/lit/ - Literature and Writing

>>34
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".

>>36
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.

Just tear my shit apart, /lit/ros.

https://terrorhousemag.com/author/alfred-kinning/

>>396
>Black Stains
I don't like where this is going.

>>396
That was good stuff, keep it up

>>552
Black Stains I mean, I just saw there was more stuff.

I wrote a book of poetry

amazon.com/dp/B08J2R4LD8

>>552
>>553
Thanks mate.

All right, starting on a new short story about how skeletons aren't real. This should be fun.

>>611
do share

>>560
fuck off shill.
>https://anon.cafe/pol/res/115.html#117

>>616
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.

>>611
>>616
>>678
https://terrorhousemag.com/hideous/
This one was fun to write.

>>741

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 >%^)

>>755
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.

>be me
>submit a short story to an anthology
>their faq says to wait 12 weeks before querying on the status of submissions
>6 months go by
>still don't have that sweet sweet rejection letter
>decide I'm going to shoot them an e-mail and ask about it
>start writing my query
>go back to the original submission e-mail to get the date I sent it on
>actually read what I wrote in the original e-mail:
<"I hope you don't mind that there are also a small number of small images"
>mfw
>stop writing query
>close out of e-mail
Best case scenario they just go ahead and publish the anthology without ever having noticed my submission.

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.

>>804
><"I hope you don't mind that there are also a small number of small images"
Please, tell us more.

>6 months go by
heh

>>1599
Not too much to tell. It was a horror story about a strange symbol, and I thought it would be appropriate to throw a few small pngs of that symbol into the text where it was relevant.

>>1591
It might be a good idea to write your project on a notepad first then type it up. Not only does it serve to avoid stuff like this happening but also it encourages you to engage more with whatever it is you are writing.

>>1601
Doesn't seem wrong to include the images in that case; the story wouldn't work otherwise, unless you rewrote it, and even it then it would lose its effectiveness somewhat.
Especially when it comes to horror you need to make the reader suspend their disbelief and accept the story, so it makes sense to include something so relevant to the story IMHO.
Something like House of Leaves, only as a horror novel:
<It contains copious footnotes, many of which contain footnotes themselves, including references to fictional books, films or articles.[3] In contrast, some pages contain only a few words or lines of text, arranged in strange ways to mirror the events in the story, often creating both an agoraphobic and a claustrophobic effect. At points, the book must be rotated to be read. The novel is also distinctive for its multiple narrators, who interact with each other in elaborate and disorienting ways.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/House_of_Leaves

I think something like that, with numerous footnotes, mostly factual IRL information, and then mix in a small amount of fake information as well, to help make the reader accept it because of the wealth of actual information included; they will hopefully believe the fake info because of that.

O gwent gumfuddery on mangled bangled vack, came Abdul Macanto upon a singled spat. Singling here, wringling there, it came, over the mountains it came, and then it was for it is, and all will ever be. O Gent feddery mont gem beddery, the halls, the walls, the parlour. Into my arms she wonders, but then she fades aweay. O'plum fuddery, gum juddery, bum cum fuggery, it does bother not, come Frank and Hank and John to spank, and fillabust my rock and cock. Shim Shimmeny, chim chimmeny, the dothman doest rumble. My hoffman does crumble, and all about me rain. The gothman the croftman, the shitman, and the asshole. I cum, I run, I shit, and I spit, and into the aids, I fumble. Oh cum cum cum cum. I watch anime and I cum, and then I run. But where do I run? into the big ass of shit

I can't be the only writefaggot on this board attempting nanowrimo this year, can I?

>>2106
Im a day late and I heard it's a commitment. Best of luck and if you need ideas to get out of a loop I'll browse the thread and live through you.

>>2116
Being one day late isnt necessarily a dealbreaker. At this point you can catch up either by powering through 3334 words today or just going for 1725 words every day. I'll grant 50k words might give you a hard time if you haven't spent any time preparing, but if you dig out some ideas that have been sitting around in your head you could very well at least have enough for a 12k word novella.

Is it a bad idea to work on multiple projects at once? I'm getting a little bored with the story I'm working on because I've ran through the plot in my head a million times.

>>2125
Probably, but I am very guilty of this myself. I just can't force myself to sit down and write unless my muse inspires me. Some writers treat it is any other sort of work/job, but that seems so cold and mechanical to me.
So I end up writing on something that holds my interest for a while, then maybe I will be writing on something different, a wholly different genre and mood.

Anthony Trollope got up early to sit down and write for three hours before breakfast, but I simply do not have that kind of willpower, and I fear my already poor writing would suffer if I tried to force my way through it.

>>2125
If you actually sit down and force yourself to squeeze out a thousand words in one day for your current story, you'll discover new plot elements you didn't know about before.

>>2141
Once you start to write a story you keep thinking about it and the characters, and new interesting ideas emerge from that, but I always find that those ideas come when I am doing something else, not sitting down to write. It is very rare for me to come up with some new direction when I am actually sitting down to write. It has happened, but I find that sitting down lessens my creativity.
I always get my best ideas when I am active and outdoors; jogging, watching nature and the surroundings, and thinking about the story and the characters as I walk or jog.

>>2142
I'm the same way. What you do is you sit down, write til you don't know what to write next, then go do something else until you do know. Engaging your brain in intellectual activity is like engaging your body in physical activity; if you don't rest in between sets you'll become exhausted. I banged out over 2000 words today in this manner.