I have to work on it first anon, and I don't want to post my previous work as I have the typical curse of the artist. A curse of that spoils the taste in his mouth about anything he has previous written into "this sucks".
Of course. Post your new stuff.
It was summer and my friend Pat had invited me to spend a weekend at his lake cabin. I was sort of busy in my dystopian urban hellscape but couldn't say no, I had always wanted to visit it, and it was a good way to disconnect from the stressful city life. I grabbed my orange tabby cat, put some frozen lasagnas, ice and some beers in the cooler and got in my Twingo.
It was a quiet drive and I took comfort on the sound of Edith Piaf's voice. On my way, two kilometers from the lake, I stopped for some baguettes and complimented the petite clerk that worked at the bakery. "You look like Alizee when she was 20", I said. She didn't seem to know who she was, or perhaps she found it to be a weird thing to say. I paid for the bread, thanked her and left.
I hit a dirt road surrounded by pines. I must have drove for seven hundred meters when I saw it. A standing concrete pig about two meters high. Besides it, a wooden sign that read "NO NIGGERS". I had arrived.
I parked at the driveway and my friend soon came out of the door to greet me. He was wearing a strange hat with an inverted wooden U made of sticks on top of it.
"Well well well, look who's here! Hon hon hon, how are you Sébastien?" he said as he greeted me with a backslap that almost sent me to the ground. "It's been a while, hasn't it old friend? Neat cabin, I finally got to know it" I replied.
He looked into the car and saw my cat. "Gabriel, you old slob!" he said effusively as he picked him up. Things seemed to be going well for Pat, as it had been a while since I had seen him in such an energetic mood.
I opened the trunk and picked the cooler and the baguettes.
-Dude, you wouldn't believe the look of the bakery girl, it was like seeing an Alizee clone.
-I see that time passes but the old Sébastien keeps seeing celebs in everyone. Man, it's like in the old times. Who could have imagined we'd be here chilling some day?
-Check this out -I said as I opened the cooler- there's some Nostalghia here.
-I hope it's as good as the bottle you sent me a while ago, that was quality.
-There's some from that exact batch, and I have a different flavor too. A red ale.
Pat tsked in anticipation.
-Wow, the old hairball still feasts on those? -he said noticing the frozen lasagnas-.
-Yep, I never managed to make him eat normal cat food, not even fish or liver.
-That's a shame, with all the fish we can catch here. Leave that stuff in the fridge, let me show you my skiff.
He showed me around the cabin and then we went to take a look at the boat. The lack of a motor surprised me.
-I know what you're thinking, "why does he use paddles?". Well, it turns out the fish here are quite sensitive to the noise and smell of engines. Let's watch the Cody vs Starr match while we wait for it to get darker. Ain't no experience like light fishing.
Before we headed back into the cabin, a tody landed on the U on his hat, sang its song and flew away.
We watched David Starr's impressive promo and then we watched Cody Rhodes toss him around the ring like a ragdoll for a solid ten minutes that must have felt like an hour to Starr. It felt good to see the most unlikeable and smug jew in the promotion get humiliated like that. Cody's belt sealed the deal.
We headed to the lake with the lantern and the rods. It was a clear night with a crescent moon and no clouds in sight. You could hear the wolves howl. We got on the boat and rowed away from the coast to fish. The light attracted the bait and the bait attracted the herrings. Before it was midnight, we had caught five bluebacks.
Back in the cabin, we grilled them and had them with some chips and beer. Gabriel had his lasagna. This was the life.
The next day we went for some more fish, this time during daytime. Pat's rod seemed to have caught some trophy fish, it took the both of us to pull the line. When we finally recovered it we found out the truth: we had hooked a crate of lemons. They were in remarkable shape considering the crate bore the emblem of the Soviet Union, the emblem of true communism. It couldn't be newer than 1989. My guess is that the cold water and the lack of oxygen at the bottom line the lake kept it from rotting. The hook was ruined, having embedded itself in the wood. It was recoverable but we didn't have the right tools on the boat and would only had injured ourselves so Pat said "Fuck it, let's go back" and there we went, back to the cabin.
I fixed Gabriel a serving of lasagna and Pat said "I'm hungry, let's go to Mickey Dees".
We jumped on the truck and he drove to the nearest joint.
At the counter, the clerk asked us to order.
-I'll have a pork rib -said Pat-.
-A Royale with cheese for me, please.
-Forgive my friend, he's French. Make a double quarterpounder with cheese for him, -he winked at me- or a kinopounder as I like to call them. Also get us a large coke each and small fries.
We went to the table to eat our burgers and before I could say anything Pat said:
-You're lucky that I'm such a big fan of Quentin Tarantino, he's my favorite director. That right there I learned watching Pulp Fiction. Only I thought he was just joking about the metric system until now.
-I guess art cinema isn't everything after all.
Gummus Grande came gripping his regal stick, right up into the palace. His waxed moustache waning. A six shooter in his hand, and a bulge in his pants. He took aim, fired a hole right through the Thane of York. Assistants came to mop it up, looking annoyed but being very polite. "HE'S COME. HE'S COME. HE'S COME FOR WHAT'S HIS" squelched an onlooking vertebrate, and Gummus Grande seized his prize, slapping the maid's posterior as he left.
I don't like where this is going.
That was good stuff, keep it up
Black Stains I mean, I just saw there was more stuff.
I wrote a book of poetry
Just threw it at Terror House. Will link to it when it's up.
I wrote this a year or two ago, when internet blood sports was still in full swing, for a literature contest stream Mister Metokur promised but never followed up on. It's pretty embarrassing and hasn't aged well at all but I figured I'd post it here for fun.
A GYPSY NAMED VEE
There once was a little gypsy named Vee
Who had a rather quite strange hobby, you see.
For he would grab any creature that he could take
And swallow them whole as though he were a snake.
He would fill petshop owners so full of rage
As he ate all their animals right out of the cage.
Then one bright morning he ate a small spider alive,
But the spider was miraculously able to survive.
It crawled all around his insides, full of spite,
Until it bit an organ with it's venomous bite
After an hour or two had elapsed
Vee became ill and then he collapsed.
There was no doctor or shaman in all of the land
Who could cure the dark poison inside of his gland.
His friends they all gathered around his bedside
To stay with him until the moment he died.
But they were taken aback when all at once saw
His bright crimson eyes and purple swollen jaw.
Tonka and Kraut held onto each other tight
And Mundane Matt cried until he lost all his sight.
To comfort himself, the great Quaterpounder
Ate until his gut became even rounder.
Sargon with one hand played games on his phone
And with the other he ate a classic cream scone
Then in a state of pain and great fear
Vee shouted a warning for all men to hear:
"Dear friends even if you are in a most snake-like mood
Make sure that you always, carefully, chew your food!"
With that the poor gypsy breathed his last breath
and passed on into the kingdom of death.
diz iz rly fuckin hilarious/gud stuph - wud u b interestid ean contribootean 2 the feuilleton @ awl? eef u r get @ mie @ [email protected]
bc eye wud supar enjoie publishean a piece ov urs exclusively ean the /lit/tiest IB publication oat >%^)
Thanks man. I've been meaning to get around to contributing like a good /lit/tyzen but I'm outrageously lazy. I'll send something in SoonTM I promise.
Here is a short poem I wrote about fags with herpes:
their firey passions beseech,
the raisin cake of pure bleach,
thus upon themselves they bring,
a poke which causes them sting,
and the righteous furies of yore,
make them mighty sore,
for in their holes now bores,
a pus-filled boil that gores,
and could not hurt them more.
so the raisin cake of pure bleach,
is no longer the sight they seek,
for they can't even take a seat.
After a three and a half month spell of basically nothing I finally had a usable fucking idea for a short story the other day. Just sent out the manuscript today, feels good man.