small enough to fit in the text field>inb4 pages upon pages of jokes about pic related
One to start:
I know that my own father once found his daughter, coke-addled and twisted in the driver’s seat of the car he’d bought her for her sixteenth birthday, blood crusted below her nostril with the body of someone else’s little girl crushed by her tires and strewn along the freeway, and while the policemen took her away, all he said was that he could never stop feeling proud of her, but he had stopped feeling proud of himself for being her father.
The day I found Abilene lying in that heap, the needles in her arm, semen in her hair, she said to me, daddy, I’m sorry, dad, please help me, daddy, please take me home. And while we drove in silence I thought about how I was supposed to feel. About how fathers were supposed to feel. About how my father had felt. But I didn’t feel it. And I was ashamed of myself for being ashamed of her.
BUYING DEAD BABY, USED BABY SHOES
Ever worn baby shoes?
>>7912787
oh is it because the babys dead dem feels
FOUR DEAD BABIES: NEVER WORE SHOES
>>7912789
>I know that my own father once found his daughter, coke-addled and twisted in the driver’s seat of the car he’d bought her for her sixteenth birthday, blood crusted below her nostril with the body of someone else’s little girl crushed by her tires and strewn along the freeway, and while the policemen took her away, all he said was that he could never stop feeling proud of her, but he had stopped feeling proud of himself for being her father.
>The day I found Abilene lying in that heap, the needles in her arm, semen in her hair, she said to me, daddy, I’m sorry, dad, please help me, daddy, please take me home. And while we drove in silence I thought about how I was supposed to feel. About how fathers were supposed to feel. About how my father had felt. But I didn’t feel it. And I was ashamed of myself for being ashamed of her.
Jesus Christ if you tried any harder you'd be Tumblr.
Please go, Tumblr, please go.
Dead baby. Why, God? Why?!
I want my baby dead, baby dead, baby dead
(Shoes)
>>7912828
Does it seem like I tried hard? Because it didn't feel hard.
I usually would not write something so sincere, but I had an idea and just felt like trying it
and that degree of motivation reflects the amount of effort I put into it
anyways, you've made your point but I don't see it. elaborate?
Baby sale: for shoes never worn
>>7912873
For sale: this post, never good
Please clap.
What do you all think of this http://www.openculture.com/2015/03/the-urban-legend-of-ernest-hemingways-six-word-story.html
The door was red, and even warm from the scent - rust and mold. I pulled the handle and opened to a dark space. With no light I waited out, hoping the lamp behind me would provide some angle of its own pure but fading insight. After a while the light seemed to bleed red into the shadow itself - violent gradations. I knew I couldn't wait.
Snapshots
Cover letter, for the grant proposal. Rain beating down on his window, beating like the seconds’ steady march into posterity, and he too beat away at the keyboard, clacking out lines of here’s-why-I’m-the-best bullshit he didn’t really believe in; he was actually just the most needy, by his own egoistic and therefore faulty estimation. He would have loved to be honest about his pressing need to spend a summer sleeping until ten, reading and writing until nine, drinking until three, and repeating the process, belligerent, but erudite, for ten Empyrean weeks; retail didn’t fit that timetable, so the grant, five thousand United States dollars, cash-in-hand, payment for hours punched at the library instead of the time-clock, became the lynchpin in his One Last Hurrah before crossing the tight-rope walk into Real Life, where, so he had heard, sleeping past six was largely impossible.
This sort of honesty was unbecoming of a grant proposal’s cover letter, though, so he tried to frame working retail to pay bills as “not conducive to the rigorous academic research I believe will most benefit this University;” his second University, after his ejection from the first where he found that there was always something else to do after class, some bottle to sink himself to the bottom of: after four semesters of delinquency they axed him. Now, scrolling listlessly though his outbox, he cringed at the pathetic, pleading emails a younger, more shameless, person had sent, crying and drunk, only six months prior. Only six months? He felt old.
Therapeutic sips of spiked coffee. He closed his outbox and returned to the cover letter. It felt weird to be asking for free money again. Weirder still, he now had a fair chance of taking it, having the knowledge and wisdom of a person with direction in his life, and a laundry list of C.V. items to show for it. With all these Accomplishments under his belt, why did he miss the person who wrote those other emails? Why did he miss being useless, losing money, and putting off the future?
(1/2)
>>7912954
The short answer: it was fun—visceral, present, ready-to-hand fun. But it was also an ambient kind of fun, an impression of fun, an air or a fog of fun that he breathed and now, failing to locate in his memory a concrete moment of revelation, euphoria, something, anything to account for those weird, abstract years, he felt stupid missing them. He looked up at the cover letter, realized the past ten lines of verbal ejaculate were incoherent, and tossed them like an expended Kleenex. Seeking inspiration, he opened Google Maps and zoomed all the way out, past the moon, all the way to Mars. He zoomed around in search of Martians, rovers, space junk. He found a big, boring desert with arbitrarily Latinate sub-deserts. Flying back to Earth, his angle of approach brought him low over Virginia, and wasn’t his old school in Virginia? right here? right below him? He took a gulp of spiked coffee and was compelled to click Street View by some drunken horror from deep space.
He’s a Freshman, walking up to Registration, sun-tanned already. The air trembles with possibility and cicadas. Up the street, past Registration, here’s the cafeteria. He stands outside, smoking a borrowed cigarette, laughing with friends, here’s some girls walking by, and they all smile, knowing something. He clicks a wide, municipal arc around the field, about which the campus and its life orbit, to College Street, and here are the frat houses. Here’s where he met up with those girls again, here’s where he won beer pong twenty games in a row and went home with a sorority sister, here’s the house that isn’t a frat house at all, but has a fraternity of its own, that company of rabble-rousers, scoundrels, hippies that cost him day after day spent wasted at the bottom of a gravity bong, searching that mellow filth for some kind of scheme to his universe, bouncing around majors and all night Ritalin binges with an insane kinesis that was not his to keep; here’s the house’s backyard where he learned what it was like to be part of a crowd instead of lost in one.
He leaves College Street and clicks up Main, toward the gas station. How many afternoons spent walking back and forth for: beef jerky, beer, cigarettes. He’s buzzed, the midday Virginia sun boiling the wine in his belly, making him sweat and grow drunker, and his friends are there laughing, and he’s getting texts from a sweetheart, and things, good things, mostly, are just flying by, blurred, a Dionysian slideshow. That last Virginian spring: four month’s bacchanal.
(2/2)
>>7912958
Here’s the gas station. He clicks on the parking lot, tries to walk in. There’s no Street View for parking lots. He’s denied entry to the gas station, denied cigarettes, denied beer, denied shop lifting games that scored Bic lighters, candy bars; denied chats about Algebra and Zen with the toothless old GI behind the counter. He sees the Google Maps Car’s camera in thin silhouette, shadow-cast onto the asphalt; a phantom watermark reminding him this is only an image, only a View.
He clicks down Main Street, toward the bridge. There’s a path here off the side of the road, shaded by thick foliage, leading down along the brook, through gnarled, virile bramble, to a clearing, far past the camera’s line of sight; some part of him still sits at a log there with his friends or with a girl, telling her she’s in a secret place, an important place, and as the smoke swirls low in the air, humid and heavy, buzzing again with possibilities and gnats and dragonflies, they’re still there, smoking and loving in the green-gold decadence of canopy-filtered twilight.
Meanwhile the cameraman drives on, clicking away, capturing anonymous lives and things of little consequence in digitally fragmented outline.
(3/2)
so it was a little longer than the "text field" but. i've had this sitting around for a while, thought about submitting it to submit to flash-fic things it's under 1000 words, so fuck.
>>7912787
Hemingway did not write this.
>>7912995
What????!!!! I've never heard this before!
I know me better than I know myself.
Monday is still Sunday without sleep.
Irrational emotions are fucking stupid.
Born tired, never rested.
>>7912787
>He quipped and quivered, and quail he ate, and I shall quote him now for he said. "I have an appointment at three and must not be late!"
I've had this written for a while
im gay
Dead baby for sale. slightly used.
>>7913171
Horrible. Burn it.
>>7913171
Like it
The man walked and walked but he never found his way.
It was only when I went to sleep I really woke up....
AS A SKELETON
"Baby baby:
Baby baby. Baby baby."
B. Baby
There's enough of a space between the door and rafters for me to slip in.
It's deserted, a dusty facsimile of what used to be.
The cabin had fallen into even greater disrepair since the storm, and I was now quite certain that neither Mr. Jenkins nor Nora had visited since that night.
Stopping next to the table I allowed myself a moment of reprieve. My breathing grew heavier and laborious, and I dissolved into a fit of coughing from inhaling all of the dust in the air.
Finally, steeling myself, I bent down and moved the table aside.
There she was, in all her glory. Tiny red dress faded and tattered from the weathering, hair frayed and matted. Her skin had begun to discolor and decompose but to me, she was still an angel.
And what were angels, if not departed beings of beauty and purity? A purity long since stolen, but still, it somehow managed to eminent from her small frame.
Bending at the knee, I reached out and stroked her cheek. My hand was met with a slimy substance, but I did not care. For she was in my heart, still my bride.
I recalled now the echos of her tearful outbursts alongside the fire that night we had all become one. The laughter and happiness I thought would never fade as I banished her tears with a loving caress from my tongue, an intimate embrace between lovers.
She had cried for her Father even though she knew he was long gone at this point, his blood still staining the bat that Nora had tried so unceremoniously to shove into her precious little rosebud.
Again, I cursed that thunderstorm, Lucifer himself falling from the sky to demolish the greatest and most beautiful act ever bestowed upon creation. Again, I cursed the Devil for denying us that godly right.
For the first time since that night, I wept, not for her, but for what had been robbed of us that night.
Nora would tell me, if she could see me now, that there was still that boy from Kinsey. Though in my heart of hearts I knew he could never replace my Scarlet.
My dove, with her wings clipped from the nest. Oh how tender it would have been.
I spit on her, and hoped she burned for all eternity for leaving me so. For being so cruel as to depart me at the hight of our passion.
I shared with her one last coitus, a sonance for our abandoned love, before departing back to the cliff and to the babe laying bare in the grass.
I coukd hear the siren's call in the distance, it's high song an omen for the darkness approaching.
For this, I was grateful. As this time, the devil would arrive too late to ruin my ritual.
>>7913402
Ohhhh, dark and twisted! l like it! :0)
No really, I do.
"Meeshter, lishten, don't poot de paper in dee toilet, poot in bin."
"What! Why?"
"Dee pipes meeshter, dey too shmall for paper. Toilet no flash."
"In that case, I don't think it's the paper you should be worrying about," he said as he closed the door.
"Humanity is doomed," said the young man.
"Humanity has never existed," replied Stirner.
For Sale:Baby shoes,never worn
For sale: baby shoes. Baby fell into a wood chipper.
For sale: baby shoes. Worn by a GHOST!!!!!!
The last pair of baby shoes sit alone in a room. Somebody is wearing them.
the last pair of baby shoes sits in a room of broken glass. a baby walks in
"Can I put on those baby shoes?" I said.
"No, those are my GHOST BABY'S shoes" The last man on earth said.
The last man on earth answered the phone.
"That moniker really underwrites my gender identity" the last F to M shouted down the phone.
The last phone rings.A baby shoe picks it up
A knock is heard on the door. You trip over a pair of ghost baby shoes on the way.
A baby shoe knocks on the door.
The last ghostman's phone anwsers the knocking
The last phone gets a call frome a baby shoe's gost.
It was actually worn
The last man on earth picks up the phone.
He is asked if he wants to buy used baby shoes.
The last babyman accidentaly sells his new shoes,then dies in agony
The last man in the baby shoe was sitting.
Then someone stepped on him.
The last phone was worn in a door. There is a baby on the earth.
The last man on /lit/ is posting from his phone.
He gets banned by a baby shoe
For sale:Baby,never bornI collect these
There's a certain peculiar nature to the way we go about; with a distinct lack of solemnity.
"Hey, do you know where I might find a petrol station?"
I look at the talking-man. Ugly.
"Hey...? Man?"
"There's one, I think... Around 20 kilometers from here... Down that way" I pointed towards the road towards the west.
Now, what may seem unnatural in the way leaves flounder, is, in reality, simply necessary. There are no 'unnatural' things. Horse. There are far too many lights for this kind of thing to simply go away. Yes, maybe, never. Privacy explicit.
"Can I have a look at that burial?"
"What bloody burial?" Irritated.
"You know, the one by the mound." This was said in a tone that could easily have been a statement as well as a question. Putrid lower class manner of speech.
"I'll see."
"Do you really harbor those ones?"
"Take a look. See?"
"This thing is in need of fixing!"
"Your head is in need of fixing."
Spirals of control. Descend illusion, for what?! For what...? Reach the sequitur that speaks to the flower by the sea, then you'll know... Then you'll know!
"Hey, are you alright?"
"I am fungus"
"Ha, well, I'm a fun guy too."
Nyt riittää. En kestä enää. The time has come. Τα αστέρια με περιμένουν! Όχι! It's really getting out of my χέρια.
I am fungus.
>>7912789
this is really difficult and painful to read
In the future, Sarah stands on the bridge of the Ark and looks at what she has created from nothing. The Ark is her spaceship, the creation a static-painting on electric canvas she’d spread over the deck. Sarah learned to static-paint on VII-Earth, though she doesn’t know if it’s an art the Sarahs from her youth still practice. She doesn’t know what any of the Named do, not the Abrahams, Isaacs, Rebekahs, Sarahs. She has forgotten so much, but she has never felt the bone-ache desire to return home, to make the long trip back to her beginnings. She has always felt restless. Not unmoored, but adrift. Sarah turns from her painting (a depiction of Calvary, of fire in a field of dogwood roses) to look out the bridge window. The Ark approaches a field of color so bright it appears white. They near a star. In the future, the convergence of New Math and the Theory of Everything has revealed stars to be glowing doors, where long-distance travel is most feasibly realized by passing through, not between. Intrastellar. Whenever Sarah approaches a star, she tries to remember specifics of VII-Earth, but her memory always falters. She has been following God’s first commandment to move for so long. She can’t recall her home’s ground or gravity. The Evernet could tell her about VII-Earth, but Sarah wants to remember on her own. Some in the future say the Evernet makes living irrelevant because its algorithms know everything, the time and place of every next Earth, from VIII to M and beyond. They would say that Sarah’s static-painted dogwoods are simply a dream of the machine consciousness guiding her life. Is that so different from divine inspiration? Sarah thinks of the painting as a gift of imagination. She prefers tenuous connections. The star seems to dim as the ship approaches. Is that the passing shadow of a filamental angel, one of those hypergiant creatures floating the orbital stream? To see one is a blessing. Sarah thinks about her children moving, always moving, on the Ark. Their movement keeps it going, but she worries. God’s second commandment is to multiply. Sarah worries about these unnamed people she mothered, fathered, made—a legion for a later Earth. In the future, access to one’s genetic code is an inalienable right, like clear signal. In the future, everyone forms the life of every other, the Named and unnamed alike. Everyone is blessed, though not equally, which has always been the way of people. Her children move the Ark onward. Sarah yearns to offer herself to the filamental angels. She yearns to be consumed, and to extend into infinity the moment of consumption. To stop moving, but to never stop. “Look at those angels,” Sarah says, and she touches the glass on the bridge of the Ark. Her canvas begins painting itself, tuned to her voice. She knows they’re going again. The star dims, then blinds, then opens, and they are somewhere else.
I went out for a run in the late night, after midnight, maybe after two a.m., when my neighborhood was darkest, the streetlights brightest. This is what I did sometimes.
At work, hours earlier, I saw a friend shred her fingers in the swiftly spinning blades of a garbage disposal. Her hand went in the disposal and an oblivious coworker turned the machine on. She yanked bleeding slivers from the drain.
My neighborhood was in a good part of the city but I still wondered whether it was safe to go for runs at night. Then I would wonder if my assumptions about the safe-or-not qualities of my neighborhood were sound, or based on some misunderstood aspect of demographics. I might have had all of the angles wrong.
My friend, when she pulled her fingers from the garbage disposal in the large sink in the kitchen of the restaurant where we worked, she was screaming, and every thought I had then while holding an order of chicken-fried ribs related to horror films, to the implied, and maybe you thought of that too. Instead of retching in the nearest trashcan I walked out of the kitchen and served table 6, and even there in the restaurant I could hear my friend’s voice. She was a tough kid. We shared a cigarette later that night, after she taped up her fingers, after the bleeding stopped and you could see that the cuts were minor, were only small slices.
I don’t know what this has to do with my running in the middle of the night, but sometimes I can’t keep still, and sometimes I can’t settle down, and sometimes I think about where I might be—as a person, I mean, as an event participant—if my hand were in the proverbial garbage disposal. Nothing’s wrong with me. I like the feeling of lukewarm semi-humid night air on my skin.
Outside by the dumpster while stubbing out her cigarette, my friend, always the trooper, said that the next time this, the disposal, were to happen, after I had moved on with my life to the real world of dreams realized, she would send me a postcard and sign it with stub blood, because you can only escape the implied once. After the first time you’re fair game.
I went running with my eyes closed.
>>7913482
Well thank you
I knew it was wrong, or at least I knew some people, the law in particular, thought it was wrong, but I didn't care. I was an American Rebel, a free thinker, an imaginative intellectual, a real man who did things his own way on his own terms.
I never made a lot of money, but still I couldn't say I never had fun. Really, what else was there at that age besides trying to have fun? Especially when you're surrounded by girls and supportive friends all more than willing to support your beliefs about your own lifestyle.
It wouldn't have ended either, if I had just been a little more selfish, if I hadn't decided to go out of my way for an old friend and because of some misconstrued idea of enriching his life and bringing us all together, like a big happy family. Roger should have been my warning that the old life was gone, that it was always diseased and destined for failure but that I had been to young and naive to see it, to ignorant to how bad it really was.
Or maybe it was that I was their last shred of hope? The last thing that kept them holding on to the light while they bathed themselves in darkness, embraced the filth and the poison like my Father had. Though, truth be told, he always had a bit more luck in him, a little more brains too for that matter.
Anyways, it was that day, Labor Day, that I got into my uninsured car and drive cross-county to pick him up, because fuck the law right? Besides, it was a divine mission, the two of us had a connection that transcended earthly bounds.
It all seemed normal, so normal it was almost weird given how larger than life his personality was. It started slowly slipping in, she had gotten some more, even though she said she wouldn't, even though they couldn't afford it. I hadn't even known it was a problem for them, but who else has to go dumpster diving to feed their kids besides Methamphetamine Addicts?
He was still up from the night before, he didn't want to he said, but he couldn't let his girl do it alone, that's the type of thing that leads to altered states, unnecessary arguments from two uneducated and explosive people, and finally adultery. So he had done it with her to show that he loved her, and they were in this together.
>>7914197
2/?
I should have known then, it started to hit me then at least. I had never known that they had that problem, I knew she used to, but he said he had saved her. In that moment I wished I had never left, that if I had been there I could have talked them out of it, pulled them up and out of it. Though truthfully, I would have just went down with them.
The next warning sign was when we got to town and he started talking about all the "rich people" he saw around in their unimpressive middle class houses, though I suppose to him they did seem rich.
He kept talking about wanting to rob them, make money in a way that didn't require work, because as I had already known his woman wouldn't let him work. Too many opportunities for him to cheat if she let him mix with the general population.
I pushed it away however, it was me and him, Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, finally having our great adventure. One that would tear the sky apart.
If only we had known.
We got to the boy's house fast enough, everyone was quiet and shy around new people, and half the house was still at work.
We took the acid, 6 hits a piece, and the world became warm. It got funnier and funnier, in a good way, until I faded out of existence, absorbed in daydreams and amazing things that the mind does.
I came back abruptly however, he was being pushed out of the house.
Instantly I panicked.
>>7914094
I fell in love the way you fall asleep: inconsiderately while watching movies, and snoring as soon as the lids are shut.
>>7914228
I fell in love the way you fall asleep, within two minute of orgasm.
>>7914121
Some of this is intriguing, but some of the sentences are gibberish. Polish it up a bit.
>>7914226
3/?
I ran up to the one I knew best, and asked what was going on, they told me to leave. I wasn't going to move until I understood what was happening, but then I realized he was outside, alone, in a strange place, in this mindstate.
I ran outside, and the horror will never leave me.
He was jumping around like a madman, some kind of golem. Smashing pots against statues, and screaming, not normal screams, like guttural gorilla noises. All semblance of a man was gone.
I somehow wrestled him into my car, and tried to subdue him. He kicked out my window, and it all kept going downhill from there. My thoughts were plauged by this fantasy that he was my brother, my deformed brother prone to violent outbursts and he was so scared I was going to leave him. I swore I wouldn't but truthfully all I could think of was how to be rid of him for good. I had to bring him as far away as possible and abandon him so that he could never return.
He tried to kiss me.
I rejected him, and he ran from the vehicle in a craze.
I started the car and fled, driving over the glass. He ran in front of my car in a daze and I almost hit him. I made the decision to kill him because in that moment I hated him, hated what he had become and what he had done.
I stopped the car, and made him get in.
We drove, and as if in response to my world falling apart it started to storm, a massive storm that put out my wipers and blinded my window.
For some reason, I'll never know why. He jumped out of the broken window.
My only thought was that he was dead.
I was blinded by rays of light, my hallucinations coming back full force. I disconnected from reality until the moment of collision.
>>7912787
Four Sale! Baby shoos, never warn.
>>7912787
>For sale: No talent. Never discerned.
>>7914257
4/?
A tree branch flew through my windshield as it shattered, smacking me in the face. I pulled my knees up to my chest as the front of my car collided with the driver's seat and my first thought was that I had been permanently scarred for life, across my face no less.
Climbing out I cut my back open on the jagged glass and fumbled around blindly in the dark. Somehow I wound up atop a railroad overpass, and I followed the tracks for a a while.
I finally found a broken down factory in the woods, and I yelled for help. No one came for me however.
Suddenly he was there again, but not him, his spirit. It would rush at me out of the darkness, and then disappear again, far off in the distance and come at me again. I remembered that I had killed my best friend.
I ran, full blast through the woods at night, and stumbled and fell into a swamp. t was down there that he came to me in the physical form, a being of earth and rot, decay and sorrow.
The ground arched over and began to seal itself above us, and I knew I'd be trapped inside a grave with a dead man.
I screamed, in sheer terror I screamed and I bolted from the swamp.
I tried to sleep beside the railroad track, but no matter how far back into the woods I retreated I was sure a train would derail and kill me, so instead I ran back to where I had started.
It was in this desperation and madness that I started singing. Praying for the will to move onward, and for the Sun to come up adn end my nightmare.
"Sunlight and Strength, I need Sunlight and Strength. Sunlight and Strength, I need Sunlight and Strength."
Finally I made it back, and grabbing on to cracks in the cement of the overpass I managed to craw back down to the blacktop.
I waited, and finally a car came.
I ran out in front of it, waving my arms, half naked, bleeding, and scared. The car kept going and I had to dodge it to avoid being hit.
It parked a good twenty feet ahead of me and rolled down it's window. I ran at it and as I got closer I heard a loud, aggressive yell.
"WHAT?"
I paused, realizing he was not friendly.
"I was in a car crash, can you call for help? I don't have a phone."
"FUCK YOU!"
He took off like a bat out of hell, and I could faintly smell burning rubber as he departed.
Some time later another car came, and I did the same thing. This one was a kindly old man who called the authorities.
In my intoxicated state I had assumed I could explain away anything incriminating. I was sleeping in a car, I awoke as it crashed, I didn't know where the driver was.
I was obviously high however, my pupils dilated like crazy, and I was interrogated and refused medical help until I admitted everything.
The one saving grace was that my friend was alive, I wasn't responsible for his death. Apparently he had already confessed and told them I had pushed him from the car, but thankfully he changed his story later.
>>7912789
why would semen be in her hair
When I started I was aware of what I was doing. I had images in my head, the kind you twist for as a bunch of daffodils getting all worked up about who gets the best sun. But I'm not the type to be seduced like that, I hope. She was, and for a while the fact that she was sat well with me; my errant dreamer and wet-eyed reacher. She had the kind of feeling enough for the both of us. It was when we had him that she seemed flop, come crashing back down to earth with pragmatic old me. I wept for her, though with her new take on things my weeping didn't carry much weight. She didn't love him she said, our son, she couldn't and she didn't know why but if anything now she knew all that romance was good for nothing. She couldn't even bear to dress him, and I think when he choked out in that crib, butt naked, it hit her in this new un-romantic mode of hers, I say that because she didn't even weep, she got on with the pragmatic and asked me to put an add out.
So, I've got some baby shoes now I don't need but I could sure do with a few dollars to buy eggs or something. My point is: Baby shoes for sale, never worn.
>>7914300
5/5
I had an extended court case, beat a felony charge, and received two years probation. I'm still a little freaked out by the memories.
>>7913171
Great, but "four" sounds better
>>7912873
they're my heroes
>>7913402
Unnecessarily graphic and lurid
For shoes:
Baby worn, never born
>>7914301
BECAUSE IT'S SUPER SAD LIKE ALL THESE STORIES ARE SUPPOSED TO BE YOU FUCKING SHITLORD! HOW DARE YOU CRITICIZE MY BEAUTIFUL POETRY?!
Come on, dead baby. Daddy needs a new pair of shoes.
Four babies: never warm. Need thick fur boots.
Four babies, needed to make human shoes.
For legal purposes I must state these shoes are NEVER worn by me.
For you: Bane shoes, too small
>>7912931
this one's actually good.
>>7914312
Why unnecessarily?
>>7914301
She's a whore, but doesn't swallow
Plus she sucked dick to get the drugs yo
I stir the soup until it boils and press the pan against her face, her skin starts to whisper. She wakes up and laughs and what a slut so I pour the soup on her path and proceed to pound her face in with the frying pan, what the hell man.
ACT 1
Scene 1
(a bare stage, SHEMINGWAY is in a cocoon in the center. SHEMINGWAY's head and arms are exposed. Viscous fluids drip from SHEMINGWAY. There is a newspaper on the floor.)
SHEMINGWAY: Baby shoes?
(looks closely at newspaper beside therm.)
CHORUS: For sale?
SHEMINGWAY: Yes, but never worn.
SHEMINGWAY: Please, open the curtains.
(Blackout.)
(Scene ends.)
I'll refresh just one more time.
>>7914364
You mean hit that update shit and ctrl+F (You)s all day my nigga you piece of shit fuck bitch.
>>7912869
The transition from talking about "blood crusted under her nose" to the body in the street is incredibly awkward and makes it sound as though the body in the street is directly under her nose.
The semen in her hair, needles in her arm line went way over the top.
>>7914360
>Baby Shoes?
Tell me about baby shoes. Why were they never worn?
She had needles in her hair and semen up her nose. I was ashamed we liked to fuck against the Christmas tree, but proud that my spunk could get of a 3 foot leap.
>>7912789
Stopped at "my own father."
>>7913649
Peculiar, yet it seems to devolve too quickly. Too much randomness and quirk.
>>7914121
Spooky! I find it a bit too long.
>>7914304
not bad, considering what you worked with.
>>7914345
Not him, I'm the guy who liked it. I would perhaps replace the slimy substance and the precious rosebud bits with something less graphic and more abstractly grotesque.
>>7914121
Really, really nice. But please, get rid of some things:
>proverbial garbage disposal
"proverbial" is awkward and cringey, doesn't fit the tone
>Then I would wonder if my assumptions about the safe-or-not qualities of my neighborhood were sound, or based on some misunderstood aspect of demographics
whole sentences sounds like you're a dyslexic struggling to communicate his/her thoughts. "safe-or-not" sounds horrible.
I like how you go back and forth between the two scenes, but I don't see why you have to break the 4th wall tbqh.
In any case, just polish up the sentences like >>7914234 said and should be good
>>7914603
Alright, I suppose I could have done better if it wasn't jotted out in a straight blur while on my phone at work.
Think I should polish it and wait for next fresh critique thread?
>>7914435
Because it is hit too quickly and can't work in so few words? Or because no daughter has had semen in her hair? Do you have to establish something first (trust?) before you try for it? Because I think you do. I know his writing is imperfect but I'm interested in why you feel it is 'over the top'. If anyone can suggest anything that succeeds at a similar effect I'd appreciate it. There is Wilfred Owen but I'd like to read some prose that can do it; show grotesqueness quite unsubtly but quickly and not make me feel like I'm on a gore site. I think Mccarthy can do it too.
>>7914634
The happy turning by H.G. Wells should be added to that t b h.
He became quite the different writer that close to the end.
