[ 3 / a / adv / an / asp / cgl / ck / co / diy / fa / g / gd / int / jp / k / lit / m / mlp / mu / n / o / out / p / po / sci / sp / tg / toy / trv / tv / v / vg / vp / vr / w / wsg / x]

/lit/ - Literature

<< back to board
[Delete this thread]

Anonymous 06/25/14(Wed)20:28 UTC+1 No.5057736 Report

What are you working on, /lit/?

Post your work here and get critiqued!

"SQUUUIIIIIEE SQUUUUUUIIIIEEEE" "Somebody get this damn, dirty hog under control," said the homeroom teacher, "I'm tryna teach a class here." Wow, so this is what hog school is really like. Just how long is my father planning to stay in this small town for.
Anonymous 06/25/14(Wed)20:34 UTC+1 No.5057749 Report

10/10 would read
Anonymous 06/25/14(Wed)20:49 UTC+1 No.5057803 Report


Two hundred seventy-three people died in that plane crash moments after that picture.
Anonymous 06/25/14(Wed)20:51 UTC+1 No.5057812 Report

post more op
Anonymous 06/25/14(Wed)20:56 UTC+1 No.5057842 Report

A small but confirming plop was heard and it was evident from the empty feeling between my cheeks and the feeling of relief deep within my bowls I had done a shit
Anonymous 06/25/14(Wed)21:29 UTC+1 No.5057982 Report


>tfw reading this on my phone while on the toilet
Anonymous 06/25/14(Wed)22:20 UTC+1 No.5058282 Report

It had only occurred to Davion that they were losing the battle some 30 minutes in. Face blacked from soot, Davion simply glared down the aft of the ship from the port walkway that scaled the out-facing wall of the Captain’s cabin. The metal railings, on which Davion’s hand was clenched, were rattling after an enemy ship had tried ramming the mid-ship of the Alara in a desperate attempt to avoid the damage that the Alara’s gunners were dealing, and had severed the walkway a few feet from where it met the quarter-deck. Davion could not remember it happening, only that one moment he was rushing orders to an aft guns-man, and the next he was face down on the mesh, without a notion of what was happening.
Anonymous 06/25/14(Wed)22:22 UTC+1 No.5058294 Report

That's all I've written so far, Anon.

I can tell you, though, that the main character's mother was eaten alive by a pig, so he has a very difficult time making friends at the hog school.
Anonymous 06/25/14(Wed)23:04 UTC+1 No.5058482 Report

I wrote this poem, OP. Do you like it?

"A Whisper Bidding my Lover to Bed"
By T. S. Ash

Ah, come to the bed, my love!
The day is done, and the sun sinks
Below the horizon, taking with it
All the anxieties of the day: Every
Fear and trouble, care and worry,
Fade with it now, as bright white and yellow
Fades to red and orange, to purple and to
Starry black. Come and let yourself
be wrapped in the blanket of my arms.

Let us breathe together as gently as
The night wind blows, over the
Moon-silvered grass and trees and pond.
Let us find within each other that peace which
Makes all the world grow quiet and restful.
For there is no greater balm to soothe an
Unquiet mind than a lover's embrace,
And no better way to bid farewell the day
Than with a sigh, and a kiss.
Anonymous 06/25/14(Wed)23:11 UTC+1 No.5058516 Report

this story sounds compelling, and rich
Anonymous 06/25/14(Wed)23:16 UTC+1 No.5058528 Report

don't ever post my work but here goes lol:

With a little bit of this and a little bit of that, Jinglebell looked perfect for her second day of school. I know what you're thinking. Jinglebell? The story behind that name is pretty long, but this is a book so I guess I'll tell it but not right now. I know what else you're thinking. Second day of school? Well the story behind that is also pretty long but basically she missed the first day of school because of a weird construction accident thing that released hazardous materials somewhere in her neighborhood to where basically she couldn't go to school. Ok, now that that's out of the way let's get back to her name.

>next part is about where he name comes from. her mom died on christmas
Anonymous 06/25/14(Wed)23:18 UTC+1 No.5058535 Report

not my best work but... might as well.

Fiacco sighed as he took the letter and crumpled it in his hands. He tossed it aside on the bench and leaned back on the bench. Fiacco folded his hands as he slumped back and shut his eyes. His thoughts wandered from various topics; most important of which was the coming coronation. Although the young prince had already ascended the throne, there was to be a formal coronation this week. Various court members suggested that the coronation be postponed or even dropped considering the nature under which it was occurring.

“Sir, he’ll be ready for you shortly,” came a voice behind Fiacco.

He sat up abruptly and turned. It was the same woman who indicated that the General wasn’t in his room at the moment.

“Then let me know when he’s here.”
“Sir, I can take you to his room and he will join you shortly.”
“You know what,” he said getting up. He’d been here enough times to know the place. “I know where it is. I’ll show myself in.”
“I insist. Please.”

Her face slumped in defeat. He swept past her heading inside from the courtyard. The sound of his leather soles rapping against the marble floor of the palace was drowned out by the commotion inside. There was a mix of soldiers and officers, the majority being officers, flurrying about the palace. It had been almost six years since he had seen this sort of busyness about the place. Like a row of tumbling dominoes, arms swung up in salute to Fiacco. He nodded before heading into a quieter corridor, a shortcut to the General’s office. Even in here a significant number of people dropped whatever they were doing to salute. A poor decision it was to wear his formal attire.
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)00:37 UTC+1 No.5058808 Report

Please tell me this is a work of erotic fiction.
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)00:47 UTC+1 No.5058846 Report

> using onomatopoeias
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)01:06 UTC+1 No.5058900 Report

III. The Cross
The young man is shortening his life at the bar. He is four scotches deep. His words slur, his eyes wander. He thinks pf Geraldine, the bitch, should have paid for it herself. Destroying his future like that. Abortion was a nonentity in his life, an intangible made real by circumstance. This angered him.
The scotch smoked his mouth.
To be forced into reality. This was his anger. She had done this, she had spread her legs and forced his eyes to the light. The first sin was to see. He had cried.
The bar was wet and dark. A single light came from the propped door.
He poured another. The epidural was not enough.
His eyes turned upward. The lamp flickered. He winced. The bartender talked.
“Lose her?”
“Sorry.” turning away as he spoke.
It was the word of a man who knew, but did not care.
He thought of her cunt, cunningly velvet around his needle. The betrayal, the wake up. He stood up, and drawled.
“Fuck her, and fuck you, you fucking hanging from a cross martyr dipshit.”
The bar began to crowd him, hands first, pulsating, and pushing.
“You died for the sins of us shits, sold us this goddamned reality, told us to walk as you did.”
The pink hands took hold.
“Why this our cross to bear, why does this happen,” pointing at the door.
The pink hands lifted him headfirst. They began to push him out, out into the cruel light.
He cried.
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)01:17 UTC+1 No.5058938 Report

Her bells jingled with every thrust of his powerful hips. "Oh daddy!" she screamed in extacy, "I never knew playing house could feel so good! Is this the game you play with mommy?"
Daddy said nothing, just continued pounding his daughter's sweet hole. It seemed so wrong, but felt so right. As he neared climax, he pulled out and shot a huge sticky load all over Jinglebell's sweet young face.
"Merry Christmas, Jinglebell," he said. "You just made the naughty list."
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)01:19 UTC+1 No.5058941 Report

“Just imagine it. Dylan Carlson and Kurt Cobain sitting next to each other on some dingy Seattle-ass, you know like some tattered purple-red syphilis—“
“Yeah, yeah. But like with very natural wear, no 12-year-old-kid-dragging-his-skateboard-helmet-on-the-ground-to-scratch-it-up bullshit.”
“Right. And they’re just chilling, shooting up, and listening to fucking La Monte Young. Two fucking degrees of separation between your redneck mongoloid neighbor’s second favorite band and fucking La Monte Young.”
I grabbed my thigh under the table. Glancing down and briefly appreciating the way my hand flexed against the denim, I noted that these grabs served two functions: first of course, a quelling of both the uncertainty of my arms and the restlessness of my legs, and second, an aesthetic reappraisal of my body, something I was borrowing from some horrid wretch.
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)01:51 UTC+1 No.5059057 Report

On the street, in the plain evening air boiling above 113th street, you left me. I was holding a carton of milk, I remember that, because I remember dropping it later. I'll always wonder if things'd've been different had you stayed, had you stayed with me for another minute or another year, had I been the man that would've done and had done the things to make you want to stay.
But you left me, then, at that moment. Alone. I was alone when I heard it. And also when I saw it, shortly after hearing it, because the hearing part caused me to turn around, which engaged the seeing part of me into action.
The sound was a mixture of other sounds. Not a cacophony and neither was it the symphonic natural accordance that marked our best times together, the sussurance of the waves gently lapping feet from a crackling, popping beach bonfire, your laugh floating in the air... it like this basically, a small man saying, "hissss... unnnngh... hisss" mixed with two leathers clapping. That was the noise I heard. As I mentioned, I turned around. That was when I saw the sight.
I saw–how I wished immediately and in every moment since for an unseeing–a dracula hovering in the space above a parked taxi, shitting in mid-air. The turds tinkled down onto the windshield like dropped christmas tree ornaments... were there any factory on Earth fucked up enough to make such a thing. I dropped my carton of milk. (told you.)
I froze. Every muscle rigid, like a goat on the internet... or so it seemed. As the dracula continued to hover and shit, I began inexorably to inch closer to him or it (or so I thought, knowing at that point nothing about the unholy allure that dracula turds can create for an unwary man). Nothing moved except my toes, which poked themselves eldritchallyish over the front of my flip flops and dug themselves into the hard concrete and inched me closer.
I didn't think of you then, at all. God help me, but it's true. It was only later, in my selfishness, in my weakness, that I wished you'd been there.
The dracula stopped shitting, a final turd spinning down and clinking off the hood of the cab. It sensed something. It looked at me for no more than a heart beat, and exploded into movement, launched skyward like a tornado-blown duvet cover up and over an Urban Outfitters. My breath returned to me in a gasp, and I leaned on the hood of the cab for support, my eyes finding the turds immediately.
"Don't even think about it stupid ass" a voice said. I turned around. I was getting used to hearing things behind me and then looking to see what it was. This time it was a soldier.
"Are you a soldier?" I asked, idiotically.
"Not exactly. More of a... drug police. Dracula turds are my beat. And I need you to be on my team. Here is a coat."
That is how I got on the dracula turd police
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)01:57 UTC+1 No.5059072 Report

I would replace this if you aren't too attached to it, it only made me remember that a 4chan user wrote the excerpt. I'm not sure how common "mongoloid" is outside of 4chan but it didn't hit me right.
Also, is the first person narration from the same person that said those opening lines? I wouldn't guess it is but if so I would make the syntax less complex.
I like it. Keep going.
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)02:04 UTC+1 No.5059098 Report

Is this same guy who has been posting the sincerity stuff?
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)02:06 UTC+1 No.5059108 Report

remove the word "simply" and all adverbs in similar positions during such an eventful scene - especially if it's your opening scene.
plural? Is Davion clutching more than one metal railing?
>avoid the damage that the Alara's gunners were dealing
descriptive but distracting. You could replace this fragment with just "to retaliate" and it would retain the gist of their reasoning, unless you want technical description
>could not remember it happening
you mention what's happening twice in this sentence, you could rewrite the beginning as "Davion only remembered the moment he was floored, face slapping black mesh on his way to rush orders..."

Good start though. Fun start.
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)02:07 UTC+1 No.5059112 Report

"Self-awareness is learning that everything you've ever thought is wrong and not being surprised," said Cole, sure that this year he could win the Texas Conference 6A UIL Wordplay and Aphorisms state title.
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)02:09 UTC+1 No.5059122 Report

>With a little bit of this and a little bit of that
LOL it's like a post in the worst opening line thread
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)02:10 UTC+1 No.5059134 Report

An ellipsis appears on the screen, three discrete blocks of information, each whispering possibilities in my direction, soaring to and through the immaterial void of perception, eager to be snatched up by my over-inquisitive mind and folded, like tiny sheets of coloured paper, into various forms and fancies; this is the only sign of life I receive from my partner, the only reassurance, until the next message appears on my monitor, punctuated with a small click. However, as with the message itself, the ellipsis means nothing concrete. My partner could be typing a message for me, yes, but it could just as easily be an imposter, possibly seeking data for marketing research, or looking to acquire some personal knowledge, an impersonal opinion maybe, all the while avoiding direct confrontation; or perhaps an erroneous keystroke, a matter of inaccuracy, something the person on the end hadn’t accounted for, be it a miscalculation of the position of their arm relative to their keyboard, or the well-intentioned pounce of a cat trying to catch an imaginary creature of small stature--these misunderstandings (or deceptions, depending on the circumstance) are bound to happen every so often as an unavoidable consequence of the conversation’s format, and it is this open-endedness, this vague, messy state of affairs, that prevents me from putting any trust into what I see on my computer screen.
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)02:10 UTC+1 No.5059137 Report

ugh I genuinely lol'd in real life at that
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)02:12 UTC+1 No.5059144 Report

Sounds like a summation of a DFW short story. I kinda like it.
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)02:12 UTC+1 No.5059146 Report

It literally like calling someone a nigger except asians don't get upset that their phenotype is used as a slur for down syndrome.
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)02:14 UTC+1 No.5059151 Report

>I know what you're thinking. Jinglebell? The story behind that name is pretty long, but this is a book so I guess I'll tell it but not right now.

This is unnecessary
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)02:15 UTC+1 No.5059160 Report

I'm not sure why I really like this but I do. Especially the first sentence. I bet I like it because it reminds me of The Waves with its punctuation and tone.

Anon, if you make a beautiful 21st century version of Woolf's book that'd be something
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)02:19 UTC+1 No.5059177 Report

I just made it for the best/worst opening lines thread. It's not a real UIL event but I think "competitive wisdom" is a kind of DFWian concept. Not interesting enough to be a side plot in a novel but yeah, a couple thousand words of short story could work.
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)02:20 UTC+1 No.5059181 Report

tbh I've never read any Woolf before, but your post has piqued my interest. thanks!
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)02:20 UTC+1 No.5059187 Report

Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)02:22 UTC+1 No.5059204 Report

That'd be hilarious, I'd read it
In fact I'd like to write that...maybe you'll see my first bit of it in another "show your work" thread in the future
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)02:26 UTC+1 No.5059226 Report

It'll be like the Ozymandias poems.
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)02:29 UTC+1 No.5059236 Report

short and sweet, I like it. some bits come across as slightly awkward, but not in a displeasing way, so if that was your intention then good job.
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)02:31 UTC+1 No.5059256 Report

I think mongoloid is great.
It sounds like a Tarantino film.
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)02:36 UTC+1 No.5059281 Report

I intended for it to sound a little drunk.
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)02:47 UTC+1 No.5059315 Report

Just looked that up. Really interesting, thanks for mentioning it.

I think it works fine, I was only worried for its common usage because I've only seen it used on 4chan, which is a website I never want to be reminded of during any point while reading.
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)03:15 UTC+1 No.5059428 Report

This is good, but don't use it as an opening. Long ass sentences of introspection are cool, but not grabbing. Other than that, this is pretty great, I really felt the insecurity.
You again. Once again, I like your stuff, but I still don't know shit about your stuff besides that the writing is great.
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)03:23 UTC+1 No.5059462 Report

It had reached nine o' clock by then and each night felt longer through Winter. I'm not sure if it's the make of the vehicle or what, but our RV had an incessant tendency to quietly whistle outside wind through a crack in my section. It was infuriating, each moment having to replace the dishtowel that barely filled the loud sliver. My parents had no reason to act on the noise which only infested my area. Save for the expected hum of RV wheels against the highway, their area was serene. I almost considered moving my work to the common table, where most meals were had, but quickly dismissed the thought of the 'rents seeing my potential magnum opus. Since last year's frenetic copyright security and the promised increase of said security this year, I've been more paranoid regarding my work. So, I sat there, filling notecards with lush descriptors, piecing each together for sweet pithiness, ignoring the muffled whistle escaping the once-covered crack behind my seat.
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)03:30 UTC+1 No.5059483 Report

What do you mean "You again." Whose style are you recognizing?
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)03:32 UTC+1 No.5059493 Report

I just finished this short story. I realize it's a little long, but would anyone like to read it?

Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)03:55 UTC+1 No.5059578 Report

No, I'm the sincerity guy >>5059112

But this guy writes well too.
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)03:56 UTC+1 No.5059582 Report

10/10. Please more. What training must the narrator undergo for Dracula Turd Police?
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)04:55 UTC+1 No.5059755 Report

I thought you were sincerity guy.
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)06:01 UTC+1 No.5060006 Report

The one who posts the poems and the Phuc and wrote the /mu/-famous Yeezus pasta and is like 17? Or Tao Lin?
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)06:34 UTC+1 No.5060140 Report

Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)10:23 UTC+1 No.5060723 Report

Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)13:15 UTC+1 No.5060990 Report

I like it
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)19:07 UTC+1 No.5061945 Report

Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)20:01 UTC+1 No.5062121 Report

The problem all text-based deistopes are beauty, beaty? beauty -- Cornelia's symmetry uglies and to the shells of strombus mollusk medium seasnails spires don't go double sideways, but both ways like bisexuals and bivalves and biangulars; bipeds walk/run slow or fly. Bitch! you bitch the it saw sea green fulcrums young for his age, young for his age? and yes even Even tones mean infantilism to those without other isms: naked gills ni-care for airpaint.
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)20:06 UTC+1 No.5062136 Report

Are you that guy that tried to make post meta dada a thing?
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)20:11 UTC+1 No.5062154 Report

N-no. It's some throwaway prose I wrote a year ago after reading Finnegans Wake.
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)20:12 UTC+1 No.5062161 Report

A fascinating story about a young man with a dream of growing a cucumber. And also he grows a cucumber. And it empowers him.
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)21:14 UTC+1 No.5062423 Report

Does he eat the cucumber? Does he have sex with the cucumber?
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)21:23 UTC+1 No.5062446 Report

I'm not done with the ending yet, but I imagine him getting to emotionally attached to the cucumber, so he can't eat it. He just lies there, waiting for it to fall of it's mother plant, and when it does, he breaks down, becoming even less of a man than when he first started growing a cucumber
Anonymous 06/26/14(Thu)21:27 UTC+1 No.5062449 Report

Already a Modern Classic....
All the content on this website comes from 4chan.org. All trademarks and copyrights on this page are owned by their respective parties. Images uploaded are the responsibility of the Poster. Comments are owned by the Poster. 4chanArchive is not affiliated with 4chan.