/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.22087050]

Show me what you've written. I don't care if you write novels, short stories, poems, or shitposts. I want to read what you've written.

>inb4 "but it's not finished yet!"
I don't care. Show me what you DO have written.
>inb4 but I'm scared
I don't care. Let me read it anyway.
>inb4 "but you'll steal my IP and publish it under your own name!"
I don't have the means or energy to do that. Show me what you've written.

[Anonymous No.22087053]

>>22087050
You don't know what you're asking for kiddo

[Anonymousn No.22087056]

I liked this one because it was the first time I felt like I'd written something approaching an actual plot.

https://pastebin.com/EL5pDYrw

[Anonymous No.22087061]

Looking for mlre feedback, last time I asked the verdict was that if was cringe/derivative

[Anonymous No.22087063]

>>22087061
*more

[Anonymous No.22087095]

I was ten and stopped taking off my coat. That morning, Mum had covered us one by one in udder ointment to protect us from the cold. It came out of a yellow Bogena tin and was normally used to prevent dairy cows’ teats from getting cracks, calluses and cauliflower-like lumps. The tin’s lid was so greasy you could only screw it off with a tea-towel. It smelled of stewed udder, the thick slices I’d sometimes find cooking in a pan of stock on our stove, sprinkled with salt and pepper. They filled me with horror, just like the reeking ointment on my skin. Mum pressed her fat fingers into our faces like the round cheeses she patted to check whether the rind was ripening. Our pale cheeks shone in the light of the kitchen bulb, which was encrusted with fly shit. For years we’d been planning to get a lampshade, a pretty one with flowers, but whenever we saw one in the village, Mum could never make up her mind. She’d been doing this for three years now. That morning, two days before Christmas, I felt her slippery thumbs in my eye sockets and for a moment I was afraid she’d press too hard, that my eyeballs would plop into my skull like marbles, and she’d say, ‘That’s what happens when your eyes are always roaming and you never keep them still like a true believer, gazing up at God as though the heavens might break open at any moment.’ But the heavens here only broke open for a snowstorm – nothing to keep staring at like an idiot.

[Anonymous No.22087099]

>>22087095
i hate you

[Anonymous No.22087104]

>>22087050
Here are some writing I’ve done. Poems etc

[Anonymous No.22087112]

Will Want More

I like your tongue on my nuts
How they travel down to my asshole
While you jerk me off umm don’t stop
Your fresh tongue on my steaming hole
Swirling the thin hairs that I have
In your eyes I know you will want more!

Oh I like my dick in the warm pocket that’s your pussy,
In, out, in, out, sliding in your creamy flesh
Fuck it turns me on so much when u whisper “use me”
So I fuck your dirty ass so tight and smeared with shit
Then kneel u down like the little whore u are,
And fuck ur face and ur teary eyes and runny makeup
I know I will want more!


Laughter and shouts permeated the room. On the table plates, with leftovers and dirty napkins, abounded, there were also empty bottles of wine and whiskey, and glasses half full or a quarter empty.
It is a hot June day,
I just closed the curtains to keep the sun out,
Left the windows open for the breeze to come in,
I have three fans on, that are just too loud,
I should’ve bought the ac instead of going out for drinks,
The fans will do, I would have to change seats every hour or so.

I have the tv off and I’m supposed to be writing,
It’s not procrastination, it’s the heat,
Only it’s not the heat, but the buzzing fans
Only it’s not that but I’m not sure what is.
Oh Hey, I Gave My Horse Your Hay

The hottest day of August
Above the desert sand
My steed and I spent hours
Watching o’er the land

The red rocks and brown boulders
Standing tall like giants
Listening to the universe’s orders
And awaiting for its guidance

When I got home I told my wife
That I had fed my horse her hay.

That guarded silver holders
That are found with ancient guidance


Whoa!?! Hold it there Mr. Pigeon, I promise you don’t wanna do this”
Anon said as Mr. Pigeon pointed the gun.
“I’m no pigeon! Ya Fuck!” The bird yelled
Anon nearly shit his pants, but watching his waifu across the street walking towards them filled him with courage.
His manga days flashed through his eyes and with a swift quick move he slapped the gun out of bird, but bird was no punk mothafocka, he had been in this situations, something anon didn’t expect. Bird poke anons eye out with its beak, blood squirted all over the pavement and birds white wings.
“Ya Fuck! Looka muh wings, mothafocka!” Bird yelled, as anon laid on the sidewalk, his waifu approaching quickly, whispering to her self “oh my god, oh my god, anon, please, oh someone please”
Bird looked at her and back at anon, “this your bitch?” Bird asked rhetorically, “heh, come with me babe, anons gonna be busy for a while, I’ll take good care of you” bird than put his wings, splattered with blood like some shitty modern art piece, around waifu and walked away.

I have shoes for hands

Every time I fight

I leave pieces of my soul

On the blood of the brow

On the cheek of a fiend

My copper chest

My stainless steel shoulder blades

Carrying Carrie across Constantine

[Anonymous No.22087113]

>>22087056
I felt like I was reading just so I could find out what the point was. It would be nice if you could clearly establish at the beginning who the characters are and why we care about them. Honestly, the most interesting thing that happened in the first 10 paragraphs was one guy chewing seeds. I want to care about the connection between these people, but I need to have an idea of why their connection matters early on.

[Anonymous No.22087134]

>>22087061
This is just me, but I feel like you use fancy words to sound smart. The best parts in this passage are where you talk straightforward.
>"And you despise me for noticing. But you shouldn't, I'm obsessed with myself too."
>"Yes, yes, you no doubt hate me, find me repulsive even!"
These lines feel more natural than "Do you truly esteem yourself above the standard and character of civil society?" You can still portray the speaker as someone who sees himself as superior to others (and even speaks haughtily) in a way that's more natural for the audience to read.

[Anonymous No.22087166]

>>22087063
When I read the different characters, they all have a very similar voice. Try and show me how different their personalities are, maybe even to an extreme.

[Anonymous No.22087172]

>>22087134
>>22087166
Thank you very much!

[Anonymous No.22087178]

>>22087095
based

[Anonymous No.22087190]

Heres something I tried to write from the pov of an asocial, weirdo 14 year old for an assignment in creative writing. The story is about him making friends with a dead body in the woods

[Anonymous No.22087191]

>>22087095
Write a book if you haven't already

[Anonymous No.22087203]

>>22087191
read the whole ass book if you want, it's The Discomfort of Evening

[Anonymous No.22087204]

>>22087190

[Anonymous No.22087205]

>>22087203
This thread is for posting your own writing

[Anonymous No.22087206]

>>22087205
that post I just made was my own writing, if you're referring to the older post then I didn't make that

[Anonymous No.22087210]

>>22087205
It's a fun experiment and/or meme

[Anonymous No.22087212]

>>22087205
I did write it. I'm Marieke Lucas Rijneveld. AMA

[Anonymous No.22087240]

A tiny little poem I wrote in another thread. Don't bother telling me it's bad--I already know but don't know how to improve it. I'll try to write a poem for you if you have any prompts or suggestions.

SHIPWRECK
>Idly the rough-hewn boards float
> Their innards long undone,
>And brine gathers long on the rim
> Of this rusting skeleton.
>The azure on the surface gleams,
> Its hyaline veins surge;
>And, swallowed whole, Adam's kin
> Make feed for Leviathan.

[Anonymous No.22087251]

>>22087240
Doesn't rhyme. 3/10

[Anonymous No.22087260]

https://write.as/ibl6cla2oa4zh.md

https://write.as/z9kv3ul5q0kqc.md

[Anonymous No.22087266]

>part 1
Juice

Tangy yet sweet
It tickles your young throat
And causes your tongue to greet
Your teeth like your first taste of goat
Or mare's milk
It is forbidden
And such a joy
Unbidden
For each and every boy,
A priest would be so shocked
He would never leave the altar boy
Alone and the preacher would be so shocked
He would be ready to leave
His office un-locked
Once they learned what you did
That night
In New York City
After watching that fight
Between those two drunken bums, it wasn't pretty
Walking back that dark night
You went down
A dark alley
Across town
That is when you saw her
A circus clown
Has less makeup than her
But what drew your eye
Was the lack of clothes
And to your young eye
She was naked
As a jaybird
With big tits
And a trim bush and you can take my word
To the bank,
Seeing her naked
Like that for the first time
It got you excited
And feeling so horny it had to be a crime
The fear of being killed
Went to the back
Of your mind
That night in that black
As coal ink alley
Yet the moon shined down
And you could see clearly in that alley
With the naked girl
Lying on her back
Bright as day
She was a discarded
Piece of trash that day
Yet to a hayseed farm boy
It was a day
He would never forget, a joy
Still remembered today
Thirty-seven years
Later~
What comes next
Is more shocking
Than the sex

[Anonymous No.22087271]

>>22087266
>part 2
It was the taste
That forbidden
And sensual taste
Of the naked girl's pussy unbidden
He laps it like a hound
Dog so thirsty
Yet this dog's lapping is the only sound
In the dark alley, does he feel dirty
Maybe now
But then
How
Could he think it was a sin
To lick the naked
Pussy of a dead hooker
So innocent and so exposed
It may be insane, yet that hooker
She was his first
And the memories of her
Haunt him like a midnight burst
Of lightning on a dark mountain
In a storm
She was gentle as a fountain
Cascading with pleasure
And patience this sexy fountain
Of honest earthly pleasure
Easier to climb than a mountain
Worth more than a chest of buried treasure,
She was his teacher
In the dark arts of forbidden pleasure
And he was no preacher
This country boy with his own brand of treasure
Was she some pimp's example
Or a serial killer's victim
The good old boy did sample
A poor New York City victim
Of a crime
Gone bad
Yet she offered him all the time
He had
To partake of her lime
And sugar
It would have been a crime
To pass up a taste of that sweet sugar,
And he as an older man
Now thinks only of that sugar
That forbidden taste on the lips of a man
In the mind of a boy
He cares not for the sex
Anymore just the joy
Of that first taste more lasting than the sex
That first forbidden
Taste of a dead hooker's pussy
Upon the lips of a innocent boy who came unbidden
Down the alley so dark
What began so happy
And so dark
It is hornier
Than if he were the killer
And fucking her dying
Corpse since a killer
Is alive and I would be lying
If I didn't tell you what he did to her
Once he got done with kissing

[Alex Beyman No.22087275]

https://write.as/ibl6cla2oa4zh.md

https://write.as/z9kv3ul5q0kqc.md

linktr. ee/alexbeyman

[Anonymous No.22087276]

>>22087271
>part 3
Her
Red rosy lips
It was a pleasure
For a horny virgin
To taste her buried treasure
He like every other virgin
Loves the pleasure
But never knows where to begin
If the hooker were alive
She would have told him a better place to begin,
Red rosy lips
Of a naked woman to the horny virgin
Makes his throat dry and sweat drips
From his nervous
Youthful fingertips
This young, innocent virgin so nervous
Begins to grow more
Fierce
Once he realizes she's but a whore
And she's dead
So with a smile as more
And more images bombard his virginal head
His desire
Takes over his conscious and his head
Is filled with fire
Of red
Hearts of sensual desire
And his head
Is ready to be consumed by that flaming desire
Of fucking a sexy dead
Hooker
On the dark
Streets of New York City
Easy as a walk in the park
This fucking was not pretty
Since the boy
Was a virgin
It was a joy
For that virgin
Boy
Who became a man
That dark
Night
Following
That bum fight
And this calling
To his freaky nature
Was never told to his wife
She would not like this freaky nature
Since he gave her his life
He felt he could keep that side of his nature
To himself
Since you, me
A dead hooker
Make it an even three
This good old boy who fucked that dead hooker
Should be scot free,
He didn't just fuck the dead hooker
He ate her out
And licked her ass
She was a whore that always put out
Her shingle was worn
And her lips did pout
But her inner pussy walls were worn
And her ass was soggy
Yet to the virgin so forlorn
She was a treasure
Laid on the table
Such blissful pleasure
That he was able
To remember
It nineteen years later,
It was the 5th of September
1993 when he was 18, now years later
He is a little embarrassed
But it gets him hard
To see her laid out
With not a scratch
Out of place, lips still pout
And pussy still sweet
And a little tangy
This forbidden treat
Of tasting the juice
Of a dead hooker
One dark night in New York City.

[Alex Beyman No.22087284]

~Eulogy to Halfcat~

Half a cat is what I glimpsed one fateful winter morn
Squarely struck by a semi truck, its body had been torn

The lower half I did not see, tumbling far behind
The upper half did snap and snarl, having lost its mind

Instinct told this half-a-cat to attack the source of pain
But agony beyond the pale had driven it insane

Like a feline ouroboros, it consumed its own entrails
Intestines dangling, from the vehicular mangling, that half-a-cat entails

Body rended, ninth life ended, Halfcat is no more
Relegated, maybe fated, to a blur of chrome and gore

Fast and heavy, ford and chevy, asphalt and cement
In a hurry, no time for furry critters, I lament

Nobody will bury you, and only I will mourn
This world’s too big, too cold and hard for the small, the soft and warm

Rest in pieces, Halfcat, for there are precisely two
The angels have their work cut out, reassembling you

linktr. ee/alexbeyman

[Anonymous No.22087348]

I do not know when my fever began in earnest. I am sure it had been bubbling up inside of me for many twisted months. There was no surefire moment when it turned from an egg to a blastocyst to an embryo to a fetus to a tumor. One can never sense when these things shift, but try as I might to dissuade myself, when I look back, I think of a few characteristic sights and sounds, a few pockets of my memory which must have meant something. Marshall Library; Crawford hall; an ebony table under my gaze; an

open page of British Medical Journal, the December 1998 volume. Sounds, too: sniffles, shuffles, throat clearing, dust clearing, shelf clearing, anything to hold off the penetrating quiet. Unlucky silences always seemed to follow me.
Why was I there? I, of all people, would know what happens to poor Phineas. Everyone knows what happens to poor Phineas when he slams that tamping iron down. The chain of connections I would usually make in my lectures was that the tamping iron hit the granite, the granite sparked, the spark ignited the charge, the charge exploded, the explosion propelled the tamping iron through Phineas’ handsome skull, entering his left cheek, destroying most of his left frontal lobe, and leaving the top of his skull with an entourage of fragments to follow. It was all simple enough: physics and anatomy were sufficient to explain it; one could throw in a little psychological speculation if they really felt like it, although history would always bring up the rear and destabilize the facts at hand.
They thought the poor fellow would barely live, and he didn’t... he coughed out a teaspoon of brain matter, had his head encased by the doctor’s wraps, and one day was awfully different. Phineas had died and Phineas replaced him, but no one could say where the new one came from and where the old one went. He became a coach driver in Chile. This was all elementary, all quotidian formalities I would tell the new students to entice them.
I had never found myself resorting to such debasing fantasies as this. The Ballad of Phineas never existed, of course. There was only a scholarly medical article in my hand, citable, readable, with an abstract, a specified intent, peer-reviewed. Those bastards didn’t care for the worries on Phineas’ mind.
I hadn’t even read past the first sentence. I was staring at a cock-eyed syllable when mean pictures clouded my head. Something wonderful lived in Phineas’ world, his mind could be anything anyone wanted it to be. I felt it was arguably my place to insert an impotent fantasy, to fill his husk with my own latent fears. But perhaps this is what did it. This was the misstep, the catalyst of this fever which has never quite left me, which has never left off grieving me...

[Anonymous No.22087351]

>>22087284
This is really good. I love it.

[Anonymous No.22087427]

a comet sinks into the earth
and im free
getting drunk on a mattress
while the biosphere collapses

someone blows out a candle
and im dancing in the hospice
the guards are taking aim
im smiling, broken, and lame

on the floor sour and dead
with a halo above my head
empty streets and moving cars,
my body rots under the indifferent stars

[Anonymous No.22087566]

>>22087427
I didn’t know I had permission
To murder and to maim
You want it darker

[Anonymous No.22087683]

was given the topic "Foxes" and 10 minutes to write anything about it so i wrote about fox hunting:

the hunter stalks with metal sights, always set to kill
the mother leaves her foxhole, smells the air is still
the children are always told to wait,
they know not what they cannot take
but mother knows and so leaves alone
hoping for food to find her.

but she was wrong about the air,
theres dogs and men and boys "i swear
it was quiet when i checked" but now theyre there,
too late for prayer, the teeth are bared,
its time to play with their food.

there is no mercy for gods creation
when its tradition, who needs salvation
theyll wear a suit, just to kill
just for fun, all for nil

[Anonymous No.22087698]

>>22087427
This is why I want there to be a renaissance of verse poetry. Reading classical poems is great but sometimes the archaic structure or vocabulary can make it hard for me to appreciate the lyrical qualities at first. Modern diction with verse and more unorthodox meter is something I’m interested in. Any anons have recs for this?

[Anonymous No.22087782]

she who walks in my dreams
leaves at once when i awake
but perhaps out there on her side
i vanish for her just the same

treading together along the path
of an empty wood or silent lake
a sudden bell with clearness sounds
and deftly crumbles the stage

an encounter always moving fast
a butterfly's flight in dreamed limits
a woman from a world which runs
counterclockwise to our events

so as i catch the morning sun
does she do the same?
or in her place is it moonlight
that falls in silver flakes

the sunrise leaves a crimson mark
upon the ocean waves
but the scene for her inverted yields
a softly pulsing field of flames

[Anonymous No.22087963]

Wrote this back in 2020/21

“Conquistadors” I heard someone call, I turned around to look and I felt a warm caress running down my cheek, it was a metal bat right on my head, blood down my face. I saw myself falling and I kept telling my body, “get up! Get up!” It was there I heard the accordion and carnival faces walking to and fro. Naked women dancing with their arms swaying back and forward, their breast bouncing as they jumped. The accordion kept on playing a fast paced French song, while some one sang “Polka, polka”. A group of young men came by with their shirts in their heads, carrying Christ on top of them, singing in unison“ we are going to eat his body/ we are going to drink his blood” one of them looked at me, “hey, you see that hill? Moot is waiting for you there”. As I walked the hill became a head with arms and feet, it stretched its mouth open. “going to be gaped” a women said in between giggles. To my right I saw a giant man standing with a suit, and behind him more giants walking by. I began to focus on the giants when a roar disrupted me, “Christ has the spear! Christ has the spear! He has escaped!” I looked around and the carnival had turned into a debauchery for demons.

[Anonymous No.22087964]

>>22087056
I liked it, Anon.

[Anonymous No.22087971]

>>22087284
Wonderful but horrible. RIP in pieces, halfcat

[Anonymous No.22087985]

I have a god of good explanations
And whenever I find him he goes
And leaves in his stead
Those thoughts which from his head
Leave me happy in blissful repose

For I have a god of hiding and seek
And of that which he cannot won’t speak
But of that which he can
I’m quite a big fan
For it does make the future less bleak

For I have a god of max variation
Under rock and behind tree he once stood
But now he ‘aint there
And if you go, take a care
For those signs which he left (which he should!)

For though mine is a god of max variation
He has love for ‘splications which aren’t
And through such you’ll find
All those creatures thus bind
Through to knowing
Or part misunderstood

For I have a god of good explanations
And I hope that you will take in hand
That to think that he’s there
Makes him leave with one care
Please forget him and think things more grand…

For I have no gods and need them I don’t
(Except when really I do)
(Such a stuck on plane)
(Which has burst into flame)
(Or sun rising vermillion to blue)

[Anonymous No.22088099]

>>22087061
This should be a play, not a narrative. Otherwise, the way the narrator speaks directly to the reader bears no significance, nor is it ominous or domineering, as it tries to be, because it is just open threats with no substance - to really see through the reader you'll have to immediatally and concisely cut through the reality around them and your story - dissecting their surroundings, their actions in mundane tasks (insinuating a ritualistic disguise within every day actions, brushing teeth, wiping ass and so on) otherwise it just reads like a junkie at the bus stop

I see it turns to a play here >>22087063
however, it is hard for me to follow the movement between the two exerpts.

>>22087095
Nice, good set up, if not a bit jittery disconnected in places.

>>22087112
2edgy4me nothing tying this together but the forceful assumption of a common narrator. Not sure I'd want to read more

>>22087190
>today droned on
>I sped through science

Narratively inconsistent. There is a lot of info delieverd quickly and with little importance. If the narrator doesn't get a simple pun why would they write a story? Hopefully this is somewhere in the thick of it and the narrator is talking to the body by this time

>>22087240
The way to improve this, as you adjectively hint at a story, is to dump the adjectives and tell the story.

>>22087276
Gruesome. There are a few narrative parts that you skipped over quickly, which I thought broke the movement of the whole piece.

>>22087985
I really like the premise. Speaks directly the the imposing AI near-future. Please work on it more, as the ending seems to fall short of the strong start.

>>22087683
First line is great. Sharp, descriptive and atmospheric. Then it becomes really inconsistent, presumably for lack of time, but you've had plenty of time since, you cunt. Finish it or don't.

>>22087782
Similar problem to a lot of poems posted here, and elsewhere, you forsake narrative fluency for poetic tonality - work on a better balance.

[Anonymous No.22088191]

An excerpt from something I wrote as an undergrad in college, I believe sometime in 2012.

It is August of 2003 and I am walking toward the woods near my house, my little brother and dog in tow. The track is lined with brambles. Or rather, the track leads through a thicket of brambles kept at bay only by the regular tread of feet. No one trims them, save for once and awhile when the bramble gets overly ambitious and crawls over or pokes through a backyard fence. I do not bother with a leash for Jazz. Though she is young and excitable there is slim chance of meeting another person today.

The field is a rough patch of semi-wilderness sandwiched between tame suburban plots. The land is owned by the electrical company, a fact easily deduced by the presence of towering power lines that run its length of two hundred yards or so. It is something close to irony that these unsightly blots on the landscape are the only thing protecting the grassy field from being bulldozed into more three bedroom human habitats.

My business is not with the field today, it lies just beyond it, so I continue up the gentle slope. The field, aside from providing a dozen children with a place to catch grasshoppers and garter snakes, is a sort of liminal space between suburbia and actual wilderness. The brambles and tall grass grow right up against the tree line, heedless of the low wire fence delineating property. There is an old iron gate in the fence. I walk toward it. The dirt track ends at the gate, which is the only portal through the so-called fence, and just beyond it is something even less than a dirt track. It cannot rightly be called a trail, it is like the hint of something that might become a trail someday, or perhaps was a trail a very long time ago. It is little more than a sinuous line of dirt. It creeps along parallel to the trees for two dozen yards before veering sharply left and into the forest directly. There is a gap there between two birch trees, with hardly any underbrush. We come to a stop.

Yesterday I saw a fox standing by the gate. I saw it from the family room window of my house, which is one of those that border the field. It was a scrawny thing, a ruddy and unimpressive brown color, but it was still a fox, a creature I’d never seen for myself. I ran to get my camera, but when I returned he was gone from his spot. My brother pointed to the edge of the forest beyond the gate, and I saw, too late, a reddish brown tail vanish into the shrubbery.

[Alex Beyman No.22088273]

Love is a violent whirlwind
Sweeping you up off the ground
Immersed within a beautiful cloud
Of color, of light and of sound

Love is a pleasant delirium
Soothing your aches and pains
It dries every tear, it unbreaks your bones
and resanguinates your veins

...Until the cloud spits you out
Onto the cold, wet earth
Disheveled, confused, dirty and bruised
An unceremonious rebirth

Plummeting back to the colorless world
From which you once made your ascent
The aches and pains begin to return
Amid debris of your life, you lament

Yearn to escape the cold, grey world
For return to the beautiful cloud
Having fallen from grace, you desperately chase
But re-entry was never allowed

Gone is the warmth on which you relied
Before long, the memories fade
There isn’t a way to get back inside
Her heart is an iron blockade

Nothing to do but pick up the pieces
From your life’s exploded remains
Was the cloud ever real? Or is there only Sheol
This pit where you languish in chains

Search through the wreckage, what will you find?
Is there enough left to rebuild?
Ears still ringing, like angels singing
But even they can be killed

There’s only enough for a man-shaped shell
Like a cinderblock, hollow yet strong
It could be a house, for a bird or a mouse
Or whatever small creature comes along

You’ll never be whole in the way that you were
But there’s still something you can provide
Only the empty have room in their heart
To become someone else’s “inside”.

linktr. ee/alexbeyman

[Anonymous No.22088284]

>>22087240
>Boards
Should be a two syllable word.
>And brine gathers long
I don't like the use of long. Feels like it quickens the pace too much.
But other than that, I think it's very good!

[Anonymous No.22088365]

STILL I lie staring and forlorn,
In lamentation of past things alack,
That earthen man can not in time go back,
Our unkept oaths forever are forsworn.
Henceforth try to live understandingly,
Do not mock your friends with abundant praise
Show your love to them in manifold ways.
Love men and women. Or else stand singly.
Do not be peevish fond of fellow man,
For he's a vain and temporary bunch
Mark yourself lucky if you've eaten lunch
In this old galaxy without a plan.
In sooth, stand true, upright, and live as one
In sooth give thanks to father mother sun.

[MediocreQM No.22088390]

>>22087050
I ran a shitty Pokémon fanfic themed quest on qst for a while, I'm ESL as duck so the first threads where horrid, filled with terrible grammar, I improved slightly over the following months but it was pretty bad still

I had around 30-40 players/readers, some anons seemed very invested on the quest and my dumb chracters

Running that quest is one of the few things that made me truly happy and proud

[Anonymous No.22088392]

>>22088365
Last four lines are quite nice. First four are a little cliche in feel and wordy for my taste.

[Anonymous No.22088396]

O pinky pinky parcil
O pinky pinky pud
Methinks you’re up to something
Methinks you are no good

O pinky pinky parcil
O pinky pinky pud
Methinks me cannot trust you
Methinks nobody should

O pinky pinky parcil
O pinky pinky pud
Give me your hand
I understand
We do just what we could

[Anonymous No.22088398]

>As I sit day by day between these cold prison walls and reflect upon the unhappy course my life has taken, I feel my mind beginning to yield gradually to these hateful chains. Though I know I committed the act with a clear mind and in good conscience, believing it to be just, I sometimes find myself in doubt, and think perhaps it is right for me to be locked up here. No doubt this is nothing more than the confounding effect of prison working upon my mind. The human brain is versatile enough to adjust itself to any circumstance, no matter how dreadful it may be. But while I am not yet adjusted, and still maintain that my actions were just, I wish to write up a full account of the matter, so that in a moment of weakness I may read it over and put aside any challenges to my conscience.
>It is necessary for me to begin on that fateful summer of 1921, when I was just a little boy and my father left Munich to set up a rural life in the South of Argentina. This was a most surprising thing, for nobody who knew my father well could have imagined him to be capable of such an extraordinary feat. He was modest by nature; a teacher of literature who had been exempted from the war draft on the basis of his professorship; a man who preferred a strict routine and abhorred all change; a frugal and sensible sort of person who could live in a shack so long as he had his books. That such a man could leave all he had and go conquistador-like into the scorching plains of Argentina, to set up a vineyard, despite having no experience in tending one, was not to be believed. Yet it is often the case that our noblest traits remain hidden until they are forced out by some extremity of circumstance: such was the economic situation at the time.

[Anonymous No.22088400]

>>22088396
Hmm. On second thought I think the last
>O pinky pinky pud
Should instead be
>O pinky pinky pae
But alas tis too late to change it now

[Anonymous No.22088418]

and a poem called Spring


as the first day of beauty climbs the sky
those hiberners of winter find the former
spaces of their play and feasts
that blackbird nesting in the siding
overhanging the edge of a silver chariot
the low of the local belted galloway
the breeze ridden by the awakened beetle
o spring with your endless promise
with days and bursting buds of red and yellow
that punish only minds who stretch too far
past blazing days, past fall and then return
to that stark drear of winter yet to come
and ignore the sweet song of pollen flying
and blink at the smile of the sun

[Anonymous No.22088429]

>>22088392
The first line should be: STILL I lie silent staring and forlorn, to fit into pentameter. Here's an alternate couplet:
I hope you enjoyed my contradiction
My faulty meter and barren diction.
thank you for reading and commenting

[Anonymous No.22088442]

Awful inversions! It was a mirror,
A reflection, of the palace hewn
From crystal black.
A mirrored wall, which I, poor fool, passed through.

Ice cold is that dominion,
Colder still the evil hall,
Where dwelleth the Lord and Lady,
The rulers who dreadsome call!
Their whimpering slaves,
Morlocks,
To exert their awful will.

They saw me, Oh yes!
They saw me, and grinned when flew my cry,
Of horror, when I saw
Their cups and cutlery;
And the feast laid fresh before them,
And, I fear, for me.

For there was a third spot, empty,
The meal they’d not begun,
And grinning they seemed to beckon
Inviting me to reckon,
With depravity and enter
Into that forsaken ritual!
That beckon! So terrible!
It sent me mad, gibbering,
I fled to the outer halls,
And running flew past horrors,
Which gasping breathed and breathless talked.

An excerpt I wrote for a project on one of the other boards. This is the part I like the most, but I still need to work on touching up the rest of it.

[Anonymous No.22088477]

>Where was it? that it had come and again and gone, about and over all? under that nothing where we were there standing? and tall to see nothing over? at all? Remaining without the loss of the thought, within the mute mind dragging old the unborn, where was I minded? Today was I minded, safe from duller hours and the days to when they belonged, without the vitamin of genius, mudded, mudded meaning, or from futures delusional? Not bearing unborn the signature of my wish, my woe, my present error? No--
>Take another path to the top. Peal the bell sealing, ring church downing sound, have it come to your feet like an animal. Take another path, out to the side, a circumambulation on the rings of convention, and again! There we are, there chasing is the animal, there tripping is it down the wings of the church, pathless and true there was no corner to cross roundly, or brick walkway to evade, there was the top and your step to it, and there was my error cut short? No--
>Try once more, and think the last of years, twenty and unworn and bitterly yearlong, sink before froth and soap by the floor slippery, soft and fast on the feet, down sea-baked scum and stone and goldened ore, down hotter and hotter, darker down, lid closed over the sprites of light sinking with the elevator. Down, it was there! in mantled rock, darkened in the constant heat, the tipped fingers black, limbed, bodied in outstanding shame! black eyes cold, skin blazoned, numbed self browning in the home in the error, my first sufferances selved eternal!

[Anonymous No.22088493]

He notices the softly curling pole of Giddy’s Barbershop across the street and up a little ways. He remembers this place fondly as an amalgamation of good sensations that didn’t come from candy or games. About door-handle height, following his dad inside to the cloistered scent of aftershave and the meditative drone of sharpening steel grinding smooth across a dimpled stone. Everyone there seemed like they knew everybody. Clacking across the polished hardwood floor to be seated by black-and-white photographs of award-winning fish, magazine pages from important editions, buck heads in stoic gaze under their marbled laurels, old faces more eye-creases than eye, powdered bricks held together by static electricity. There was always a conversation about politics or women or hunting/fishing being held. More accurately, it was a kind of socratic forum which meandered, with respect to it’s self-determinacy, from general concepts of conversation which themselves were staging grounds for stories or political anhedonia which were often the real meat of the conversation. Never before had he heard of so many 10 point deer, at point like a bloodhound, whole body tense as a piano wire peering out beyond undergrowth depths fatally mistaken in their assumption that the predator still has to come within leaping distance to strike. Legendary fish, crooked-hearted women, the mind’s fire with whiskey, something about congress, the president. He always knew that they were speaking from the wellspring of their soul during these congregations. The old men would always become most insightful only after sitting down in the barber’s chair, draped in their sacrificial cloth. He hardly knew what they were talking about when it came to politics or complex and emotionally mature analyzations of relationships. But, when they told stories of wild hunts or their youth he, another participating citizen of the ur-spirit, couldn’t help but to understand beyond their old-timerisms and parceled drawl to the thrumming of life-blood underneath. Particularly, he remembers the story of a man who was carried downstream by a powerful catfish in his flat-bottomed bass boat out in a slow curve of the Mississippi. The old timer watched him go gleefully around the bend with his pole high in the air tensioned to a parabolic curve. Not once did he look back or stop laughing at the size of the fish which was reeling him in. They never saw him again after the last fleckings of his grey boonie hat went whispering away behind columns of wind shuffled green: knotted dogwoods and oaks. He understood by the solemn look on everyone else’s face, the man’s own awkward retreat into the leather backing of his chair, that it is better to chase death laughing at the catch than to stand on the riverbank watching, waiting. He watched the barber measuredly cut across the old timer’s neck under his wincing cheek and brow and understood then that he was still waiting.

[Anonymous No.22088526]

>>22088493
this has some power of invocation, but struggles with an uneven rhythm, i would recommend simplifying it, ripping out as much as possible while still retaining the barber moment, and the poignant old gentleman realizing his voyeurism was less than living.
definitely reduce some of the terms placed throughout without delicacy. Analyzations isn't even a word. Anyway, not every style would benefit from this sort of streamlining suggestion, but yours would. Otherwise, I can see a storyteller here. If you were to turn your energies into clarity instead of detail, you'll find that beauty will come naturally as an honest flow develops.

[Anonymous No.22088679]

>>22087050
This year I missed the plum’s blossoms
As the entire world lay all forgotten,
When the ground beneath my heart was rent
By your packing boxes, maleficent.

This year I miss the cherry laurel—
fragrant, she, but how in sorrow
Can one near such divine things?
A hellish shade in blessed spring.

[Anonymous No.22088684]

>>22087095
That's an excerpt from that tranny writer

[Anonymous No.22088716]

>Everything begins with death — from the death of Christ comes the resurrection. With the death of imposed illusions comes the dawn of a sovereign being.

>The non-speaking subject, gesturing helplessly amidst the crowd of tense onlookers. The child lost. In dreams of the language recovered. Marginal discourses. Yet what is marginal about race? About the very dynamis of existence? You want me to remind that it is all a lie, that we’re are being made slaves? Under the bridge someone struck the wall with runes in a language unknown to me. Few steps from it I saw the Leviathan cross. The child lost in the course of time becoming covered by ever thickening layers of flesh. A tragedy?

>An Atlantis of sorts. Rather —‘our origin’: nameless or the unnamed? Profanism taken as a creed, as a stone rejected. Where meaning — as a heated quest to acquire meaning stops and the Alef falls into the bubbling mud of the primodrial truth. To be dissolved. Unto the blind light of dynamis.

[Anonymous No.22088746]

Gunther walked along the red blooded aisle towards a fountain. A fountain filled to the brim with angelic tears and cavalcades. Gunther walks with giant leaps, his feet stretching from horizon to horizon. Gunther is 7 foot 9, has a walking stick and is fond of fondling bureaucrats. Gunther fondles bureaucrats o Tuesday. On Wednesday he gesticulated wildly at pregnant geese in the park. Gunther likes to walk around with 2 eyes focused on the road in front of him. Gunther jealously guards his most coveted ideas & secrets in a little box that’s adorned with green jewels & red tapestry & gold linings and is placed in his attic. In the cellar there are 3 alligators that run around and create spirals in the damp water. Gunther sometimes comes down to pet the alligator, one of the alligators is called Joel, the other is called Peatrice. Peatrice the alligator runs around curmudgeonly & has chickenwire as feet. The sound it makes when she runs like a dentists office and it eases my soul. Gunther is now on a train to somewhere, I don’t know where, Gunther knows but I don’t, I have no idea, no fucking clue where its headed, but Gunter has an idea, he has a clue, he knows certain things, he figures things out, Gunther walks around like he owns the place, he knows things that other people don’t, he figures things out when he looks at things with his dazzling, fiery eyes. Gunthers eyes rizzle and sizzle like barbeque bacon. Gunthers hair is goldilocks and mesmerizing and dazzles and frazzles beneath sunlight. Gunther is bald. Peatrice the alligator has her ears pierced and has won 3 south Minnesota alligator beauty pageants. Gunther is very proud of her but never tells her. Anyway, Gunther is on a train and on his side he looks out the window that pearlescent & beautiful & jaunty. Behind it is the landscape!!!! Wow…..!!!!! Landscapes moving & fleeing & jolting & piercing & fleeing & xylophone-like in its luster and beatific symmetry…… Gunther is moved by this view beyond tears,,,,, and he lets them come…. The tears come & come & come…. Beautiful & like crystals…. The sunshine reflects awkwardly from one of his tears and pierces a baby that is seated in the next aisle. Its name is Klive and its 4,3 years old. its wearing nike brand shoes, size 5. GUNTHER LIKES WHEN INSECTS WALK ALONG HIS PANTs. Sophoric & lionlike does Peatrice sound when she wakes up in the morning. Peatrice has killed 56 people in the year 1995 A.D. on a sunny august afternoon where she walked out of the local library, saw a particularly delicious looking ice cream ad and started gnawing away at people, just completely chomping at the bits, hair follicles & bone marrow were flying left right and center, a complete massacre that was published in the local newspaper under the title “”Peatrice’ prime suspect in Thursday alligator massacre” more to come at 9 o clock. Gunther:::::: hes almost reaching his destination, which I want to reiterate I DO NOT KNOW WHAT IT IS.

[Anonymous No.22088751]

Gunther knows, but I have no clue, I am none the wiser, Gunther he knows these things, but I have no clue. Not one. Not a clue. It’s beautiful to not know sometimes. But Gunther knows and as he’s clinging on to the metal handrail in front of him to get up he feels a sudden sharp pang in his left thigh. It shoots up like lightning up his side and looks around the moth-eaten passageways both sides of his peripheral vision, the moth-eaten passageways of the train stretching infinitely far each side. Gunther feels suddenly that the poles of the earth have switched… the train stretches further and further and further to infinity, white lines stretch as far as Gunther can see all the way to infinity. Gunther suddenly is in a black abyss. A stygian darkness with only the metal handrail keeping him on some sort of balance, the only thing keeping him from falling into infinite blackness that stretches out from him at all equators, every degree, all 360 million of them all stretch out to pure blackness, pure void surrounds him. The train is gone, the view is gone, its just black void as far as the eye can’t see. Gunther is sort of floating halfway, one leg sort of stretches out awkwardly and he’s floating, he used to know things, suddenly he doesn’t know things anymore, the blackness has made him question everything? The white lines that used to make up the train are but tiny dots in vision, very very very very very very far away. They’re almost non-existent. Gunther sort of whispers into the abyss “wow”. Peatrice the alligator’s red necklace has a faint smell of almonds & walnuts. Peatrice finds the smell of cigarette ash soothing & pleasing.


i wrote this while on a dissociative drug and some salvia
the story is called GUNTHER

[Anonymous No.22089836]

I have a short story (roughly 8000 words long) that I was hoping someone could proofread/edit before I publish it on Amazon. Anyone interested?

[Anonymous No.22090202]

Leaves falling in spring
Decay takes hold of young roots
Growing nevermore

[Anonymous No.22090344]

>>22090202
You a gay nigga
Someone should beat yo white ass
Haikus are for fags

[Anonymous No.22090359]

>>22090344
Why

[Brian No.22090377]

Sitting round the table was yours truly, Ed, Shane, Marcus, Brock, and Ramiro. Smoke lay over the table as does fog on a night out on the boat on the lake where its a chilly warm. The harmony of laughter slowly rested.
Okay, guys I got a good one. Alright listen listen here. Alright what do you call 5 black guys running down a hill?
What
Jailbreak
Jesus man
What oh the my god fuck man
Holy shit
Alright alright man thats funny but here ya go. Alright now what is white and 10 inches long
What
Nothing.
God damn,
Got em
Fucking hell
Ed looked down at his phone. Shanex made a change of face
Okay I got one I got one said Brock
So this white guy comes in one day, asks for extra hot sauce on his “ta-co”, i gave him mild, he couldn’t even tell
Hoooo got damn
Fuck me
Alright alright, where do you hide something from a Mexican? The top shelf.
Fuck bro
God damn man
Brock piped in, alright how bout this, how do you fit 50 jews in a vokswagen
Jesus man really?
IN THE ASHTRAY
The laughter exploded in a sudden sforzando and sustained with hardly any dips for atleast 20 seconds with various interruptions of ‘no’ and ‘oh my god’. Their bright chin jutting smiles circled the bag’s worth of objects resting on the table. Speaking of, said Ed as he lifted his left arm off the tables edge to grab onto the Dr. Smokenstein’s logoed ashtray so that he could bring it over to knock the ash off his cigarette with a few taps of the pale diminishing shaft. Everyone was still smiling but even those contorted countenances began to mold to more statue-like austerity with some small haste in less than a few of them. Alright well you guys want to smoke this blunt, piped Ramiro. Everyone agreed including myself. Ramiro is a very nice, well meaning guy. A little on the stockier side with a tasteful agreement of fat and muscle. He pulled out a long blunt and asked the question proposed twice already and said it was popcorn sour. What the fuck man, chuckled opining Steve. I said that they were coming out with Bernie botts every flavor beans type shit out here. This got a laugh from everyone especially Marcus, who is black.
Where’s the music man, come on, i gotta have some music said Shane. Who’s got bluetooth? One second motherfucker answered Brock. His thin face was looking down and his light brown cheeks shadowed like a movies star’s does. Alright how bout this.

[Brian No.22090384]

>>22090377
From the color oscillating illuminating speaker on the table was softly loud sound of a mellow seemingly Beach House cover act. They were good though, if unbearably tight. Man so what do you guys think of annie. I met you on the greeEEEeeeEEeEEeEEEEEn line.Marcus was singing along with low frequency harmonies from tall Ed when he remembered the words.
Umm I don’t know I think she’s alright
I think she’s cute as what fuck honestly do you
Mean she she’s just alright i caught you looking
Alright man it doesn’t really i matter
Don’t know what to say but god damn that booty opined yours truly.
That got a laugh from everyone even Ramiro ended his fit taking his hand off his patched thigh genes and crossing them against the button decorated charger black and leather vest.

[Anonymous No.22090432]

Just a shot in the dark for a "taxi driver" and "Deer hunter" disheveld young lost man with burdened with his past and experiences in military in modern day detroit projects kind of story.
It's long and doesn't really progress all that much since it's made to be a longer series and also i'm still honing my writing skill since english isn't really my mother tongue so expect many needless tangents and repetition. But if you do read it please reach out and give me tips

https://pastebin.com/ijBKwT9W

[Anonymous No.22090461]

This is also some kind of self introspective/destructive paragraph about the main character, if you want to check it out

https://pastebin.com/wctg6HHp

[Anonymous No.22090475]

I'm surprised by this thread; it seems most people coming to /lit who want to write are into poetry. I would've assumed fiction.

[Anonymous No.22090654]

>>22087190
It's actually good anon.You might have a future as a YA author

[Anonymous No.22090663]

>>22087985
This slaps

[Anonymous No.22090674]

>>22090475
Everyone who wants to write fiction knows about FNASR and wont post their stuff online.

[Anonymous No.22090767]

>>22087050
I am the fierce wolf
hunting and killing
without remorse.

I am the caring father
putting his children
above himself.

I am the indifferent donkey
defiling the land
with my waste.

I am the passionate lover
who admires all creation.

I am the hateful mosquito
spreading anger to all.

I am the amusing spirit
who is well-liked by all.

I am the apathetic ape
that cares for nothing
but food and sleep.

I am the creative artist
who is always crafting
a masterpiece.

I know this is shit. Please tell me how to write.

[Anonymous No.22091174]

>>22090767
i am the indifferent donkey

[Anonymous No.22091228]

>>22090767
I like your poem, but yes it only works once.
Maybe this could be an intro into a poem where you go into more detail of what the wolf does and so on and so forth.

[Anonymous No.22091452]

>>22090344
Megakek

[Anonymous No.22091464]

>>22087985
There once was a fellow named Slattery
Who wa fond of the course-gyro battery.
With that 50-vold shock,
What was left of his cock
Was all slimy and slopy and spattery.

There was a technician name Urban,
Who had an affair with a turbine.
"It's much nicer," he said,
"Than a woman in bed,
And it's sure as hell cheaper than bourbon!"

[Anonymous No.22091468]

>>22087050
i woke up this morning and it felt like spring. this is a good feeling, but it is overwhelming; it has the tendency to make me want to stay in bed, perhaps more than rainy days do. and so i ponder that overwhelmed feeling that i have, the one that is not quite bliss and not yet ultimate defeat. it is this same feeling that i keep here in my heart alongside the many versions of you and i. it is slippery, and clinging to it is as impossible for me as describing the feeling of seeing the sun peek through the foggy glass of my bedroom window. i will only ever be able to describe somewhat of what it is like, a half empty analogy for the fullness that wells up in my soul and spills out and into the world. it is a feeling that i would wish on no one, and yet everyone ought to feel it; this dull ache of shoes that are too tight, this vessel is perhaps too small sometimes for my soul to bear, and yet still neither wishes to separate from the other. indeed to speak of them as separate does a disservice to them, to us.

[Anonymous No.22091474]

>>22090432
If you didn't simply chatbot this thing, and you cut all that redundant stuff (there's a lot) it does seem to have at least a glimmer of potential.

[Anonymous No.22091526]

>>22087061
How do you guys type in these formats? Is it a specific writing software? Are you just formatting it like that on word or something?

[Anonymous No.22091684]

>>22087050
This is something I've written. Once this wasn't and now it is, behold creation in action.
Etching symbols in rocks is reserved for the monkey priests. Our rocks are flattened and stacked in layers. The layers make it so electricity is conducted conditionally which allows for small physical logic gates.
My buttons trigger different gates, the pattern of gates is recorded and a representation is replayed to you by switching millions of tiny lights on and off.