/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.3670994]

Let's see some excepts

[Anonymous No.3670996]

excepts

[Anonymous No.3671010]

you want my 'xcerpts you're gonna have to come and get em

[Anonymous No.3671028]

What the hell, I should be writing.

--

“She has taken quite a hold on me. She is so innocent. After all I have done...” His voice drifted off, and he turned to the larkspur around his room. Reaching out he grasped a stem and pulled it out.

“Look, my Familiar,” he said. The cat jumped from the table to the bed, and sat dutifully beside her master. He placed a finger in his mouth and bit down, then holding up the finger with blood black. When a drop hit the center of the bloom the entire flower shriveled up into itself. Pierre snapped his fingers and the opposite happened- a flower that had been dried and dead came to life. New blooms poked from the stem, and roots grew from the end. He leaned over to a pot of soil and planted the flower.

“It is easier,” he said, letting Pluta lick his small wound. It began to heal far faster than if he had left it alone. “There is a general ease to it. When before the spirits had resisted, if only gently, they now trust my own judgment and power. And while I still feel horrible after last night, I assumed far more pain.”

“You are a suitor of death, Pierre,” the cat said. “Did you not give yourself to Mora last night, dying?”

Yes, dying. He had been dead, for almost an entire hour, before by his own dark magick he had forced his soul to return to his body.

“Mora asked me to stay,” he whispered. “I returned for Lizzy."

[Anonymous No.3671038]

With a trireme of his own, Cyril now had subordinates to steer and row for him. But always, he remained at the prow of his ship. The captain’s quarters were practically unused. Cyril spent most nights awake, gazing across the vast Mediterranean. What little sleep he got was on the cold, hard deck. His men saw that Cyril did not hold himself above them, and they loved him for it.

During an unremarkable week of an unremarkable summer, Cyril was assigned to patrol the farthest reaches of Athenian waters. It was a do-nothing job. Most pirates had been eradicated ten years ago, and any left were not so stupid as to stray this close to Athens.

This, however, was the day a merchant freighter, laden with precious metals and spices sailed from the Asia Minor province of Phyrgia to make tribute to Athens. Unfortunately, the merchant ship had been greedy, carrying expensive oils as well. Someone had been careless with a lamp, and the ship was now a roiling cauldron of flame and death.
Cyril could see the smoke from miles and miles away, and rushed his men onward, to find any living soul that they might.

A massive storm was setting in. The sky was an ominous black, the thunder sounded as if the gods were shaking the very heavens themselves, and the air was so charged with lightning that Cyril could taste the burnt ozone.

Cyril could not reach the burning ship no matter how hard he urged his men forward. The sea is a harsh mistress, and on this day she chose to test Cyril. Soon waves as large as the ship were bucking Cyril and his crew farther and farther away from the burning freighter.

Cyril abandoned the attempt, as bitter as it was. He knew he would not find anyone alive, and recovering any tribute was not worth the lives of the men who trusted him. Cyril was caught in a battle against the storm, and the stakes were high.

[Anonymous No.3671080]

>>3670994
LOL Excerpts*

>Editing is part of the writing process.

[Anonymous No.3671107]

She used to do me even the smallest of kindnesses. Once it became apparent this wasn't a midlife crisis I had to 'ride out', little favours kept showing up. Fresh socks on the dresser. Baths pre-run when I'd get home. As for me? I couldn't even tell you her favourite colour -- I used to have people for that.

I guess that's why I share my bed with more pillows, rather than a warm body these days.

Not that the bed or the pillows for that matter, matter much. I sleep in what used to be my conference room now. The main reason being that it has a very large whiteboard. For these four years, I've mapped my entire existence up until this point on that whiteboard. I still can't make heads or tails of what's wrong with me.

Than again, I'm not really sure who me is anymore. I fell out of love with my TV, so I'm not sure what makes me laugh or cry now.

[Anonymous No.3671176]

>>3670994
>tfw you realize you are too retarded to ever write something worthwhile
>tfw the less you write, the more you hate yourself
>tfw still nothing

[Anonymous No.3671230]

Life has a voice

supposing the water at each place, where the finger stretches in each place in the high ground. And doesnt go any further because the land is too high, the water would disable itself or fail. just wait it will find a way....now you find- see that this prediciment i described to you. that there is no way to transform yourself, to become fearless, englightined being, that would be your end goal. this is not a glooming anounsment it is a very important communication it is telling you something, like the water is telling you where to go. the messahe is that you cannot transform yourself because the message is.... you cannot tranform your self your not, so let go of you're ego.. letting go of the idea of ''i need to be awekened from this old me'' cause that is' not there as soon you understand tht the faster you can improve.

[Anonymous No.3671277]

>>3671176
Going through this so bad right now.

[Anonymous No.3671285]

http://pastebin.com/MuPF8ku8

A chapter and a half from a horror novel I am considering just deleting. I'll probably just quit writing soon because of how godawful this is

[Anonymous No.3671288]

Because I had to bear my father's sword to the shrine, and because I was not wise or cowardly enough to hide it in my sleeping roll,but wore it at my side, at that place where the path leaves the forest to wind down the hills to the Wainsii river, three men challenged me.
"You come from the forest path armed. Are you a bandit?"
"I am not, worthy gentelmen; I walk the pilgrim's path. The sword is a relic for the shrine of my family."
Around us the twilight was settling on the pine covered ridges, and a mist rose from the river.

"We do not believe you. You come armed along the forest road, and we must challenge you."
"So be it: but I am not worthy to face any of you, therefore let only the least worthy of you challenge my blade."

They laughed because this was an old trick and I had not really expected it to work.

[Anonymous No.3671294]

Shining brass pushrods and calipers gleaming in the moonlight, The Autodray "Behemoth" shrugged off the miles and hills, the drifts and grades between Stepney and Arden. In the high box atop the tender-cart, the Kobolds laughed in the heat that would have melted a lead sigil as they shovelled the fine Newcastle anthracite into the chutes that ran down to the hellblaze beneath the shining bullock hump of the old 'dray.
From his own seat at the tiller-bar, Sean Paidrig Morton could feel the heat as a breath of cinder and dry air, and the tiny men's laughter was like the tinkle of brione bells rising out of a well at midsummernight.
He drew his driver's cloak about him a little tighter as the tracks curved and the november chill came around into his face full. There was less soot and steam, but more mist and frost. Behind him the brakers sat with their hands on the padlevers, waiting for a signal from himself. But the semaphore slabs said clear track for ten miles, and he could see about half that far himself, even with the mist and the twilight.
In the Passenger box between the brake cart and the tiller stand the new ambassador was hidden, and there were boards of Oak, Ash and thorn lining the carriage, to insulate her a little from the cold iron of the rails. Soon the moon would rise and the power of the iron would be less. Sean wondered if even now he were to turn his head and catch the sight of her face looking out at the port, what he would see. A thing of branch and vine and moonlight, crudely shaped like a woman? Or a creature of beauty beyond dreams, that would spoil him forever for earthly wife, and send him dreams that would frutrate him unto madness? He resolutely watched the mist, piling up before Behemoth's tall green funnel-stack."

[Anonymous No.3671296]

whats the point of writing if the thread will 404?

[Anonymous No.3671299]

>>3671296

To improve and save your text

[Anonymous No.3671300]

>>3671277
Don't worry about it. I'm 21 now, I know I suck at writing, but I embrace my suckery. I don't let it get me down.

I know that the majority of any anxiety attached to it is because I'm being to short-sighted. At some level I'm expecting whatever I'm working on to be amazing, expecting it to be published within the next six months, and expecting my adoring fan club to form within the year; yet at the same time I have the ambivalent knowledge that it really is a piece of shit with the occasional sentence that vaguely hints at potential.

I have told myself that I'm not even going to consider submitting anything for any kind of publication or agency consideration until I'm 30, and that has been a huge relief. I now write every day with no pressure at all, and seem to be improving. When I proofread something and begin to hate it, I know I still have ten years of practise left.

[Anonymous No.3671302]

Sharalla rose, startled, as the Forest god appeared. The horns upon his head curved back from his deep walnut brow in graceful arcs, and the furls of his long black curls exuded a scent like wild honey and rosehips. His voice was the song of bees in the tall grass on a hot august day.
"Well?" he arched an elegant eyebrow and casually adjusted himself beneath his leaf-patterend tunic. His cloven hooves scratching idly at the turf.
Um, Hail, Oh great Wardell, Um, recieve this sacrif--uh, sacrifice!" She satmmered and gestured toward the horse, scurfing in its hobbles as it sought a comfortable position on its spavined and jack-splinted legs.
"That?" the god frowned. "That nag looks like it'd be lucky to make it home if you don't carry it yourself. Did you walk it up the mountain?"
"Uh.." She lokked from the horse to the god and back, her heart in her throat and her own legs feeling none too steady. His shadow fell across her rising chest as he stepped between her and the sun. The musk and sweetness of his odor became overpowering.
"Look, horses aren't even an acceptable sacrifice for me: I'm a wilderness god and a fertility god. Farm animals are not really my thing." He eyed her smiling now, she was acultely conscious now of the low-cut leaf patterened leather garb the girls had dressed her in before sending her. And were they giggling behind their solemn instructions? She began to think they might have been.
"You look like a school teacher or a seamstress. Who sent you here? The Guild of Feminine Solace?"
Sharalla nodded dumbly. Inwardly cursing her trust of those damned Fancy-women.

[Anonymous No.3671304]

"I, Uh, seek..." She began.
The god waved it off.
"Of course I'll grant whatever boon you ask that is within my power, but we haven't arranged for an appropriate sacrifice. Are you a virgin, by chance?"
She was acutely conscious of the great bulge in his tunic. She shook her head, breathing a bit easier.
"Not even anally?" The eyebrow was skeptical.
"Uh, ah, well..."
"I thought so, schoolmistress. Arrange yourself over that log there.'
"But, but, don't you require, um, a blood sacrifice?"
"I'm about to get one." The god shrugged off his tunic.

On the way back down the hill, she was glad of the horse to lean against, and the horse was gratefull for the slow pace. There was no way she could have ridden.

[Anonymous No.3671307]

And at last, spoke:

"Let a man labor." he said.

"Let a man work and sweat and pour his heart out on the land, and let the blood of himself and of his father and their father's for ten generations agone be in it.

Let a man tell no lies, and speak ill of none: let him call not his brother a fool, nor go in unto the harlot, nor let pass his lips any unclean thing.

let him live with the name of righteousness ever upon his tongue.

"Yet there shall come a dry year.

When his harvest shall be of the dust.
When his crops shall wither in the field, and his kine be lean and barren:
when the locust shall not be denied, nor the raven turned away."

Here he paused, and, wiping his index finger on his jacket thrust it into the glass of water, and held it before his face.

"Then I say unto you; come thou unto me, and i will give you sustenance."

And he blew a single breath across his wet finger.

Then the crowd murmured and the air stirred.

And as though that breath had wakened something in the sky above them, the light changed: becoming as though in an instant, pale and yellow, and a cloud, no bigger than a mans hand, seemed to pass before the sun.

the man came forward out of the brush arbor, holding the glass of water before him like a torch.

The crowd fell back, toward the shadows of the trees where Tom leaned against his Nomad.

In the center of the clearing he held it over his head and looked up. as he poured it out upon the ground he spoke aloud a single word.

And from the horizon, beyond the obscuring trees, the thunder answered.

[Anonymous No.3671311]

>>3671304
>>3671302
10/10 would read

[Anonymous No.3671312]

I didn't see the knife until it was almost too late. I had had a letter from a guy I hadn't heard from in seven years, and It was bringing things back into my mind; causing old drowned bodies to rise out of the depths of my fictional past and turn their eyes towards me and grin before sinking back into oblivion. It had me off my game and it almost killed me.
Where Curtis got him a knife I don't know. Paid for it in blowjobs or smuggled pills or favors he was never going to get to deliver on maybe. A skinny, meth-crawling AN wannabe with a left arm full of 'house tats and a right hand full of coal-black, electric taped, spring-steel jailhouse murder, right there and ready for me.
He came up fast as I stepped past the corner and I thought he was about to throw something on me and run, which would have been like him. But he was too close: reaching out toward my ribs with that jittery earnestness you get from tweakers.
And he was not close enough, in a way. Not close enough to grapple and misdirect while the blade found my guts.
So I made three mistakes in a row and survived:
The first was letting my attention drift when I wasn't on home ground with my back to a wall. The second was not considering the possibility of Curtis having a knife and the balls to try anything with it. The third was assuming he was a decoy, and that the real threat was elsewhere.
The first two almost cost me my life, but the last one cost Blaine Curtis his:
I got the knife-hand coming at me and rolled around it, letting him carry himself forward, past me towards the far wall.
Then, when his arm straightened out and the elbow locked I brought my foot up and kicked the elbow while holding onto the wrist of the hand that held the knife. He shrieked like a scratched record when that elbow broke and I could have left it there.

[Anonymous No.3671315]

>>3671312
But I couldn't believe he was alone so I figured I'd have somebody else after me in seconds. so I took the knife as his spastic fingers dropped it and drove it up through the bottom of his adam's apple as he fell. then I flat-backed against the wall and waited.
Curtis was busy drowning in blood and doing a roll-walk on the grey concrete and somewhere down below I could hear the trustees mustering for their roll call and getting their duty sheets. Nobody else was anywhere. just me in the hall and dying Curtis. But I had blood all over me and knife in my hand so what could I do? I yelled for help and tried to keep The Aryan pinhead alive till somebody else showed up for him to die on. The knife went under his shirt where the blood could clean it, maybe.
They didn't buy it of course, but they couldn't prove anything either, and maybe word got passed that Curtis was after me--would have been nice if it had been passed to me, but there you go--and I got an extra six months tacked onto the end. Six months that maybe changed a whole hell of alot.
But of this you shall hear.

[Anonymous No.3671319]

I had picked up a blade of grass and felt it turn to red martian dust between my fingers. Above, me deimos rolled headlong through the naked starlight and stately Phobos followed.

Out by the frozen hulk of Miranda I felt Chandra and Ramirez watching me with their frozen eyes, their silent ship following the broken moon in a cat's cradle spiral. It is not safe out there for human things, so near to the stars. The clock of to solar system runs too slowly, and the vacuum whistle of the Hyrogen line creeps in beneath the music of heartstrings and the vibrations of the blood. It is the kingdom of old Saturn, who eats his children.

The grass returned to my hands and it was 1968 again and the pages of a magazine left on a picnic table ruffled in the breeze, the wind, catching up with the news. I got up and walked away through the deepening twilight of Hamilton, Ohio. Somewhere in the parking lot there was a car my keys would fit.

[Anonymous No.3671328]

And came down in Praha, ripped ragged from a nightmare over the Sea of Azov, he had thought for a second he was in one of those other planes, in one of those other times,back in the bad old days when the zippers didn't work and the coffee came too hot and too weak in steel cups that burned your lips and sat in piles of cigarette ash beside abandoned matresses in abandoned factory lofts smelling of pheromones and regret.
He was thinking of the dead girl, then, tthe last of many, flowing through his past like flotsam marionettes in a sea of piss and blood and vomit, giving up their bodies, giving up their friends, their secrets, finally their lives when the toothless, eyeless joint shattered and burned things he ahd made them no longer would have known what to do with them anyway.
Death, death had called him, dragging him out of the endless drug dreams and sunshine of the majorcan beaches. making the part of his brain that always answered scrub him and wash his gut with tea and antacids and enough amphetamine to keep him awake and then the black van and the tiny airstrip and the white and featurelss jet crouching like an albino scorpion at the end of a mile and a half of seashell tarmac.
There was a job he had to do, that only he could do, that only he he forgot all secrets, that cared for no answers and accepted no bribes, could do. For what could they bribe him with? He had them and his tools and his blades and braziers and brands and their quailing, wrenching agonies and the pale and the red and the black and blue and purple bruising, and oh, so many nights when everything they had had been paid and they could gibe up nothing else, and then they were his?
The last girl had been the last girl, he had thought, but no, now there was to be another. He breathed slowly, his heart racing as his kidneys and liver tried vainly to wash the speed and the adrenaline from his arteries. maybe there would be no last. maybe he was forever.

[Anonymous No.3671408]

Of course the only comment about a piece is the one with anal.

[Anonymous No.3671420]

>>3671408
well, you comment on one then. or on all, if you like.

[Anonymous No.3671432]

Sorry, /lit/

I dropped my piece in here without even contributing to give crit to anyone else. My excuse was I haven't slept in two days and I don't really feel like it, but if everyone just made excuses and dropped literature, all the threads would be like this one.

Next time, I'll try to actually do the right thing.

[Anonymous No.3671443]

>>3671328

I like it

[Anonymous No.3671458]

I wrote this right after reading Gatsby, which explains why the narrator sounds like a poor man's Nick. I just wanted to try and see if I could copy Fitzy's style for a couple of chapters. If anyone actually reads it, tell me what you think.
http://pastebin.com/E7hbiFWy

[Anonymous No.3671473]

Where clammy, hopeful heat is panting around the wooden floors
I, sitting beneath a bright, incandescent sun
With muscles untight and refrigerator on
Scurry through time and decay indoors.

[Anonymous No.3671483]

No

[Anonymous No.3671526]

>>3671296
everything here will be immortalized in the next issue of "/lit/ writers"

[Anonymous No.3671613]

They found the dead girl under the eaves of the old whitewashed dairy at the corner of the long pasture. they saw the broken dasher and the shattered churn, the torn dress and the vacant eyes.
The red riband binding her throat they did not see, nor the golden arrow clutched in the pale. cool hand. Those were meant for us.

We passed among them, unseen and unfelt, working: gently binding despair here, lifting up hope there, smoothing out the seas of grief and loss and fear. Before our minds always the passive, loving face of the Awful God. For as his eye is on the sparrow, so it is always upon the wings of his greater messengers.

Above us the Unseen City cast it's radiant shadow, welcoming us, calling us back from the dominions of decay and pain, and we would have taken flight. But beside the old well my companions saw a creature in the guise of a tired old man, and seeing that he saw us, and knowing by that what he must be, would have fallen upon him with the always ready blades of righteousness.

But I bade them hold, and approached him alone, for I knew this one of old.

"Hail Idorloo, Child of the Fallen."
"And health to your mighty self, Shaddaiel. Is this a business for the Detective Angel?"

[Anonymous No.3671618]

A piece I've been working on for some time now.

The stupid bitch pulled the revolver from her pussy pocket. Her hand covered in slime and her finger steady on the trigger. "Back the fuck up!" She screamed. I stayed calm. I kept my cool. Cigarette in my mouth and an erection in my pocket. I smiled and fiddled with the car keys in my hand.
"If you want to see Jared again, you'll have to come with me." I tell her.
I turn away and feel the breeze from the broken window. Shards of glass on the floor. Stupid bitch, I thought. She's going to get me in a hell of trouble.
She slips her skirt back on and pops some make up on her face. It wont cover the busted lip or the black eye. My mitts are raw and my head is tired. Time to take her home.
She climbed into my car and I stepped on the gas. Dashing through the freeway I flashed her my knife.
"How about some oral before we meet your fiancee?" I asked her.
She trembled in her seat. She disappeared from my rear view mirror. Into my lap and I'm sweating in her mouth.

[Anonymous No.3671662]

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I beseech your attention. In the final free moments of my life I will confess my crimes and injustices against humanity. I hope, although do not expect, for your sympathy to the distress of my mind and soul. The torturous vessel that is my body, plagued with a cruel and persistent fatigue – an unwillingness to move on – and the mirage that is my mind, possessing a narcissistic mentality yet set with a standard of mediocrity. “I am brilliant!” my mind shouts, yet the effort or lack thereof committed by my unjust body, and dull ideas conjured up by mind, makes my work anything but. Do not get me wrong, I do blame no one but myself for such excuses. This body, which I had no control over, whether in its construction or possession, is solely my responsibility. As the individual society dictated I become, I hereby consent, or do not, (not that it is particularly important), to administer complete responsibility for a predetermined decisions prior to my existence. It follows logically that such events would be my responsibility. And I thank modern society for empowering me.
.................
My name is disappointment, I am your lost child. My name is failure, I am your deepest fear. My name is society, I am your biggest friend. My name is pathetic, something you pretend not to be. My name is desperate, what you are afraid to show. My name is disgraceful, what we all really are. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury do not judge me because I do not have the temperance you do. I am but a child, annoyed and frustrated at world because his own inadequacies. I am not what society has brought me up to be, and I apologize I have disobeyed your society. But forgive me. I am but a man that is confused and torn in the world, and cannot understand why people don’t recognize me in the streets. Why I did not turn out to be the person they always said I would become. I am sorry for my failure.

[Anonymous No.3671692]

Somehow the long, fabled arm of history had brought them to this point. In the third positive millennium after the Divide according to the current count, at the point at which past men had looked forward to and figured things would surely be worked out by, the nations of the world had in fact devolved to a rather backwards standing. Somehow and dangerously equipped with Messianic weapons of rather advanced science, developed by better men in a better time, man simultaneously claimed possession to a somewhat medieval mindset that, lacking the subtlety that had characterized past relations, threatened at any moment to bring its troubled history to its inevitable and merciful end.

[Anonymous No.3671697]

>>3671692
Continued

The current government, would but that you could call it that, had come to power by democratic means (of course), although those means were the kind that held the offered ballot with one hand and the heart-aimed gun with the other – at least this was suspected by everyone but substantiated by no one, because substance was hard to come by in those times. In any case, the people in power were the people in power, and though their hold on it was fragile and incompetent they clung to it like a cornered animal and made suffer the man who tried to make it otherwise. This particular institution, rather than the many other fragmented remnants of the former larger whole, alone held the rights to the vestigial acronym “USA,” although due to necessity (for there was no plurality of states within its jurisdiction) these letters no longer stood for anything. Still, the letters by themselves seemed to hold some kind of power and were touted fiercely wherever possible, which was everywhere.

Wrote this while drunk, fragment from an idea I'm working on.

[Anonymous No.3671702]

>>3671618
gross dude also doesn't make any sense.

[Anonymous No.3671709]

Later we talked about the metaphoric raping of the Jews as perpetrated by Elie Wiesel.
“So you are going to ignore the pleasures of intellectualizing sorrow?”
“Oh, please. You sound like a pretentious teen-ager. Yes, I am going to ignore the pleasures of intellectualizing sorrow. I think I can make do without experiencing the holocaust through a smart Jew’s eyes.”
“Okay but what if that smart Jew found you and looked at you with those smart eyes?”
“Then I would probably cry and feel plenty of your so called ‘pleasing intellectual sorrow’”
“Pleasurable. Not pleasing, it is not supposed to be pleasing in the least.”
“Don’t talk semantics to me. It's like the weather. You’ve seen me naked.”
I wanted to tell her that was a weak argument as she looked nothing like a haulocaust victim and more importantly had never had the “Jewish war experience,” but I bit my tongue. .
“Yes, but not today,” I said. She gave me a knowing look out of the still puffy corner of her eye. It was a touchy subject, the Jewish condition and anorexia be damned. Watching her strip was like watching a rubber band lose its elasticity.

[I do find my misogyny kind of repulsive, but better to let it out here I guess.]

[Anonymous No.3671723]

>>3671702
You don't like it?
It's only an excerpt

[Anonymous No.3671769]

>>3670994

And then he pulled out his dick.

The end.

[Anonymous No.3671821]

>>3671723
actually I think some of it is pretty creative but I find the aesthetics distasteful. I know I sound like a square I just don't like things that bald usually. go in for more subtlety usually.

[Anonymous No.3671822]

>>3671618
it's okay. not much happens, it's just a little edgy.
it would be a lot more interesting if you took it further.
this is just a horny and violent lower class couple.
there aren't even any drugs mentioned. no one vomits, no one is even hurt, they just flash knives and guns without anything coming out of it.
have him put the gun to her temple while she's sucking him off, and then as he's climaxing have him accidentally pull the trigger and blow her fucking head off: "blowjob", haha.
"popped her cherry".
imagine that, you know, like a silly post orgasm regret, he's not hot anymore, except it's not just he was looking at tranny porn or something, yknow edging dangerously close to something really disgusting. he's got blood and brains all over his cock, sticking to his chest, sliding down the leather of the carseat and steering wheel. yknow, everything's just sticky and gross, he's sitting there trying to figure out what the fuck just happened, and he's not even hot anymore, his dick's gone flaccid. his dicks gone flaccid, and it's uncut-- the blood and brains are receding back into his body as the foreskin slips over the head.

idk, i mean, if you're going to write some shameless pulp nonsense, at least push it a little is all I'm saying. indulge.

[Anonymous No.3671824]

>tfw I will never be a writer
>tfw I will never know true glory
>tfw this is so hard to accept
>tfw
>tfw
>...

[Anonymous No.3671838]

Having long usurped the vigilant cock of its noble post, a fetid wind spawned of blazing industry now heralds the birth of each reluctant dawn, with no little ire does it languidly descend upon the heads of those unloved souls strewn about its wretched domain. In these cold and unsettlingly moist alleyways courses the tainted blood of a city knowing neither end nor beginning, born of a single man’s mad ambition and fueled by the despair of a billion others, of which there could be no dearth. In these forgotten gutters, where countless many languish beneath the penumbra of the several, there be a man cast crudely upon a mound of what could only be accurately surmised as squalor of some sort or the next. True, such an uncomely scene is not at all unique nor uncommon, rather it might well be the standard by which the proper denizen may hold himself to, yet to him alone awaits a destiny lacking not the least in the fantastical and the nonsensical, for so turns and bends the clockwork of fate splendiferous, if not generally belligerent.

I'm pretty satisfied with my prose most of the time, but I'm almost certain it gets in the way of the flow too much.

[Anonymous No.3671839]

>>3671662
Is this about that North Korean guy?

[Anonymous No.3671870]

>>3671822
holy shit I'm the square that just replied to him but this is really good you oughta write in this style, the entire post could be used in a book. not much happens was pretty much my exact sentiment, as it didn't justify the frank sensationalism.

"not even hot anymore" especially is good, you have a good vision. sorry if this sounds sarcastic, it's hard to make even genuine praise sound real on /lit/.

[Anonymous No.3671925]

>>3671870
Not really any point, there's a lot of lit with this material, by better writers, that I was biting from-- Laid Bare; Sick City.

I'm a little interested in exploring it in film, with a surreal/cyberpunk edge, I guess. I think your praise is misdirected.

[Anonymous No.3671943]

>>3671925
yeah it did remind me of Palahniuk a bit.

also I did like it so no, my praise is not misdirected.

[Anonymous No.3671945]

>>3671925
>Laid Bare

I mean the gilmore book, btw. you should give it a read if you liked that.

[Anonymous No.3671949]

Sent off to the war
Sent off to the war
Where no one thinks
and no one acts
except when down the barrel of their gun

An excerpt of what the men had chanted on the way through the jungle soon to be ash. The men were all sent on this mission to divert the enemy's attention, but also to die.

Sent spiraling down
Back to their hometown
To have one last kiss
Until the M.P.s come a knockin’

They had sung this to their death. So the slanted eyed men would go as their main forces were carpet bombed by flying metal dragons that sing across the sky. The men are left to wet the jungle floor with their blood as their enemies delighted in their victory followed by the screaming fire raining down on them.
These men, to Alley Rat, are now not Private Garcia, or Sergeant Johnson, or Lieutenant Gary, they are now 35. 35 men sent to their fiery death. He stamps the envelopes that are sent to the number’s loved one.
There is a man who is standing on a blasted church. He is crouched against the outer wall. A group of men in clinking metal march by. He clutches the wood stock on his gun tightly as he braces himself against the wall.
One man dressed quite nicely points to the ruined church. A younger one nods and rolls the clinking metal to where its facing the top of the church. The man says a prayer and kisses the metal cross tied around his neck loosely. He stands up. He fires.
Cobblestone is torn apart and sent flying around one the men’s legs. He knows he is already dead.
The machine recoils and the church screams.
A red cloud billows upward and the men continue marching.
The man succumbing to his twisted fate lying there in stone still has a few breaths left in him. He thinks how meaningless this plight of his own life was, and calls his situation proof of a cruel and unfeeling world. That the stars and planets lack meaning and the universe is just one cold unstructured flat plane.

[Anonymous No.3671983]

>>3671949
Damn, nice.

[Anonymous No.3672084]

>>3671038
>Babby's first historical fiction

[Anonymous No.3672120]

So, i wrote this piece the other evening on a challenge from a friend. Wonder what you guys think of it. The challenge was writing a story off this image: http://i.imgur.com/5RAkU.png

I was beginning to see why the owner had sold this place for a song. It was barely worth a whistled chorus, if things kept shaping up the way they did. Now, it's not that the place was ugly, or that there was anything wrong with the Thunderbird Inn that you would normally guess. No infestations. No problems with the structure. Space was fine. Location was optimal. Hell, we were walking distance from the airport, one of the busier ones around. But nobody would stay here. Word got around. See, I wouldn't say the place was haunted, but that's because i don't believe in ghosts. Nearly started to, trying to keep this place out of the red, but... somehow, i think this is a level of supernatural I don't quite have words to wrap around. Simple poultergeist activity somehow seemed a bit mundane in comparison.

[Anonymous No.3672124]

>>3672120
It started with the sign. I thought it was kids playing pranks. It was one of those adjustable signs with the stock lettering you could slide into place. Anyone could buy spare letters, go up, change sign, if they were that motivated to do so. One morning, what had once read simply "Cheap, comfortable rooms. Pool and Cable TV." read "Agonize". Before, the message had changed many times, to "Seek An Ending" or "Descend" and my personal favorite "Run". Not the usual profanity or slight editing into a bad pun or scatological / sexual reference. More artistic. I lost a chunk of change in the letters, but i figured i could catch the punk kids at it. Never did. Posted up a camera, nothing happened all night, then the camera blurred for a second of film, and then the sign had changed again. Left someone out all night watching it. They nodded off for a few minutes, they said, and the sign had changed. Refused to pay them for failing to complete job, but still left with quandry. Tried several times. No matter what i did, somehow, their attention was lost for just the minute or so that it took for the message to change. So i took all the letters off. It seemed a simple enough fix, and seemed to work.

[Anonymous No.3672127]

>>3672124
But that wasn't all. It wasn't anything blatant, you see. No mirrors with messages written in, or blood on the walls, or cries of "Get Out". The strangest was the bibles. The bibles were standard equipment for hotel rooms. Nobody notices 'em when they're there. But they started to notice the things that seemed to, between the time the maids came in and set the room, and the guest arrived, replace them. First, it was copies of other religious texts... The Qur'An, the Torah, the Analects of Confucius. Copies of the latest Watchtower. Then, Dianetics. Then there was the Necronomicon. The Satanic Bible by Anton LaVey. The Principia Discordia. Then it branched out. The Communist Manifesto. Plato's Republic. Mein Kampf (Which happened, by coincidence or bloody-minded evil of those responsible, to be found by a jewish family staying there. I thought i would never hear the end of what he had to say about that.) A copy of the Boy Scouts of America Scout Handbook, circa 1964. No apparent source. Nobody on staff went in with books on their person. The rooms weren't broken into. Nobody in the area seemed to have sold these books to anyone. Even firing the entire cleaning staff and hiring from scratch fixed nothing. Changing the locks fixed nothing. Not even neglecting to place the bibles prevented their replacements from arriving. All it did was save me the cost of the replacement bibles. But not the phone calls. The rude reviews i had no defense for. I was beginning to lose it.

[Anonymous No.3672131]

>>3672127
At the same time, guests were tearing apart our staff over all sorts of unexplicable, but perfectly mundane-seeming things. Wake-up calls at 4 AM that the guests never set, were not on our books, and were by an employee that we didn't have. Towels replaced with soaking wet ones. Sheets replaced with clearly-soiled ones, including one that had massive bloodstains across it, another covered in what were apparently a mix of lubricants and personal fluids. Nothing that i could track down. Though god knows i tried. Nothing seemed to be possible. Any possible source got either disproved or replaced and yet it did not solve the problem. And the reputation spread. It got so we couldn't give a room away. We were known as the worst hotel in the city. And we couldn't even play what occured to the supernatural angle. Everything seemed to be just... absolute negligence on behalf of the hotel staff. Nothing that seemed anything more than just a terribly run hotel. Despite my best efforts, the hotel ran itself into the ground.
I don't claim my actions were good, or kind. I don't claim any sort of good ground to stand on. Just closing down the place, tearing down the sign, and changing it to something else, just long enough to sell the place on market for even less than i'd paid for it to someone with a nasty look in his eyes, who was sure he was bilking me for the location. It wasn't the thunderbird inn when he came. He couldn't know what he was buying. But he was in it thinking he was robbing me. Just like i'd thought i was robbing the previous owner. I guess that sort of theft ends up paying for itself. I can't say I did a good thing, signing that paper, letting the poor bastard buy the place out from under me... but my choice was the only one i could afford to make, and it was not something I will ever agonize about.

[Anonymous No.3672134]

>>3672120
>>3672124
>>3672127
>>3672131
pastebin. jesus christ

[Anonymous No.3672163]

>>3671839
I was actually "inspired" by the Boston bombing. I thought of the motivation behind it, and if he were captured, what he might say at his trial

[Anonymous No.3672173]

>>3672163
I noticed that last paragraph may be hard to follow, but I pasted the first and last paragraph so the connection between the two is missing

[Anonymous No.3672186]

>>3670994
"All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy."

Well that's just an excerpt, and I got a couple of hundred pages to go at least! I can't wait for my wife to see the finished manuscript. I know it will bring us closer together!!! Grady, my bro, he thinks it's cool anyway.

[Anonymous No.3672193]

>>3672186
thx for the picture i dont think i wouldve gotten the reference also very funny 'joke' haha

[Theo No.3672211]

I stared in awe at the valley of shops and houses that grew in the distance, the massive ship under me fighting its best against the armies of waves. The ship slowly inched closer to the large village that rested comfortable on the coast. The waves continued their assaults, drenching me with the freezing water. My eyes were set ablaze as the salty water forced its way in. I yanked the hankerchief from my pocket, desperately trying to gain relief. My attempts were in vain, my vision blurred as tears began overflowing.
I stumbled away from the ship's edge, noticing the elderly captain sitting in a chair that struggled under his weight. His weary, gaze stuck to the nearly-empy bottle of vodka resting on the uneven table in front of him. Suprise hit me as he lifted his eyes from the bottle, his gaze leeching on to me. He gestured me over and rose from the chair, it sighed of relief from his weight. He grabbed a blanket from the cabin behind it and threw it to me, I quickly wrapped the thin sheet around my trembling shoulders. (I have a lot more written than this but it's a pain to type it out on this cell. And I've not edited it yet, so forgive the messiness of it.)

[Anonymous No.3672412]

>>3671949
Fuck off, this isn't your story to tell, nor anyone else's on this thread for that matter. By the way, shitty prose, shitty flow, shitty diction. I would rather jerk off with sandpaper and use a Brillo sponge as a cumrag than drag myself through a whole chapter of this.

[Anonymous No.3672434]

I have never been to Paris. Or Gorizia. For that matter it is rare that I have been in another country. And especially never have I ever been anywhere near Segovia at all ever. I have been in Madrid once when I was twelve but it is very hard to go to Segovia from there because the only way is through the steep mountains and over the old steel bridge. I was told so by a man with cirrhosis who had seen Segovia.
I have seen nothing and I have done nothing and I have lived a life of nothing. I have felt nothing in a woman and nothing in a gutted trout. I have been drunk on nothing and vomited until I was full of nothing and faded into nothing. I have learned that nothing is the truth and nothing I have experienced is worth writing about. I can say now, before age dulls my optimism, I know nothing.
I have said things. Everything I have said except to one woman has been a lie. I have said things that I imagine men who have seen Segovia would say as truths. I have said such things that boys and girls should think on where they have never been. These things I have said not to coax girls into bed but wooded clearings behind cabins or empty custodial shacks or any space not occupied for seven minutes.
I have betrayed only once because I have been loyal to only one besides myself and I am most merciful to me. I have betrayed
“Of what is it you think, chou?”
Do I tell my girlfriend nothing? Very well, then I tell my girlfriend nothing.
“Nothing.” I told her.
“Whatever n’importe quoi! I win!” she smiled a big tooth smile. I was very surprised. The gap between her front teeth was dark black under the lenses of my persols. Her skin was as tan as mine though I was still darker, like pressed shellac. I took my lenses off. She wore a pink linen shirt.
“Whatever makes you happy, lapin. Nothing!”
“N’importe-”

[Anonymous No.3672450]

bamp

[Theo No.3672452]

>>3672211
No feedback?

[Anonymous No.3672468]

>>3672211
>grew in the distance
not sure that works
>fighting its best
nope
>inched slowly
bit redundant
>rested comfortable on the coast
like it
>assaults
should be assault probs
>drenching me with the freezing water
I think >drenching me in freezing water
>my vision blurred
I think >my vision blurring,
and if you change that then also change
>began overflowing
to >began to overflow
>his weary, gaze
no comma there m8
>surprise hit me
wat
>sighed of relief
in not of, or 'gave a sigh of relief'
>cabin behind it
what's 'it'?

wrote this before I read your comment about 'messiness' but now that I have I may as well post it

[Anonymous No.3672470]

>>3672452
Dazzling is the one word I'd use, in a sort of vicious and cruel connotation of the word. My piece of advice to you is to cut out almost all adverbs. Adverbs are like the crack cocaine of the English language; they provide an effective quick fix in a sentence, but are highly addictive and over time can leave your style sickly and gaunt, reduced to propositioning itself to strangers on street corners.

[Anonymous No.3672474]

>>3672434
I quite like this. I like the use of Segovia as a sort of symbol, of what exactly I'm not sure.
It's a little clunky in places:
>I have been in Madrid once when I was twelve
But generally flows well.

[Anonymous No.3672492]

>>3672474
This is supposed to be a sort of diatribe on contemporary notions of masculinity, among other things, and I found myself inspired by Hemingway, my favorite author, if I do mock him at times. The setting of For Whom the Bell Tolls is about midway between Madrid and Segovia. I find Robert Jordan to be Hemingway's most masculine protagonist, and the story as a whole is very concerned with manhood. I intend synecdoche between Segovia and masculinity, then. I wrote those lines when I was a junior and had not perceived anything I had done as manly. I truthfully still don't, otherwise I would have laid this draft to rest a while ago.

[Theo No.3672493]

>>3672470
>>3672468
Anything else beside that?

[Anonymous No.3672494]

>>3672493
Yeah, keep going.

[Anonymous No.3672496]

>>3672493
Just stop your poor attempts of writing.

[Anonymous No.3672499]

>>3672496
>>3672494
I agree.

[Anonymous No.3672525]

>>3672499
I'm putting my vote on >>3672496

Or at least, stop sharing it, or at the very least, share it somewhere else with people who will lie to you or don't know any better. It's very cliche prose, btw
>I stared in awe
>drenching me with the freezing water
>My eyes were set ablaze
>I yanked the hankerchief
>I stumbled
>desperately trying
>elderly captain

very uninspired phrasing. read more. stop writing about things you only know from movies and shitty commercial novels.

[Anonymous No.3672543]

What I've written so far of a novel about a man that works in a mall arcade who is slowly slipping into psychosis.

http://pastebin.com/54m2TwgV

[Anonymous No.3672590]

>>3672543
>http://pastebin.com/54m2TwgV
>more then
Last line and also in the last line of the second paragraph. Please don't make him kill anyone and do your research before attempting to write about psychosis. I realize you're not actually that far into the story yet but the guy seems full of hatred and it seems plausible to conclude from what you've written so far that you'll have him shoot a bunch of kids. I also don't like how much he describes the games. It got tiring, especially when you're trying to hook someone into reading it. You wrote about how the kids would flood the place after watching a movie for example. I would have liked to read a little bit more about what that's like instead. Your character is also a bit one-dimensional so far.
If you disagree with anything that I've said, that's fine. Neither am I a native-speaker, nor do I know much about writing. I do know a bit about psychosis, though. And I do get really angry about it when it's portrayed very negatively. But not so much that I'd shoot some kids. So, just try to avoid having the story end this way.

[Anonymous No.3672610]

A murder of crows feasting on the naked bodies of mestizos suspended by their broken necks from a tree both ancient and majestic. First they devour the soft tissue eyes and tongues and open wounds inflicted by our knives and bayonets and guns before they move on to the harder parts of the bodies. Warm blood drip-drip-drips from the branches whose leaves rustle gently as the crows feed upon their flesh. Eyeless faces look at me mouths agape frozen in fear. I must write this scene down before I forget. I have chosen to write these musings down on paper for the impersonality and sterility of the digital tablets and computers is abhorrent to me. This notebook is something personal a journal a blank slate of my journeys in this world bereft of design.

This is supposed to be a journal of a crazed white supremacist modeled after Gilles de Rais and Roman von Ungern-Sternberg.

[Anonymous No.3672611]

>>3672590
Well thanks for your criticism and perhap I should have chosen my words more carefully. When I said psychosis I really should have just said insanity because that's probably more general and I wasn't planning on giving the guy any specific disorder, I just wanted the reader to get a feeling that he was coming unhinged. Also, I'll probably rewrite the descriptions of the games and try to make them more interesting

[Anonymous No.3672614]

The goldfish tried nothing. I found my dead cat. Snoopers. Snorted cocaine off him. Kidding. I had no cocaine. I buried the cat.

Lived in an apartment. Hard to bury a cat there. There are woods out back. Could have thrown Snoopers there. Could have. Wanted to be respectful.

It was night. Put Snoopers in my trunk. Heard him roll about while driving. Found a house. No lights on. This is where you rest Snoopers.

[Anonymous No.3672682]

>>3672610
> white supremacist
> von Ungern-Sternberg

What the fuck, man. Read some history.

The dude who pretended to be a reincarnation of Genghis Khan and a mahakala who descended to the Earth to bring about the final victory of Buddhism is not a 'white supremacist'.

[Anonymous No.3672715]

>>3672682

Please read my post. I wrote that he was modeled after those two guys.

Of course I should have elaborated and mentioned that he's modeled after their depravity and brutality, not after their ideology.

[Anonymous No.3672726]

>>3672715
>he's modeled after their depravity and brutality, not after their ideology.
OK, sounds good. At first it sounded like some sort of over-the-top privilege-checking rant.

[Anonymous No.3672742]

>>3672726

Good that I cleared that misconception, what did you think of the text? Too much purple prose perhaps?

[Anonymous No.3672811]

>>3672742
A little too 'emo'. A psychopath isn't 'emo', a psychopath is usually an uncannily simple and rational kind of person.

[Anonymous No.3672825]

>>3672811

Ok, a valid point. I visioned him to be a man burnt by relentless war and brutal ethnic cleansings to the point he starts to revel in atrocities, losing sight of his cause. To the point the atrocities he and his men commit become an end in itself.

[Anonymous No.3672849]

>>3670994
Small introduction line:

"They pushed her singed hair away from the raw aliveness of her face, saw warm white tears simmer from between her eyelids, and knew she had been struck blind by thunder."

[Anonymous No.3672852]

>>3672849
*introductory

[Anonymous No.3674222]

>>3672614
I loved this. I would read the ever-loving shit out of this book.

[Anonymous No.3674290]

>>3672614
>The goldfish tried nothing.
I would buy the manuscript just to read this

[Anonymous No.3674500]

>>3672614
Please tell me there's more.

[Anonymous No.3674686]

>>3672614
oh wow that's pretty funny

[Anonymous No.3674705]

Ugh let's see if I can get out of this funk with typing some bullshit up.


Randy considered himself accustomed to the antics of his friend. Seeing his friend clumsily pouring his parent’s prized vodka over a shot glass, however, was not an antic thought of.

“What the hell is wrong with you!” The red-head says, unsuccessfully trying to pull the Patron out of the moron’s clammy fingers.

Cloudy blue eyes lazily rise up to meet him, and okay, Randy definitely knows Jeff is far from sober.

“I live in your goddamn basement and surf the web for porn,” his friend says back. “What isn’t wrong with me, man?”

[Anonymous No.3674802]

The boy smiled.

Euphoria thundered along his veins as he danced amid the flames from which the ‘verse was born anew. Space and time expanded rapidly as the boy sang the stars into place and whispered life to the abyss. Galaxies were flung in every direction; to the corners of this new world did they fly.
One by one he stopped to gaze at each wondrous creation. He did not know for certain, but the boy did not think that these great worlds were any doing of his. Rather, it seemed they were born of an infinitely improbably set of circumstances. It was a magnificent thing to witness.

Time bore no meaning alongside the vastness of all space, so the boy never noticed the aging of his ‘verse as the search began. Here and there he looked, where the seeds of life bore fruit, but never did he find another to be his equal. All things began and then all things ended. It was the way of this new ‘verse. Why could it not be so for him?

Stars were born and died in a blink of the boy’s eyes as his search became more fervent. Where it had been filled with a sense of wonder and adventure fresh, now all that remained was rising panic. Things were happening too quickly, and soon, he’d be left alone. The euphoria he’d felt at the beginning anew fled as his whole body turned to ice at the idea of solitary condemnation.

He stopped for long enough to watch a world cool and life begin, but still he found nothing that could accompany him on his great journey. All beings on this world appeared to live for nothing more than the briefest of insignificant moments.

Panic became fear.

A million worlds flew by with only the most cursory of glances. He knew what he’d find there. The boy knew that none of them bore one that could accompany him.

[Anonymous No.3674803]

>>3674802
He slowed. It was futile. Continuing the search would only lead to the despair that was creeping up on him now.

Instead he chose a spot and stopped. Completely still, he wept alone as he waited for space and time to crumble.

An eternity passed him by and the stars began to freeze and die. Planets left their orbits and their life faded. Space and time began to collapse right before his eyes until there was nothing left but the boy and the abyss.

But maybe it was okay. Because the ‘verse would begin again soon. He just had to wait. Hope remembered dried the boy’s tears. Yes. All he had to do was wait.
The boy smiled.

[Anonymous No.3674826]

Louie didn't mean no harm by it. I know it ain't his fault. It was back at a barbecue, which turns out the weatherman was wrong, it was a little too chilly for that, but we had it anyway.
My parents and aunt and uncle sat around the back, swiping off crumbs. I bet the ants loved us that day. Anyway Louie was running around before he got lonely and came up to the table.

"What do you think of that Dana?" my mom said.

"I think she's still missing." My dad was so deadpan about everything it nearly killed my parent's marriage. Then it went dead quiet. We all heard the tchuk-tchuk-tchuk of Mrs. Ballory's sprinklers next door, and the clomp-clomp of little sneakers on the concrete street one over and the rustle of deep green against the trees.

"I think she misses her friends." Louie kicked his legs, hooking them under his chair. He got a real kick outta that, no matter how many times he'd done it before. He looked at me, his big brown eyes all lit up. I could tell he was a little sad, too. He was sensitive as hell. Even a leaf getting scraped made him sad. Every little thing in the world, he could feel. Trees don't feel pain, but don't tell him that. He won't believe you.

"You think she'll come home? I hope she comes home," he said. He did that a lot, say things to himself, or no one it seemed, half the time. But he didn't say it to no one, he just didn't say it to anyone. Now everyone was still quiet, because there's nothing you can say to a big-hearted kid.

[Anonymous No.3674829]

>>3674826


"Can I go play in the woods?"

"No. No. Not alone." She said the whole thing real quick, smacking her lips together and scrunching her face up.

"I'll go with him," I said.

"There's snakes in there. No." Again with the smacking and the scrunching.

"There's garter snakes, yeah. There's no cobras or anything like that." My mom just gave up.

"Alright, but watch him. Louie, go inside and get the bug spray for me."

The heat was getting to us. It was a cold heat, but all the sunlight made us sweat. We were all breathing a little heavier. The wind had died down for a while, and the sound of sneakers with it. A bird flew out of Mrs. Ballory's yard. Then her sprinkler started up again.

Tchuk-tchuk-tchuk.

[Anonymous No.3674831]

>>3671038
somebody other than this guy >>3672084
please give me some feedback
what should I do to make it better?
do I need to scrap the whole thing?

[Anonymous No.3674939]

Snaking traffic slowed to a slither. The driver parked the rickshaw and hurried ahead to see the delay.
"It is celebration. Laxmi day! We wait the parade go past. Not long time, okaykay miss? Very pretty miss."
"Can't we just go around? That guy is..." The American grunted in the direction of a moped driver that had taken to the curb.
"Do that" she said as she returned to her phone.
The parade swelled as it scooped eager participants along its course. Some tourists who had climbed out of a shiny engine rickshaw had gotten too close while trying to take photographs. They had been swept away by a wave of colour and re-emerged 30 yards down the road, twinkling with baubles, blessings and wonder.
The driver pointed at the tourists. "Lots of blessings for Americans miss, see! Very good time to be in Agra" She tutted and humoured him, bending over the side of the rickshaw to take a look.
"Great. Now, go around" she said, though their was obviously no way around for his cumbersome cycle.
The driver watched the parade with reverence. In Agra he took the small victories, the moments that reminded him of home. His village would be having a parade this very moment, smaller in scale but enormous in heart. He watched as a beautiful dancer painted arcs of spice and flower across the sky. She twisted and span in hypnotic rhythm, plumes of deep red and jade flying from her sleeve, swirling together in pools as fiery as her eyes.

[Anonymous No.3674959]

>>3674939
Her eyes. He took them and made them his own. The street became his canvas and he painted home. He danced, and around him his world brightened. Lush greens and fresh, clean browns splashed and clashed and settled in a watercolour puddle that shimmered under sunlight, unblotted by opressive smoke and high-rise hotels. He painted his own parade, picking up people as he danced through his village. Though he tried, he could not see his family. He tried to form faces on the colourful splashes that danced around him, each painting their own frail trail across the parade. Whenever he felt close to recognising a smile here or a flash of almond eyes there, they would smudge and fade and mash into a mess of blue, red and white.
As the parade moved to paint the next street over, the colour drained from the street leaving behind a stained canvas of dry, flaky copper, patterned with a net of bleached out stars and stripes.

[Anonymous No.3674961]

>>3672412
Rude, incompetent, and vulgar. You've proven that your opinion does not deserve to be acknowledged.

[Anonymous No.3674965]

>>3672610
Well written, I would definitely read this.

[Anonymous No.3674973]

The shit contained in his diaper was squeezed out of the sides the diaper due to the massive amounts of oily foul smelling liquid black shit that he excreted.
In the street he saw a girl. A girl with massive thighs. He immediately raced towards her, micro-penis in hand, and landed on her. The girl screamed and cried for escape, but fat illiterate shit was lying on top of her squirming and laughing and shitting. He couldn’t find his unit, it was buried under miles of fat. He was confused. He opened his mouth and began biting.
The girl’s screams were inaudible as she was sucked in by the immense throat of fat tiny-dicked Zack.

[Anonymous No.3674980]

>>3674965

>mouths agape frozen with fear
>overdramatized cliche.

First sentence is a fragment. For chrissake you have bad taste. Gilles de Rais interests me to no end, but I still wouldn't read this crap.

[Charles Bukkake !!fp/Ni9r8mMP No.3675014]

>>3674980
I understand that this excerpt is unedited. I have my opinion and you have yours. People on this board are so critical of each other that people are criticized by their own criticisms of others.

[Anonymous No.3675024]

>>3675014

I'm sorry. I overreacted. It wasn't even that bad; I think I'm just having a nic fit.

[Anonymous No.3675044]

It was after being rejected by a women he attempted to ask out that Samuel decided to change his life. He had learned so much about the hero, but the stories weren’t as clear as they should have been. They were pieced together from websites and news reports, films and personal accounts. There was not a definitive history. Samuel would have probably found a way to cope with this fact if his life was not situated squarely in the middle of depression and boredom. But, sitting in a dimly lit dormitory with his mind full of memories of that week’s rejection, his brain full of illegal substances that are commonplace among college students, and his ears filled with subpar indie music, he decided he couldn’t take it. He had to know for himself.
Three days later, he himself got on a motorcycle with what little money he had and a paper from the Dean of his school declaring his journey to be culturally significant for the understanding of the hero. His professors and classmates congratulated him for having the courage to take The Hero’s message of anti-consumerism and the evil of routine to heart as he drove off in the direction of the earliest known sighting of The Hero, a small town in Delaware. While they went back to their classes, some of them purchasing their favorite soda on the way, Samuel braved the highway, occasionally regretting not buying the more expensive jacket the salesman had offered him.

>First draft
>Probably terrible
>Trying out a new style

[Anonymous No.3675054]

B : I just don’t know what to care about any more.
R: Dude, I get you man.
B: No, you don’t.
R: Nah nah nah, I do man. You just gotta, I dunno, knuckle down and do something.
B: I dunno man. I don’t want to sound like a, a uhh, an emo or some shit, but there’s like no point to doing anything. It’s not even about – like, it’s not even about me ‘passing on my genes’ or anything like that, I’m cool with death and shit like that, I’m just like, accepting that I’ll die or that I’m too young and dumb to think about it properly. Fuck, what was I talking about?
R: Uh, no point in living life.
B: Yeah. I dunno man. Like what’s there left to do. Fuck, I’m only like 20 and I’m just bored. I’m like at this shitty point in my life where it’s too early for anyone to take me, like, seriously, but it’s too late for me to start learning a skill where I could become like one of the best, in the world. Like piano or some shit, if I started that when I was a kid, or like dancing or poetry or whatever, man I’d be sorted.
R: It’s not about that though. It’s about, you know, enjoying yourself and stuff.
B: But aren’t you like, worried?
R: Worried?
B: Yeah man. That you’re not doing anything worthwhile. We’re just sitting here wasting away when we could be doing something awesome.
R: I don’t know about you man, I’m feeling pretty good.
B: Oh shit, I didn’t mean it like that. The uhhh, the ‘urb, this is good shit man. I mean like life in general.
R: Sometimes I think I should think about stuff like this too, but that’s like thinking about thinking, and that’s just, fucking crazy man. No one gets that shit, like that Inception shit.
B: How is that hard to get man.
R: I dunno, I’m usually too high to like get it.
B: Yeah. Good film.
R: Yeah.

[Anonymous No.3675057]

Dammit. You're right, and as soon as I'm done with... this... episode...

[Anonymous No.3675064]

Fuck. This is gonna hurt bad. Just started writing this a few days ago so I haven't even begun to clean this up. Just writing thoughts down.

Not a single positive thought went through the unconscious man's head. His first day in the city didn't leave such a good impression, the last week had been a reality check up on his personal life, and on top of that, a powerful earthquake struck the city. The best part was that the visit to the small coastal town wasn't even necessary in the first place.
The man's eyes begin to slowly open, revealing a blurred darkness surrounding him. The man tried to lift himself up, but grunted painfully. A heavy set of bricks and broken wood lay flat on top of him. As his senses began to return, the voice of someone shouting caught his ear.
"Hey," the man struggled to voice. "Someone down here. I could use some help."
"I hear you!" A woman's voice shouted. " How many people do you think are there with you?"
Despite being trapped, the man was able to observe his surroundings. The stench of blood lingered in the air, and as he made out what looked like a person, he could see that a splatter of red had rotten on to the stone floor. The more he looked, the more brutality he saw. A woman's arm appeared to be crushed under a heavy slab of stone, with another piercing through her back. An elderly man appeared to have a bleeding gash coming from his forehead. The man that was still alive could only hear his own struggled breathing in the collapsed building.
"I'm... I think I'm the only one down here," The man strained to say.
"Don't worry!" the girl shouted again, but with what sounded like annoyance directed to someone. "I'll get you out of there myself!"

[Anonymous No.3675065]

A and Z stumble into the apartment. They kiss for a second, then A holds Z’s head in his hands.
A: You’re gorgeous.
Z smiles.
A: Oh god, no, please don’t smile.
Z: What?
A: I mean this, I really do. Fuck, I sound fucking crazy. I just, I just don’t do this kind of shit.
Z: I know you don’t. Neither do I, let’s just fucking go for it.
A: No no no, I want this to mean something. Like, don’t regret this.
Z: I won’t.
A: Just don’t regret me.
Z: I don’t!
A: I’m just thinking that I never do this, I never say like nice things to girls, especially when they deserve them! I’m just not used to it.
Z: Andrew, it’s okay, really.
A: No, it’s not! You like, know you’re gorgeous, and, amazing, and, well yeah. You’ve heard this stuff before. It’s just like a thing for you, you’re used to it, probably. And I don’t want to be like another guy that tells you you’re beautiful. You are! Don’t get me wrong!
Z: Andrew, calm down. It’s okay.
A: I just want to show you want I mean. Not like – not like sex or anything. I just want to show you what I feel. And words and actions aren’t very good at that.
Z: Well how are you meant to show people what you feel?
A: I don’t know.

[Anonymous No.3675066]

>>3671302
>>3671304

I likey

[Anonymous No.3675075]

>>3675064
"I'll get you out of there myself!"
The girl outside rushed to throw as many pieces of debris aside as her strength would allow her. She tried calling out for help, but either no one close enough to hear her, or they had been too busy trying to help whatever other potential survivors they might have found.
Despite hours of scathing through debris, the woman had found only this one survivor within the last twelve buildings.
The man trapped inside could see some light beggining to seap through the cracks little by little.
"You're getting there," the man said with a cough.
At this point, the man felt his head beginning to thrash about from the inside.
The girl began digging even faster, encouraged that this could be at least one life she could save.
The bricks and rocks seemed to be endless for the girl, but the man's groaning forced her sore hands to keep digging. After about twenty minutes, the girl was able to clear a path to the man. The light on his now revealed face showed him to be no younger than eighteen, and no older than thirty.
She threw aside the heavy rubble on top of him and tried to dust off the man as he quickly got on his feet.
"Can you walk?" asked the girl with a concerned voice.
"Yeah," the man said with another cough. "Thanks for gettiing me out."
Stretching his back, his somewhat torn maroon hoodie and jeans showed the girl how fit he actually was. The man appeared quite tall, possibly taller than six feet with a few inches. He had short black hair that seemed to make him look relaxed. His eyes were blue, and he had an innocent but sturdy face to him. He appeared to be at a higher physical condition than most men, and seemed capable of being able to intimidate anyone who would cause a problem for him.
"You're welcome," said the girl with relief.
The man looked at the remains of the restaurant. In total, there were eight visible lifeless bodies.

[Anonymous No.3675079]

>>3671822
>and he's not even hot anymore, his dick's gone flaccid.

lol

[Anonymous No.3675080]

>>3675075
The man began walking with the girl out of the broken building, trying his best to hide the pain he was feeling in his calves. He still felt weak from the lack of food, and was also quite thirsty.
Taking a quick glance at the girl, she clearly appeared to be around her early twenties. She had long straight light brown hair that went to her back, the color looking unnatural.
"How long was I stuck down here?" asked the man.
"A while," the girl replied. "Maybe ten hours?"
The man's stomach growled as he lay his hand over it. "No wonder I feel so empty then. Sorry to be a pain, but would you happen to have anything for me to eat or drink?"
"Just follow me to my car. We'll see what we can find." replied the girl.
She was taller than most girls he knew. At a guess, she was no shorter than five and a half feet tall. Her amber eyes identified her as intelligent, capable, and cautious. She had slightly tanned skin, and certainly wasn't muscular, but she was far from being weak as all of the rubble she had moved appeared quite heavy, let alone without any help. She wore jeans and a dark grey t-shirt with a dark blue falcon image on it.
"So uh... can I ask your name?" asked the man trying to make conversation to distract him from his leg pains.
"It's Hisako," the girl replied confidently without looking back at the man. "Hisako Keyes. And you are?"
"Lucio Diakos," replied the man respectfully. "So...Hisako Keyes huh? American dad?"
"Yep," replied Hisako. "I'm a bit mixed. I was born in the United States, but my mom is Japanese, and my dad is half Native American, half American from Welsh descent."
"Must have been interesting how they met," said Lucio trying to make the communication lighter.
"Yep," said Hisako denying the attempt. "And what about you? Your name is kind of weird. Never heard of the names Lucio, or Diakos before."
Lucio shrugged and scratched the back of his head.

[Anonymous No.3675087]

The man sat on the edge of his deckchair, breathed in, and let go. He was alone on the beach, where hours ago, it was a place to relax, a playground, an event. Now, the sun had disappeared behind the thick layer of grey above him, just as the weatherman had said. A smile began to form when he realised what an amazing era he lived in, when even the weather could be predicted, but it faded as quickly as it started.
It wasn’t about being alone. At first it was, but then he began to see the beauty in things that shouldn’t be. He liked to challenge what was normal in his head, with his own eyes, and take it all in.
He didn’t know what to think. That’s why he came here. ‘A grey beach’, he thought, ‘doesn’t make sense. When I think beaches, I think of friends, drinking, being warm. Yet here I am.’ And he loved every second of it.
No children laughing. No waves of heat beating across his body. Nothing.
The man closed his eyes, and thought of nothing.

[Anonymous No.3675089]

The small asian on the bicycle, whose last name, due to a German father not found in her phenotype, was Lang, and who never went by her first name, turned off the bike path, and into the dorms. She carried a modest-sized shoulder bag, red with a black panel, that closed with trident clips like those found in a toddler's car-seat. Her pens, notebook, ipod, and other homework essentials could be found in the bag, which she wore over one shoulder, and across her body. The strap of the bag pulled her sweater tight into her cleavage.

[Anonymous No.3675091]

>>3675089
Lang locked her bicycle on the rack, climbed the stairs, and turned the corner to Svetlana's apartment. It was Thursday. That meant that tomorrow was Friday, and that meant that she and Svetlana would each have a paper due presently in Professor Searle's schoolyard anthropology class. The professor, a crusty old man with a scalp so pimpled it looked like something that the local Domino's pizzeria wouldn't even serve, was fond of what he referred to as “inquiry based learning”; he did the inquiry, you did the learning. Lang objected to this teaching method almost as a matter of principle, preferring, in general, not to spend her Thursday hours composing a “five to ten hundred word answer” to a question the good Dr. Searle had spent, by the looks of it, all of five minutes posing, back when he was still a good Dr. and not the zombified tenure-addict that wheezed when it inhaled during lecture.
This week, the assignment was “Compare and contrast the similarities and differences between the cultural significance of the schoolyard game 'tag', as played by, respectively, mid-westerners, and the children of succesful movie-actors living, and attending school, in LA. Make sure to keep in mind, and pay attention to, the ways and means by which these groups interact or influence one another, and vice versa. BONUS: discourse as well on the respective prevalence of the modern variants we discussed in class (e.g. 'lava monster', 'sharks-and-minnows', etc.), and how this challenges or threatens the conclusions you've drawn above. NOTE: do not consider activities that involve some element of either occlusion, location, or both, as these more properly fit under the category of hide-and-go-seek games, which we will be covering next week, and/or possibly in some cases hide-and-go-seek-tag games, which are outside the scope of this course. (Intrigued pupils may wish to take my Anthropology 121 course, when I offer it in the Winter.)"

[Anonymous No.3675095]

>>3675080
"Well my family is a bit mixture of Greek and Costa Rican. We're all American born, but mom and dad wanted to give a unique name to their children. They were a... bit strange."
"I'll bet. You have any brothers or sisters?" Hisako asked with little curiosity.
"Yep," Lucio replied. "Two brothers, and two sister... they changed their names to sound a bit more normal."
"What stopped you?" Hisako asked somewhat coldly. "Your name sounds like you came straight out of some weird cartoon or game."
"Well I like it." Lucio replied quickly.
"Still weird," responded Hisako intentionally aggravating Lucio.
"...Ah crap," said Lucio with realization.
"What is it?" asked Hisako with a smirk. "Come to realize how stupid your name is? I recommend changing it to-"
"NO!" Lucio snapped. "It's... I just bought my car the other day. Not even ten freaking days. And now it's totaled under that bulding."
"Oh... sorry about that," said Hisako with sympathy.
"Jesus Christ... I'm just gonna need a ride out of here," Lucio said angered.
"To where?" asked Hisako.
"San Francisco. It's whereI live," Lucio said grimly. "You don't have to do anything. You already did enough helping me out here."
"Well to tell you the truth, I don't exactly have much else I can do for now," Hisako began explaining. "I was just told to look for anyone who was stuck and get them medical care. And since there aren't any hospitals that are exactly empty for now, how bout we drive you to a fairly open one?"
"You sure?" asked Lucio. "It's a big drive. Aren't you with any groups that are part of the clean up crew?"
"Nope," said Hisako. "I just drove by here on my way to Los Angelas and thought I'd try to help out as best I could. But my hands aren't exactly fit for duty right now." she said as she showed her worn out hands.
"Well... thanks," said Lucio with confused gratitude.

[Anonymous No.3675099]

>>3672614
I enjoyed this

[Anonymous No.3675122]

>>3675089
Small in penis size right?

[Anonymous No.3675125]

Steeped in the amalgamation of muddy coffee rings, old tissues, and all else that was essential to the integrity of an anti-socialite, the desk belonging to Paul Stapleton served as the all-intensive centerpiece and command center of the small Amherst apartment it found itself in. This desk hid away in its decades of nicks, stains, and smells one thing that its owner worked occasionally and unsuccessfully to negate—averageness.
The desk was designed circa 1975 with a full wooden body, completely maple, and it had smooth angled corners. Its short legs were firm, stable, and supported the large bulk of the desk and its six thin cabinets. It also had a very thin veneer that provided a dull gloss, and prevented dust particles from sneaking their way into the sturdiness of the wood. The desk was created by a middle-aged woodworker in Boston, to whom desks were an art form and a lifestyle.
One might argue that Paul Stapleton had about the same level of complacency as the maple desk in his apartment, but then again, the desk was consistently functional and didn’t have an alcohol problem.

[Anonymous No.3675140]

>>3674222
>>3674290
>>3674500
>>3674686
>>3675099
either samefag or /lit/ has a terrible sense of humor. there isn't an ounce of wit in there, the pacing is all off, you can't even keep it consistent and where it strays is clearly on accident because of your own mishandling. "Wanted to be respectful", "Could have thrown Snoopers there", they're too fucking long, the 'punchlines' should be there. Change the fucking name, it's too assuming. stilted sentences are the most basic and contrived way to write dryly. what a joke.

[Anonymous No.3675161]

>>3675140
Pretty damn harsh.
Couldn't agree more.

[Anonymous No.3675163]

It was nearly daybreak when Frederic heard the sound of ripping paper echoing inward from the front door. The inn was the only in town and guests were constantly tearing off the flyers that were posted on the wall, so he though nothing of it. He began to place chunks of wood into the fireplace, arching his back as he strained to toss them in one by one. The grunt of a floorboard behind him made him stop and turn around. A massive man with a smile sewn to his face stood not a foot before him. He wore studded leather over cotton cloth, and a thick cape made from wolf’s fur ran from his shoulders to his knees. A blade hung on his waist. Frederic’s heart quivered as he recognized the piece of paper in the man’s hand.

“Would you like some help with that,” said the man, smiling, seemingly unfazed by Frederic’s apprehension. When Frederic did not answer, he pointed to the chunk that Frederic had dropped, and took a step over to pick it up. He held it between his thumb and forefinger.

“You really look like you could use some help,” said the man, smiling. He gripped several more chunks between his fingers and dropped them into the fire. Time passed in silence until Frederic’s wife walked in, freezing at the sight of the man leering over her husband.

>is anyone feeling anything from this? I can never tell when what I am writing is good or bad until I get a friend to look over it. Weird thing is I can write poetry just fine.

[Anonymous No.3675165]

Bob brought the cookie slowly to his mouth. He was staring down at it... the bridge of his nose was in the way of his magnificent cookie... so he started tearing it off. Blood was spewing out as he clawed at his own face violently. A nurse walking by was alarmed but not surprised. She hurried over to the bell beside his bed and rang it twice. In minutes two other nurses came with the necessary equipment. "NO" Bob yelled. "NOT THIS TIME" "I WONT TAKE ANYMORE OF THIS" he lunged at one of the nurses. It was a great flurry of nurse and gowned, bear-backed Bob as he started to eat the nurse. The other nurses began dancing... it was an animalistic impulse in the heat of the moment to start dancing to a cannibal act. Low guttural noises cam out of their mouths...

this is the Mental Hospital.

SCARED YET???!!

[Anonymous No.3675179]

http://pastebin.com/VMrC0niP

A first draft I will definitely touch up but for now I am just glad I have it down

[Anonymous No.3675197]

>>3670994
Amateur attempt at an elegy:

The lost lambs in Iran soon to be announced
Ran up and then past me to meet the faces
And victims of life lost yesterday

It took a cruel disaster to make me
Realize what my brain failed to realize

Boston is red
(Reaching a conclusion I neither gathered
Nor earned)

A Black-capped songbird dipped its head again

Our stone faced fathers stood still
As siren's sounds began to echo
And a black-capped songbird muddled a melodious tune

Between the wall of glass and I and She
Till under the boon of a Starling's light
She rose from the cattle's floor

Beginning Again

To sing muddled tune
A black-capped songibrd dipped its head
To hit the highter note

Beginning agian, a black-capped songbird
With compulsion, squeaked out a muddled tune

Stone face fathers stood still as siren's sounds
Suddenly began to echo

Dipped its head
And rose up agian
To sing at a higher tune

The winds of our Canyon, though grand, took notice
Meanwhile, a black-capped songbird dipped its head

[Anonymous No.3675208]

Stop posting things if you're not going to bother reading and criticizing anything else itt.
If you don't trust your own taste enough to properly criticize another person's work,
pro-tip: your shit is not worth sharing

[Anonymous No.3675213]

"So this is fucking, it" mark murmured form his whiskey/budweiser/redneckspirit breath, "this is the fucking end" my eyes peered at from the blurry stained car window. What remains, what remains of my town lies in pieces.Just like mark mix alcohol I mixed emotions, denial and what must have been my last attempt to make small talk with this not so safe buzzed driver, stated "are you sure this is it"?

"Are you sure you lived here"?, drunk remarked "this place hasn't changed none for at least 100 years", one more act of defiance, the last time of last times, once more I let out "This couldn't be it, I mean the trees look to be in same place, the houses are close....but, I am sure as hell this isn't it"

Mark may have been an angry, cynical, drink-mixing drunk, however, he was wise enough not to argue with a home sick delusional person....a "me" I would call it, raising his voice a bit "End of the fucking road, get out bud" still, last time of even the last of the last times, murmured silently trying to persuade myself "this isn't it" But, I knew, I knew the place really hasn't change at all, Maybe the wisdom of being 30 and with as my wife puts it, and oddly selected for me "hipster" perception glasses has made the good ole, american disneyland this town used to feel, look like a just another shithole place for baby boomers who want to die to live at.

Thinking of Shit, Thinking of Baby boomers, Thinking of people who live like they want to die, regardless of my denial before and now, My "dad/farther/ashole/the person my kids need to see before he gives the fuck up, and kicks the bucket he so wishes to kick, fucking lives here.
Sorry for the grammar...............................................

[Anonymous No.3675216]

>>3675208

i die a little inside everytime i see that picture

[Anonymous No.3675719]

Today they brought young native girls at the cusp of womanhood arranged naked before me a hundred and three in total. Their eyes gazing at the floor their fear palpable I walk among them appraising their appearance and posture discarding pock-scarred faces or a myriad of other imperfections marring the flesh on display. Finally I see her a girl worthy of my attention she is not a day over fifteen firm breasts the size of melons and wide child-birthing hips like a heathen fertility idol. Her face is sculpted of a certain savage beauty untouched by aryan admixture raven-black hair flowing gracefully down to her shoulders. I lift her chin up so that I can see her eyes black orbs like onyx mature and mournful beyond her years. I tell the conquistadors to take her to my room and collar her to my bed and to do as they please with the rest. They comply with great haste driving the terrified flock before them eager to deflower them fighting each other for the right of primae noctis it is of no concern to me. Their raucous cries recede and I am left alone.

[Anonymous No.3675737]

>>3675719

Commas, motherfucker, do, you, use, them

[Anonymous No.3675762]

>>3675737

I've left them out intentionally. Do you think it's a bad thing?

[Anonymous No.3675775]

>>3675762

Yes.

I feel out of breath just reading it.

[Anonymous No.3675779]

>>3675775

Ok, I tried to emulate the style that Dalton Trumbo has in Johnny Got His Gun.

[Anonymous No.3675788]

She sat next to him. “I like you a great deal, Wilfred.”
“I feel lost.” Wilfred said. “What should I do, my sister?” She clung to him tight, this kindred spirit, this missing piece of herself. His hand, pale and unmuscular, rested itself upon her knee. There was a sharp intake of breath from one or both of them. Hedvig leant forward, her body resting against his. Their lips merged. Wilfred, clumsily earnest, groped at her chest. For the first time in her life something stirred within Hedvig, that mysterious sensation known as feeling. Her soul, hitherto dormant, awoke itself, and she became a person, as that one defining thought, that instinct that drives humanity to all it has ever done, good or evil, came to her, perhaps several years too late but nevertheless welcome all the same. As her brother began to properly kiss her back, Hedvig thought: “This is incredible! I want to experience this more, or else I might as well not exist!”
There were footsteps from the other side of the hedgerow. Abruptly brother and sister parted. Marcus von Hauser materialised at the right-hand side of the bushes. “Hedvig, darling, it is time for goodbyes.” he said, his voice mechanical, or moreso than usual. He didn't look at Wilfred. “Come and sing for your aunt and uncle, and we shall send you to bed.”
“Yes, father.” Hedvig said. Marcus nodded sternly, and then vanished. Hedvig waited until his footfalls had became muffled, for the click of the door shutting behind him. She kissed Wilfred again. “I want you to marry me.” she said to him, and then when this sounded absurd: “Or just to look after me.”

[Anonymous No.3675792]

>>3675719
I like this but it's far too quickly paced without any punctuation all the nice description sort of blurs into one sentence and becomes impossible to appreciate on its own terms instead just a screamed utterance in the midst of a violent storm impossible to pick out and understand as it's currently written.

[Anonymous No.3675802]

>>3675792

Ok, so using punctuation would make the pacing better and make the text easier to digest?

[Anonymous No.3675809]

picking one at random...scroll scroll scroooooooll STOP

>>3675065
uuuuuuuiiiiiiiiiiiiaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhohohhhhhhhhhiohrrrrrrrrrrrhghgl i got nothing, do-over
>>3671107
i guess it might be interesting. in other words, the vagueness is not achieving its intended effect. you left off the most interesting part, the blunt realization - this is half of a teaser.
scroll scroll scrolll SSSSST-
>>3672610
a lot of words. many 'of, the, their', those kinds of words, those and 'ing'are usually boring. "A murder of crows feast on naked mestizos suspended by broken necks from a tree ancient and majestic." that changes the tense but you're already doing a weird present thing. (I don't mean that negatively.) I'm not crazy about repeated and's instead of commas (certainly not both, fucking Delillo), but one use here and there is okay. it doesn't build when you do it over and over like he does, it's just cumulative, it's always the same 'and'.
but you didn't do that! moving on, I can see noting the blood, but why the rustling leaves? we already know the crows are eating these folks. "mouths agape frozen in fear" is typical. in the sentence "I have chosen to write...", replacing the 'for' with a dash would make a big difference in how the sentence is understood to fresh eyes. Last sentence needs to be proofread I guess. actually googled the paragraph to see if it's already a thing 'cause the inspiration seems so specific. would read more.
scrooooooooll ST-
>>3674959
I'm not reading two parts
>>3674973
ohyohyohohoyhoyohyohoyhoyhohohohoohohohohoooooohhooooo
>>3671312
I have never liked any use of the word "oblivion". if I cut out the first sentence, the story is understood exactly the same way, but the first sentence is there because the second doesn't hold up as an opening. like when a movie starts with a 30-second flashforward to a guy on the verge of death in a crazy setpiece, and then jump back to him hitting the snooze button.

character limit educa oofumco sasasasasasasasasasas

[Anonymous No.3675813]

>>3675802
Yeah. If you're trying to capture a certain feeling with the lack of punctuation, then I think moderation is required, but as it is the pacing of it prevents any appreciation of what each bit of description actually means. I like it otherwise, though.

[From the intro of my award win(...) No.3675818]

Nedson was a man who, if you cut him, would bleed smoke. He was perpetually stoned to the bone but savvy, and like smoke, if you tried to grab him tight, he'd just split up six ways and slip through your fingers. Up in the matching towers they didn't even know his name. They just called him the Dragon, because the guy was always grinning, seeping smoke from his nose, mouth, and ears too. The name was pure theatrics but it was obvious he loved that shit. Down here, in the low rise twenty four hour sprawl that stretched out like a goddamn mold, we just called him Nedson. He had inherited his role as the man with access to the North Twin from his late father, the former Head of Custodial Affairs (read: top janitor) for 33 years before ignoring his own yellow “wet floor” sandwich sign, slipping down a flight of stairs, and breaking his spine into as many pieces as it took to end a man's career. He was still laid up in the hospital as far as I knew, his blank eyes as good as dead. Anyway, guess what his name was? Ned. No shit.

[Anonymous No.3675824]

>>3675809
>>3675813

Thanks for the constructive criticism guys! I'll go over the text try to improve the pacing and to make it easier to read.

Would the phrase "mouths agape frozen in fear" be better as "mouths agape, frozen in stillborn screams"?

[Anonymous No.3675828]

>>3675719

I actually like the lack of commas. You could add in and divide up some sentences though. As it is it's too quickly paced. I like where it's headed though. You're obviously a fairly skilled writer.

[Anonymous No.3675831]

>>3675824
Frozen in fear is a bit of a stock phrase, but it's a working one. "Stillborn screams" might overload the sentence a little.

[Anonymous No.3675832]

>>3675828

Yeah, maybe the sentences go on for too long. English is not my first language.

[Anonymous No.3675836]

>>3675818
>Nedson was a man who, if you cut him, would bleed smoke. He was perpetually stoned to the bone but savvy, and like smoke, if you tried to grab him tight, he'd just split up six ways and slip through your fingers.

I like this.

[Anonymous No.3675842]

>>3675824
I don't know, both of those seem like first drafts for communicating fear. the mouths are always agape, often in soundless or eternal screams, and they're always frozen in fear, or fear is etched in their face, or it's in their wide-open eyes.

as it is, that sentence seems to be for mood. when you're going for mood, you gotta get obscure and weird, because you're not providing plot/character content to distract people from thin ideas. so you wanna say these people were scared before they died? come up with some weird detail you haven't read that often. maybe piss is dripping from their toes. I don't know. that's my first draft haha

[Anonymous No.3675850]

>>3675842
btw I didn't mean to say your ideas were thin, I meant that's what plot/character content does in general

[Anonymous No.3675855]

>>3675836
Thanks dude.

[Anonymous No.3675894]

Her people weren’t made for traversing this far North, of that she was certain. Still the Empire moved forward at every opportunity on all fronts. [Nameless] found it hard to imagine the Empire relenting in its imperialistic pursuit until the four corners of the earth stood under its dominion. Judging by the retched conditions, this, she decided, must be one of them.
A little encouragement could be found, in the air, which was thick with clouds but relatively thin with snow, and the leeway of unobstructed vision that allowed them. The winds, however, were howling like wounded ethereal beasts, ramming the army from all angles as if trying to escape limitless confines of torment, whilst a heavy sleet bit at any exposed flesh like maddened mandibles with a craving for blood.
As of yet the only other advantage she had found, to journeying to the ends of the world, lied in the purely aesthetical domain. Softly melting snow sparkled like dew across the vast open expanse, crunching pleasantly underfoot, as the early morning sun, orange in its hue, peaking over towering mountains that stood as monumental giants, sought to soften it.

Generic fantasy novel shit. Is my descriptive language up to scratch?

[Anonymous No.3675901]

>>3675818

I like this. Good work man.

[Anonymous No.3675904]

The magazine, 'Mondo' had a fairly typical cover of a reclining lady, vividly coloured, though the rest was in black and white. On the sixth page the grainy image was of a woman in a strange chair with locks at the wrists wearing a large conical helmet. The text was blobbly and impossible to make out for any sort of context. Page eight was a big image of a little girl. She was in ribbons and wore a ponytail. On her face was an eyeless mask, bound tight. She was crouching, bird-like, in a white hanging dress, beside some indeterminate shape in the background. The setting was too unclear to make out.
I turned the page. Overleaf were six photographs, in order, depicting this little girl slitting open the chest of some kind of carcasse. It looked like a bear. The long fur, drenched in coagulating blood was then parted and the wound opened up and emptied. And then she was sitting inside an peeering up at the camera behind her white mask. And in the final panel the wound was stitched shut, child inside.
The caption underneath read: "She has sealed her fate.'

[Anonymous No.3675913]

Reason. Rigid, emotionless, pure and masculine. We, the Sons of Liberty represent the apollonian side of our minds. The all-conquering will to power. We acknowledge the superiority and dominance of reason and our apollonian side, but that does not stop us from tapping into the irrational dionysian side of minds and to harness that power. Our war of Liberation was not only a campaign of annihilation fought conventionally with bombs and bullets against its lackeys and serpent-tongued sycophants. No, it was far more than that. The Liberation was a war over the minds of men as well, against the very ideas that were the foundation of the System. Our righteous retribution against enemies without and within hardened our cadres, stained their hands with blood and thus ensuring that there would be no turning back and no surrender, only victory or death. As we went further down that bridge-burning path, shedding the petite bourgeoisie morality on the way, all available weapons and tools became viable, with the logical conclusion being Operation Valentine. The Liberation broke down other barriers too. We created a climate of constant anxiety and fear with our raids and purges, a sword of Damocles like no other hanging above a nation. When one can die at any moment, their true nature is revealed. Many turned to unbridled hedonism as an escapade from harsh realities, entangled in brutish couplings as the world around them burned. Sex and death are intimately intertwined like love and hate, you see. Women, like dogs, respect strength and dominance above all else and in us these martial virtues are made manifest like in no-one else. A generation conceived in the trenches, baptized in the fires of the Liberation and ready to absorb our dogma from mother’s milk.

[Anonymous No.3675918]

>>3675913

C: What the hell are you talking about?
M: You do not understand? Look around you. Look at the world we have created. A renaissance like no other. Is it not magnificent? We have destroyed, no, annihilated an entire culture. A culture that grew too fat and weak and self-indulgent to defend itself. Crushed it beneath our heel like conquering barbarian kings of old. The ever-moving circle of history like an Ouroboros. The decadent city-dwellers and the barbarians at the gates. The Systems cancerous memes and inferior genes will be wiped out from the face of our world, a tabula rasa like no other. That odious dysgenic matriarchy will be but a bitter memory. The ranks of race-traitors hanged high from lampposts or shot and shoved into mass-graves like sardines as monuments to their ultimate failure.

[Anonymous No.3676052]

>>3675901
Thanks, appreciate the read.

[Anonymous No.3676055]

>tfw procrastinating instead of writing, every weekend for 5 months

[Anonymous No.3676062]

>tfw procrastinating instead of writing, every day 4 lyfe

[Anonymous No.3676080]

Been softly dreamin' of springtime showers;
Stolen monotonous Sunday mornings with you.
Been patiently longin' for the peace found in your pallid palms;
Pacing out of the H-E-B with ice-pops for the summer to come.

[Anonymous No.3676321]

>>3675044

>TFW no response

[Anonymous No.3676342]

>>3676321

[RomanianRichard No.3676433]

Che had heard enough and already began walking back towards the emergency stairwell he'd entered from. It wasn't until he descended down to the second floor of the metal steps that he rammed his fist into the wall in furious animosity. A small circle of dust blew away violently from the concrete surface upon impact, and he felt the bones in his knuckles ache from the blow. NatGov had outmaneuvered him again. Freddie's grandmother passing away, what bullshit, he thought to himself. Charlotte Fleense was dead, that much was true, but Che knew for sure it wasn't from any natural causes.
NatGov had pulled what Bolezn liked to call 'Gidry Golovy.' For description, he often used the analogy of cutting out a piece of someone's emotional form in order to sculpt them into something stronger and more efficient. Like the Hydra, for every head you cut off, two returned in its place. Bolezn saw the people who underwent Girdy Golovy to be the luckiest of the Plates. He explained that it would be those individuals who would lead the Plates into unimaginable prosperity and wonderous development, and that it would be those leaders of men would be the same to commit Girdy Golovy on the Plates as a whole. Che, on the otherhand, believed it was sadistic and sick. Losing his parents all those decades ago to NSPE dilution didn't make him stronger, it had instead turned him into a monster. It made him unfeeling and uncaring, and the numbness he felt to the world around him wasn't something he would wish on anyone--least of all, Freddie.
Girdy Golovy; pushing a man to his breaking point so he could become a tool for those above him. That's all it was, Che knew. He just hoped for NatGov's sake that Freddie didn't find out the truth, because a boy that skilled filled with blind rage could bring about a fair level of chaos to an infrastructure as digitally connected as the Plates.

[RomanianRichard No.3676436]

Che had heard enough and already began walking back towards the emergency stairwell he'd entered from. It wasn't until he descended down to the second floor of the metal steps that he rammed his fist into the wall in furious animosity. A small circle of dust blew away violently from the concrete surface upon impact, and he felt the bones in his knuckles ache from the blow. NatGov had outmaneuvered him again. Freddie's grandmother passing away, what bullshit, he thought to himself. Charlotte Fleense was dead, that much was true, but Che knew for sure it wasn't from any natural causes.

NatGov had pulled what Bolezn liked to call 'Gidry Golovy.' For description, he often used the analogy of cutting out a piece of someone's emotional form in order to sculpt them into something stronger and more efficient. Like the Hydra, for every head you cut off, two returned in its place. Bolezn saw the people who underwent Girdy Golovy to be the luckiest of the Plates. He explained that it would be those individuals who would lead the Plates into unimaginable prosperity and wonderous development, and that it would be those leaders of men would be the same to commit Girdy Golovy on the Plates as a whole. Che, on the otherhand, believed it was sadistic and sick. Losing his parents all those decades ago to NSPE dilution didn't make him stronger, it had instead turned him into a monster. It made him unfeeling and uncaring, and the numbness he felt to the world around him wasn't something he would wish on anyone--least of all, Freddie.

Girdy Golovy; pushing a man to his breaking point so he could become a tool for those above him. That's all it was, Che knew. He just hoped for NatGov's sake that Freddie didn't find out the truth, because a boy that skilled filled with blind rage could bring about a fair level of chaos to an infrastructure as digitally connected as the Plates.

[RomanianRichard No.3676445]

>>3676436
Some background:
>Che is short for Chevenchko, the last name of the protagonist in which this passage revolves around(Zdorovy Chevenchko).
>Bolezn is Che's brother. The two used to work together under NatGov up until Che had left the organization due to its immoral stature.
>Bolezn and Che now consider each other enemies.
>Freddie is a young and highly proficient hacker that worked with Che for a short time before being captured by NatGov.
>NatGov is the single global power that exists in what's left of the world and their actions/goals are righteous yet less-than-ideal.

[Anonymous No.3676461]

>>3675818
This one isn't that bad. The narrator is a little too nudge nudge buddy haha for me. Could take out "The name was pure theatrics but it was obvious he loved that shit" and " Anyway, guess what his name was? Ned. No shit." and you wouldn't lose much at all. Very meaningless characterizations.
>“wet floor” sandwich sign
What? Sandwich sign? I didn't get that. Is that meant to be referring to how they fold up? Is that how they're called? I dunno, I would've just said wet floor sign or folding sign or warning sign or plastic sign.

>flight of stairs
don't say this. might as well say murder of crows >>3672610
>breaking his spine into as many pieces as it took to end a man's career
too much flourish I think.

I like that it reads pulpy, I'm not really sure what "From the intro of my award winning nouveau cyberpunk" is supposed to mean, but it does read like genre fiction. The problem is you're putting the tasteless indulgence/extravagance in boring places.
Describing Ned and his smoke is good, because it's about drugs, that's cool, because they're scifi drugs. We want to read about that. No one cares about Ned's janitor dad slipping and hurting his back. You should be trying to get past that as fast as possible to get back to the drugs, to get back to the violence and the next gen degeneracy and the anti-authorian motifs and hamfisted religious commentary as fast as possible, because that's what we want too.
But it's good, the writing is steps above all the posts surrounding it.

[Anonymous No.3676465]

>>3675213
anyone?

[Anonymous No.3676474]

>>3676465
see:
>>3675208

fuck off, why don't you go over someone else's post and ask they return the favor?

Pro-tip: use said. murmured, remarked, stated, it's stupid and distracting.

[RomanianRichard No.3676528]

>>3674802
>>3674803
I dig it. I get the sense of immortality from this passage. What's the main plot here? Is there one? Or is it just a living thing's recollection of a universe's lifespan flashing before its eyes?

Needs more, but the skeleton you've got down is quite solid.

>>3675014
>People on this board are so critical of each other that people are criticized by their own criticisms of others.
This. I get pretty decent feedback from /lit/, but I have to wade through a massive shitload of negativity to see where the real critique lies. Don't understand why we can't have critique threads with a tone that's a bit more positive.

[Anonymous No.3676539]

>>3676528
>Don't understand why we can't have critique threads with a tone that's a bit more positive.

The only thing worse than awful writing is people praising it.
Anyways, most of the critique is coming from the negativity, you're wading through the unnecessary I like it's to find it. If the people itt knew how to say what was good about what they called good, they wouldn't be calling it good.

[Anonymous No.3676550]

>>3676528
and your thing reads like a comedy
>NatGov had outmaneuvered him again.
lold

>Freddie's grandmother passing away, what bullshit
lold

>Charlotte Fleense was dead, that much was true
Very hamfisted way to provide a name, "characterize"

>to be the luckiest of the Plates
Wtf. You're bringing in too many names. Gidry Golovy, Bolezn, they're too awkward, and NatGov sounds like what you'd see in a dumb parody. The Gidry part started to catch my interest, but it didn't go anywhere and was cluttered in shit.


Sorry for the bad critique, after what I just said above, but really, it's hard to say more when it's such shit writing. The first paragraph is genuinely really funny and I'm still not sure if you're taking the piss but I feel like you're not because of the indulgent second paragraph.

>chaos to an infrastructure as digitally connected as the Plates.
lold

[RomanianRichard No.3676557]

>>3675054
A bit self-indulgent, and the overuse of cursing gives the scene kind of a lazy feel to it. Cursewords should be either used sparingly or in unique ways to kind of give the reader a kick out of hearing them in their head. EG: "You are constitutionally incapable of shutting the fuck up."

I get the vibe you're going for with this, but it doesn't feel all that natural, it just kind of feels like you're talking to yourself. Keep working on it, give the conversations more interesting(a weird) topics of discussion.

[RomanianRichard No.3676574]

>>3676550
>You're bringing in too many names.
Meh, they're all established and recognizable names at this point. This is from about 88,000 words into the novel.

The first paragraph reading as humorous makes a fair amount of sense, as it's transitioning between a comedic scene to a more serious one. Thanks for the critique though, not much I can do with the names at this point and going forward, but I'll look into possibly changing the tone of the first passage.

[Anonymous No.3676579]

My son, my son, my beaming sun
Take boys steps towards a man
The vice and virtues of the world
Are out of your command

The seven seas are poisoned now
The fields are choked with sand
All outstretched arms you run towards
Are held in Satan's hand

The clocks are slow and flagging now
The wind has petered out
The axis grinds upon us soon
And time is slowing down

What strides you take pave death my son
Beyond my breast's abyss
Inferno traced on every step
A seraph's Judas kiss

The light lies down to sleep tonight
The sun takes leave of Earth
The God's renege on human gains
Our prayers tamed by our hurt

The universe has lost her shine
And tears drench nature's face
The past has come to claim her price
But you still have my embrace.


But you still have my embrace, my love, you still have my embrace.

[Anonymous No.3676588]

Here's something I wrote in five minutes for a flash fiction thread a while back:

An inch beneath the soles of his pink fleshy feet the metal grav-plating of Burt Cromwell's spaceship vibrated furiously, shaking in synchrony with the intense thrum of the un-muffled, poorly maintained Mega Turbo Ion Drive. Muted as it was by the shock absorbers of his HALO-Boots, Burt felt only a dull tremble, and this meagre input was insignifact enough to be ignored completely. He had done this before, you see. A hundred, no! A thousand times, and each one was identical to the last. It was only the aftermath that differed, and even those experiences, in all their alien, ethereal, inexplicable beauty, blurred into homogeneity after the first thousand trips. Cromwell was a professional, and to be branded a 'professional' once must display care, attention to detail, experience, and even adoration for one's chosen field, and indeed, all these things our hero had in abundance. Yet professionallity, from time to time, also implies another thing: complacency. Complacency, apathy; the curse of the bourgeois. To err is to be human, and Cromwell, for all his myriad virtues, was only human. It was on this occasion that he made a mistake, missing, in his complacency, a slight shift in the tone of the vibrations beneath his feat. While seemingly insignificant, this change signified that the engine of Cromwell's inter-solar craft was on it's last legs.

1/?

[Anonymous No.3676589]

>>3676588
>Cromwell

GRRR I FUCKING HATE CROMWELL

[Anonymous No.3676591]

>>3676588
And so, as Cromwell began with weariness the routine that would open the great metal doors of his ship, which pirouetted slowly, silently in the ebony envelope of space, miles above the surface of the jungle planet J24-A567-V-78, one of his aft engines imploded, as things do in space, silently.

He awoke some time later - having been knocked unconscious at some unknown point between exiting his ship through the metallic maw that had come into existence in the aftermath of the aforementioned catastrophic engine failure, and his seemingly miraculous landing on the planet's surface - with somehing soft underneath him, with the pain receptors in his legs screaming at him like nobody's business, with the sound of an alien bird cawwing high above him, and with his eyes sealed shut by a warm, sticky fluid, which he, in all his wisdom, imagened might be crimson were he able to see it clearly. "Bugger" he thought. "I've really screwed the pooch."

2/?

[Anonymous No.3676593]

>>3676591
Burt, eyes closed, fumbled around on the front of his suit for a handful of minutes, eventually grasping onto the emergency helmet release switch, twisting it 180 degrees anticlockwise, then 270 degrees clockwise, and jettisoning his helmet - with a light hiss - high into the forest canopy above him. He didn't hear it land. Rich, thick, sweet-smelling air envelopped his craggy, stubble-covered face, and he - with no small amount of effort - opened his eyes. His assumption in regards to the sticky fluid had been correct, and he proceeded to make another assumption. For a man as used to dealing in facts, figures, hunches, and raw, unbriddled manly instincts as Burt Cromwell, making two assumptions in such little time was enough to make him giddy. His head swam. He glanced at the dial on his wrist, a piece of long redundant machinery plugged both into his suit, and directly into his nervous, digestive, and circulatory systems. It was flashing purple. "WARNING" it warned. "POISONOUS ENVIRONMENT DETECTED. DO NOT REMOVE HELMET."

3/3

>>3676589
I-I'm really sorry about that.

[RomanianRichard No.3676779]

Loud knocking at his door slowly stirred him from his slumber. Ignoring it at first, he clenched his eyelids shut, willing the pounding to cease. It didn't. With a strained effort, he opened his eyes and made out red, elongated hexagonal lines of light from his bedside clock. '3:27,' they read back. AM or PM, he asked himself. The hollow banging at his door continued and he began to rouse himself to more conscious state.

"I'm up!" Freddie shouted back, and the knocking ceased.

He debated with himself if he should bother throwing some clothes upon his shirtless form for a few moments before finally deciding against it. Guessing it was three in the AM, Freddie justified his half-naked body would be an acceptable presentation to whoever decided to pester him at this late an hour. More impatient knocking came from the otherside of the abode's wall.

"I said, I'm up!" He replied again, his tone increasing with irritation.

"Yo, kid. It's Len," came muffled from behind the door's threshold. "Get your ass up, I've got something for you."

Freddie rubbed a hard mucus-like substance from his eyes and yawned as he stumble-walked to his door.

[Anonymous No.3676804]

Please Read:

http://pastebin.com/0Fn1XCBb

[Anonymous No.3676844]

>>3675913
>>3675918

Any comments?

[Anonymous No.3676985]

The last time I saw the old man, he was leaning over the railing of the bridge. He shivered and lifted his arm reluctantly to the will of the eager ducklings. My cheeks flushed and my nose nearly frozen, I shuffled on briskly, thinking to better catch him tomorrow. The next day he wasn't there, and the day after that, I stood alone and watched that dark sky with its hue of freshly pinched skin. I looked down at the lake and noticed how the snow seemed to disappear as it landed on the silently flowing water. It made no impact, as though it was never really there. This thought chilled me, although to this day I've never understood why. I walked on to my class. I never went over the bridge over duck lake again.

[Anonymous No.3677039]

>>3676985
Last line seems a bit cliche. Noticed that, not how. Otherwise quite nice.

[Anonymous No.3677072]

I am an old man now, but when I take the time to think on it, I do not recall a time when I did not feel old, and it is only now that my body has finally caught up and become as decrepit as my core. Please do not mistake my sentiment, I hold no particular grudge against this curse of deterioration, in fact, on quite the contrary, I welcome it. After all, the very idea that one can still fear death when faced with the ultimate, clinical reality that we have all been dying since the moment of birth is absurd. This may seem depressive or even morbid, but I perceive the proposal purely and plainly as one of the actualities of life, with no self indulgent pessimism or self pity intended, but only with a sense of relief that I am still on schedule with nature’s intentions. My breath is slow, heavy, laboured and takes much more of an effort than I would like to admit. The onset and effects of arthritis in my hands and the depths of my shoulders are a bearable hurt, which is perhaps worse, as they provide me not with pain of the kind that pushes you to remedy yourself through groans and moans, but instead the sort in that uncomfortable threshold where one finds himself in constant aching twinges, unable to find respite, but also with not an ache of such a seriousness that one would sacrifice his gentlemanly composure to cry out from the malady, which leaves me in rather a disgruntling predicament.

[Anonymous No.3677890]

>>3671038
>mfw no feedback

[Anonymous No.3677910]

He rinsed the sleep from his eyes, first with hot water, then with cold. The chrome faucet gleamed under the warm tungsten glow of a transparent 200-watt bulb. There were towels, row on row, soft and white, neatly folded in small nooks of stained teak. He took his time. He patted himself dry. He wiped the countertop with a slow and ritual precision. He found comfort in this process, in the repetition of action and in the familiarity of his own features traced beneath wet fingertips. He could not remember them having ever felt any different.
He had napped earlier in the foyer. The dream that took him was old. He knew because it had the flavour of a memory, though he couldn't place its context. Upon waking he recorded it, as was his custom, speaking softly into a tiny microphone. He'd forgotten much his life... not because of disease or dementia, but because he'd lived too much life too be remembered. In this, he was like most people, and while he would not claim to recall any more than was average, he felt that the collection which he curated was rare, and therefore precious. Today, visions bobbed and receded from his mind's surface like chunks of meat simmering in a murky stew. He remembered. He forgot. Chunks in murk. He recalled the act of recollection. Cameras pointed at cameras. He did it all at once -- spinning, lurching, and burbling. He thought he remembered the thing itself, or as nearly as he could tell. He seized it.

[Anonymous No.3677941]

>>3675904
pls respond

[Anonymous No.3677956]

I came out of schooling with nothing but my ephemeral “dick in my hands”, nothing to show but a broad spectrum of common knowledge. No one understands why people commit suicide in these years until you live it out yourself. You sacrifice the beauty of life, the overwhelming freedom that comes with living to sit at a desk and take your tokens. They mean nothing and they meant nothing.
The last day of final exams came and I passed all of them with decent grades, skimming by the bottom like in a triumphant fight of nights without sleep, massive amounts of caffine and nicotine. By the end I had been more exhausted than before, my body ached, but I was free to do what I wanted, see who I wanted, be who I wanted, myself. Fully. I would not do that, instead the days spent working sapped my energy. I went in and did my part, I went in and worked my ass off and saw nothing from my actions. My hands worked and they worked but that’s all they did. They day came out of no where. Driving my red kia down the midnight roads. Underneath lofty stars, the speedometer hitting 110 seeing how fast I could go, how much I could push the limits of my own fear. My heart raced faster than it ever did, screaming down the road in the middle of the night watching lights buzz by in a triumphant glare against the windshield, and I kept going and going and going and the thrill of hearing the wind rush by and the thought that I was only sitting feet above the rushing earth was exhilarating. I could have went home but I skipped the street where I lived and kept going. This is how life is, to keep going at the fastest pace imaginable, without stopping, without fear but in a constant glow of life, teetering on death, but life can only be lived when you push the limits of yourself. And just go.

[Anonymous No.3677990]

i have a deep scar that runs from my gooch to where my balls were all the way to the base of my penis. My friend Davy's got a scar too, on top of his head from the nape of his neck all the way to his forehead. My name also starts with D and that's why we're friends and why people call him D. Brains and call me D. Balls. I call Brains "D.B.", and he calls me "Baldy" (Ball-D), although I am the one with the longer hair and he's the one already going bald. If you want to know where the scars came from I'll tell you what Brains thinks, he says he cracked his head open on the kitchen floor when he fell out of my vagina. I don't remember this happening, but I WAS pretty drunk that night, so who knows? Take the pen, D.B.

Thanks Balls! We wrote this when we were in high school, and it wasn't important then. we were just filling up notebooks when we had time; that is one of several introductions we've written, and actually what you're seeing now is a heavily edited version of our work already. Baldy died with half of our writings stowed away in a hidden location, so I've just had to draw on my memories for some of his lines, or complete some of the missing parts, or just call on his ghost to come and finish things up by taking over my body while I go into a trance.

Now, like Baldy mentioned in the introduction, I got this crack in my skull when I fell onto the floor out of his vagina. And it IS a vagina. BallD was being sarcastic up there, but in all honesty I have to tell you that the man had a cooch. He could fool anybody, but I have seen it, and it's a vagina, not a scar, and the story about me falling out of it is true. It sounds like a bad dream, but the truth is that BallD's my real mom and he gave birth to me when he was only 15.

[Anonymous No.3678550]

>>3676461
Appreciate the feedback, I do think that one of the obstacles I face in editing my own work is being unable to discern which of my sentences "work" for the reader and which only amuse me - for instance, the smoke sentence gets a lot of positive reactions but there are others "as many places as ittakes to end a mans career" that have no impact. At the same time, what moves my writing forward is a desire to amuse myself with turns of phrase.

Also, while I could probably drop or edit several parts of the posted paragraph, that Nedson's father's name is Ned is the sort of punchline I couldnt take out.

Anyway, thanks for the read - i do appreciate it.

[Anonymous No.3678572]

Might as well.

’’Did you get them?’’

’’Yes, I got them, Jenna. I swear you’re the most annoying person I’ve had to work with.’’

’’And you’re the most irritating husband I’ve had to live with.’’

Cars flashed past them, throwing up thick cloudlets of dust and occasionally sending roadside trash airborne. A toothless and sunburnt man lay against the squat brick wall next to the gas station, irresponsive to the flies which had invaded - what may be loosely termed - his private space. Jenna poked the old man, whereupon she opined that he was probably dead; Louis eagerly took a few pictures of him.

They had come to S’Eltrit due to an assignement given to Louis. He was ordered to take, in the impassioned words of Mr. Nestorus, his employer, ’generation-defining’ and ’vividly stunning’ pictures of the revolution in progress. They had been in the country for no more than half an hour, during which time Louis had already accumulated a formidable collection of photographs. A woman crying amidst the vestigial rubble of formerly majestic buildings, cradling a small child; a rusty bicycle abandoned in the middle of the road; bands of drunk rebels celebrating their chaotic victory with yelps and haphazardly aimed gunshots – Louis had photographed all of this and was confident that there would be no scarcity of similar opportunities in the future.

[Anonymous No.3678586]

"The man smelled of dampness, mouldy and quite possibly rotting, with an air of earthines, like moss, as though he had recently been exhumed from some shallow grave in which he had been resting, quietly nuzzling against the enriched walls of dirt, basking in the warmth of the soil.

He looked simultaneously at ease and in pain, the dark lines in face like cracks in a wall. Engravements that carried in them an unquestionable historical significance written upon his worn, sagging face populated with smudges of indeterminate origins and blemishes that speckled across his cheeks, forehead and chin; barely concealed beneath his darkened stubble. His eyes, milky and opaque, showed signs of obvious cataracts, though it seemed that he was not completely blind.

He squinted with difficulty as he shuffled off the train, slipping out between two sharply groomed men as they boarded; instantly, as he passed through them, their handsome faces crumpled up into a shared grimace as they intimated a glance that confirmed what the other was thinking.

"What a foul creature!" they must have thought, "Lowly and revolting, return to the dirt from whence you came!" There was no mistaking the look of disgust, of unease, splashed across their youthful spotless complexions, with its smooth sheen radiant with a life yet broken in by the harshest of winds and or the burden of concern; not entirely dissimilar to his own. They had all but turned up their noses at the filthy vagrant as he slipped out into the ether abuzz with the hurried footsteps of eager people chasing singular moments in time - travelers traversing the cityscape.

It was then, in that very instance, he felt his blood boil to the surface. His face became hot in a flash, as though it were stricken with infectious febrility. He was starring at a mirror image of himself split in twain and despised each reflection equally. How could he have been so wrong? How could he think such thoughts, the same thoughts shared by THEM?"

[Anonymous No.3678605]

>>3678586
Note: I have yet to edit this, at all. And it shows lol

[Anonymous No.3678636]

Despierta, Mantic. Wake up. La salsa de mamá casi está lista. Despierta. Despierta. Despierta. Exclamaba Edda mientras el tercer alineamiento astral se propiciaba en nuestra contaminada galaxia. Han pasado ya 66 días, desde que aquella irresoluta muchacha de los labios rosas y mejillas blancas me dejara y se fuera de mi vida con argumentos tan triviales como 'Ya no quiero estar contigo'. Continué con lo mio mientras el estofado hervía y Edda extraía una carta de tarot más, colocandolas una por una boca abajo en la superficie del chiffonier donde no estuviese maltratado. Salí a fumar un cigarrillo y observaba el espectro de humo y billboards iluminados que adornaban el paisaje del hoyo de muerte o comunmente llamado flat estudiantil que Edda y Yo habiamos decidido rentar para quedar mas cerca de nuestra universidad. Entre a la insipida vivienda de muros grises y techos blancos maltratados por la lluvia y que se yo, tomé un plato de comida y Edda me decia tranquilamente al oído que me quería y que tal vez me amaba. Yo no sentí nada, solo le dije que yo también. Tomó sus llaves, me besó la frente y visualicé tranquilamente su pelo castaño y su camisa verde de franela volar hacia la puerta tan candidamente y con tanta gracia como ella podía. Terminé el estofado y encendí otro cigarrillo. Nicotina. Tomé mis medicamentos y decidí hacer algo pero no sabía qué. En los ultimos días todo habia sucedido tan extrañamente rápido que no sabía de que manera proyectar mi existencia terrenal. Dispuse de ir con mon amis du quartier a fumar marihuana y hablar de nada durante un par de horas. Mientras encendia el carro una irritante mosca aterrizo en mi contrapalma y despues de mirarla dos o tres veces conspirar en contra de mi bienestar moví bruscamente y con un gesto de victoria huyó hacia la ventana.

>spanish

[Anonymous No.3678714]

bump

[Anonymous No.3680845]

Little poem thing I wrote called Glass Prisns (thinking about changing that)

I see that myself and
many others are walled
in small glass prisms.
We don't think that we
built them around ourselves,
but we don't know where
they came from either.
Whatever their origin or reason,
they are clear so that we and
those freely walking are exposed
to each other. There is no
humanity in seeing one another,
since we are only moving images
like televisions on mute.
The masses of those free
could look upon a prisner with
seven second sympathy and
hands pressed on the glass;
colder ones use their ass.
But one inside would hate
the many and that love they have
which they cannot share, since
they cannot share.
Myself: I sometimes want to join them in gray mass and
friendly splendor - a utopia
of connections, twisted by glass convexions.
I tried to smash my lonely and lying home
with but my bleeding broken fists.
The glass will not crack before I do.

I wish that these terrible
dividers would never have
enveloped us, and I.
That they could never trap another
to observation in solitude.
Perhaps, then, we would lose ourselves
to a moving, faceless, flippant crowd.
Maybe we need these prisns;
schizoid individualism may
have a purpose apart from
the rest beyond these walls;
a barricade to keep ourselves

[Anonymous No.3680878]

He offered a sympathetic smile and hugged her body close to his. She smelled like lavender and something sweeter. A fruit, a tartness like juice that begged for him to drink from her. Something that beconed him to leave bitemarks to dot her skin in deep purple blurs or eat the seeds from her lips or trace his tongue in sticky lines to all her secret places. He could swallow her whole and would not pause for a moment to chew. The roundness of his pursuit for her was the fullness of pomegranates, ruby-red and rich in the darkness. A fruit with juice that drips like blood.

Short and shitty, I know.

[Anonymous No.3681020]

This one, this woman or girl of indeterminate age faced away from my looking at her own reflection in the glass of the train doors. Her hair was braided in a squaw style, but left unkempt at the front, long and black. Her clothing was simple, a sort of beige knit one piece that stopped mid thigh to reveal pale legs of a tone which made me uncertain as to whether or not she was wearing panty hose. Everything was innocent, her disposition betrayed nothing, until her bright red shoes. They leapt out from reality and dove beneath my eyes, clawing their way down my throat and into my soul wherest they laid eggs of sin that burned down to my penis which was already hugged too tightly by the pants I wore and my bell end became slightly visible as veins pumped blood as red as those shoes. Her innocence became an obvious sham, a kink, a pose, she'd like to be spanked no doubt, one, two, three times before grasping her entire buttocks with my hand, and sliding my middle finger deep into her wet cunt.

[Anonymous No.3681031]

>>3678636

Kind of Ok. You need to make it more serious tough. The word "visualicé" terribly breaks the flow of the whole thing.

I don't know. Some words sound weird in there.

>Not a writer

[Anonymous No.3681047]

A narrow patch of light broke through the rocks. He stared at it, first white and blinding and foreign, until it dissipated into a clear view. The area breathed a sigh of relief along with him as he rose to an upright position and rubbed his legs like a man much older than he was. He wondered how much time had passed, and began to worry about what he would do first on the outside, and where he would go and who he would see and what date it even was. Would they still remember him? He was their father after all; he should have resonated in some memory, even if buried or repressed or simply deemed to be without value. He paced pensively as all these thoughts raced through his mind, suddenly alert and ready after years of inactivity, like a prized engine.

All these thoughts raced through his mind. Then darkness returned abruptly; just as quickly as it had left many moments before. He stopped his pacing and looked up toward the blackness with an indignant look, of masochistic quality. He stood staring into nothing, bleakly, for longer than he had been thinking and pacing and anticipating his new, old life before. Finally, he slowly bent at the knees, at which point he assumed the same position he had held for so long, now planning how he may return to his previous comfortableness.

[Anonymous No.3681054]

I sat and wondered what had become of that boy in the park from that day so many years ago. Still possessing the naiveté of youth, his life before him. Uncorrupted by the entrapments of humanity. He would play and let his mind go blank, not a single worry. Oh, how I wished for but a day like that. One where I didn’t think of my problems, a day where the past is ignored and brace myself for the future. I sighed, knowing that such things are only found in the young and the foolish. I never saw that boy in the park again, but I like to think he made something of his life. That he hadn’t fallen in with the wrong crowd and allowed his peers to slowly wear away his innocence, until he was just like every other self-obsessed asshole on the street. I hoped for his sake that he would always have that same stupid smile on his face, and that same unwavering sense of joy and total apathy for the problems of the world. Lastly I wished I had savored and stored that memory when I was young, but alas, time is fleeting and leaves only memories, and even those eventually fade.

[Anonymous No.3681432]

>>3681020
Do you fap to your own work?

[Anonymous No.3681605]

Alright /lit go easy on me. I wrote this poem as an into piece for a D&D session I'm going to be starting up soon.

Upon

Upon an ocean of navy blue
A mighty storm did rage.
The waters, churned into a froth
And they were confident, for they should not know.

Upon an ocean of navy blue
Nature’s rage awakened
The waves, broad and strong
And they were confident, for they did not know

Upon an ocean of navy blue
A torrent the sky did release
The rain, driven like nails into the wash
And they were confident, for they could not know.

Upon a sea of emerald green
The surface was empty, save for one thing
A ship, stiff of mast, fast on the water
And he was confident, for he was the builder.

Upon a sea of emerald green
A man, his day way he did slave
He caught them, all shapes, sizes and colors
And he was confident, for he was a fisher.

Upon a sea of emerald green
Out to the west, a storm did brew
The squall, tall and furious
And he was confident, for he could not know.

Upon a shore of bleach white sand
The strand was empty save for one thing
A women, eyes cast out to the breakers.
And she was confident, for she was the watcher.

Upon a shore of bleach white sand
A woman stood keen watch
The fire was bright and hot and dancing
And she was confident, for the was the keeper

Upon a shore of bleach white sand
Far offshore a maelstrom did thrash
Its speed fast, its path true
And she was confident, for she could not know.

Upon a grave of soft black dirt
an old man, to his knees he did fall.
His tears, wet tracks upon the ground
and he was broken, for he had been the father.

Upon a grave of soft black dirt
a man, on the ground he did sag
quakes and shivers racked his frail bones
and he was broken, for he had been the leader.

Upon a grave of soft black dirt
a man, his terrible scream he did loose.
He died, yet would live many more days
and he was broken, for he could not have known.

[Anonymous No.3681633]

“Come here Champion of the Tourney,” Liz said as she giggled and fell onto their bed.
“As you say Queen of Beauty,” Richard said as laughed and chased after her. He was atop her, kissing his wife when the messenger came calling for them. “Be gone. I’m indisposed,” he roared at the squire.
“Oh, so fierce. No wonder the Taul ran in terror of my knight,” Liz said as she pulled the sheets over them.
“M’lord, it’s from the Mountain…” the squire said uncertainly. Richard’s smile sank away. In all the years he had been away, his father had never sent word to him.
“Go on, it must be important,” Liz said as she lifted the sheets to let him slip out.
Richard tore open the tent in naught but his breeches, squinting in the light of the setting sun. The squire seemed to be nothing more than bones and skin to hold together, holding the letter up to him seemed a great effort for the child. “Give it here and get out of my sight. I’m occupied,” he growled as he ripped the letter from the squire’s hands.
He let the tent drop shut behind him as he tore off the wax seal. “What does it say dear?” Liz said as she held the sheets around her body.
“This is my brother’s handwriting…” Richard commented as he scanned over the letter, then over again. His mouth moved up and down as he tasted the words in his mouth. He didn’t like the taste. His lip quivered as he looked at his wife. “My… father is dead…”

[Anonymous No.3681732]

He walked east, away from the sun, toward a diner he ate at often. He knew the waitresses and even one of the cooks, and he usually felt better leaving than he did coming in. It was a long, uninspiring walk, nearly fourteen blocks, the sidewalks flanked on each side by wide, spacious industrial buildings and parking lots, and occasionally a dying tree with brown leaves and brittle bark. He saw a taco truck parked outside a particularly nondescript auto parts warehouse, the small congregation in line contributing the single atom of vitality in a monotony of concrete. A diminutive Latina girl sat on the curb next to the truck, alone, eating a burrito with a plastic knife and fork. He crossed to the other side of the street and continued walking.

[Anonymous No.3681835]

>>3678572
Needs to get looser, you're trying too hard is the feeling I get. The dialogue is stilted, cloudlets instead of clouds, "what may be loosely termed" - these are all examples of things that are interrupting the text and reminding me that you are writing it. If you're going for a straightforward story and description try to make the reader forget that there is an author instead of interjecting yourself so often.

>>3678605
Yes, too many adjectives and adverbs thrown around needlessly. As it stands, this is pretty unreadable wannabe bad assery.

>>3680878
Not necessarily bad, though it would depend on the context and where it was going and the last two sentences are unnecessary. I am giving the benefit of the doubt in assuming this is not seated in some true-love-forlorn-melancholic shit.

>>3681020
Good rhythm, but choppy. Needs editing and to prove that it's more than just erotic fiction. Also, it's mine.

>>3681047
Too much racing of the thoughts. Also, this seems to go nowhere and not be an excerpt of anything, just a little flash fiction that you think is clever or is based on some religious epiphany you think you had.

>>3681054
Reads like the journal of any 15-25 year old male

>>3681633
Could use some editing. Things like "lip quivered" or "giggled" can be dropped. Shear that shit. Might be passable fantasy. This sort of thing will depend on the story, not your prose.

>>3681732
Okay I guess, but there isn't anything interesting here and the "atom of vitality" doesn't work. I want to know more about the latina or else don't mention her. Obviously this is just a description of something you actually experienced, and you probably saw her and thought she was cute or hot or whatever or else you wouldn't have written about her, so why not give us something else. Something to make her pop. That is unless she comes up again later, maybe walking home after feeling good from the diner and you stop to talk to her or something.

[Anonymous No.3681887]

>>3671028
This reads pretty well, besides a few phrasing issues and some wonky dialog. I'd be interested in reading any drafts you'd like to circulate.

[Anonymous No.3681965]

They chanced upon a brown hill encrusted with soft soil which would punish the slightest misstep. Eric had felt obliged to offer his hand during the climb thinking there had been something dainty left in Laurelai but the truth had been far from the former. She had grown accustomed to the labour of farm life, for a city-borne, entitled with the luxuries of modern life, ignorant of the basics of working and tending for one’s food, Laurelai had adapted aptly for a fresh face in the farm. Although she was spared from the harder labour that a man would usually adopt: chopping fire wood, tending the ox for harvest--the dichotomy of man and woman in farm life both had their roles. The women were unmatched at foraging and sorting apples and figs, which no man enthusiastically volunteered for.
They were greeted by fresh air at the peak. The horizon revealed miles of farm land, free from crops and animals. Bereft of life, the crusting paint of a red barn showed signs of senescence. The hammers of time had worn the once solid structure into a groaning wooden shack complaining from the slightest push of the wind. A putrid smell reeked from within. Flies had infested the carcasses of rotting chickens where bowls of feathers and bones had been pried open in a haunting pattern that suggested that they had perished long ago. There were a few that still kept its structure, recognizable by the roosting stance of a hen, but their heads had long fallen, white active maggots had sprawled and claimed the carcass as their home.

[Anonymous No.3682091]

>>3681965
You can't say "far from the former" in this case. You didn't list two things. You only listed one thing, dainty, so it can't be the former or the latter. You could say "in Laurelai but that was far from the truth." You misuse a lot of words. "adapted aptly" is strange, adopting labor is strange too, "the dichotomy of man and woman in farm life both had their roles" is redundant. Did some men unenthusiastically volunteer? Abruptly they're at the peak (peak of a hill?) after just chancing on it. BEREFT OF LIFE, that would be like if there were no plants or insects or fucking anything.

Keep writing, keep trying.

[Anonymous No.3682096]

I haven't written anything since high school, be gentle.
The Dog lies chained to a stake, he has no name because in The Dog’s world there is no need for names; only scent and instinct are relevant. He lies in a modestly sized grassy plot of land in a modestly priced neighborhood; the plot is bare save for a derelict doghouse near its center. Near the dilapidated structure is the spot that keeps the dog bound to his kingdom of nil, a stake driven far into the ground tethers the chain which in turn tethers the dog. The chain’s length prevents the dog from crossing the plot’s boundaries; it’s radius: a circle nestled inside a larger square. The dog lived unperturbed for a great while, his purpose in the lot was unquestioned by himself and the inhabitants of the neighborhood. As far as he could remember, he had always been there and always will be. He worried not for starvation for it seemed that some unseen entity would fill his bowl in the hours between his waking.

[Anonymous No.3682114]

>>3682096
Not writing is probably an advantage in some cases because you're not trying so hard. The beginning of your post is good, but starts to roughen up when you try to get fancy. For instance edit out "derelict" for "old" or "forgotten" or nothing at all and the sentence hits harder. The same is true of pretty much all of the fancy words you use "dilapidated", "kingdom of nil", "prevents/boundaries/radius", "unperturbed", "unseen entity". Some of those can be used, but all together it's a little too much. Try to keep your writing direct or at least even in terms of tone.

[Anonymous No.3682121]

Opening to a story I'm working on:

The theological implications of such an act scarcely occupied his mind.

The car drove away in a burst of dust, leaving him standing at the crossroads. In every direction the desert lay illimitable, waxed amber by the sunset. He squatted, set the black leather guitar case down in front of him and unfastened the latches. An acoustic guitar was enclosed in the red velvet bed of the case. Its body was of a black matte colour, but the mother-of-pearl trapezoids on its rosewood fretboard shone. Westward, the underbelly of the peach sun was melting behind the scarred mountains.

He could see a figure on the horizon, coming his way, slightly liquefied by the heat. Gradually, the man reached a state of solidity and, being sufficiently close, gestured with both of his hands.

[Anonymous No.3682124]

>>3682121
Just to clarify the theology part: it's about a guy striking a deal with the devil.

[Anonymous No.3682153]

>>3682121
Tone it down a bit, "was of a black matte colour" why "of a"? I think it's not a bad start, but tone it down, it's a little bit too purple. A "peach" sun for instance is more distracting than descriptive.

[Anonymous No.3682251]

>>3677910
this is supa good bruh no joke

[Anonymous No.3682323]

It's not a a sexual thing for me. No, really, it isn't. My junk stopped working years ago, anyway, from all the shit I popped back then. It's just flabby tissue now, filled with coke and oxy instead of blood.
It's not a sexual thing. It doesn't need to be. It's just a thrill, like leaning just a little too far out the window. Or snorting wild dreams off a razorblade.

Listen, no one's getting hurt. It's a prank and a peepshow. It's a tiny bit of perversion in the heart of the American Dream. Undersexed housewives and their husbands, kings in the office and kittens in the bedroom. Opportunistic poolboys and secretaries taking that old career shortcut. What would you give to break the rut?

That's how I do it. It really doesn't take much to jolt someone out of their comfortable life, they just can't do it themselves. You open the window of life, just a crack, and you give them a whiff of the apple pie that is cooling on the stainless. Before you know it, they're swapping partners at barbecue parties in some sleepy suburb and wearing latex under their grey office polyester. It's a sexual thing for THEM.

I just like pushing snowballs down hills.

[Anonymous No.3682359]

>>3682323
It's just shit

>>3682121
>An acoustic guitar was enclosed in the red velvet bed of the case. Its body was of a black matte colour
Awful

>>3682096
lurk /lit/ long enough and you too might be able to evoke the canine condition

>>3681732
>uninspiring

>>3681633
>he said she said he said he said she said

>>3681054
i can't believe you would even post that

>>3681020
Mills and Boon awaits

[Anonymous No.3682362]

>>3682359
nice, at least i get published!

[Anonymous No.3682369]

He meant to keep on going, no stopping, all the way down to the central states. Work passage on a gunrunner, maybe slum his way into a few nitty gritty jobs, after all, he had the experience. Or maybe, with his ticket good as long as he didn't stop riding, he'd just never get off the bus. He grinned at his faint reflection in cold, greasy glass while the downtown lights of the business district slid past, the bus swaying on tired shocks as the driver slung it around a final corner. They shuddered to a halt in the terminal lot, concrete lit gray and harsh like a prison exercise yard. It was empty. The driver called a twenty five minute stopover, and only Chen stirred from his seat. The only other passenger, a grizzled black man with a knit cap muttered or snored to himself without opening his eyes. The station building was an old cinder-block structure with high window lit from inside with a dim blue light.

[RomanianRichard No.3682508]

>>3676779
Will suck dick for critique.

[Anonymous No.3682722]

> Go on, give it your worst m8s

“To survive school you have to eat loads of pizza?”
Mr Agasp blinked twice at the sheet of paper in his hand. The elegance, or lack of elegance, with which the phrase had been written was astounding. But still, Mr Agasp found it to be an intriguing maxim, and he scribbled it down into his jotter before placing the sheet back on Donnie’s desk. He continued: “Why pizza?”
“Well it couldn't possibly be Instant Mug o’ Mac, could it?” replied Donnie. He leaned back in his chair and smiled as if what he had said was some revelatory philosophical observation that no-one before him had been intelligent enough to recognise. “Dump some cheese, some milk, some pre-cooked pasta - you can decide whether the water used to cook it in counts as an ingredient for yourself - and then stir them up and blast them in a microwave.”
Mr Agasp pondered the recipe in his head and, feeling as excited as he had the day Fall Out Boy announced that they were ending their hiatus, retrieved his jotter and wrote down the recipe in it. Smiling at Donnie, he said: “You are a very intelligent young man.”
Donnie shrugged. “I use Google a lot,” he admitted. “Anyone can be intelligent if they use the internet.”

literally just bashed this out m8 get me m8 safe 1 m8

[Anonymous No.3682755]

Fragile echoes rotted
by the unsparing monotony of time
sound imposing as the bell chimes
from eight thousand miles away

and breathe, with their palpitating pores,
touching the green iris of the nothingness
that is hidden in the shadows,
and in the demented immensity of a dim alley.

Nothingness kisses my painted mouth
and plunges into my shaky body,
of invisible machinery and steamy rheum.

My tumescente blasphemy chokes
to the howling image of God
shining in front of my eyes

[Anonymous No.3682790]

"She's beautiful." Bullshit. Do you think about the things you feel before you even feel them? She told me no, and now you're telling me to shoot higher. "That's not how it works." Bullshit. She loves him and I'm just a pothole in her road; try driving over me without the right set of tires, you'll see what happens. I tell myself to open up more, but I can't help but be a little boring sometimes. It's better to have not said what shouldn't be said, right? "That's not how it works." You don't understand and neither does she. Stop trying to tell me to move on and move along yourself. "She's beautiful." Bullshit. Circular logic doesn't work here; logic doesn't work here. When she asks me to tell her about myself, do I tell her about the other guy? No, he's not me. "No, he's not you." Bullshit. He is me and he's always been me. I'm not okay and I won't be okay. "How do you feel?" Bullshit. I know your questions before you ask them, so don't bother. That sudden realization that who I am isn't who I want to be hurts a hell of a lot more than they tell you. Teenagers always go through this, right? "You're just finding yourself." Bullshit. I don't want to find myself because I found myself a long time ago and I didn't like myself when I found him. When I found me. Him. How many people do you see when you look in a mirror? I see two, but I tell myself one. There's one guy and he's ordinary, he's calm and a little boring, but very plain. He isn't twitching and fidgiting when he's alone; he isn't crying about people who aren't there; he isn't crushing his ears with some hope that the noises will go away. "That's not how it works." That's not how I work.

[Anonymous No.3682971]

bumop

[Anonymous No.3683039]

I was inspired to cope through some personal shit when I read Primo Levi's The Periodic Table. He was a chemist who survived Auschwitz and did his best to explain what he had experienced in his writing with a restrained and objective approach to things without the distortion of excessive sentimentality. This is my feeble attempt to incorporate that style into my own:

Two days after my grandfather withered away from a decade of fighting Alzhiemer's disease, I was in a labor and delivery unit as a nursing student holding a 16 year old girl's hand as she gave birth. I didn't really know what to make of that at the time. I still don't. I didn't know that my brother would die the next winter on February 6th. Right now, I don't know if my cousin's baby which is due in the summer will soon end up playing soccer or prefer to stay indoors reading The Stinky Cheeseman like I did when I was 7.

I try to take mental notes about these things in the same way I do when I'm trying to learn how a lymph node works or how a red blood cell is made. There are always some clear patterns and things that might appear obvious once they've finally been internalized over time. For now, the parts of my notes that I have highlighted in my head concerns friends and family. They will help you endure and sometimes you won’t even realize how they helped until you’ve already made it through. Hold on to those experiences. Be ready to step in for them as well. These are all, of course, obvious sayings and platitudes, but the death of a brother will bring certain truths to life. It teaches you to not just recite those basic guidelines, but to know and follow them. Keep going.

[Anonymous No.3683045]

>>3676579
bump

[Anonymous No.3683390]

>>3682091
Whew yeah I always thought that passage needed some work. Thanks for the feedback!

[Anonymous No.3683889]

>>3674961
Ignoring the prominent flaw that the author has no knowledge of war beyond reading O'Brien and jerking off to Platoon, tell me one good thing about what he wrote. I'm serious, I would like to get a second opinion.

[Anonymous No.3685479]

>>3671038
Cyril? Maybe get a more Greek less elder scrolls/ bitish empire upper class sounding name, one that sounds like the character, Cyril sounds like a man who would whimper in the back cabin not stand proudly on the prow, spray splashing his face. Also refer to him less by name.