant like. Plant grow. Water every week. Big cup, he gulp. Plant new leaf, leaf green. Look good. Me proud. Like plant.

[Anonymous No.19404883]

Shoe. Me like shoe. Shoe is black, has scratch. Me no change shoe. Wear shoe day. No one say "You wear same shoe." Good. Shoe stink. It always. Sweat live in shoe, always. Always smell. New day, new sock. Sock wet from shoe. Shoe scratch, me sad. Black shoe, cow skin. Me rub black in scratch, shoe new. Good shoe.

[Anonymous No.19404903]

Shit. Smell shit. It bad. Eat shit? No bad! Mom said, it bad. Mom right. Look shit, look good at shit. No yellow in shit? No green? No red? Good shit. Me approve, me smell. Smell bad but good. Cause my smell. Other shit smell bad, cause you shit. Shit look good, shit safe. Me approve. Flush shit. Wave bye. Bye shit

[Anonymous No.19405093]

In a small bronze bowl on my dresser lies a key. It key consists of a main ring facilitating its paraphernalia. The ring remains impeccably shiny; its twisted, overlapping, metal shafts are ovally flattened onto one another having made a full rotation onto itself; likely resulting from the factories’ automated process of pressing coiled up wires into a flattened ring. This, of course, to facilitate its locking and attachment sliding mechanisms that hurts my fingers so much.
The first accessory is a key belonging to the front door of my apartment. The boring old, practical kind you’ll find at your modern key maker. It has filthy nudges, a matte surface bearing, and jagged teeth. I obtained it from an obviously avarice landlord — judging by its unexpectedly insubstantial weight; eluding to the flimsiness of an unclean, cheap, mixed metal; for what it’s worth; it will suffice.
The second accessory, again a key, belongs to the door of my bedroom; which I begrudgingly requested from my landlord in front of my fellow flatmates the first day I arrived in Budapest; very effectively illustrating my natural inclination towards distrustfulness.
It resembles a miniature version of a comedically stylized key you’d see a medieval monk wearing in a cheesy historic drama. There’s a thick cylinder perturbing from its rectangled, octagon-shaped head. At the end of the cylinder, a wavelike iron fitting vertically sticks out from the center’s mass. I still haven’t used it.
The third accessory — a smaller ring onto which six chain-links connect to a rubbery, white decoration; tainted by that distinctive, city-smog discolouration — hangs on its side. The inscription; Hungarian gibberish, which my culturally insensitive, western-European mind hasn’t bothered translating yet; will likely accompany me for some time, this despite its kitch-like appearance; yet, mainly because of that subtle, mental hurdle these banal objects produce remaining on the edge of our peripheral perception.
The last accessory, originating from skate culture, is a small, bronze, clipping mechanism that attaches to my belt loop. Though I'm a straggler for style as all my fellow hobbyists have long abandoned this archaic mode of fashion. I'd be lost without it, as would my keys.