/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.19725412]

Write a short story based on this image

[Anonymous No.19725418]

Stop making low-effort threads.

[Anonymous No.19725427]

>>19725412
>Paint me like you do your French women

[Anonymous No.19725428]

I think we are in rats’ alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.

[Anonymous No.19725448]

>>19725412
peak of civilization

[Anonymous No.19725561]

It was such an dreadfully ordinary evening in Britain you'd have hardly noticed unmanned the six twoed metro car lurching though the intersection.

[Anonymous No.19725675]

>>19725412
London, 2022. What was once the shining star of the Western world was now a pit of depravity, surveillance, and open crime. Even the so-called "nice" areas were speckled with graffiti and grimy sidewalks. Surly third-worlders strolled the streets, mixed with apathetic passersby who had seen dead bodies while out on lunch break. Someone was getting arrested, a common occurrence, but only white criminals were arrested. In this world, you could make fun of a crossdresser and get arrested; but non-whites could literally run a child sex slave cabal and get off scot-free. Some, in fact, did.

It was here in this awful world that Norf, one of the last of his kind from the old world, was taking a walk, beer in hand from his favorite pub. Everyone did takeout these days, even gathering was seen as suspicious. A taxi driver struck Norf from behind, knocking him flat. Pain shot through Norf's back, he didn't even bother checking the race of the taxi driver, he knew what it was. All around him, life went on, as if the incident had never happened. Even the police officers went about their way, on their own terms. Miraculously, Norf's beer had landed right side up, only with some minor spillage.

Reaching for it, Norf wondered if it was simply luck, or if there was some hope in this God-forsaken world, that perhaps the world could return to the way it had been.

[Anonymous No.19725828]

It isn't a short story, but a long one. It is the story of a people who traded misery for power, dignity for strength; it is a story of gentle fields and dark satanic mills; it is a story of a candle that burns at both ends, of the best of times, of the worst of times; it is a story of a civilization grown old, withered and exhausted. Alive but not living. And I saw with my own eyes the Sibyl at Cumae hanging in a cage, and when the boys said to her: “Sibyl, what do you want?” she answered: “I want to die.”