/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.5545079]

“I can’t wait ‘til I have my own family to boss around and abuse!”
A scene briefly flashes through my mind. In it, I am around 30 years old, living in a trailer somewhere in upstate New York with my wife and kids. This version of me angrily hurls a bottle of liquor at the aluminum wall of his home. Back to reality: I grin at the absurd thought.
I cannot hold the grin, so I instead set my jaw and run my sight along the grain of the wooden kitchen table. Finding a deep black groove, I go back and forth, back and forth, trying to slice the table in half. My parents are standing opposite the table, in front of the fridge. I like to think that they were standing there in order to put an object between them and me in case I want to use my laser gaze to cleave them in twain.
My dad sternly informs me “No good parent in the world lets their kid talk to his parents like you do! No good parent in the world lets their kid slide on his workload like you do!”
I look up from the table. “So what does that make you?” Ouch. His statement might have been over-the-top, but my response was weapons-grade backtalk. I felt a little bad, but there was no way he was winning this one. He tilts his head so that he is looking at me through the corner of his right eye. You know the look; all angry men have looked this way at their sons. My mother purses her lips and makes a deep groan in the back of her throat. It reminds me of Marge Simpson.
I get up from the table and I walk right past my bear-like father, looking him in his evil eye, my nose what felt like inches from his. They say I’m taller than he is, but it didn’t feel like it right then. I hope that my legs weren’t shaking. I pick out a cup from within our crowded ceramic sink. I turn on the water and rinse it off before filling it up. It is one of those thick plastic cups that they serve Pepsi in at roadside restaurants and arcade pizza places, the kind that is more likely to crack the floor than to be damaged itself if you drop it.
I have emptied the cup, but I still hold it to my lips. I am looking through the bottom at two twisted monsters, one male and one female. The plastic has distorted my vision of them. I take the cup away. I see my parents. My dad’s smile lines show through his stubble, and his strong, clever hands are resting on the standard white countertop. Crow’s feet border my mom’s eyes, which are grayish blue, like the Arctic Ocean.
This was a minor skirmish in an ongoing war about schoolwork. I think, “Would it kill me to do things their way? School isn’t that important to me as to necessitate that I do as much of it as possible on my own terms.” I don’t know what conclusion those thoughts will lead to, since that is in the future. I don’t know how I’ve depicted my life, my parents, and myself to you, the majority of whom hardly know me. I am too emotionally involved in this topic to determine that. What would my parents think if they read this?

[Anonymous No.5545086]

This is a little something I just wrote for English 12. It's called "That's One Way To Look At It"

[Anonymous No.5545091]

BTW it got an A+ and a "brilliant!"

[Anonymous No.5545122]

What do you think /lit/?

pls respond

[Anonymous No.5545201]

>>5545122
it seems like you made it unnecessarily longer to reach a page/word requirement

4/10 not interesting but has promise

[Anonymous No.5545217]

i rate it a tao lin/10

[Anonymous No.5545237]

>>5545217
>TAO LIN OUT OF TEN

>MORE LIKE

>TAO LIN OUT OF MEN!