/lit/ - Literature

http://www.amazon.com/The-Awful-Possibilities-Christian-TeBordo/dp/0977199290

>>4119484
yes. did you see the local news tonight? it was crazy...stabbing in greer..18 wheeler wreck..church burned down...atheist billboard lul

“If I can hold my breath for nine minutes, I will win the world record! You have to hold me under, Hannah!” Her brother excitedly explained. Those illusions tormented the grown Hannah as she watched the two figures carry out the act. Little Hannah held her brother under the water until life was gone from his body. “No, no, no,” Hannah muttered. Those delusions were so real, as if she were really there again. “Hannah, Hannah,” the little boy shouted. This was not how the memory had ended. “Hannah, we are together again!” “No,” she groaned, “I killed you. I’m sorry. I am so sorry. I did not know what I was doing.” “Are you sure? I seem to have forgotten,” Eli smiled, his grin missing a bottom tooth, just as she remembered him. “Then I will forget, too.” Hannah stammered. She felt her body being ripped from the scene. She was thrown into a vortex of sand and dark salty water. She kicked and reached out for something to hold. Hannah found another hand and grasped it tightly. She was pulled out by the dark figure that had called her into the deep waters. The figure was neither man, nor woman, nor human. “What is your name?” Hannah demanded, her voice strangled by the water. “Dae-soon.” Once again the figure spoke psychically, and its’ voice remained clear. Dae-soon’s face was remarkably human; with almond shaped eyes, high cheek bones, and thin, pursed lips. Long, white hair grew straight, and was kept neatly braided in a bun beneath a crown of shells and jewels. The body was different. Dae-soon had no breasts or nipples; instead, soft blue skin on her belly turned to scales along her spine. She had a dragon’s tail and clawed feet. Dae-soon, the moon goddess, judged that Hannah had a fair heart, and chose to free her from her past. “Where there is remorse, you make yourself guilty,” Dae-soon told her, “So you never feel it again.” She placed her finger to Hannah’s chest and when she withdrew it, the memory was rendered nonexistent. Hannah’s body was pulled to the surface by the waters. She landed on the shoreline, where the waves splashed against her face. She could not breathe the air. She pushed her face into the water, but without Dae-soon she could no longer breathe there. Her throat burned with trapped air, and in the stillness, she began to die. “Forgive me,” she said quietly.

2/3
“Come with me,” A clear voice answered from within the darkness so loudly it seemed as if her imagination had created it. Still, her instinct turned her body. Facing east, towards the deepness of the sea, she could see the faintest outline of a head and shoulders, just past the safety of the sandy shelf. She was as a woman possessed. She had to know who had heard her precious, private prayers. Hannah dove beneath the water and swam towards the break. When she surfaced for air, she found herself in the daytime in a chlorine filled swimming pool. Her stomach twisted painfully. “No! Not here!” she cried painfully as she found herself trapped where she stood. Two children, little Hannah and her brother Eli, were competing to hold their breath.

>>4119423
Yes, I plan to finish it when I can stomach looking at it again. Maybe in a week or two or five.. I wrote this short story today, but someone suggested I delete the post because I should publish it. Needs to be tightened up, but I love it .... (I also write poetry)

“Andromeda”
The scent of sulfur was clinging to the breeze, though the ocean sought to rust it away, the night after Independence Day. Hannah breathed in the gun powdered ocean air. St Augustine was sighing. The old city was weary from its’ visitors. Anastasia Island yawned. Rattlesnake Island vibrated and its’ “Om” reverberated across the sands. Even the beach morning glories were tucked inward for the night. Hannah was alone. She left her sandals beside the wooden crossway. Sea oats reached out to her as she swept by. Her feet were sinking with every step, and she could feel her muscles fighting. She lifted her long skirt to her hip and jogged doggedly along the Atlantic face of the dunes. Hannah’s hair fell in long black curls across her back. Hannah ran to release the energies she held back in the day, and she ran to let go of “holding back.” Two bells sewn to the waist of her skirt jingled along with her rhythm. In the darkness of the night, she became saturated by the shadows. Her legs became maroon, and the tie dyed variations of her aqua skirt faded into the night. She tripped and landed in the pearly sand. That is where she left her shirt and skirt. Bare, she felt a connection growing from her feet to the far-reaching mass of tangled roots and threads that stabilize the sandy beaches. She stretched her leg and dipped her toes into the water. The froth of salt water tickled her ankles and drew her in. The salt water was welcoming, and playful. It pushed and pulled her body, gently rolled shells past her legs, and held her when her feet left the ground. Hannah spread her arms and opened her palms to the sky. “Thank you!” She yelled into the great darkness, “Thank you for the stars, a light to guide me in the dark, and for the promise of a new moon!” The last glimmer of the waning moon winked at her. “Great ocean, carry away my sins. Bring me a revival of my innocence.” She let the water rush against her skin, and she knew within her gut that she had been heard.1/2

>>4119418
I do think it is very encyclopedic, too. And you are not the first person to say so.

Another bit that shows of some story-telling:
27.
I remember where I was standing when I announced my curiosity about the business. Michelle was on her computer in the living room. I had my hand on the handle of the door, almost ready to leave to go home.

28.
“I want to make money, too,” I blurted. She was startled. I was a little jolted myself. ‘Had I really just put it out there like that? What if she did not think I was pretty enough? What if she got offended?’ My mind raced.

29.
“Okay. I will talk to you about it when you come back over,” she said coolly.

30.
That night I stared into the mirror, examining my naked body. I was sixteen, but I looked fourteen. I decided not to be upset if Ken did not like me. I assumed he would not. What kind of man could like a girl like me? I had no hips and my breasts were tiny. I definitely still looked prepubescent. Still, I went to Michelle’s house the next day, and she directed the picture taking. She gave me a pink thong to wear and took a picture of my backside bent over to my toes. She sent him a text message that said, “I have a girl for you.” Then, she sent the picture.

>>4119407
Yes. The names are changed. My name is not Rebecca and my last name is not Cannon. I am still not sure what kind of lawsuits could be taken on me for putting this stuff out there (not that anyone will read it) but I figured I should at least try to hide my identity. Everything is accurate. Except the ending. The ending I wrote is brief- I was very emotionally drained and nearing the end of a manic cycle so I just tied it up to feel complete. There is over a year of stripping/tricking not included, yet.

>an excerpt
Prostitution in the suburbs was far more rampant than I ever could have imagined. It was hard to see or to find. Everyone worked off of word of mouth, referrals, and set-ups. We did not use the websites or walk the streets. If the parents of our girls ever discovered our business, there would be no store with red lights and half naked models in the windows to boycott. No, there would be no CEO to send lawyers and news teams. We were grassroots; a different species from the massage parlors and escort services. We were under the radar, and we were good at staying there. I kept my cash out of sight. I asked for small bills opposed to big ones. Even if I had a roll of one hundred dollar bills, what cop would assume what I had done? I was pretty, my record was clean, and I carried myself in the same manner as any other “Southern Belle.” If they could believe that I was a prostitute, then maybe their own daughter’s virginity could be obliterated by perversion too. Our cops and parents preferred ignorance.

>Also, willing to do an ask me anything while I wait.

Some people seemed interested in this when I discussed writing about these topics in threads before. Deals with real life prostitution... Made this thread before and it was 404'd, maybe because I used a picture of myself? Sorry, if it needs to be 404'd again? Anyway, rate?

http://pastebin.com/tz83YKQx

I had talked about a project I was working on about my real life experiences with prostitution. I wrote about them as if fiction, because I hear this is the only way to become published. It got really draining, and I slapped an ending on it, but I will go back and write the true ending. For those who were interested, here it is in its current state:
http://pastebin.com/tz83YKQx

>>4118720
haha

>Her chin rested on her hands which were laced and propped
laced by what?

I think you did a wonderful job. I think I like Arianna (which means princess if you didn't know) and the glass prince. I don't like Lindsey, but you wrote her well. Keep going, OP.

A good love poem is honest. In my opinion, it should be about the act of loving- falling in love, sex, or obsession. It should be written with a particular person (or audience or object) in mind the entire time so that it is cohesive. You are writing about YOUR personal experience with love, so clichés need not apply.

>>4118588
>>4118583
sorry for the double post. you should write more. this is good especially for some one who is "not writer"... I feel like I know the girl in the poem. I do think it's pretty bare though. Try adding details or play with it and see what you like.

>>4116492
what were you on, OP?
>not a cop

>>4116492
what on, OP?
>not a cop

>>4118472
the smell of fireworks lingers on the beach for days after 4th of july.. sulfur and gunpowder are the main ingredients. and yes ive smelled it myself.

“If I can hold my breath for nine minutes, I will win the world record! You have to hold me under, Hannah!” Her brother excitedly explained. Those illusions tormented the grown Hannah as she watched the two figures carry out the act. Little Hannah held her brother under the water until life was gone from his body. “No, no, no,” Hannah muttered. Those delusions were so real, as if she were really there again.
“Hannah, Hannah,” the little boy shouted. This was not how the memory had ended. “Hannah, we are together again!”
“No,” she groaned, “I killed you. I’m sorry. I am so sorry. I did not know what I was doing.”
“Are you sure? I seem to have forgotten,” Eli smiled, his grin missing a bottom tooth, just as she remembered him.
“Then I will forget, too.” Hannah stammered. She felt her body being ripped from the scene. She was thrown into a vortex of sand and dark salty water. She kicked and reached out for something to hold. Hannah found another hand and grasped it tightly. She was pulled out by the dark figure that had called her into the deep waters.
The figure was neither man, nor woman, nor human.
“What is your name?” Hannah demanded, her voice strangled by the water.
“Dae-soon.”
Once again the figure spoke psychically, and its’ voice remained clear. Dae-soon’s face was remarkably human; with almond shaped eyes, high cheek bones, and thin, pursed lips. Long, white hair grew straight, and was kept neatly braided in a bun beneath a crown of shells and jewels. The body was different. Dae-soon had no breasts or nipples; instead, soft blue skin on her belly turned to scales along her spine. She had a dragon’s tail and clawed feet. Dae-soon, the moon goddess, judged that Hannah had a fair heart, and chose to free her from her past.
“Where there is remorse, you make yourself guilty,” Dae-soon told her, “So you never feel it again.” She placed her finger to Hannah’s chest and when she withdrew it, the memory was rendered nonexistent.
Hannah’s body was pulled to the surface by the waters. She landed on the shoreline, where the waves splashed against her face. She could not breathe the air. She pushed her face into the water, but without Dae-soon she could no longer breathe there. Her throat burned with trapped air, and in the stillness, she began to die. “Forgive me,” she said quietly.


/end

>What does /lit/ think of my short story? (I may do away with Dae-soon.)

“Andromeda”

The scent of sulfur was clinging to the breeze, though the ocean sought to rust it away, the night after Independence Day. Hannah breathed in the gun powdered ocean air. St Augustine was sighing. The old city was weary from its’ visitors. Anastasia Island yawned. Rattlesnake Island vibrated and its’ “Om” reverberated across the sands. Even the beach morning glories were tucked inward for the night. Hannah was alone. She left her sandals beside the wooden crossway. Sea oats reached out to her as she swept by. Her feet were sinking with every step, and she could feel her muscles fighting. She lifted her long skirt to her hip and jogged doggedly along the Atlantic face of the dunes. Hannah’s hair fell in long black curls across her back. Hannah ran to release the energies she held back in the day, and she ran to let go of “holding back.” Two bells sewn to the waist of her skirt jingled along with her rhythm. In the darkness of the night, she became saturated by the shadows. Her legs became maroon, and the tie dyed variations of her aqua skirt faded into the night. She tripped and landed in the pearly sand. That is where she left her shirt and skirt. Bare, she felt a connection growing from her feet to the far-reaching mass of tangled roots and threads that stabilize the sandy beaches. She stretched her leg and dipped her toes into the water. The froth of salt water tickled her ankles and drew her in. The salt water was welcoming, and playful. It pushed and pulled her body, gently rolled shells past her legs, and held her when her feet left the ground. Hannah spread her arms and opened her palms to the sky.
“Thank you!” She yelled into the great darkness, “Thank you for the stars, a light to guide me in the dark, and for the promise of a new moon!” The last glimmer of the waning moon winked at her. “Great ocean, carry away my sins. Bring me a revival of my innocence.” She let the water rush against her skin, and she knew within her gut that she had been heard.
“Come with me,” A clear voice answered from within the darkness so loudly it seemed as if her imagination had created it. Still, her instinct turned her body. Facing east, towards the deepness of the sea, she could see the faintest outline of a head and shoulders, just past the safety of the sandy shelf. She was as a woman possessed. She had to know who had heard her precious, private prayers. Hannah dove beneath the water and swam towards the break.
When she surfaced for air, she found herself in the daytime in a chlorine filled swimming pool. Her stomach twisted painfully. “No! Not here!” she cried painfully as she found herself trapped where she stood. Two children, little Hannah and her brother Eli, were competing to hold their breath.

If the greatest offense to power is powerlessness, my transgressions were immeasurable. I gave all of my power to a pimp when I was sixteen. It has taken seven years for me to use these words: "pimp, prostitute, and addict". Seven years for my choices to settle. I cannot believe it has been seven years.
You think, you hear, or see on TV, that pimps and prostitutes are easy to distinguish from non-sex workers. Maybe you think they are uneducated foreigners or that all pimps are muscular with a gold tooth and mean disposition; just stereotypes. It is astonishingly mixed company. The sex trade in South Carolina employs every flavor. There are crack heads and there are travelling professionals and there are middle aged sex addicts, and then there are young, unbridled girls. This is the category I fall into, and this is my story.

I wrote love poems, love letters, and love spells (lol) when I was a lot younger. However, I did not give these things out, and aside from my nosey family who got into my journal, they were private.

Now, I have written some LOVING poems but not love poems. Here is an example of one written for my ex-girlfriend who was over working herself (it went over quite well):

"Couersavor"

Think for a moment.
It is a moment for yourself.
Where there is patience,
the sunshine is shining.
It's simple, your heart is loud
and I am listening, saver of my heart.

Fantasize about the energy in you
make it a real place.
go to the center and be carefree
Today is your day.

Pense por une momente
C'est une momente por tu.
Quand il y a patience
le soleil est soleil
C'est simple
ton couer est fort
j'entends mon couersavor.

Think for a moment.
It is a moment for yourself.
Where there is patience,
the sunshine is shining.
It's simple, your heart is loud
and I am listening, saver of my heart.

(By no means do I consider this my best work, but it isone of my most cherished pieces. )

>my house got broken into
>laptop is stolen (duh)
>leather bound and FULL poetry journal missing (wat?)
>heart broken
>made self finish current project
>still feeling under-motivated
>wat do?

Someone on /lit/ told me: write what you can, then read, then read more, then write, and then read some more.

Reading is instructive for writing, because it teaches you sentence and plot construction. It is helpful when you have writer's block because it relaxes your mind.

Also, ALWAYS carry a pen! Do not let any of your ideas slip away!

What I do like
>the hammer story
>the murderers reaction (expand here maybe)
>evil and knowledge equated to power (maybe if you explained why good and knowledge are NOT powerful it would complete the thought cycle for me)