Late night writing feels.The man stared up at the moon, the dirty sidewalk falling away from him. Years fell away. He was young again, fourteen and screaming at the same pale light. Running down an alley with the three closest companions man could ask for. Screaming at the moon, daring it to remember his courage and recklessness. He was seventeen. The moon guided his path home, his car shooting down the parkway, away from the waves, back into the city. It was the last day of classes. He was eighteen. A drunken classmate sang 'Beyond the Sea' atop a half-cleared prom table. A blue feeling had crept into the young man as he watched his classmate give inebriated honor to the late Frank Sinatra. Later that night, they had kissed and drank and made love, the merrymaking enveloping them, immortalizing them. The moon kept careful loving watch, doting upon her young. Later that month the man had spoken long into the night with a deadman under the moon's gaze. The conversation spilled breast-to-breast until she had to retire, allowing the sun to bear the watchful burden. He was twenty. Walls melted, primordial crimson creatures marched to the beat of their own drums, far too difficult to handle. Twenty-two, entering hallowed halls. Solitary footsteps echoing at night, serving the city. Twenty-four, they had strode into her room, late on Christmas night. The lights were dim, burned low. A cigarette was hastily ashed, a smile breaking across her face. Was he a man now? Or just pretending? Do we ever cross a threshold into adulthood? Are we all children? And then she began to cry and hold him and beg him not to leave. She asked why his mother hated her so, what had she done wrong. She clutched him as if the world would stop turning otherwise, her tears burned into his coat. They had closed the door behind them, walking back to the car in silence. The moon watched above but was no longer the tender gaze of protector. She was now the silent watch of chronicler. Of timekeeper. Of observer. Cold. Impartial. The moon receded. The man was alone on the sidewalk, averting his gaze now. The cold ache burned his chest and he could feel nothing else.
How do I get rid of this feeling /lit/?
my diary desu
>holy fuck I can't concentrate everything I write is gibberish I should go to bed but's kimda too late
>>8174732
Maybe. Was trying to capture my drunken melancholy walk that happened half an hour ago. Wasn't really meant for anyone else other than me.
I'm just...scared of this feeling. It starts in your chest and spreads like ice. Pulling you back. And you drown in it. It isolates you and makes you feel alone.
I thought no man was supposed to be an island? Why do I feel like one?
>>8174746
Also, I know I'm a fucking shithead who can't write.
>>8174760
I was sharing my own experiences. Interesting that you took it like you did.
>>8174783
And perhaps not surprising.
Reported for misuse of the spoiler tag. Say your goodbyes lardass.
>want to get writing experience with short stories
>actually hate short stories
What do?
>>8174815
Here's my shitty advice. Think of an interesting scene you witness during your day. Write that scene while creating motivations of the various actors. Did you have fun? Are there lingering questions? If so, write on a beginning to this scene and a conclusion following the scene. Try to reflect some form of growth/development in this narrative. There's your short story.
Did you not like your short scene? Scrap it and start another one.
>>8174724
dude why the fuck did you spoiler the whole fucking thing. I wanted to read it.
>>8174833
Because night is dark.
>>8174841
fuck you
>>8174724
Honestly, it seems like you're trying too hard. I like the core, but you have to strip down some of the pretension.
>>8175579
OP here, newly sober and downing coffee.
I have serious questions about this. I fired it off as a quick stream of consciousness about several flashes of memory I really did have last night on a walk. Obviously it's vague, but I think there are general ideas that can be followed. Further, I think a reader can substitute their own experiences for my pronouns. Clearly the 'her' in high school was a girlfriend. The later 'her' is a female matriarchal authority figure of some sort.
I'm honestly stuck in a DFW paradox aka 'Good Old Neon.' The harder I try to be no-nonsense and cut the shit, the more it looks like I'm faking genuinity. In a sense, genuineness seems to be something that can only be placed upon someone by an external force. Otherwise how could one ever claim themselves that they were genuine? Who would believe them?
I would like to have a conversation about this knot and about how to slice through it. Any criticism is good criticism.
