Author Topic: Writers' thread  (Read 15710 times)

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Offline Prog Snob

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #70 on: November 26, 2013, 09:10:33 PM »
Closure
   She snorted the last line of cocaine, grabbed her cup of Starbucks and headed out the bedroom door. My voluminous wasteland of irreconcilable desire was growing by the day. What reasons did I have for the old bait and screw? This one left in a fit of anger. My eye was still swollen and my dick felt like it had been squeezed and tugged on by rusty pliers. There were plenty of hard feelings but they seemed unidirectional. I just didnít give a fuck anymore. That was my reason. I enjoyed the thrill of the chase but the finish line was littered with empty promises and broken hearts. Each woman, or girl in this case, piled on this suffocating burden when they mentioned the word love or relationship or even worse Ė us. I didnít want there to be an, us. I didnít want to wake up the next morning and plan our next date. There needed to be an immediate closure for me once that orgasm came and went.

   My friends pleaded with me to find one girl, but how could I lie to myself and pretend that one girl would be enough for me. It would be dry monotony of that same face, that same vagina, night after night. I enjoyed the variation and adventure. It would be similar to eating the same food every day. Would you look forward to eating if you knew it was always going to be the same meal? Now, I can already hear the voices berating me for comparing a person to a piece of food. That is not where I am making the comparison. This is about desire, passion, the fish in the sea, both literally and figuratively, and fucking any one I want.

   The sun is peeking above the horizon now. What will this new day bring? I walk into the bathroom to take a piss. I take a long hard look at myself in the mirror and I am content. My morning pot of coffee is awaiting me but I didnít make it. From the living room my daughter walks in much to my surprise. She looks at me with such contempt and disdain and I realize why.  She picks up her bag and walks out the front door without even saying a word. Before I have a chance to call her name out the door slams behind her.

   I turn around and see a letter on the kitchen table. I sit down with my freshly brewed coffee and an overwhelming feeling of sadness and regret filled me.  The mug fell to the floor, my heart sank, and my knees weakened. My daughter had brought to my attention the girl from the night before.  It was her Ė my own daughter. I was too drunk, too stoned, too fucked up on everything to even realize it. Apparently she was too.  The lines of coke she was snorting as I introduced myself to her should have chased me away. She wore so much make up. What had I done? This must have been some kind of joke.

   The back of the letter read: ďIt would appear that I am equally disgusting for letting myself be fucked by my own father. I suppose a part of me hoped you would realize who I was before you put your dick in me. I am disappointed father. I can only say that allowing last nightís actions represented some kind of detachment from you as my father. After the promises you made and the lies you kept secret, I felt no longer like a person anymore. I always did admire my mother more than you and she was brave enough to kill herself before it was too late. I find myself possessing that same bravery. ď

   Bravery was the last word I remember reading before the gunshot from outside. I ran out the front door and there in my car sat my daughterís head hunched over the steering wheel.

Offline Lucien

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #71 on: November 26, 2013, 09:29:37 PM »
 :|
"Kind of a stupid game, isn't it?" - Calvin

Offline Orbert

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #72 on: November 26, 2013, 09:55:55 PM »
Well, if you were going for fucked up, I think you made it.  I mean that in the most constructive way possible.  I can't think of any other effect you could have been going for there except for shock.

Offline Prog Snob

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #73 on: November 26, 2013, 10:01:28 PM »
Well I wasn't going for "fucked up".  Sometimes I just start writing and whatever makes its way onto the paper stays there and I work with it.  I usually won't scrap anything because something can always be made from nothing.  Most of the stuff I do write isn't that fucked up though.  Usually what I write is more sexual or just random musings on people and life.

Offline Orbert

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #74 on: November 26, 2013, 10:16:47 PM »
Well, the sexual part was there, but in a messed up way.  And then there was the aftermath.  It reminded me of some of the short things I used to write.  Sometimes I'd just have an idea, a short scene, and I'd play with it until I made something out of it.

Here's something I wrote a while back that's kinda like that.  It started with a very simple idea, which I just took and ran with.  To this day, it makes me chuckle every time, but I don't know if anyone else ever "gets" it.  I think I may even have shared it here at some point, but apparently not in this thread.

----------

Long, Long Ago

The sun was setting on another glorious day of hunting, and the people of Clan Al-Batu were gathered around the fire for an evening of food, song and fellowship. Some of the younger warriors danced energetically in their brightly colored hides, trying to impress the females. Small children chased each other around. The adults engaged in animated conversation.

In the shadows off to one side, Raan, the clan's greatest warrior, lay nearly motionless with his head in the lap of his mate, Mikkal. Raan had returned late yesterday, badly injured and without his spear. Everybody knew what this meant, though of course no one spoke of it. Mikkal quietly tended to his injuries. Raan's face looked damp, or perhaps it was a trick of the light.

Suddenly a tall figure stepped out of the brush, holding a huge spear over his head. He wore plain hides with symbols burned into them, which identified him as Clan Muka-Ra, whose land bordered that of Clan Al-Batu. A border that was often disputed.

"I INVOKE THE ANCIENT LAW!" he bellowed. The clearing went silent as the stranger looked around, making eye contact with some, glancing past others.

"I invoke the Ancient Law!" he repeated. "The one law that all clans have honored since the beginning of days. I found THIS near the Field of the Great Oak!" He cast the spear to the ground before him. Everyone looked at the spear, and recognized it.

The Spear of Raan!

"And who are you?" said a voice, aged but with a quiet strength and no trace of fear. Laiman, the Clan Leader, rose from his seat among his advisors and faced the stranger. He wore hides that were multi-colored, but subdued, as befitting his station.

The stranger turned to him. "I am Toko, of Clan Muka-Ra."

"I am Laiman, Leader of Clan Al-Batu." Laiman looked over at the injured Raan, who had heard the commotion and turned to face the group. "Raan," asked Laiman, "do you recognize this?" He gestured toward the spear lying on the ground.

"Yes," said Raan, trying to sound stronger than he truly felt. "I lost it the other day. I was--"

Laiman held up a hand to silence him. There were some murmurs among the adults. Mikkal gave Raan a sharp look. Raan did not return the gaze.

Then Toko of Clan Muka-Ra spoke the ancient words: "Finders... Keepers."

Laiman looked at him, and nodded. "The spear is yours." There were some muffled gasps, but none dared challenge the wisdom of Laiman.

Toko picked up the spear. Suddenly he tossed it up and grabbed it with both hands, as if to wield it, but he was only testing his grip against the weight of the enormous spear. He looked at it, seemingly for the first time. It was a beautiful, well-crafted spear. It fit his hands well.

"Cool!" he said, smiling and nodding appreciatively. "Thanks!" He turned and disappeared into the darkness. Laiman sat back down and resumed clan business with his advisors. Eventually, conversation and activity resumed, and the evening proceeded without further incident.

In the shadows, with no eyes upon them, Mikkal said to Raan, "Shame on you! Speaking out of turn like that. And to the Clan Leader!"

"I fell down a damned ravine!" Raan cried, as though that excused his behavior. "What was I supposed to--"

"Oh shut up, you big baby!" said Mikkal. "You know the law. It is his now."

"Yes," Raan conceded. "It is his now."

He sighed, turned away from the fire, and wept.

Offline Prog Snob

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #75 on: November 26, 2013, 10:24:51 PM »
I think what gave me a bit of a chuckle is that it starts off with this serious tone, but by the end of the passage the tone had completely changed to regular conversation.  I wasn't expecting that.   :smiley:

Offline Orbert

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #76 on: November 26, 2013, 10:29:11 PM »
I like anachronism like that.  It amuses me for some reason.

I started a story once about knights and wizards and magic and stuff, but the characters spoke in a modern vernacular.  Taking a cue from J.R.R. Tolkien, the main character (me) smoked "southern pipeweed" which was known for its psychotropic effects.  It was pretty silly, but it kept me busy for a while.

Offline Prog Snob

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #77 on: November 26, 2013, 10:37:48 PM »
I like anachronism like that.  It amuses me for some reason.

I started a story once about knights and wizards and magic and stuff, but the characters spoke in a modern vernacular.  Taking a cue from J.R.R. Tolkien, the main character (me) smoked "southern pipeweed" which was known for its psychotropic effects.  It was pretty silly, but it kept me busy for a while.

I tried doing that too.  I had about three chapters of some fantasy novel in the works but then hit a wall.  I'm much better at writing random musings off the cuff as opposed to developing something like Tolkien did.

This is something that is going into a book I am putting together, part autobiographical, part embellishment. 

Dissolute

Prologue:

I never thought while growing up that I would settle down, get married, have kids and all the other things that make me the typical member of society. The fabled
colored path leading to the pot of gold sometimes leaves out the most recurring colors one might encounter, the grays and blacks most notably. Those moments where one sinks chin deep into the dark chasms of the mind are the ones we carry with us until our last breath has escaped our lips. Contrarily, there are those subtle moments of elation that we are supposed to add up like pennies found on the sidewalk and hope the years of toil and desperation of accumulating them become something grand. These are the moments that arduously attempt to outshine the jaded experiences that befall us.

Was there even a drug invented by the gods above that I hadn't tried? Those highs that seemed to last forever. The bouts of withdrawal. The nights sleeping in an uncomfortable wooden jail bed and waking up with splinters in my ass. Some of the times I do miss the thrill of it, waking up on the hood of my car at some
unknown beach or drinking in the back row of church during my grandfather's funeral. The mundane of society always derisively shook its head in my direction yet they could not keep me down. I was inspiring a new generation of libertines without even realizing.

One has to sometimes wonder if the pitfalls on the path to glory make us who we become or is avoiding the pitfalls the trick.  I prefer the former. The adventure,
full of its downs and rare ups, is enjoyable and even cathartic. It's those moments of gray where the mind forgets all moralistic behavior and delves into a world
of the dissolute.

Offline Lucien

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #78 on: November 26, 2013, 10:56:03 PM »
One Book Down

The larger creature stood about a meter from the smaller, wide-eyed creature, horrified, staring at the book. His eyes were bloodshot and his face looked as if someone was pointing a gun at him. Gasping, the creature ran outside the house with his book, and the larger creature followed him, among a few other creatures. The creature with the book ran into the street, and sat in the middle of the road. A truck ran over the creature, but the creature was small enough that only the wind slashed its belly time after time, drawing blood. The creature ran to the sidewalk nearer to the house, and, staring at the book, was slashed by the air time and time again, drawing blood and causing instant scars that did not bleed. The creature looked as though it was being tortured, still staring into the book.



Based off a dream I had. I have NO EFFING CLUE what any of that means, just note that the creatures are rabbits, and that the book had something to do with economics. If I have a dream that I can still remember intimately days later, I generally write it down.
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Offline Tick

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #79 on: November 27, 2013, 05:09:11 AM »
Closure
   She snorted the last line of cocaine, grabbed her cup of Starbucks and headed out the bedroom door. My voluminous wasteland of irreconcilable desire was growing by the day. What reasons did I have for the old bait and screw? This one left in a fit of anger. My eye was still swollen and my dick felt like it had been squeezed and tugged on by rusty pliers. There were plenty of hard feelings but they seemed unidirectional. I just didnít give a fuck anymore. That was my reason. I enjoyed the thrill of the chase but the finish line was littered with empty promises and broken hearts. Each woman, or girl in this case, piled on this suffocating burden when they mentioned the word love or relationship or even worse Ė us. I didnít want there to be an, us. I didnít want to wake up the next morning and plan our next date. There needed to be an immediate closure for me once that orgasm came and went.

   My friends pleaded with me to find one girl, but how could I lie to myself and pretend that one girl would be enough for me. It would be dry monotony of that same face, that same vagina, night after night. I enjoyed the variation and adventure. It would be similar to eating the same food every day. Would you look forward to eating if you knew it was always going to be the same meal? Now, I can already hear the voices berating me for comparing a person to a piece of food. That is not where I am making the comparison. This is about desire, passion, the fish in the sea, both literally and figuratively, and fucking any one I want.

   The sun is peeking above the horizon now. What will this new day bring? I walk into the bathroom to take a piss. I take a long hard look at myself in the mirror and I am content. My morning pot of coffee is awaiting me but I didnít make it. From the living room my daughter walks in much to my surprise. She looks at me with such contempt and disdain and I realize why.  She picks up her bag and walks out the front door without even saying a word. Before I have a chance to call her name out the door slams behind her.

   I turn around and see a letter on the kitchen table. I sit down with my freshly brewed coffee and an overwhelming feeling of sadness and regret filled me.  The mug fell to the floor, my heart sank, and my knees weakened. My daughter had brought to my attention the girl from the night before.  It was her Ė my own daughter. I was too drunk, too stoned, too fucked up on everything to even realize it. Apparently she was too.  The lines of coke she was snorting as I introduced myself to her should have chased me away. She wore so much make up. What had I done? This must have been some kind of joke.

   The back of the letter read: ďIt would appear that I am equally disgusting for letting myself be fucked by my own father. I suppose a part of me hoped you would realize who I was before you put your dick in me. I am disappointed father. I can only say that allowing last nightís actions represented some kind of detachment from you as my father. After the promises you made and the lies you kept secret, I felt no longer like a person anymore. I always did admire my mother more than you and she was brave enough to kill herself before it was too late. I find myself possessing that same bravery. ď

   Bravery was the last word I remember reading before the gunshot from outside. I ran out the front door and there in my car sat my daughterís head hunched over the steering wheel.
Holy...fucking....shit! :omg:

Congratulations, you are officially as fucked up as I am. and that my friend is saying something!
Yup. Tick is dead on.  She's not your type.  Move on.   Tick is Obi Wan Kenobi


Offline Prog Snob

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #80 on: November 27, 2013, 06:17:18 AM »
Dare I ask how?    :xbones

Offline Tick

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #81 on: November 27, 2013, 06:18:39 AM »
Yup. Tick is dead on.  She's not your type.  Move on.   Tick is Obi Wan Kenobi


Offline Prog Snob

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #82 on: November 27, 2013, 06:23:41 AM »
Dare I ask how?    :xbones
You dare not!

Perhaps one day you will divulge something. 

Offline Tick

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #83 on: November 27, 2013, 06:34:22 AM »
Dare I ask how?    :xbones
You dare not!

Perhaps one day you will divulge something.
Tick works in mysterious ways...
Yup. Tick is dead on.  She's not your type.  Move on.   Tick is Obi Wan Kenobi


Offline Prog Snob

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #84 on: December 03, 2013, 08:17:51 PM »
This one is a little graphic.  You have been warned.  :xbones


She was five feet Ė ten inches of legs, tits, and ass.  Letís not forget that sweet pussy too. She undressed herself before me as I lie handcuffed to the bed posts. My arms spread like Christ on the cross. Thankfully she didnít use fucking nails. Though I get the idea she wanted to.  Her outfit was  a long , black dress hiding all of her goods. She wore thin-framed glasses which I donít think were prescription. Her hair was pulled back and hung halfway to her ass only covered by the white and black headpiece.  Her lips were red with a pure evil intent behind them.

She kicked off her heels nearly taking out my eye without one of them. She let out a soft yet seemingly evil laugh while my laugh was filled with nervousness. Her hands made their way up her perfectly shaped thighs and reached for her panties. She shook her ass at me as I watched her panties fall the rest of the way to the ground. She kicked them in my direction but somehow they wound up hanging from the chandelier. She was new at this I started to think. Her hands found the bottom of her dress and lifted it over her head and tossed it to the side this time. She was catching on that her aim could kill a small child one day. Her glasses were tossed on the nightstand as she slowly made her way over to me. She let her hair loose before she climbed on top of me.

My cock had been stiff for the last fifteen minutes. Every urge in me wanted to grab it and get myself off.  I could barely hold it in anymore. She positioned her beautiful hairless pussy over my cock, lowering it just enough for the tip to feel the burning moisture between her legs. She pulled off quickly and my heartbeat was beginning to pick up speed. She did it again, watching my reaction each time. She was as wet as I was hard. Her juices were dripping down my shaft and letting my balls have some of the fun too.

She turned around and started to repeat the same actions. How hard can one man get she was probably thinking? Her ass was perfectly shaped, jiggling just enough for me to want to bite it. I tried to lean up but she turned around and shook her finger at me.

ďwhich way,Ē she asked me.

ďjust like this,Ē I quickly responded.

She lowered her pussy onto me, her ass still facing me. She didnít let me escape until I came. She rode me like a fucking stallion and squeezed the biggest orgasm out of me within minutes. I could feel her juices soaking me as she released hers. I was breathing heavy still, panting like a dog on a hot summer day.
She left the bed and got dressed. Her loving, yet evil eyes looked at me sinfully while she put her clothes back on. She said that she had to get to work and before I knew it, the door was closed behind her. I was still lying there naked, handcuffed, and lost in the labyrinthine mind of a deflowered sister.


Offline Lucien

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #85 on: December 03, 2013, 08:51:52 PM »
So... rape/not-so-rape

sexytime

SUDDENLY INCEST PLOT TWIST

okay
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Offline Orbert

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #86 on: December 03, 2013, 08:56:29 PM »
Prog Snob, I don't know.  You say you're not going for shock, but first we have a guy banging his daughter in a cocaine-fueled sexual frenzy, after which she blows her brains out, now we have a guy graphically describing how he deflowers his sister.  There's definitely some skill in the way you tell the story, but you do understand that these are not normal scenarios, right?



And since I still can't tell, and no one has said one way or the other, I'm just gonna ask:

Does anybody "get" my story?  (Long, Long Ago)

Is it so obvious that I'm stupid to even ask?  Is it so obscure that no one gets it?  There's what I consider to be a definite punchline to it, and I don't even know if it makes sense to anyone but me.  Tempus says you should only write for your own enjoyment.  I write because I like to, but I get no pleasure from it if I don't think anyone else understands or appreciates it.

Offline Prog Snob

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #87 on: December 03, 2013, 08:58:52 PM »
Incest?  No.   Sister = Nun.   Look at the first paragraph: Long-black dress, black and white headpiece.

Offline Orbert

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #88 on: December 03, 2013, 09:03:19 PM »
Whoa, all the religious imagery went right over my head.  I think people will tend to focus on the sexystuff and overlook the "sister" angle completely.

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #89 on: December 03, 2013, 09:11:42 PM »
Masterpiece

I never had the chance to say goodbye. Her cold dead eyes stares back at me like blue jewels that lost their luster. Her hands were cold to my touch and my tears frozen in time. There were no more words to be spoken, no more long kisses goodnight. I bowed my head but did not pray. I donít believe in praying.  I donít feel her soul is now in a better place. Here with her was the better place, the best place. I heard everyone around me whispering in what seemed an incomprehensible language Ė or was I trying too hard to understand them. I know some of them blamed me for what happened, even though I was not there.  I know some of them would rather see me lying there, cold and lifeless awaiting the flames of death. Part of me could not blame them. It was my job to protect her. It was my promise to her and those who cherished her breath long before I appeared. How does one cope with such unsettling thoughts? Alcohol helps but only momentarily takes away the sting. I wonít touch a drug. My personality is far too addictive. Iíd overdose in a week and I donít want to die. As unbearable as life seems right now, there is still more for me to do here but Iím not sure what. I am truly alone now. My family is in that ďbetter place.Ē I was the lone survivor. Somehow I knew not to be there at that moment. Moments like those make me realize I have more to offer before I move on. Am I supposed to give in and enjoy that mundane nine-to-five lifestyle and have children? I donít want children and it is not for the reasons you think. I donít hate children like most people claim to.  I just donít think someone in my state would make a good father. Iím far too busy growing up in my own mind, still learning right from wrong. Yes, some of us are perpetually learning until the day we die, but my mistakes always seem to be far beyond what I could ever expect anyone to bear witness to.

She did though. She always did. My mistakes were her lessons. My hurtful words were her stories. I can accurately say that I would probably be lying there cold and dead if she hadnít saved me Ė numerous times. Yet my one chance to save her left me useless, a pragmatic being in a world that needs heroes.
People are still waiting to see her now. I can hear their whispers, feel their disgust and impatience. My heart hangs heavier by the second like a gravestone weighing me down. I can still find no tears. I cried in life with her but in death the well runs dry. I made her cry far too often. Her family knew this. They saw what I did and pleaded with her to leave. Yet, she wanted to stay with me and all of my immature adventures.

Itís getting late now. I should let other people see her.  I should let others feel her cold dead hands, the scars on her wrists, the deep red hue that the morticians could not remove. But my life is a bore now and once I walk away the enjoyment will end. Should I seek another? The faÁade was beginning to fade. This was my lifeís work, my Mona Lisa. No one could even begin to understand the time and thought one spends on such a brilliant project Ė ten years to the day. I see nothing but death before me, that beautiful end of life that terminates all purpose and endeavor. She was my responsibility and my story has barely begun.

She was just twenty one when I first laid eyes on her and it was the beginning of the twilight of her life.  She would become my greatest work and she didnít even know itÖ


Offline Lucien

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #90 on: December 03, 2013, 09:18:46 PM »
Whoa  :o

Masterpiece
Itís getting late now. I should let other people see her.  I should let others feel her cold dead hands, the scars on her wrists, the deep red hue that the morticians could not remove. But my life is a bore now and once I walk away the enjoyment will end. Should I seek another? The faÁade was beginning to fade. This was my lifeís work, my Mona Lisa. No one could even begin to understand the time and thought one spends on such a brilliant project Ė ten years to the day. I see nothing but death before me, that beautiful end of life that terminates all purpose and endeavor. She was my responsibility and my story has barely begun.

She was just twenty one when I first laid eyes on her and it was the beginning of the twilight of her life.  She would become my greatest work and she didnít even know itÖ


The art of murder?  :eek

This was really well done.
"Kind of a stupid game, isn't it?" - Calvin

Offline Prog Snob

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #91 on: December 03, 2013, 09:35:03 PM »
Thanks.   :smiley:

There's a lot more to that story which I started to work on recently, but it needs to be heavily edited. A lot of it was just random sentences thrown on paper just to get my ideas together in once place.  One of these days I'll gather everything together and attempt to publish something. 

Offline Lucien

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #92 on: December 03, 2013, 10:03:38 PM »
Random sentences in one place? Sounds like what I did for my first composition. I intend to extend every separate part of that thing into its own developed composition.
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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #93 on: December 04, 2013, 09:16:12 AM »
Random sentences in one place? Sounds like what I did for my first composition. I intend to extend every separate part of that thing into its own developed composition.

I find it hard to just sit down and force myself to write something that isn't there.  Sometimes whatever comes out doesn't make perfect sense until I fashion it better.  What I hate is when I am going really strong with something and I literally have thousands of words pouring out but something breaks my concentration.  No matter how hard I try, I can never get back into that perfect mood and setting again and the story just gets left as is.  I think I become too immersed mentally in each story that any kind of detachment totally fucks it up. 

Offline Lucien

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #94 on: December 04, 2013, 05:00:24 PM »
Have homework right now, but I will post a story tomorrow.
"Kind of a stupid game, isn't it?" - Calvin

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #95 on: December 10, 2013, 01:35:45 PM »
Ode to NY/NJ Traffic


             :censored






Thank you. 

Offline MetalJunkie

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #96 on: December 10, 2013, 02:10:42 PM »
Ode to NY/NJ Traffic


             :censored






Thank you.
I read that as "Ode to Joy / NY traffic" and I thought "Uhh, you just described a Die Hard scene..."
Listen! Do you smell something?

Offline Prog Snob

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #97 on: December 11, 2013, 06:21:40 AM »
Ode to NY/NJ Traffic


             :censored






Thank you.
I read that as "Ode to Joy / NY traffic" and I thought "Uhh, you just described a Die Hard scene..."

 :lol

I could see how one would make that connection.

Offline Orbert

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #98 on: December 11, 2013, 07:25:42 AM »
Does anybody "get" my story?  (Long, Long Ago)

Is it so obvious that I'm stupid to even ask?  Is it so obscure that no one gets it?  There's what I consider to be a definite punchline to it, and I don't even know if it makes sense to anyone but me.

Offline Prog Snob

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #99 on: December 11, 2013, 07:32:40 AM »
Does anybody "get" my story?  (Long, Long Ago)

Is it so obvious that I'm stupid to even ask?  Is it so obscure that no one gets it?  There's what I consider to be a definite punchline to it, and I don't even know if it makes sense to anyone but me.

I got it, though I think I already pointed out the interesting anachronism unless there is something else there that I am not picking up.


Offline Orbert

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #100 on: December 11, 2013, 11:23:43 AM »
The speech anachronism is just the silly way I write.  I find it amusing.  I'm sure some find it distracting.


The "joke" -- such as it is, I suppose -- is that Raan, the great warrior, has lost his spear.  A guy from a rival clan shows up with it and invokes the ancient law, and we assume that war will now be declared or something.  But the ancient law is "Finders Keepers" and he gets to keep the spear, which is pretty awesome, and all Raan can do is weep.

That's it.  Finders keepers, losers weepers.

"Yes," Raan conceded. "It is his now."

He sighed, turned away from the fire, and wept.



I guess I find it funny that these great warriors with all their traditions live by a rule that little kids use to justify possession being 9/10 of the law.  Which, now that I think about it, is another anachronism.  It's just that I've always wondered whether or not anyone even realizes that that's the point of the story.

Offline Lucien

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #101 on: December 11, 2013, 04:53:48 PM »
I guess it was pretty obvious: finders keepers, losers weepers.  :lol
"Kind of a stupid game, isn't it?" - Calvin

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #102 on: December 11, 2013, 06:58:05 PM »
Ode to NYC Sanitation

            >:(

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #103 on: March 14, 2015, 01:11:22 AM »
Bumping this up. Anyone have anything they'd like to share?

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Re: Writers' thread
« Reply #104 on: January 17, 2016, 01:52:40 PM »
Bump

I want to see more creativity from the writers here.