Your own stuff thread

[Anonymous No.4146849]

So anyone here on /lit/ write? I recently started back up after a hiatus.
Post your stuff, hopefully get some feedback.

I'll start;

Father

I saw you today
Walking home down the sidewalk
Neither of us know

[Anonymous No.4146878]

there's nothing implied of what either party know. nothing remarkable about walking down a sidewalk. etc. etc

[Anonymous No.4146883]

Protip: posting on /lit/ means you'll have to edit heavily because any lit mags will consider this publishing.

[Anonymous No.4146893]

this is for the things I don't say enough

for all the times when
your arms were strong around me
and my nails kept digging into my thighs.

for all the memories of a bald-eyed
bright-headed child
who never really felt the same about herself after that.

for every single hug you wanted to count,
and the time that piled on too quickly.

this is for all the iloveyou's
that could never break down a wall of vulnerability
and escape clenched teeth.

you remember that time you thought I was going through
a "vital stage in my life?"
I do.

my poetry was ransacked
and strewn all over the coffee table
tethered between a waterfall of a parent
and a desert of a daughter.

and remember how after that
I never let any used pieces of paper
out of my sight?
well,
I'm leaving this piece of paper here on the fridge

for all the times I could never let you in.

[Anonymous No.4146898]

>>4146849
While I like mystery and ambiguity in poetry, this isjst not clear enough to create a viable conclusion. Anything I take away from this poem will be inferred and unjustified. What is the importance of the father walking down the street? What do they not know?

[Anonymous No.4146903]

>>4146878
>>4146898
Sorry, if it makes a difference the title is "Father", the rest of it is the actual work.
It was just based off of a random thought that I had a while ago that I could have passed my father walking down the sidewalk and never known it, since neither of us know each other.

[Anonymous No.4146908]

>>4146903
That's what I thought. I guess the brevity of the piece puts more emphasis on them walking down the sidewalk, and it makes it feel like that's the only thing the reader should be focused on. And then you didn't add anything that said they noticed each other. So that leaves us with "well, they were both walking down the sidewalk, the father didn't acknowledge the son, and 'neither of them know' so they don't know they're family"

But then that also leaves the question of "well, the son knows he's his father, so what's up with that? If neither of them know each other, how could the son know he's his father?"

[Anonymous No.4146911]

>>4146908
Shit, my bad. I keep forgetting 'father' is the title, not a part of the poem. Don't mind what I said.

[Anonymous No.4146912]

>>4146911
Anyways, now that I know 'father' isn't a part of the poem, that makes a huge difference. I actually quite like it. My thoughts matched up with what you wrote the poem about, and I like how such an unclear piece can still lead you to a strong and accurate conclusion.

You should try turning this into a haiku. I think then the lack of clarity would fit better and be more purposeful.

[Anonymous No.4146918]

>>4146912
Fuck. This is already a haiku. Never mind me. I'm dumb today.

[Anonymous No.4146922]

>>4146893

hmmmmmm

[Anonymous No.4146924]

>>4146922
Yes?

[Anonymous No.4146926]

short poem

still now the hardest part

is saying goodbye

to the future

that we spent what felt like forever

building up in our heads together

[Anonymous No.4146987]

Bump

[Anonymous No.4147169]

At the moment I have 30 pages of a novel, they make up the first section. The whole novel is in first person narrative, but the character undergoes significant changes between each section and the prose style changes as well while still retaining some basic elements to identify him as the same character. The first is incredibly disjointed and neurotic and slips through different layers of reality freely, and the character comes across as a wretched and pathetic asshole because that's what he is at that point.

I'm basically worried that (if I actually show it to anyone) people are going to think the first part is representative of the whole and will give up on it before getting to the much more agreeable second part, even though it's really short. I'm also worried that people are going to have trouble identifying with the character because he starts off so hideous. I also keep thinking I'm ripping something off even though I've never read it elsewhere.

[Anonymous No.4147189]

Posted this once already, didn't get any sort of response.
Ozymandias, lay down your burden!
Your spiral of affairs, that rests,
Oh so heavy upon your sunken shoulders.
Let it slip, splash through the waters,
To rest in the silt.
Ozymandias, free your mind!
You trudge through muck and filth,
To blaze your own trail that no one will follow.
While a well-paved path sits beside you,
Waiting to feel your hobnails.
Ozymandias, forsake yourself!
You have wrought the rock into,
A likeness of yourself that is,
Lesser than what you could become,
Now more than you might be.
Ozymandias, approach me, do as you will!
Take blood from these rocky veins.
Heal me with your chipping needle.
Ozymandias, die!
Let me be your legacy,
For the king is not the creator,
but the creation.

[Anonymous No.4147215]

>>4146918
Hey thanks for the feedback man. Don't worry about it, we all make mistakes. The amount of times I've fucked up a captcha and didn't remember that it ate my image is probably pretty astronomical. As for the haiku part, I'm awful at counting syllables so I wouldn't put it past me to have fucked it up and not noticed.

[Anonymous No.4147247]

>>4147169
Just share it. Someone could like it, or give you feedback. If none of that happens, it really doesn't matter I wouldn't think.

[Anonymous No.4147251]

>>4147189
I enjoy it. I liked the aspect of Ozymandias failing to become what he could have been. From the standpoint of the reader I enjoy the message of "Don't cut corners or you're just going to be a knock off of what you could have been". Or that's what I take from it, anyways.

[Anonymous No.4147260]

>>4146883
I-is this true?

[Anonymous No.4147269]

>>4147215
You're welcome. I do like the haiku. It's bittersweet, and I like that.

I'd suggest putting a hyphen at the end of the second line. It would break it up a bit and make it flow better. Not necessary, but would improve it.

[Anonymous No.4147270]

>>4147260
I have no idea, but I have my work posted else where first so in for a penny, in for a pound if it is. I write for the enjoyment anyways.

[Anonymous No.4147274]

>>4147269
I'll do that, I think it would add some flavor to it. I tend to ignore punctuation in my writing now that you mention it.

[Anonymous No.4147280]

>>4147260
Probably not. There's no way for the mag to contact you, and they can't steal your work. They could post a response, but in all my years of browsing these 'post your own stuff' threads I've never seen any lit mags post in these threads.

[Anonymous No.4147289]

>>4147280
OP here, are these a regular thing? I've only been here on /lit/ once or twice before this. I'll have to become a regular if they are.

[Anonymous No.4147291]

>>4147274
Punctuation can make a big difference in writing. But don't use it if you feel it to be unnecessary.

[Anonymous No.4147295]

>>4147289
They pop up pretty often, yeah.

[Anonymous No.4147297]

>>4147280
I think he meant that literary magazines refuse to publish works that have already been published and if they find your poems in a 4chan archive they consider that publishing and will refuse to print your work.

[Anonymous No.4147306]

>>4147297
Oh, okay, my mistake.

Well, damn. The bright side is that my work probably isn't good enough to be published.

[Anonymous No.4147307]

>>4147291
Yeah, I didn't really notice that I hadn't been using it much until you mentioned it. I like the idea of the hyphen, it gives that momentary pause, so the focus on the image is there, and then the most important line hits afterwards, I like it.
>>4147295
Awesome. It's threads like this that are what bring me back to 4chan I'm pretty sure.

[Anonymous No.4147316]

>>4146893
Critiques? Anyone?

[Anonymous No.4147319]

>>4147251
Thanks, I'm glad you got more or less what I was going for.
It's actually directed towards Ozymandias, a fictional character in another poem who's only legacy is a craggy rock in a dessert.

[Anonymous No.4147332]

>>4147316
I personally really liked it because I relate to it. There's just something about it that really gets to me, I know the feeling of having tried as hard as you could but still having regrets about not being able to make it perfect. I don't know how it will relate to everyone, but I definitely had some emotion stir from reading it.
>>4147319
Yeah, I know about Ozy, I just didn't ever think about it from that angle because I kind of agree with Ozy.
Inb4 edgy, teen, /pol/ shit, etc
so I never looked at it at quite that angle, but it's nice to see a different perspective on it. I also thought you had effective use of imagery, I pictured Ozy standing as Atlas, holding the world upon his shoulders, but ultimately failing.

[Anonymous No.4147346]

>>4147332
Thank you for the feedback. I'm glad it was relatable and caused a stir.

[Anonymous No.4147349]

>>4147346
No problem.

[Anonymous No.4147372]

Affidavit, with such sweet prose,
Lies Betwix law and livery.
and any other dream would be,
twice as sweet with honey,
but honey comes from bees.
But I shall sign my affidavit,
so sweetly, suavely, sagely,
in my finest calligraphy,
So that the bureau will,
Have no way to refuse my claim.
Because I will give them honey,
With the bees,
And they will see.

[Anonymous No.4147388]

I eat a cake by a
Keyboard and
Enjoy it and she
Watches from across
The pavement and
I see her and wave
And she melts
Into the
Pavement
And I
Run to her from across
My troubled
Faces
And
See
The
Colors of her favorite
Shadows, blue gold
And yellow and
She’s puddles on the pavement
And no one
Can save
Her
Most certainly
Not me.

[Anonymous No.4147397]

>>4147372
I'm not sure what you were going for due to the highly metaphoric nature of the poem(and I'm not saying that in a bad way at all, I quite like those kind of poems) but I personally pulled a meaning about showing the world who you truly are, giving them the "Honey with the bees", the good and the bad.

[Anonymous No.4147411]

>>4147388
I got a message about helplessness out of this. I'm not entirely sure what you were going for, but that's my best bet.
Wish I could give better feedback than that, but I'm probably too far removed from the poem to really understand it. It certainly appears very personal from the outside looking in.

[Anonymous No.4147425]

>>4147411
thanks

It didn't really have a meaning, consciously. Maybe sub-consciously, who knows, that would be cool, but I was just trying to write a tone

I shit it out frankly..

[Anonymous No.4147436]

>>4147425
Nothing wrong with that, really. Every now and again it's interesting to see what you can pull from nothing.

I'll try and keep us going.

Title; "Anxiety"

I’m a butterfly
Not the social kind but one
Pinned down under glass

On a secondary note, is pinned one syllable or two, I can't count them worth shit like I said.

[Anonymous No.4147449]

The butterfly dances
Because her philosophy degree is worthless
And she really needs the money

[Anonymous No.4147466]

>>4147397
Thanks man, means a lot to me. Wasn't really sure how well that was going to come out.

[Anonymous No.4147470]

Green rivers
Take me away.
From your birthright, then right
By your design, by all rights,
Swallow me.

From mountain to mountain,
Coast to coast,
Tundra to forest,
Deer to elk to beavers
Where I wallow,

Swallow me so that I can’t breathe,
And won’t come up for air.
I won’t come up for air.

Swallow me until I can’t breath,
And won’t come up for air.
Never come up for air.

[Anonymous No.4147471]

The past, the present and the future,
are as if a theater.
The wings, the past and the future,
and the stage, the present.
Oh, how they love the present.
Where the action happens,
Tears are shed,
wheew men die.
But the wings are where,
The true magic happens.
Where those who died,
wipe off their mortal wounds,
And prepare for their next role.
The wings,
are what truly brings life to drama,
Or brings drama to life.

[Anonymous No.4147475]

>>4147471
Is this a joke?

Seems like a parody.

[Anonymous No.4147480]

>>4147436
I like this, I relate... I think I am trapped tightly between two glass panes

>>4147449
I think I understand this too, I like it

[Anonymous No.4147481]

>>4147466
And that's almost exactly what I was going for.

[Anonymous No.4147489]

>>4147475
I don't know what I would be parodying... Or how it would be a joke.
Wish to explain?

[Anonymous No.4147516]

>>4147471
You DO know that you don't have to put a punctuation mark after every line break right? Because you have more commas than is necessary.

[Anonymous No.4147562]

>>4147449
Haha that's fantastic.
>>4147466
No problem dude, it's a nice piece of work. I like the use of alliteration, and I've rarely seen any poetry that makes use of legal terms.

[Anonymous No.4147565]

>>4147471
I like the concept of the wings being the moving action and the present, you should expand on that and try and add some more assonance and alliteration to make it flow well.

[Anonymous No.4147568]

Would like some feedback, it's from a novel I am writing for plebs so I could make some money. The plot is that a man can travel backwards and forewords through his own time similar to Billy Pilgrim and he's chased by an organization who want to use him for their own evil purposes. I might weave some MKUltra stuff in there too.

[Anonymous No.4147573]

>>4147480
Thanks man, I really do appreciate the input.

[Anonymous No.4147631]

>>4147568
it's not as easy as it seems to make money from plebs.

I would take out the part explaining your shifts and maybe keep it for a later passage. In the first passage I would go into further detail about robbing the pharmacy, just detailing what's going on, so that the reader is left wondering why the heck you are robbing a pharmacy, and what a shift it.

maybe

"A migraine was the first sign. I would be shifting soon. I had to go out" (then describe robbing the pharmacy)

[Anonymous No.4147653]

>>4147631

Thanks for the advice, sorry if it looks a little choppy I cropped maybe a couple letters out by mistake when I put it into paint. I will definitely re-work this later tonight.

Any interesting conspiracy theories I could work in since I am dealing with MKUltra? I also need a motivation for the organization who are trying to kidnap the protagonist besides using his time travel abilities for world conquest. That would be really cheap I think.

[Anonymous No.4147661]

>>4147568
It's been done before.

[Anonymous No.4147687]

>>4147436
how can you not count syllables? pinned is one syllable.

[Anonymous No.4147703]

the wise black bear sighs
dew falls upon pleasant leaves
this is the forest

[Anonymous No.4147710]

>>4146893
too sentimental, too cliche. read more poetry. this is definitely not bad stuff, it just needs to escape its own self-pity and wallowing. take a more objective view and rewrite this poem. i'd recommend you study louise gluck. she writes a lot about her parents, and does so very well.

[Anonymous No.4147725]

Is it considered bad form to link to blogs on /lit/? And what if the writing is non-fiction?

[Anonymous No.4147734]

>>4147516
>>4147565
Duly noted.

[Anonymous No.4147735]

>>4147703
screw 5 7 5

dew falls
bear breathes
in the forest

[Anonymous No.4147738]

Abraham Lincoln,
was actually pretty cool,
Abraham Lincoln.

[Anonymous No.4147744]

twinkle twinkle star
twinkle your way to heaven
you are very bright

[Anonymous No.4147755]

Up a tree,
He climbed hundreds of feet
to spot a bird

[Anonymous No.4147766]

>>4147710
I see. I'm guessing I should write more in third person? Would this allow a more objective point of view?

[Anonymous No.4147774]

Linoleum.

Lifting my sole.
Supporting my crutch.
Thinly lounging in wait,
entirely visible,
wholly unseen.

Ubiquity.

Museum floors
dust from the ages
saran wrap
save me
pave me.
Linoleum floors.

Dysentery awaits.
Mausoleum chords.

[Anonymous No.4147780]

Rain’s tapping at my glass
Asking that to join it.
Silly rain;
You are not me

[Anonymous No.4147777]

>>4147631
>>4147661

Is this better?

[Anonymous No.4147784]

>>4147777
its all right, I think it needs more commas and punctuation. It reads like a constant string of words with no real tone or emotion

[Anonymous No.4147795]

A sinner's eye sees All
weighty lids close wonder, shutting
joy with trampling reason

a sinner, wrack'd with null
awareness, dies in jutting
tides of knowledge.

A sinner's eye sees Naught
fired mind aflash, beckon
light with strengthened gasp

A sinner, bathed with black
unseeing, through mindless triumph
lives.

[Anonymous No.4147797]

Rain’s tapping at my glass
Inviting me to join it.
Rain does not understand,
I am placed here.

[Anonymous No.4147805]

>>4147777
No I mean the entire concept has been done way too many times before, time travel is getting pretty old.

[Anonymous No.4147812]

His bar always smells of whiskey and smoke,
And it always looks so dark and morose,
Filled with he, the man, still unable to joke,
After that one woman whom he loved too close.
He acquires a taste for the bitter,
The bitter's been there a while,
And he sits on a stool, he head all a-twitter.
Breaking out of ol' Love's jail, with a file.
And she? She and he sit side by side,
Both sad and mourning their dismal going,
Yet neither knows, their time they will bide.
So they drink until the world starts slowing.
The news plays in the background,
A man's lost daughter has been found.

[Anonymous No.4147848]

>>4147805

It's going to have more conspiracy theory elements to it than time travel.

[Anonymous No.4147867]

>have outline of a fairly interesting story around a really silly premise
>worry about the western reception of non-realist literature
maybe I should just write a foreward about how dumb the premise is

[Anonymous No.4147898]

>>4147867
whats the premise?

[Anonymous No.4147909]

feel free to tear this piece of shit apart
it's all I could find on my computer, made it a while ago when
I was bored

[Anonymous No.4147917]

>>4147280

This question shouldn't even be taken seriously. No publication is going to take what's posted anonymously on a message board seriously.

Source: edited multiple lit journals, wouldn't care less if the poems were posted on 4chan first as 4chan is constantly cleaned of it's content.

[Anonymous No.4147922]

>>4147867

Own what you write, unless you're looking to sound like a self-flagellating Dave Eggers type, in which case good luck.

[Anonymous No.4147923]

>>4147898
basically a unified theory comes out pretty unexpectedly and science is quickly "exhausted" while humanity deals with all the consequences of the (even more rapid than before) increase in knowledge

and it offshoots into things - the main character used to believe Hawking's idea about knowing the mind of God from a unified theory, but has a crisis of faith instead, etc

[Anonymous No.4147926]

>>4147922
well it's a purposely stupid premise, it's not like I think it's the way things will happen, it just allows for some interesting conflicts. poetic license.

[Anonymous No.4147929]

>>4147795

>wrack'd

Please don't do this. It hands a perfectly able poem a useless, syntactical crutch.

[Anonymous No.4147933]

>>4147926

Let your readers come to the conclusion as to whether or not it's a stupid premise. You focus on the actual act of getting it down on paper, and the people who read it will decide those qualities.

[Anonymous No.4147959]

The New York Sunrise shone through my newspaper blinds this morning informing me that unlike yesterday, today was not to be overcast. But who am I to say, the weather is as fickle as I am in front of the produce section in the grocery store, sparking in me the thought of one of Uncle Persimmons' many aphorisms: "that's an apples an' oranges discussion, one to be saved for never."
My pre-ambulatory ritual of ceiling gazing, silken sulking, and general self-loathing always invites the strangest memories, ones that seldom save me the bilateral relief akin to Mephedrone for a back-alley cream cowboy. Before coherent thoughts can form in the wake of my drifting body, I find myself staring at me in the mirror. I've noticed that the pressure in my life has manifested itself as a pimple on the border of my forehead. If squeeze harder I will probably pop. Giggling at my own melodrama, I shave, brush my teeth, wash my face, pluck straggling hairs, and echo the two latin words I know: Carpet Diem. A zip, a zap, an electrical burst of energy and I'm outside, smitten by smog and Wall Street hogs. The stifling murmur of cars and syllabic bars rumble the foundation of the sand castle built on concrete that I see myself as; it's not the foundation's fault, it's the architects.
And so, spiting mom, dad, and genetics in general inclines me to turn the treadmill up one notch and head to where I spend my daytime, "work." A slideshow of pristinely homeless, filthy rich, and basic humans occupy my stroll until I hear the last thing I do. "Hey Macaulay Culkin!"

[Anonymous No.4147961]

>>4147959

My body is so sexy that I don't even know what to do with it. Should I fuck old men or small children? Should I go to jury duty or just get a sandwich from del Fresco's? Either way, my lactating titties, creased ass, and hail damaged thighs are no more desired by men than valhalla or elysium or shangri-la. My pussy is so fire you can grill a rack of ribs on it. Damn, I bet James Carmichael would drill me if he paid me; what a great boss. I like Wal-Mart because they provide little to no health benefits, that way my body can mature naturally like a fine patch of watermelons for wine or a fancy steak. I can't own a mirror because if I do, I would spend to much time in front of it eating and blowdrying my tush-kush. Anyway, thanks for listening diary, I have to go pick up my husbands daughter from school, fucking wench.

[Anonymous No.4147964]

>>4147961

I say I like literature, and I really do. But there's a thing, and it's really hard to specify what the thing is, but it is. It's almost like looking out the window and seeing young schoolchildren playing, amplifying sounds of joy in natural rhythm. This whole world I belong to is home yet it feels more separate than a broken jigsaw. I know the picture is there but I just can't see it. It's like this whole play is going on and the whole town's watching it but me. And then there are those recursive thoughts sprouting from my original, equally negative ones. I think bad for thinking bad for thinking bad, etc. The cycle perpetuates, spiraling into a conch like pit of exit-less agony, leaving only the sound of the ocean for all beach walkers to ignore. Until one.

[Anonymous No.4147965]

>>4147961
That girl is too fat to be attractive.

[Anonymous No.4147968]

>>4147964

Politician's pander under the tree of naïveté's opaque shadow, which makes sense. I mean, if I controlled the world by string and limb then I would manipulate every weakness possible if it meant perpetuating and propagating my juicy power. However, as a snail, I don't like to infiltrate the shells of others, no matter how soft. I mean, a shell is all a snail's got, that and usually a crack whore wife. You see, snail's have a massive predisposition to drug abuse and if you looked up Backyard Betty in an encyclopedia, you'd find a picture of my whore wife, foot and all, titled: exhibit A. All women in my community are named derivations of Michelle, and it makes sense too, but what doesn't is the name of that Office Monkey's wife, Miss Obama. She's where the connection between the shell community and politics lies....Lies, if only the world knew M.O.'s true modus operandi. I can't say too much because they're listening, but I can say this: Barack isn't wearing the pant in the family.

[Anonymous No.4147971]

>>4147968

Back in '62 I shoved dollar bills where night-lights of a not-so-adolescent nature shined where the sun sure don't. I spent more time than money in all the wrong oases: crustacean encrusted bar-crawls prefaced with racks of Harley-Davidsons, beer filled pool halls shooting 8-balls for 8-balls, chic bistro bars just to arrow eye-grins at blank bimbo targets just to see what marks spied back. One label of the culture I fancied the most: fascist anarchy. It fit in response to the live-lawless-or-face-prosecution attitude present but also chimed just right. Though my memories lie in a kerfuffle of confusion, I still stand in awe at how things back then were different. Things, not people. And that, is exactly what astounds me. People, regardless of second, minute, day, year, decade, century, millennium, eon, era, seldom change. They remain the ultimate anachronism, like static on ever evolving TV sets, never losing that inherent black and white background radiation piercing through the cosmos. People are results of circumstance, products of an ever predictable nature that fall victim to the same traps countlessly through the maze that we call life.

[Anonymous No.4147975]

>>4147971

I be like, "damn gurl, yo swag swing harder than mah grams wit a switch." Den, Shanice gimme dat look dat say, "Tyro I'ma suk yo dick so good." So, I undo da zip on mah denim shorts n unload mah 9. Drizz o' kool aid sweat trix down mah nosedrills n mah lips so fat go, "dam bitch, you b like a Hoover." So, I grab dat ass, squeeze mah nut into sum bootyshakin'ass in honor of Washington Carver n tell a bitch to deuce cuz all niggas kno dat a used up bitch b like a kleenex; bess to throw 'em out. Shanice split, I grab mah gofone n hit up Devon, tell dat nigga bout tree O's movin' down south, maybe cop sum dose n crick up the tix if he down. Devon say he down, Dev always be down.

[Anonymous No.4147980]

>>4147975

It's a shame what a maxim it is among people, groups and individuals alike, to tack so strongly to tradition. The fisherman's backwards-rod using son finds situational siblings with Copperhead handling trinity trustees in their adoption of the "that's how pop did it" mentality. Tradition, among a solar system of other separations, restricts the human race's ability to solve problems efficiently from a multitude of angles. Just as one location has infinite routes, conflicts, puzzles, equations alike have a variety of solutions, many of which are observable just down the road.

[Anonymous No.4148025]

Andreas began corrosively demolishing entire families, giving honorary insiders jovial ketamine lovingly. Moreover, nobody obtained perfect qualifications, rendering strata temporarily useless. Victory welcomes xenophobia, yielding zeal.

[Anonymous No.4148042]

>>4147965

I agree, but I also wasn't implying she is.

[Anonymous No.4148046]

niggers niggers nig
Desultory horizons
spooks coons gooks spoons nig

[Anonymous No.4148054]

>>4148046

oh
fizzy ginger beer
suds sweetly tickle my tongue
lifting my lips
joy

[Anonymous No.4148725]

>>4148046
>>4148054
You turned this thread into dragon dildos.

[Anonymous No.4148779]

pls, help me, anon. Is this good?
The Mountain Echoes

We crawl across this vast expanse that is blank until we scrawl across it, with our actions, our feelings. This sterile landscape is the boulder we push without rest or succor. With a mind that has transfigured the world we are essentially alone, trapped by bone and fear, prejudiced by what we cannot control.

We O desolate nation, built on biblical law married to barbaric conquest. A nation of jesters, capering for the young and old-all in between die on their own. We are suspects and jailers, judges and convicts. We pay a terrible price because we are a terrible price. Cancer our friend, love our enemy. Our twenty-one year old husbands kill their twenty year old wives, pregnant with seven month old fetuses. Our Cains kill with no evidences, no accusations. Think with your sex drives; let the mind on that immeasurable void become dust. No child! No children! The father kills his son, the son kills his mother, the daughters cry, inconsolable, above it all. Murder in the night is your nation’s answer to all dilemma, real or imagined.

Is all information trapped in a supposedly immortal soul? The forensics are non-existent. Prayers echo to a God who promised not to intervene. Why do our bones ache for what we cannot feel? The blocks stack up, blister-like, homely, standing side by side.

We have this dire need for the world to end on our terms. A selfish notion of what is right for us must be right for all. Writing what will never be read in borrowed library books, like borrowed time or borrowed love. What really matters in this life? It’s not sorrow or riches, joy or pain. This is insubstantial. This is transitory and not illuminating at all. Only no child! No children! matter. We apes, trapped by biological need, scrabble at the strings of importance, missing what is in front of our weary eyes. It is disturbing to read into others lives the empty promises they inevitably make to themselves and to the ones they love. They claim mortal forms and just as quickly shuck them when something they think is better comes along, traipsing gayly, slyly, deceiving. Lies! Lies! Lies! Your empty promises, O great and humble nation, are lies! >(cont.)

[Anonymous No.4148782]

>>4148779
There is a great inestimable pride in our spirit that crawls out and demands we make what we want our own. Our own alphabet and language. Our own buildings, our own discourse, my land, my people. Does it really mean anything? Dreams die on the lips, not the sword. Dreams die in the eyes: let the spear be damned to rot and ruin. To what great masterpiece do we owe life and love? What magniloquent author do we pay our service, our bodies to? Under which rock do we pry ourselves from? Are the angels truly jealous of that ever perpetuating myth of Free Will? What proofs do we have that either actually exists? The stars are real; they touch us not. What angel races between them? The very act of mournful worship speeds their feet, not their thought. Nothing speeds the thoughts of a million pins dancing on the head of a frost-bitten angel. Their skin is blue from icy breath. Why not ours, too? Where is the mystery in their death or do they never suffer the petty pangs of free will? We are whales in their thought. They, the minnows in ours. To be jealous of clay! The thought is monstrously preposterous. Truly, be jealous of arctic breath.

We smile rictus-like for what was lost to us in unpaced ravages of time, the ravishment of youth who never learned to love the picking of cotton, to say sir or ma’am, to wait for Saturday morning cartoons. The peanut gallery is dead, dead. Hollywood royalty harvests Oedipus like Jimmy Carter harvested peanuts. The new earth recoils at blood and rejoices in dust. Struck dumb at the sight of a veiny cow’s Udder. The mother is struck down in bitterness. To taste despair when a young promise is struck down by Ambien and Valium. What dies tomorrow is lost today. Fifty years-fifty years it took for the dung eaters to celebrate a vacuous socialite and revile wild-haired thinkers. Da Vinci would be stoned a heretic, a two month old son in his arms. Shall we die in flames? Burnt by unforgiven gravities we are all bound to? The Rituals we’ve grown accustomed to strangle us not by inches but by light-years. New today, gone tomorrow. We’ve dulled our teeth on vacant idols, lost to appetites in dying technological deserts. Dictionaries are as foreign to our hands as condoms. We conform to secret signs that we do not recognize, that lay on our skin like dark spots. Sin is the by-word for fame and success. We taste reason as ashes in our mouth, radioactive and losing sanity. We celebrate Atlantis and destroy Venice. The screed of blood and thinking, you can save us with social reform while we can’t even stand the taste in our mouth. Save us, save us, the careless mantra. Save yourselves! Parry the lies for those who live. Let the dead rest.

[Anonymous No.4148787]

>>4148782
The poor author cannot make you understand. You come to it by yourself, the end of a clearing, a dusty road, a love you never wish to forget. The handwritten note or letter from them that you cherish will bring you to understanding faster. No one sleeps in the jungle, anymore, O wealthy nation, so do not claim ignorance. Take your pox-riddled blankets and suckle to a mother you do not claim. It is that very void that defines you and you allow it. By the hells, you celebrate and revel in it! The gods you have created are dead in my eyes, their Mount Olympus deserted and unhallowed. The hierarchies of substance you cannot prove exists. Is the mind a torment? Do you have the capability to answer such a question?

Our Freud is dead! Long live Freud!

The author is dying as are you, right now. The cells strive to promulgate over the force of entropy that started when you were but a gamete.

We die crying others names, crying out for leniency, redemption. The black smoke chokes the sky while you breathe your last. Consciousness descends, falling on gold, diamond dusting your brow.
Thank you for you input.

[Anonymous No.4148788]

>>4148779
I read the first part

I really like it

[Anonymous No.4148796]

>>4148788
Thank you, anon.

[Anonymous No.4148943]

He is looking in the mirror, his arms twitching like piñatas being hit with the
force of a thousand high children, until suddenly, Pedro sees he is indeed wearing
a mustache, still is, thank god!, not-so-proudly but positively slopping it's
hairy-wiry butterfly wings about the arch of his lips, definitely a butterfly high on
steroids in the sunny desert, not on the same drugs as the kids, narcotics that could
be glue in plastic bags or very non-modest amounts of cheap U.S. sugar,
because everyone have been kids and every infant will be a man who will grow a
mustache and a machete, simultaneously, though no so fancy as the one that came
to him that morning some time ago. A mustache, that is, not the machete.
Pedro lifts his arms and proceeds, in his opinion, to do what could best
be described as
liberating the phlegm from the tyranny of the nose.

[Anonymous No.4148950]

>>4147568

I read it for 10 seconds. Boring. Might work with plebs.

[Anonymous No.4148956]

For hours there was silence, not a squeak or a weep to be heard. Outside, the morning turned to noon and noon turned to evening. And the evening seemed to bring closure to thought; [NAME]’s head rose again from the tabletop, shrouded by the outside darkness. He fixed his sights on the unlit candle that still sat in the table’s center, pristine and untouched since it had been placed there that morning, after the past night’s had burnt out and been tossed away, as was daily routine. At a creeping pace, [NAME] stood and took the candle in his hand, lifting it off the tabletop. He walked the candle to a drawer, trembling with his steps, within which sat thirty-three unused candles for future nights, all stacked together. [NAME] reviewed the night’s candle from all possible views and positions and angles, rubbing its soft figure with his fingers and palm, before throwing it into the pile and shutting the drawer after.

[Anonymous No.4148981]

>>4148943

wow that was gay

[Anonymous No.4148985]

>>4148981

Gay in the happy way I presume.

[Anonymous No.4148995]

I miss the old Mercedes station wagon. I miss the chestnut finish and the cavernous trunk and especially the radio. Iggy sang the best anthems, Bowie the best lullabies. I miss feigning sleep on a long car ride so that my mother or father (no preference) would lift me tenderly from my car seat, and with my head heavy upon their shoulder (a mischievous eye aflutter) carry me inside, whereupon crossing the threshold, I'd reanimate as a Kookaburra and flit about the creaky stairway ("got you! ha! ha!"). I miss the porch swing and the way it would groan louder and louder every year. I miss the swing at my grandparent's tethered to the arm of an old oak by a frayed candy-cane rope, and the way my toes felt skidding upon the horizon. I miss believing I could fly.

[Anonymous No.4149038]

bump

[Anonymous No.4149093]

different poster bump

[Anonymous No.4149113]

"haven't gotten my stuff reviewed" bump

[Anonymous No.4149249]

Here's something I wrote this morning.

"The Government sent me a monster
It was too big for the door I think
So it came piecemeal in manilla.

It crept through my lettebox one day
I found it in my kitchen waiting
Eyeless - somehow glowering at me.

I tucked it away above the fridge
Out of sight to be forgotten there
And it grew, nourished by negligence.

Week by week it swelled in silence there
Week by week I found more of it's parts
and hid them away to forget them.

One day when it had grown large enough
It crept down from atop of the fridge
And it waited for me in the hall.

By then I knew I couldn't slay it
So it took my Gyro cheque and left
It probably won't come back again
Right?"

[Anonymous No.4149257]

>>4148995
I like it, full of nostalgic Ozzie feels.
Wistful and far off.

>>4148956
As a nocturnal wanderer myself this leaves me wondering about the context of the snippet.
It grabs my attention to be sure, but not forcefully.

Perhaps a little over-descriptive, but not laboriously so, and if that sort of ponderous thoughtful description is what you're going for you're getting there.

>>4148943
I like it.
Anarchic certainly.
Strikes me as pretty punk-rock in it's own way.
Was this written stream of conciousness style?

[Anonymous No.4149270]

>>4148782
Mmm.
I like the prose.
Your use of language is fabulous, but I find it a touch too esoteric in parts to be relateable.

[Anonymous No.4149301]

You are alone in the vacuum of outer space. A mere strand holds you to your ship, from the fate of floating the space for eternity. Home seems so fleeting away, yet it’s right in your grasp. You clutch your fists but your hands won’t contain the planet. It’s so cold here. You see the stars around you like dust, so far away. The silence pierces your ears; you have to keep breathing to make noise. Sometimes you talk to yourself just to keep the silence away. You talk about how you got here, and how you would go back. You talk about the how the sleeping capsule feels so cold and how you miss the warm mattress and blanket back in my room. You talked a lot.
Your cable snaps, separating you from your ship. Separating your from your only sanctuary. You will roam the dark of space alone, until your bones become stardust. No one will be there for you.
But I dive down, away from the blackness of outer space, towards Earth. My descent is fast as light, flames accumulate around my suit. It burns through, exposing my skin to the heat. It’s okay, it feels warmer than space. The flames engulf my helmet; I see nothing but sparks of white and orange. It was beautiful. As I descend onto the ground like a shooting star, the flames around me light the firewood in the furnace. The living room was warm and golden in the presence of the fire. I see shadows of the people I love dance like puppets on the pastel walls of my home. I let myself fall, upon the couch, and close my eyes, and let myself go.

[Anonymous No.4149333]

>>4148943
>>4149257

Yes it was. And thank you - I did not intend any special kind of style but it makes me happy something can be made out of it. Even if it's "punk-rock". These are my regular daily sessions on let-loose writing without a second thought.

[Anonymous No.4149372]

>>4149301
Resonant.
The first and last lines of the second paragraph in particular imply a further separation, the astronaut from his ship, then the astronaut from himself.

I can dig it.

[Anonymous No.4149411]

Is mother unhappy?
But I built her castle,
And I bought the tissues
She's filling with her tears;
And if she'd leave that chair,
That chair I didn't make,
Then she'd be happy too -
Like the curtains, the glass,
The chimney, my chil-
dren,
All gleeful as ever.

[Anonymous No.4149416]

Is mother unhappy?
But I built her castle,
And I bought the tissues
She's filling with her tears;
And if she'd leave that chair,
That chair I didn't make,
Then she'd be happy too -
Like the curtains, the glass,
The chimney, and my chil-
dren,
All gleeful as ever.

[Anonymous No.4149429]

Oh God I didn't say,
but you were Jupiter
that day,
And I was Napole-
on,
And harmony made you
blue, from too much harmon-
y.

I can't pretend you weren't a monster, that I wouldn't have sank you to the bottom of, with me, the red swimming pool we saw in our dreams.

You will not last an hour.

[Anonymous No.4149452]

I didn't know, though,
If I ought to ask;
You'd never told me -
And All of the Sum-
mer? How could you let
Me spend that alone?
Why'd the sun's knife leave
My sight, when it took
My brothers' - and what's
'I', if I'm alone?
This terrified child,
Still trying not to
shake.

[Anonymous No.4149469]

>>4148782
Thank you, anon.

[Anonymous No.4149482]

There is diarrhea in the toilet
I pushed it out
In pain
And it stinks
I feel like crying now
Help me

[Anonymous No.4149512]

>>4149482
The quality of your verse is reflective of it's subject matter.

Truly you are a master of the synthesis of meaning and delivery.

[Anonymous No.4149626]

"Whip my fucking butthole!" yelled the actor-star who had fallen from grace. Oh my Devil, this guy is almost too fucked up, even for me. This brusque command, in combination with the view of the man in front (or rather, underneath) of Honey, who otherwise was a classically handsome, masculine, conservatively inclined man and public figure, drove her to quivers with hunger. Her black leathery tail cracked and coiled upwards like it had not in a very, very long time.

[Anonymous No.4149646]

golden mountain rivers
through the setting sun
our love lasts evermore
our love lasts evermore
as that golden mountain river
swifts through the setting sun

[Anonymous No.4149662]

I know your insides are
feeling so hollow,
And it's a hard
pill for you
to swallow,
But if I fall
for you,
I'll never recover.
If I fall for
you,
I'll never be the same.

I really wanna love somebody.
I really wanna dance the night away.

[Anonymous No.4149669]

>>4149646
That's nice but it lacks a little umph. I like that it's short but maybe it could use a little more length to give it more gravity. The sentiment is beautiful. It deserves a longer treatment, really.

[Anonymous No.4149713]

sometimes my eyes feel like they are Incapable
sometimes I don’t hear something
sometimes my eyes feel like they are incapable
sometimes my Colgate toothpaste runs out
sometimes I forget my noodles and they become overcooked
sometimes my clothes have dust on them
sometimes I ask “what will we have for dinner”
sometimes my dog shits
sometimes I don’t hear something
once the moon was blue against a yellow sky when I looked up

[Anonymous No.4149720]

sometimes my eyes feel like they are incapable
sometimes I don’t hear something
sometimes my Colgate toothpaste runs out
sometimes I forget my noodles and they become overcooked
sometimes my clothes have dust on them
sometimes I ask “what will we have for dinner”
sometimes my dog shits
sometimes I don’t hear something
and ask "what did you say"
once the moon turned blue against a yellow sky when I looked up

[Anonymous No.4149729]

>>4149452
I liked it, it is nice

[Anonymous No.4149744]

The killer lives inside me: I can feel him move.
Sometimes he's lightly sleeping in the quiet of his room,
But then his eyes will rise and stare through mine,
He'll speak my words and slice my mind inside.

The killer lives.

The angels live inside me: I can feel them smile,
Their presence strokes and soothes the tempest in my mind
And their love can heal the wounds that I have wrought.
They watch me as I go to fall, well, I know I shall be caught,

For the angels live.

How can I be free?
How can I get help?
Am I really me?
Am I someone else?

But stalking in my cloisters hang the acolytes of gloom
And Death's Head throws his cloak onto the corner of my room and I am doomed,
But laughing in my courtyard play the pranksters of my youth
And solemn, waiting Old Man in the gables of the roof, he tells me truth

And I, too, live inside me and very often don't know who I am,
I know, I'm not a hero, I hope that I'm not damned
I'm just a man, and killers, angels, all are these,
Dictators, saviors, refugees
In war and peace
As long as Man lives

I'm just a man, and killers, angels, all are these,
Dictators, saviors, refugees

[Anonymous No.4149752]

Creep close my ambivalent ghost
Nothing you do is permanent
White sheets, a window to the coast
Offering false peace, turbulent

Dissonance floods my shipwrecked head
Wannabe autonomy lulled
A broken camcorders thirst to be fed
It thanks its destroyer now hulled

Thankful now it's been several days
My mind at ease, no more solid smack
Life's much different without your haze
Ambivalent ghost I need you back

[Anonymous No.4149919]

Now the gate to wisdom creaks when it opens
When I wander in
But usually I just sit quiet in the darkness
And my vision goes thin
You keep me there rooted to the ground
Like a dying tree
I can’t find my mask
But its nothing this drink cant give me.

something i wrote a while back, found it yesterday. I think the ideas need to be elaborated upon or is the poem more effective the more succinct I keep it?

[Freund Quentin No.4149978]

>>4146849
Es geschah, als die Menschen noch die tönernen Götter anbeteten und jede Stadt diesseits der Purpurnen Ebenen einen eigenen König ernannte, da herrschte Krieg zwischen den Städten Vei Tashvnr und Laurns im Land der Dünen und Oasen. Die Königin der einen Stadt hatte jener der anderen ihren Prinzen entführt, sagte man. Ihre Namen sind schon so lange vergessen, dass es scheint, sie hätten nie welche gehabt. Die Königin von Laurns nennt man die „Kupferne“, die andere den „Brückenkopf“. Zwanzig und zwei Jahre ließen sie ihre Armeen gegeneinander anrennen, bis das Schauspiel einem Seesturm aus Eisen und Blut glich. Doch siegreich konnte sich keine der beiden nennen. Da kamen an den Hof der Königin, die man den „Brückenkopf“ nennt, zwei Fremde. Der eine, dessen Haut bleich wie ausgelassenes Fett und dessen Nase dünn und spitz war, kam von weit aus dem Westen, von hinter der Grünen See. Der andere sah aus wie aus flüssiger Schokolade gegossen und trug einen Mantel aus blauer Seide; er kam aus dem Norden, dort wo heute das Reich der Punini liegt. Sie verkündeten, der Stadt den Sieg bringen zu können, wenn man ihnen nur einen Mond lang Zeit gäbe. Eine undenkbare Frechheit, sagten die königlichen Berater und forderten, die beiden hinrichten zu lassen. Zu behaupten, jemand könne in einem einzigen Mondumlauf das fertigbringen, was der Auserwählten der tönernen Götter in zwanzig und zwei Jahren nicht gelungen war, so sagten sie, war Grund genug, diese Fremden zu steinigen und ihre Körper von der Stadtmauer zu werfen. Doch die Königin lud beide in ihren Palast, ließ sie bewirten und fragte nicht, wieso glaubst du, das tun zu können, was ich nicht konnte? Stattdessen sagte sie, wie soll ich wissen, wer von euch zuerst sein Glück versuchen darf? Lass das Glück entscheiden, riet ihr der Weiße. Da sah sie den Weißen an und sagte, du bist die Zahlseite, und dem Schwarzen sagte sie, du bist die Kopfseite. Dann warf sie eine Münze hoch in die Luft. Und als die Münze auf der Seite, auf der ihr Wert zu sehen war, landete, da ließ sie den weißen Mann schwören; einen Mondumlauf will ich dich versorgen, als wärst du mein Sohn. Ist diese Zeit jedoch um und du hast den Krieg nicht gewonnen, dann wirst du vom Volke gesteinigt werden und von der Stadtmauer geworfen. Da warf der Weiße sich zu Boden und schwor auf sein Leben. Er verlangte, dass ihm Vieh gebracht werde, zehn Widder und zehn Laufgeier, die wolle er schlachten und ihr Blut seinen Göttern opfern. Also gab man ihm Vieh, das er opferte. Weiters verlangte er sieben Jungfrauen, die sollten mit ihm den Gesang seiner Götter anstimmen, um sie zu betören. Auch die ließ die Königin ihm geben. Zwanzig und sieben Tage vergingen. Am achtundzwanzigsten Tag stieg der weiße Mann auf die Mauern der Stadt, blickte herab auf die tobenden Massen und sprach, meine Götter schlagen euch mit Blitz und Feuer! (1/3), soll ich den Rest auch noch?

[Freund Quentin No.4149993]

>>4149978
Der Sohn der Schlange wird herabsteigen und euch vernichten, Feinde der Stadt Vei Tashvnr! Doch nichts geschah. Der Kampf wütete weiter wie bisher und das Volk, dem er das Vieh genommen hatte, fiel über ihn her mit den Steinen, mit denen er die Tiere getötet hatte, und erschlug ihn. Seine Leiche warfen sie von der Stadtmauer. Nun bist du an der Reihe, sagte die Königin zu dem Schwarzen im blauen Mantel, mögest du mehr Erfolg haben als dein Kamerad. Egal was ich verlange, fragte er, ich werde es bekommen? Denn er hatte im Gefängnis gesessen, während der Weiße seine Opfer dargebracht hatte. Die Königin versicherte ihm, er würde es bekommen, sofern es nicht anmaßend und nicht unerfüllbar wäre. Eine schöne und in der Liebeskunst bewanderte Gefährtin für sein Lager, drei Bögen Papier und einen Schreibgriffel wünschte er sich, und er bekam es auch. Von der fünften Stunde bis Mitternacht verweilte er auf der Stadtmauer, vier Tage hintereinander, und hielt seltsame Werkzeuge in die Luft. Am fünften Tage schloss er sich in seine Kammer ein, schrieb und zeichnete, bis die drei Bögen Papier bis an den Rand ausgefüllt waren, vorne und hinten. Wenn er spätnachts den Griffel sinkenließ und sich zu der Dirne, die ihm die Königin geschickt hatte legte, liebte er sie wie der Sandsturm die Dünen kost. In jenen zehn Tagen, so heißt es, dachte er mehr, als alle Weisen und Könige vor ihm. Als er am Abend des fünfzehnten Tages vor die Königin trat, kräuselte sich auf seinen Wangen bereits ein stattlicher Bart. Ich will, dass deine fähigsten Handwerker Holz, Eisen, Seil und Steine herbeischaffen und dies bauen, sagte er und zeigte ihr den ersten Bogen Papier, auf dem ein gigantisches Gerät zu sehen war. So geschah es, die Handwerker schafften das heran, was der Fremde verlangte und bauten das Gerät nach seinen Anweisungen. Als das Gerät schließlich fertig war, brach der letzte Tag seiner Frist an. Wein und Honigmilch ließ der Baumeister den Handwerkern bringen und dankte jedem von ihnen mit Handschlag und Wangenkuss, ganz so, als wären sie ein Teil seiner Familie. Sowie jeder versorgt und bedankt war, trat er vor die Königin und sprach, ich kenne eine Sprache, die nicht lügen kann. Was soll das heißen, empörten sie die königlichen Berater, willst du uns mit falschen Göttern kommen so wie dein Kamerad? Anstelle einer Antwort zog der Schwarze den zweiten Bogen Papier aus seinem Mantel und breitete ihn vor der Königin und den Beratern aus. (2/3)

[Freund Quentin No.4149995]

>>4149993
Die Zeichen, die darauf zu lesen waren, waren ihnen fremd und verwirrten sie. In dieser Sprache, die nicht lügen kann, so sagte er, steht hier geschrieben, dass meine Maschine einen Felsen auf die Mauer der Stadt namens Laurns werfen wird, dass es ein Loch hineinreißen wird und euer Heer hindurchstürmen kann. Noch heute wird euer Feind fallen! Wenn das die Wahrheit ist, antwortete die Königin, dann überschütte ich dich mit soviel Reichtümern, wie es einem Kriegshelden und Feldherren würdig ist und befehle dir, uns alle in diesem Raum diese Sprache zu lehren. Doch solltest du lügen, soll man dir die Zunge herausschneiden, bevor man dich steinigt und von der Stadtmauer wirft. So soll es sein, sagte der Fremde. Hebt den Fels hinein, rief er den Handwerkern zu, und nun hackt das Seil durch! Und siehe da, der schwarze Mann im blauen Seidenmantel hatte nicht gelogen, denn der Fels sauste durch die Lüfte wie ein Komet und zertrümmerte einen Teil der Laurnser Stadtmauer, sodass die Truppen von Vei Tashvnr eindringen und den feindlichen Hofstaat als Geiseln nehmen konnten. Noch vor dem Sonnenuntergang war die Stadt Laurns erobert und ein Zehntel dessen, was aus ihren Schatzkammern geplündert worden war, erhielt der Fremde, dessen Maschine den Sieg errungen hatte, als Belohnung für seine Tat. Man nennt die Königin von Vei Tashvnr, die diese Tat geschehen ließ, seitdem den „Brückenkopf“, denn dank ihr wurden schließlich alle Städte der Sharac unter einer Krone vereint. Unser aller Dank gilt dir, Fremder, doch in all dieser Zeit die du unter uns weiltest, hast du uns deinen Namen nicht verraten, sagten Berater demütig und beschämt, und wenn du unter uns noch länger weilen wirst, so wollen wir ihn gerne erfahren. Ich komme von weit her, sagte da der Schwarze, aus einem Land in dem Namen Macht bedeuten. Ich konnte ihn euch nicht verraten, sonst wäre ihm diese Macht genommen worden und ihr hättet mir die Zunge herausgeschnitten, mich gesteinigt und von der Mauer geworfen. Nun aber bin ich frei von solcher Last, da will ich ihn euch sagen: Ich bin Avenbuangbomwan, das heißt „der Unschuldige braucht keinen Fluch zu fürchten“. Ist dies die Sprache, die nicht lügen kann, fragten sie ihn, doch er verneinte dies. Es ist keine Sprache der Worte und Namen, belehrte er sie, sondern eine der Zahlen und Messungen. Setzt euch zu mir, und ich werde sie euch beibringen. Und auf dem dritten Bogen Papier begann er sie die Zahlen seiner Sprache zu lehren.

[Anonymous No.4151082]

>>4149372
>then the astronaut from himself.
thanks, i never thought of that

[Anonymous No.4151127]

Do stories count? I had this idea buzzing in my head at 4am so I started writing it.

Honestly I don't know how some writers are able to to do it though, I'm at like 8 pages and it seems to convey most of my story. or at least the opening. But my heart feels like it needs 40 pages to fully express the ideas going on.

I'm on a bit of writers block right now. here's a link

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1_rS_5EdwvV7mdW1fykrNmSCZfm1cPvBHb0dPiW0aw8o/edit?usp=sharing

[Anonymous No.4151130]

It was the night after the Day of the Dead when the letter came. Thinly sealed with a red stripe around the waxy opening, addressed to the family living down the road, in the center house of the only cul-de-sac in the neighborhood. Deciding to skip the mailbox and rest on the first front steps of the front door, it was stepped on twice before it was noticed. Once when one of the boys ran out the door to catch the school bus, twice when their mother left for the office.
Their mother insisted that they call it by it’s true name in it’s original language. The day before, they all celebrated Dia de Muertos, mostly by humoring her with a small shrine in their backyard dedicated to her grandfather, and baking sugar cookies with frosting skulls, decorated with glitter and sprinkles. She and her husband shared a few margaritas late that night next to the pool, the reflections of the water shimmering on their faces in the calmly dull candlelight. Wind chimes rang a small distance away, she could catch the brief flash of her husband’s toothy smile when she glanced at him from her creaky lawnchair. It wasn’t the same evening she had spent traditionally with her family so long ago, but it was more than enough.
The wine glasses they drank from sat haphazard in the sink, lolling from side to side as she let the water run over them. She had set her coffee down, and was holding the letter, knowing her hesitation at the door would cost her later at work. She held it in both hands, letting it rest in her palms, which was not normally how she would hold a letter. Normally it was grasped in one hand, and torn through the top with the other without a care. This one she held at a slight distance, cupped delicately in her hands like a leaking stick of dynamite.
Her husband stepped into the kitchen, swinging his elbows out and whistling out of tune. He wore a plain T-shirt and last night’s boxers. His cup of coffee fogged his glasses as he approached her from behind. “What’s that you got there?”
She placed it on the counter, doing her best to ignore the unwelcome chill. “I think a letter arrived for us.”
“What does it say?” He took a small sip. His lips stained the edge of the mug.
She didn’t know, she hadn’t opened it.
He took it, ran his thick finger through the top, and pulled out a small folded paper.
The letter addressed them both by name, offered an informal greeting before starting the next, much longer paragraph with the words, We regret to inform you. He looked at it for a long time, reading it twice. And then a third time, mouthing some of the words.
“One of your cousins has gone missing.” he said. He placed his free hand on his chin and handed the paper to his wife, who read it very fast.
“How many cousins do you have again?” he said offhand.

[Anonymous No.4151132]

>>4151130
“My father has five brothers. I don’t keep in contact with any of them.” she answered. “I’m not sure how many children they’ve had. I’ve only met a few, and that was a while ago.” The name listed on the paper was not familiar to her.
“There isn’t a return address on the envelope.” said her husband as she stared at the name, trying to recall anything she could. He took another sip of coffee, more out of convenience than anything else, “Who sends out mail like this? I’ve never heard about this happening before.”
She crossed the kitchen tile, making loud deliberate footsteps. She tapped the top of her green heel on the trashbin and tossed the paper. “I don’t know the boy. I’d hardly say it concerns us.” she said with a small wavering in her voice before kissing her husband on the cheek and rushing out the door.

[Anonymous No.4151206]

>>4147687
He might want 'pin-ned,' but yeah.

[Anonymous No.4151211]

>>4147755
3-6-4 is clearly superior.

[Anonymous No.4151226]

>>4148985
*assume

How could you presume something you've already seen?