but I have never written anything good

Farting Acceptance

National Alliance for Flatulence Acceptance:
The Fartist – creating magic with gas
Flatulence Awareness Raising Trust and Education Research Society (FARTERS)
rename Black Friday “National Fart in Public Day”

“Don’t retain – entertain!”

Would, but I just deleted them in a fit of pique and now I'm drinking myself into forgetting how I lost months of work because I'm a drama queen.

>>1887811

Was it because you aren't happy with what you write? Did someone find them?

It is time of despair
I am grasping at straws
Each shorter than the other
Every breath cries silently
Head – thick cement
Threatens rebellion
Arms tingle their sockets
Chest full of dust
Hair, bristle-like,
Grows on the inside,
Uncut

Pointless stress
Disappoints

I don't know what I like best out of all my writing...I do have a favourite sentence though. I wrote it one day, forgot about it, then rediscovered it weeks later and I thought about that sentence for weeks. I'd love to share it, but I just can't vring myself to.

>>1887821
The former.

It's honestly not that bad, I know what I want to do know and it was due another pass.

>>1887828

Here. A random paragraph from my stash.

My life is marked by my father's bladder. Every hour and straight after dinner or drinks he'll go, and of course the bathroom is right next to my room and the walls are more like membranes, so I hear everything. I hear the whole disgusting parade of piss as it splashes and gurgles and swirls around and then I hear the flush and the zip and he always fucking belches and then the light switch is pulled and he stamps away like a dumb ape and I can then, finally, pull my fingers from my ears and dream of the day he's dead and I'm alone with noone to piss in my toilet but me.

Perhaps this, although the theme I've tried to tackle is probably a bit too grand.

Smallpox

"A room without doors,
within these walls."
This, he said, was God.

Pebbles formed beneath the skin.
Husband, daughter, mother, gone.
Light of an indifferent sun
heats an empty bed.
Imprint of a heavy head.

They have gone into the doorless room.
This, I say, is memory.

My name's Jam Jizzle,
I'm a rumbunctious wizard,
My ruff rhyming that you hear is odd,
Sexing ladies on their period.
Yo!

>>1887834
I like this. more?

>>1887852

That's from my scrapbook, my bits and bobs, so there is no more...I do have about 140 pages worth of similar writing though. It's all fragments really.

This is complete though. It's a fifty word story, I have a few of these:

To Stand Still Whilst Others Move

I saw a trodden flower on the floor and stopped. Yellows and reds erupted in grit; a crushed tulip blazing like sun. I felt drawn towards this flower, to this spot where I stood.
An elderly couple started walking up behind me. Standing still suddenly seemed rather strange. I left.

>>1887869

After checking, it's actually more like a 300 page scrapbook...

five lines of a poem. couldn't get any farther and put it aside. done about nine months ago.

let's move to buffalo...
let's buy a space shuttle seven miles long...
let's live according to the book...
if that book hides a secret passage...
i bet professor plum is at the end of that passage...

A beautiful crack spread beneath the rock and under my feet like the smile of a demented man. I felt the final shudder of the frigid lake and it gave way to my weight. A final smile spread across me as my hair shot upward and my legs were thrust down. The water was indescribably cold. I felt it burn my eyes and turn my skin to a ghostly pale. I grasped the rock as I sank and held onto it the way a mother would hold a child; cradling the catalyst that set my life spiraling down.

>>1887869
I loved that

“what are you doing?” my young niece will ask as I tap at the keyboard. “I'm writing bad things,” I will reply, “It's fun. Why don't you try it? I won't judge, I promise.” And then she will write down all her sordid heavy secrets and I will say to her “I can't believe what you have just written. I am deeply ashamed for you.” And she will leave, sobbing, and I will sit back, smiling. A true cunt.

>>1887970
rofl

>>1887811

I did the same thing.

Even went so far as to delete my archived correspondence letters.

Discarded all my artwork, too. Sketchbooks and everything.

>>1887977
happens to everyone at some point I think, shit sucks.

>>1887977
oh you fools! if only you had been like me and obsessively kept everything you wrote ever. And dated some of it for some reason. Now unlike you I have mounds and mounds of writing! Completely unorganised! Of which about three paragraphs out of every hundred might ever be worthwhile at any point in future! hooray for me

The greatest love story ever told.

"Fuck me." She said. And so he fucked her.

The end.

Transcribed from my diary, warning: drunk, melodramatic, tangential thinking.

31st of October

The Memoirs of My Melancholy Whores - Gabrielle Marquez

Inspired by house of the sleeping beaties, Marquez, a 90 year old womanizer, finds love for the first time with a young whore. Great writing, or perhaps great translating (maybe both?). Marquez wonderfully shows the ailes of age, and contrasts this with the awkwardness of first love. The character is at times vile, endearing, disgusting, and enviable.

Something in the elderly makes me lament - they're so fleeting, so spent. Yet they have lived as I will, seen far more than me. They decay and rot, and their beauty fades into the dust-specks and cracks lining their furrowed faces. In senility they are free from the inhibitions so ingrained in our adulthood. They regress to that inquisitive free state of the child.

To be old is to have lived, it is to have seen all the world, from Peru, to Mozambique, to the Alps. To have walked long dusty roads, and rode catamarans along summer-ridden isles. To have been acquainted with lady adventure and bedded the girl of your dreams. But it is also to have seen those roads perish, the catamarans collapse, and the isles wash away. To see waiting brother death, and beyond him, the smiling girl again.

>>1888017
a bit too full of itself tbh

This poem has a secret
in an attempt to give the narrator substance.

Diary:

A charecter on a page is flat and formless without the fundimental definition, the first one given upon entering the world; without a sex.
Maybe the only exemption to this is you. You the reader (Italo Calvino); you that familiar, comforting, confronting face; you who has an intimate knowledge of all the flaws, all the beauty.
It is possible to attatch instant empathy to the utterance of the secondary familiar pronoun. But how do you engage in your actions?
like the third person unfamiliar pronoun "he,she,it" you have to allow yourself to be moved along paths that you might not normally take. To release yourself from you to become us.
"But" you interject "in any story I have to do this."

>>1888019
yeah, i know, i don't write that way in my actual 'writing.' the whole show don't tell maxim and whatever. but I'll always consider my unedited shit written to myself my best (i guess that makes sense right - you write to yourself what you want to hear).

slightly related, i've been reading proust lately (not that I'd ever compare myself to proust - since, you know, he was PROUST), and i kinda miss the days when people had free reign to brain wank without all the soft-padding of maybes and precaution. haters call it over-flowery and whatever, but i don't think it was ever intentional. for those that find his stuff beautiful, and it really is, in my opinion, it's because it is natural, because it approximates closest how people, or at least some people, think.

>>1887942
terrible

Nigel had a slight antagonism with the local population due to his reclusive nature and disaffected personality. They saw him as the towns fool parading around as a philosopher when he was truly a degenerate. "Nigel Evans thought he was a man when he was only a child." That is what everybody said about him. It actually became a popular phrase of unknown origin whenever the topic of Nigel came up. People had very little use for dreamers in 1928. They did not care for his stories about entering Heaven with a flying machine. They cared even less about his insistence that he would be rich one day and walk the sacred ground of Park Avenue where the Rockefellers and Vanderbilts flocked. His appearance most certainly did not win over any admirers. He had a general rat-like appearance with a long face and black unkempt hair. His apparel consisted of aged and worn black business suits with innumerable stains which looked over-sized on his lanky figure.


In fact, the only reason people bared his company was because he was relatively sufficient mechanic who would work for less than the competition. His willingness to work for low wage afforded him a job at the Automaton Repair Parts. It was a shop in the center of town that dealt in the fickly business of Automobile repair. Nigel's job was to make sure that the parts in the shop were in proper order and were categorized correctly. He would also do the final inspection on the cars and drive them to their retrospective owners. He had few co-workers so did not fear the prospect of being fired or replaced. The only co-worker he saw on a consistent basis was Thomas, and even then he knew little more about the man other then that he had an affinity for expensive suits and was not much of a conversationalist.

Part 1

>>1888190
Part 2

And it was at this very job were Nigel was determined to prove himself competent and capable of mastering a trade. You see, today was the day the boss came down and Nigel could truly shine. Without the accompaniment of many compatriots, he had little reason to over over-exert himself. However, on the rare occasion of the boss showing up, Nigel would throw himself at every menial task to impress his haughty commander. Today, was one such occasion, Nigel prepared the trinkets of the shop to so that they would look pristine, He also mopped the floor with a wax to bedazzle his out of state guests. He cleaned the windows with a fine linen cloth to ensure they would look spotless. Thomas was late, but he had tendency to be as this did not directly affect Nigel he did not care.

The boss was set to arrive at Seven O'clock and was a stickler for proper scheduling and time management (which made Nigel wonder why he would let Thomas off so easily for his infractions.) This meant he was guaranteed to be at the store at seven or barring that, just a few minutes early. This pleased Nigel to no end. Not because he himself was an orderly man, but because he knew exactly when he would have to be attentive and focused. For all the excitement Nigel had, there was a sense of dread flowing through him. The man his was about to see had the power to remove him from the job, even for little reason at all, but that was only part of it. The man seemed to carry a sense of fear with him just by default and the intangible feeling of discomfort he would bring with him. This is what truly unnerved Nigel.

The morning's mist swims around me as I descend the wooden stairs. As I reach the bottom I turn and the still cold sun-rays of the morning soak into my eyes like a spilt drink. My eyes squeeze together in a half-hearted attempt to keep the spillage out, but I push my head down and loosen my eyes again, wading towards the shore. I watch my bare feet as they find their balance between the beach's pebbles, lose it, then find it again with each step towards the waiting water. The soles of my feet begin to tingle as the rounded stones beneath me become damp. I stop at the edge of the water, my soles almost fizzing now as I let the lazy waves drag themselves over my toes. The mist hangs motionless around me then recoils as I shiver involuntarily in the still air. I drive my toes down in the ground seeking shelter, the mist dances around my shoulders again as my toenails grind into the stones. My feet are still fizzing, I raise my arms at either side and hold them there as if they're wedged open. I take a mouthful of the air in and retrieve a foot from the ground, I move it forward and release warm fog from my mouth, pulling the other foot out and driving it forward. Both feet are almost numb now, I keep moving forward. The water splashes up my thighs, I pick my legs up with faster rhythm, I can't feel my feet at all now, but I hear the slap of each step as it pulses across the cove. I'm sprinting, my breath is becoming shorter.

>>1888198
Cont (might as well trip lolololol)...

The air weaves through my hair with droplets being pulled through. I slow myself with a roll of slaps as I turn back to the shore. The back of my throat feels like dry leather. As I reach the border of the water I stop, breathing heavy, I can hear the blood beating it's way round my head. I step off the water and the fizzing returns to the soles of my feet as I hit the pebbles, and slowly subsides as I walk further from the water. I turn and sit under the stairs, my back's muscles contracting as they touch the cold rock wall. An image of the sun sits on the water as it begins to settle. It's steel cold rays now shoot into my eyes and I have to avert my head to the floor as I light a cigarette. I continue shivering.

I don't care a lot about money
My feelings about war? Too gunny
Though you may think my language funny
All I want at night is my faithful snugglebunny!

Dedicated to you!

>>1888198
you have a similar problem to me... so many the's... I hope this wont give you a complex like it has me but I can't stop writing the, the the the the................AGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG

>>1888203

Hmm. I didn't see it as problem before you mentioned it. One second...

The car was suddenly bathed in light & Nat saw every flaw in her, sudden & bright. The instance of illumination, like a Renaissance eureka, & there was her imperfect sleeping face with forehead creases & smudged makeup & parted lips. She was so openly magnificent as she quietly dozed with Snow White cheeks, red from liquor.

That's probably the best thing I've ever written.

>>1888208
Like I said I have given myself a complex over this issue and now can't seem to get over it. Am trying to write a story without using the anywhere.

I just find using the disconnecting like that or which.

>>1888193
>>1888190
Any opinions on this? Be harsh; I really would like some feedback on this.

>>1888211

Nah, way to combat it is to negate the need for it. Trying to do that with that paragraph now.

>>1888215

Too many syllables in every sentence.

Something I started for NaNoWriMo last year but was too swamped with papers for school to continue then. Hopefully it won't take up too many posts.


In the frozen wilderness beyond the edges of the known world, on a mountain unnamed and unexplored, the scholar reaches her destination. An ancient stone tower defiantly pierces the raging blizzard around it, sitting nervously on a ledge jutting out from the side of the giant mountain.
The scholar is sure of it; this is the very tower she saw in her dream. “The legend is true after all…” she whispers into the thick furs wrapped around her face. Though the scholar’s legs have felt as though they would give out for days now, the sight of the lone spire invokes a newfound energy within her, and she trudges through the thick, violent snow to the tower’s entrance, a stone door of average height. Upon reaching the door, the scholar pounds furiously on it. There is no answer. She decides to push it open and enter unannounced. She is not even sure if the tower is inhabited; a reprieve from the cold is the only thing on her mind.

The scholar takes a moment to catch her breath and ease her tired body somewhat, then opens her eyes and surveys the inside of the tower. There is nothing to suggest anyone still lives here. Ruin, decay, and neglect are everywhere. The entry hall looks as though someone once perhaps called this place home, perhaps in brighter, warmer times. Ancient furniture adorns the room, the remnants of a book or bottle is scattered here and there but is it all covered in ages’ worth of dust and sand, and would likely crumble at the touch. A high ceiling suggests this may have been the home of an aristocrat. The scholar’s mind fills with possibilities of what might have happened to leave the tower abandoned.

>>1888217
Any other outstanding problems?

>>1888221

Her throat has been scarred from weeks of harsh cold, and her voice is rough and painful. “Hello?” she calls, after lowering the furs and cloths protecting her face. Her voice echoes for a moment before fading into the faint background noise of the blizzard outside. The scholar rises to her feet, and moves to another room. It is the same as the hall; filled with the brittle artifacts of a time long past. There is a stone staircase leading upwards. The scholar takes it, slowly, as if testing each step. The stairs lead to a room separated by a curtain. The scholar assumes this room, by the arrangement of items, to have once been a sort of study.

A stone wall separates this room from another. The scholar is about to see where it leads when she is stopped by a voice coming from the other side of the wall. “Voice” is a generous word to use; it is quiet and hoarse, barely noticeable.

The scholar stops dead in her tracks, startled. “Is someone there?” she asks.

An unintelligible whisper responds.

“I’m sorry. I cannot hear you.”

She begins to enter the room, when the voice becomes louder. “Do not… come into this room.” It says. The voice did not speak in the scholar’s native tongue, but in the Old Language. The scholar was fluent, but it took her by surprise to hear it. “I’m sorry,” the voice says, “it’s been so long since I have spoken to anyone. I had to take a moment to remember how.”

“I… am sorry for intruding.” She apologized. “Are you the Sage of legend who dwells far beyond the edge of the world?”

>>1888227

“I do not know. Perhaps I am. I have spent the greater portion of my existence here, so absorbed in the pursuit of knowledge, that I have… forgotten of the rest of the world. I do not know what they may call me now.”

“But, the legend-!” The scholar said with a great deal of urgency in her voice. “There is a story among my people that says the Sage of legend will grant the secret of everlasting life to whoever should reach him! Are you not he?”

The voice took a moment before replying. “Yes… I am he.” Another pause. “I am grateful that is why you have been brought here. I have come across this incredible knowledge indeed, in my long time here, but first there is something you must do. Are you sure you wish to know?”

“Yes, yes of course!” Said the scholar enthusiastically. “I have travelled for years across the world in search of this knowledge! I have braved all the perils of the world! What could be more dangerous than that I have already accomplished?”

“Very well. I only ask one thing. You will listen to my story, and you will do as I say for the time being. Then, after you have heard my tale, I will ask you again if immortality is still what you desire. That is all. I will warn you, it will take me several days to tell. Will you listen?”

>>1888229

The scholar is amazed. This does not sound difficult at all to her. “I will, then. I will listen. May I not come into that room with you?” She says.

“No!” The voice cries. “No, do not pass by this wall! Only listen to my story from where you are.”

The scholar shrugs, and pulls back her hood. She reaches into her pack and pulls from it a ration. Her trip has been brutal, and only now, after the initial euphoria of discovering the tower has worn, has the relentless hunger returned to her. She consumes the dry bread, and situates herself against the stone wall separating the room.

The voice begins its story. “This world was not always as you know it. But certainly, this is something you have always been aware of. The majestic ruins of the past dot the landscape everywhere. Know this, however. They were not the products of gods, spirits, demons, or anything of that like. They were built by men and women, no different than you. The world was once a place not of ruin, but of life, of technology, and of wonder. It is in this time that the secret of immortality you so desire was discovered. Thus, it is in that time that my story takes place. It begins, as many stories do, with the death of a man.


Four posts, not too bad I suppose.

A jew and a Black guy walk into a, bar. They rape the piano mans singer and her little girl. Clint Eastwood blowed both there heads of and than to take both woman as his pirze He fuqs them long tyme1

>>1888306
They rape the piano man's singer and her little girl.
They rape the piano, man's singer, and her little girl.

You're practically a genius, anon!

Marco and his date, Satomi, who was born to a mother and father greatly influenced by Japanese culture but hailed from Uruguay and somewhere in the East of Ireland respectively, were partaking in a social interaction that fluctuated like a drunk driver correcting the steering of a truck with a crooked axle. Marco’s enchilada comes with black beans and a skewed trapezoid of rice separated into divided fractions on a white plastic plate that bore along the borders a vine of orange leaves and flowers. Satomi’s salad is huge: Strips of chicken branded with questionably authentic grill marks, coins of sliced egg yolk with a concentric border of white, strips of onion layers, and a few black olives, all nestled sporadically on a bed of damp lettuce. In addition to the grandiose salad, the waiter places on the table a translucent cup of ranch salad dressing.

this is me trying to be David Faggot Walrus

i've always been kind of ashamed of my writing, but here goes nothing...

The man paced the room indefinitely, occasionally pulling out extraneous books from the shelf. At one point he even removed a pocket watch and began to tediously synchronize the dials while talking, but talking, as it seemed to Jack, with no direction, as if he were unaware Jack had even sat down just a few moments prior. Had he not conversed with another being in so long that he knew only how to soliloquize?
"The mind does not want to cope with its successions upon the evolutionary ladder. Seeing that our existence opposes unfathomable odds, our minds work to counter the preposterous nature of human success with impossibilities that exceed the already incredible nature of existence by proposing pre-destiny and divination; somehow it seems that the ridiculous is justified by ridiculousness from cosmic levels on which the odds are mitigated by a supreme decision maker, or makers, opposing the very laws of nature to justify the extremities of chance. For any individual to understand true awareness, the boundaries established for nescience by the mind would have to be overcome."

'Big Ben,

If you're reading this, you gave your change of address without error, great! Congratulations on the new job, the new place, and anything else new and shiny. You've definitely earned it. Remember to keep in touch, you didn't get there alone.

Best wishes,
Mr. Cambill'

Ben's smile fell. The letter fluttered down and slipped underneath the table, from it's top he scooped a mug of coffee. In the kitchen toast rocketed with a twang that made Ben twitch and empty the cup onto his face. He cursed, sputtered, and rolled off the cushions for a change of clothes. Caffiene streamed down his legs and left behind foot marks leading from the couch, past the hallways, to a stop in front of a stack of boxes. Similar piles lined the walls up to the window panes. They hadn't moved an inch since he'd been there. Now he found himself cold, dripping, forced to procede with straight razor in hand. He clipped it upward and slit the tape, the wings unfurled and coughed up a plume of dust in response.

Stuffed dinosaurs. Green, yellow, smiling and venemous. He placed them back with all the scrutiny of a time-bomb, then proceded counter-clockwise with cuts and slashes and ancient discoveries. Instead of clean boxers and a fresh shirt, he found crumpled finger paintings, yellowed school reports, letters recieved, letters never sent, worn CDs, cracked vinyls, and many photographs still in frames. He ignored anything he couldn't slip his legs through, shuffling by like things would pop out of the wrong box. When he saw a pile of underwear, undershirts, and even pants, he skimmed over it automatically and thrust the blade into the next slab of cardboard. A lightbulb flickered in his head and told him to tug the razor out. He did, and drew his garments.

--
First two paragraphs of what I wish to be my first novella, but things stop being as good as I want after that last sentence.

Todd is an asshole, but he does have good taste, so he gets my girlfriend and I a seat on the patio. It’s close enough to the guitarist to hear him play, but not so close that we have to raise our voices in order to speak. It’s perfect, and the chair is perfectly comfortable, and Steph’s face is lit perfectly by candlelight. I order an Italian beer called Birra Moretti, and it is perfectly ordinary. I don’t know what Italian beer is supposed to taste like, but this tastes pretty American to me.

Something in the air here depresses me. Okay, not depress – bugs me is a better term. I know it’s not in the food, because my veal scaloppine is exquisite, and I know it’s not in Steph’s eyes, because they’re green and somehow alive in the flicker of the candlelight. Maybe it’s in the notes of the guitar player and how they don’t really sound all that different, and how all the chords and arrangements seem to just blend into this great syncopated array of nothingness. Maybe it’s in our unapologetically polite waiter, whose name is Aaron, and his insistence that he will bring us anything we need. Maybe it’s the name of the wine Steph orders, and how its 1997 year means absolutely nothing to me. Perhaps it’s the quiet, gentle murmurs of people around us are its source, and how their conversations are all identical to ours and how they’re the same people who will all do the same thing when they leave this fucking place. I am not unique. I am not special. Neither is Steph.

>>1888233
>>1888229
>>1888227
>>1888221

Bumping for critique

Sure why not.

Three years of diligent punctuality on Dr. Kelsey’s part did not aid in Hawthorne’s stagnating population crisis. His cardboard sign was open to everyone, no prejudice or profiling, offering a legitimate trade transaction. But, none granted him the opportunity to stimulate their town with a bit of small business. He and the faux soapbox kept each other company, both too unusual to meld seamlessly into Hawthorne’s distinctly unremarkable landscape. Some late night bar hoppers have sworn that they even witnessed him reading to the block when the streets were deserted.

No, I just can't. I have tons of essays from past courses, but I usually write them at the last minute and when it does sound okay, I usually have one lazy/stupid sentence somewhere in there. I'm so ashamed. ;_;

I may just write something exclusively for /lit/. Must think of things...

>>1888221
>>1888227
>>1888229
>>1888233

I think this piece has potential for some cool atmosphere, but right now I feel it's a bit jilted. The dialogue does not sound natural, even for a fantasy setting, and there's too much "telling" rather than "showing." This was particularly evident in your description of the tower. We don't need to be told that it "could have once been aristocratic" or that "there is nothing to suggest that anyone still lives here." If you show us gold and extravagance covered in dust, this is pretty easy to figure out.

>>1888395
Thanks much! I've been trying to force myself to write more descriptive passages since I'm usually pretty bad about ignoring them almost entirely. But yeah - I'll go through and look at what actually needs to be told is there and what doesn't.

Well, where do you want me to start? My first memory was absolutely horrific. I don't remember going to bed, but I awoke with a painful scream. It felt as if my head was split open... I was laying in the middle of a bunch of timber about a mile away from wherever our house had been. Somehow, I managed to open my eyes and see what I thought to be a doll, y'know like Beth's - the ones with the eyes that roll back and forth. I tried to sit up, fell forward onto it, my hand slipped on something grey... brain matter. Christ, the doll was my sister.

I was only ten years old when that tornado hit - we lived in the middle of Iowa and we didn't even have a fucking basement. I look back on it and now I realize she was better off. She was retarded, and nobody took care of her - not like they should have anyway. I don't know what it was called, but mother drank when she was pregnant... 'came out with her head way too small for her body. I don't even think she was ever aware of herself, she never cried. Even when I got to hold her, she just would lay there with those vacant eyes... it was always like looking into a corpse. Mom named her after grandma... said after the altzheimers hit her, they could've been twins. It was still fucking shocking, you know?

(that's all I have... I wrote it in a hurry)

poem's called domesticity:


Yes dear, said I, to the ammunition, openly welding into the price. Shady eyes reflect shady attitudes reflect unnerving shadiness. I step in a circle ineffectually.
Repeat.
Metallic countertops riddled with more of its kind are swept nervously in preparation for something silly. In depth, the initiator sleeps, and then awakens in salt water. The enforcer blows balloons and flashes economic herbage at the perpetual drone beyond the counter.
Unappreciative, said he, appreciative, argued I.
The newspaper embraces countless wooden tables as words gain density and mesh together to stone on kitchen tiles. An education manifestation of what was a manifestation of you using the same as you did.
Nostalgia is tangible in more ways than not. Plastic pages plaster prominently.
A closet which contains more briefcases than shoes.
A discriminatory disappointment, accompanied by an equally discriminatory success.

>>1888490
My writing has been described Stephen King-esque but I think it's fucking awful. I've never taken any creative writing classes in my life. Advice?

The walkway is the cute kind of walkway you see in suburban houses like these—round, gray stones nestled into a white, a bridal, commercial, chemically cleansed white, gravel. Three hundred dollar oxfords tap against these stones, and children's feet pad against them, toes rubbing away little bits of skin and sometimes stubbing into the protrusive edge that hangs above the glistening backdrop. When the sunlight hits the decorative gravel, tiny pieces of quartz shimmer and dance. It's nearly always sunny here, too, so people are always treated to the lovely little fairies that come to life embedded in the perfectly cut, crabgrass free, front lawn. Today is no exception, the weather is beautiful. No clouds drift lazily through the sky and only the sun, blank and pitiless, smiles down on the fairies that come to life in the gravel and the asphalt from which heat rises in undulations.

>>1888509

Tap. Tap. Tap. Oxfords are tapping now. Quite quickly. They move with the hurried precision of a business person, a person driven. Perhaps the feet in the oxfords have felt dirt and grit, have walked the worn streets of a city in decay. An alcoholic mother and father—only in the strictest sense of the term, really, having been a 'father' for about 35 seconds just after conception and then having been relabeled as 'deadbeat,' 'bastard,' etc. etc.--being the sole ancestors of said shoes' inhabitants. Hypothetically of course, the shoes making the man. Or as the case may be, which it also may not be, the woman. Ancestral issues aside, this hypothetical Oxford-filler would have then, if driven to low self-esteem amongst their suburban friends (of course not having gone to a school filled with children of a similar situation and so perpetuating that lifestyle ad infinitum because it is, to the young child's eye, the only possible course of action and only foreseeable outcome—neither desired nor disdained, merely existent), have vowed to make something of themselves, and in doing so would have consigned themselves to one of two philosophies. They could have either dedicated themselves, this androgynous (for yes, it is indeed acceptable, though not quite commonplace just yet to see a woman wearing Oxfords) Oxford-shoe-wearer, to a life full of sacrifice, having known what suffering was and having seen what unhappiness really truly means, in which they strive to improve the quality of life of all those around them. To this extent, they would devote every iota of their being to destroying themselves, to breaking themselves apart that others might partake of them. This Messiah-Complexed person would have worked tirelessly, and to the bone, to produce something that they might, but probably would not really want to anyway, enjoy, but that others certainly would enjoy, and possibly live by the means of.

>>1888509
>>1888511

I've been reading DFW too much lately and I always mimic whoever I'm really into at the time. I also can't stop being super-didactic. I've been toying with the idea of never trying to write again for awhile, but it feels like I've kinda recently gotten my wind back. Who the fuck knows.

The indifference of death to the agonizing reproach reminds me the wind, whose breath rises in flight both withered leaves of autumn as the words of the young lover of dawn

The wind shakes the trees, swinging shades
It also consumes time,
with every stroke of his wild stroke managed
for the claims of tears and pain


There is no sadness, no desolation, it supose moments that lead souls to the trial of the hours, but only until you hear the underground feel

When i wake, regret will have been unleashed
and tears of orchids grow in cement

do not justify
do not forgive


Sabotage rotting the young morning

rotting eternal visceral canvases
transformed into successive snapshots
Sorry bout my english.

There was an eerie quiet on Dun's Hill on the third thursday evening of June. It had to have been at least 10:17pm. An hour past my fwuckin bed time. I sat upon said hill drinking all the green cordial and sultana biscuits my nubile 13yr old tum tum could take. I whispered swear words into the wind and smiled fiendishly to my own self. I even went as far as to spit across my old worn shoes just before soaking up the spoils of a fresh, surreptitious and silent flatulence. Friggin took what was left of Dads salted licorice treats as well. I lay back onto the soft, cool grass resting my dreamy gaze upon the dark blue sky, the twinkling stew pot of dim, winking stars appeared to slowly become envoloped by dark, ominous, circling, clouds. A peculiar thing I thought to myself and sat up. I could hear the faint throbbing of an electric bass. I looked around perplexed at this notion as the thumping, filthy, turbo charged bass line swelled.

I jolted my head upward to see a panorama of dark clouds that had progressed and accumulated directly overhead. A strange yet inviting purple strobing light could be spyed deep within the body of the cloud directly above me. At this point i dropped what was left of my cordial and clambered up to my feet to run for all I was worth until not a moment sooner a tearing crack of purple and blue thunder opened up the murky black sky and struck no more than a stones throw away. As I was falling to my bot bot i had already started to scream cry. I opened my beady, water clad peepers to hear a ghastly clicking and grinding sound that penetrated my listening instruments deeper than any sound penis ever could have. The unwelcomed cacophony of cryptic noise was emanating from where the strange bolt of lightning had struck. I looked over towards the smoldering blast zone and could make out several glowing red, blue, yellow and green light decorating a strange, foreign, bipedal apparition.

It began ambling closer, frozen in fear I could do naught but watch as my heart tried to eject itself from my chest plate. The clicking, the grinding, A nasally, high pitched cackle. The creature was like something torn straight out of a horrific movie, a very unoriginal one at that. It was, by the heavens, a skeleton. He had stripped sunglasses on ( The same ones Kanye West wears ) Leather rave flare trousers on that were stretched taut across his vile and prominent hip bones. He had a kind of elongated party beanie on, a tie, no shirt, a pierced hip and was covered head to toe in glow sticks. He continued his wicked, tormenting chuckle maintaining the highest of pitch. He got down on all fours and crawled up to me at the speed of an Olympic Triathlete and clamped his freezing cold, boney fingers around my pencil neck. His incessant laughing had now settled into a pervy, deep breathing, kind of like a dirty uncle playing tickle mercy with his young shirtless nephew. I stared into his cold, featureless and frost bitten mouth hole. So god forsakenly dark. It was darker than hell itself. Images and names flashed into my head as it leered into my venerable, helpless soul, BUNDY!, BENEDIKT XVI, ADOLF!, TOM GREEN they spoke. I trembled as I heard his rave pants, without using his ghastly, flimsy yellow arms, unzip themselves and his sharp, hollow fingers ran them selves up and down my back and gluets.

The passion, the romance, the adventure! He embraced me like a runaway lover and whispered French poetry into my ears as I trembled in his strong hollow limbs. That day ladies and gentleman will always be remembered as the day I found a true and unholy love. An unrelenting pure and sinful love! the forgotten scribes will write of our love and of the sassy debauchery that took place in our chambers as he slipped his gooey bone in and out of my aching, sore, red poo chamber. It felt as though red ants were biting my vagina. The most feared and demonic minions in hell’s playground will grow envious of our love promise. I am now a 31 year old human man in love with a 3 and a half thousand year old bag of bones who turned out to be a loyal, tender, horny lover and an excellent father. Although he can do all but speak, his relentless, soprano scream laugh will always bring a tear to my eye. Upon the morrow we will renew our vows in matrimony and later in the evening we will relive that day on the hill. His bone and mine, forever entwined, till death do me part.

>>1888514
I fuckin know that feel, bro. I don't even think DFW is as great as everyone says, but I still can't help but love his style in a fun sort of way.

>>1888526

I dunno, I'm really feeling where he's coming from. Kinda pisses me off that he got to it first, honestly. Still though, his writing's pretty fun at times, but sometimes gets tediously... unserious? and hokey and such. Which such really just kinda drives me nuts in an annoying-tic-of-a-relative-that-really-drives-you-nuts kind of a way and which such is unexplainable in any other context but the one in which its put in right now. Algolagnia.

>>1888535
I'm not sure what you just said because I'm not into the mood to read DFW, but my only complaint is also that he gets a little too unserious and I feel that sometimes his verbose ranting is kind of a gimmick at times. I think what he has to say is really absurd and simultaneously clever, but like some other Anon's have said, I think Pynchon does the same thing he does but better.

I still think the guy is pretty awesome, I just don't think he's the genius people make him up to be.

'Oh, Bismarck...'
'Yes, Wilheim?'
'Do you, do you,' Wilheim stuttered, his object of affection standing firm to attention. 'Do you want to go to France, Bismarck?'
Bismarck stood silently, looking over Wilheim's shoulder into a distant mirror. He remembered the last time they had gone on a holiday: the Bavarian sausage had been divine.
'All right,' Bismarck stated, his voice concealing his pounding heart.
'Oh Bismarck,' Wilheim swooned. 'Let's unite.'
'Can I still wear the hat?'

>>1888558

Keep It Brief.

Human stupidity is infinite. Happiness is for the cows. Life is beautiful. And death is an illusion. One day the entire sage of the human race will become a ten part mini series.

>>1888558

High five.

It's 9:30 in the morning. My alarm is beeping, my cock is hard, the birds are chirping, my mind is racing. The new nineteen year old dark skinned goddess from work just won't get ouf of my mind. I slowly grind my mattress thinking about the smiles she shot my way. The long playful gazes, and brushing her hand during transaction. The smell of her perfume. Every second shared in her presence is being recalled, and new memories implanted. This time I was coy, I was clever, I replied correctly and on time. This time those gazes end in undressing her, quickly, in haste, in the storage room, bending her over two boxes, grabbing her hips and pulling her perky ass into the air and towards me. Furiously pounding into her as if i'm digging in her pussy for secrets long lost. This girl, this memory, this dream, this bed is my shelter. It is now 10:45 and I have to get ready for work, where I will see her again, and she will give me the inspiration to wake up, but not get out of bed in the morning.

I stepped out of my tent and surveyed the morning that stretched out in front of me. Fog shimmered over the crest of Arch Hill and frost crackled on the branches of the Norfolk pines. I rubbed my hands together, breath sending up misty prayers into the air and began my morning forage. Mushroom season was in full swing and I passed a young couple, faces pink in the morning cold, heads bent as they searched the forest floor. I watched them find a patch of Amanita flammeola , their initial joy turning to disappointment as the stem didn’t turn blue. They threw down the fungi and trodded off into the fog, sneakers glowing in the dull light. Their cast-offs would provide me with a fine breakfast, and within minutes I had a nice mushroom and dandelion fry up going on my gas cooker.

The fog lifted as I finished up my feast, and I washed it down with a cool glass of overnight rain water. The day stretched out ahead of me full of possibilities. I could head over to the Mount Eden pools and have a sauna , let the warmth sink into my core. I could head to the library and finish up that Dostoevsky novel, or maybe I would just wander the streets, seeing what delights Auckland had to conjure up. Rolling a smoke, and making a mental note to keep an eye out for butts, I headed into the morning.

Imagine Bran, on all fours, with only a pair of briefs to cover his naughty bits. He looks hungrily at your crotch as he crawls towards you with a playful smile on his lips. You pull him onto your lap and the sensations overwhelm you. His delicate, smooth skin against your hands, his firm little ass rubbing against your fully erect cock, his wet mouth eager to pleasure you.

You stand up and Bran dutifully goes to his knees, looking up at you with soulful eyes. You pull down your jeans and your underpants revealing a big, throbbing dick underneath. Bran looks at it curiously and starts touching it carefully at first. After awhile of slow stroking you tell him it's time to use his mouth. Bran is shy at first, only licking and kissing the tip of the penis at first, but he starts getting into it and after a few minutes your cock is half-way down his wet throat.

>>1888583

You tell him he's doing a good job and he couldn't be more pleased. You pull down his briefs as he stands up, revealing a little penis and a tight, round butt. Bran is very shy about his little cock and crosses his legs as if to hide it, but your penis just gets even harder. He bends over and as you spread his firm buttcheeks you see his tight little asshole. You lube it up a little and tell Bran that this may hurt a little but that it's going to be ok. Bran nods and braces himself.

As you start to ease the tip of your penis inside him you hear he is making little whimpering noises, but he isn't complaining. He's a big boy and he can take it. With the tip in the rest comes easy. Slowly you start going back and forth inside him, all the while touching his little boy form all over. You grab him by the shoulders and start pounding harder and harder. He turns and looks at you lustily. You kiss him and taste his wet mouth all the while sliding in him.

>>1888583
That's so fucking distasteful, i don't know where to begin.

>>1888585

As you're about to cum you pull out and tell him to get on his knees. He takes your cock and puts it in his mouth, sucking and stroking it with one hand. You come straight in his mouth. As you're coming part of the semen flows out of his mouth and onto his chest but he tries to keep it all in. After you're done some of the cum is still flowing down his chin. He swallows the load in his mouth with a concentrated look on his face but smiles gently afterwards.

"You're far too cynical for your age", my girlfriend's father interjected between swigs of his 2005 Shiraz.

I know it's a Shiraz and I also know the Shiraz was made in 2005 because he's told me twice already tonight - he's a wine man, this guy. He loves his wine. A cellar big enough to accomodate another 2 full-sized rooms rests below the house away from the elements to keep the wine in an ideal environment at an optimum temperature, "Although" he muses mournfully, "I did have more bottles".

He looks at the wine again. "Shiraz is Australia's gift to the world, perfect temperatures for it down here", he says sternly.

>>1888585
>You pull down his briefs as he stands up
>Bran
>Stands up
0/10

>>1888558

Wilheim stood resting on the edge of a hill, looking down at the forest.
'No, Bismarck,' Wilheim whispered, 'We can't go any further.'
'I'm sorry,' Bismarck replied 'but we can't retreat.'
'I know, but if we keep rushing into things, it might go bad for us in the future.'
Bismarck sighed. If only Wilheim knew he was buying him an Alsatian - his favourite breed of dog.
'You know that my love for you has no budget, don't you, Wilheim?'
'Yes,' Wilheim replied, unsure whether he should yet handover his heart.

>>1888586

Please tell me you're not an 'I'm all for freedom of speech, but...' person.

>>1888607
Oh no,you have the right to write it. I just think it's gross.However, that's me.I'm sure there are a dozen other people who will want to read it for every one that doesn't. I am partial to hetero too.

(please fit)

For a moment, the aircraft’s nose pitched up. It appeared that it would again continue upwards, albeit tailless. As the plane’s airspeed decreased and the force of lift subsided, gravity once again overtook its momentum. The plane fell out of the air like a stone, and became one with the earth.
A horrible crash and the shrieking of metal filled the air as the plane slammed belly first into the rocky desert. It tilted to one side and a wing was slowly sanded away, leaving a trail of aluminum and steel behind it. The engine detached from the wing and rolled and over end, disintegrating into a mangled ball. As the plane started to slow, its nose collided with a massive rock formation. Instead of breaking through, the plane was sent ass over end as the cockpit was ripped away from the fuselage. For moment, both sections of the plane became airborne, the only sound coming from displaced air moved by the shards of matter.
The body of the plane cartwheeled across the desert floor for several dozen yards, before catching aflame and detonating in a massive fireball, sending wreckage in all directions. The cockpit rolled twice a came to a halt just outside of the blast radius, upside down against another rock, just northeast of the camp. The air, ravaged by sound waves, became eerily still.

>>1888619

Only in America unfortunately. I remember reading about a man in Britain who was arrested for writing a journal about his sexual fantasies of an imaginary child.

>>1888620
God that looks like shit when the formatting gets fucked with. Sounds completely different now.

>>1888565

I like this.