A bit shit, but this is some of the earlier stuff I've written.
---
Anthony never woke up. No one is sure exactly how long he had been on the bottom of the pool, but when I dove in to save him, it wasn’t soon enough. I stood by the side of the pool in my wet clothes; the soaked denim of my jeans weighing down on my legs. I watched the EMT cover the small body up as another began to console the boy’s mother. They told me I did all I could; that he was dead before I even saw his bright red hair in the water, but I could have sworn that as I wrapped my arms around his drowned frame, I saw his eyes flicker and I felt his arms tighten around my body.

It’s been six years since I pulled Anthony out of the pool, but before I fall asleep every night, I still picture his face in complete repose in the depths of the pool, and I still hear his mother’s pained wails as she wept against the shoulder of an EMT. At least I can sleep these days. The pills the shrink put me on provide me with eight hours of bliss per night.

“Hiya,” the clown said flashing a grin full of yellow teeth.
“Oh, uh, hi…” I stammered.
The clown looked very strange. Except for a pair of underwear with the Confederate flag on them, he was completely naked. His face as well as the rest of his body was completely white, his nails were all red like his hair and nose. His red hair was bizarre, it didn’t look as though it had been dyed and it wasn’t a wig. Even the hair on his appendages and bulging stomach was red. His feet were the strangest of all his features. They were about three feet long, completely out of proportion with his height which was only about six feet. I assumed he had some kind of genetic disorder and tried not to stare. His blood shot eyes peered into mine. It was completely absurd, but I couldn’t help but thinking that he didn’t look like a man in makeup—he looked as though he had been born a real clown.
I tried to stop gawking and said, “Thanks. I don’t know what their problem is!”
“Don’t mention it. We’re always in need of you guys for the show. I think our current participants are just about finished. Come on.”
I followed the clown through the large entrance into a giant coliseum. It was made completely out of grey stone, there were no seats, only large steps, and they were all completely filled. In the center of the arena was there was a circular cage with a giant hour glass on top of it. Only a little sand was left before the time would run out. Inside the cage were three teenagers. A panicked Asian guy dressed in a kaki suit sat at a large desk typing furiously on a typewriter occasionally looking down at an enormous book on the desk. A beautiful blond girl held the same giant book and frantically read from it to the audience. Between them, another girl in tight black spandex covered in glitter jumped and waltzed around. They were all struggling to keep balance on top of the caged floor’s surface which looked like shiny black Jell-O and bounced up and down like a trampoline with the dancer’s movements. The Asian in particular had trouble keeping the desk and pile of papers steady and often had to straighten his work station out as he shouted at the dancer in his native language making the blond speak even louder as she rapidly read through the book.
“Uh-oh,” the clown said looking at the hour glass. “Not much time left!”
“What the hell are they doing?”
“An fun little assignment. They have each been given a copy of Ayn Rand’s wonderful novel, Atlas Shrugged,” The clown giggled. “Within twenty minutes, the chink must retype the novel in its entirety, sugar-tits has to read the whole thing aloud, and glitter-cunt has to perform an interpretive dance which will summarize the book’s central philosophy.”
I looked over at the cage and watched as the dancer went over to typist and pulled his chair out from under him. His fall sent a ripple through the strange elastic floor forcing the blond to grab a bar and steady herself. The typewriter slid off the desk and landed on the poor typist’s groin. The audience burst into laughter. He screamed and quickly got up. As he put the typewriter back up and desperately tried to collect all the papers on the ground, the dancer sat in his chair and stuck her tongue out at him.
“Getting close now!” the Clown said.
The audience could see that the hourglass was nearly empty on top and began to cheer. They clapped, blew out high-pitched whistles, and took pictures with their phones. A man in the front row of the audience pressed his fists against his forehead and rocked back and forth with excitement. With only a few grains of sand left the audience stood up and began screaming in ecstasy, the man in the front row started rocking faster as his eyes rolled in the back of his head and he began to speak in tongues. The last grain of sand fell through.
The teenagers stopped their futile efforts and nervously looked at one another. A wave of silence fell over the audience. From underneath their feet, a low growling sounded emitted. The floor of the cage suddenly shook violently making the terrified prisoners grip the bars and beg to be released.
“Time to see if any of ‘em passed their test,” the clown excitedly whispered to me.
Two elongated lizard-like tongues pierced through the black membranous ground, one grabbed the blond by the by her ankles and the other wrapped around the typists neck. As they were pulled under their screams were quickly silenced and replaced with loud crunching and slurping sounds. The two holes they had were dragged through quickly regenerated. The crowd burst into a final deafening cheer. Sitting perfectly still the dancer hugged herself tightly, her eyes remained transfixed on her feet as she waited for her turn.

>>6760

Good, but I noticed you switced to present tense for one sentence in the last paragraph. It threw me off a little. Other than that, I absolutely loved it. If you turned this into a full length book and published it I would buy it. :)

>>6761

Thanks. It's actually part of a short-story I wrote. It's crap but I was happy with this and 2 or 3 other parts. If you're interested, I posted it here:
http://www.99chan.org/lit/res/6349.html#6349

http://www.99chan.org/ph/res/9027.html#i9167

All replies by my name, and the one I linked to.

I don't know if board cross-linking works here as it does elsewhere.

This thread needs more contributions. I write all my stuff in spiral notebooks, but maybe I'll get up the energy and type a couple of paragraphs to post here.

Christopher crossed his arms and shivered slightly. If only he had Grandpa next to him. He had to find him. He kept walking but eventually came to a mossy rock he had just seen a few minutes before when the wind had started to behave more aggressively. His continued battle for bravery was going terribly, the more he tried to calm himself the more he become convinced that there was something horribly wrong. He ran.
Wandering. Something seems to be lost but no one will help him search. Beneath the reassurances and the customs of their arrogant smiles he senses that the Explanation is in them too. What it is or where it has come from does not matter, what matters is that there is something that can be felt but never explained. Everyone else knows it too. What’s going on? Here, in the darkness and wild land where Nature has not been buried yet, there is something awakened inside of his rotting mind. Unable to comprehend it he simply stands still, shuts his eyes, forgets himself, and feels an oddly familiar truth surface and flow through him like a deep sigh. Opening his eyes now, he sees his reflection, only he is a panicked child again and his curly hair is back! He peaks through the space and gleefully shatters his imaginary memories realizing that there is only one circular moment behind Everything and this glimpse is enough to make him laugh until he screams and finally sniffle as he is pulled out of this place and
crying. Hugging at his waist with surprising force and burying his head into his stomach. The tears left an imprint of his sniffling face.
“Boy?” Grandpa said to the frightened face.
“I wanna go back!” Christopher cried to Grandpa. “There’s something here!”
Grandpa shushed his grandson and kneeled in front of him. He tried to recall something, it was all so clear for a moment, but it was too slippery to grip. “I’m ready to go back too.”
“Will you keep me safe Grandpa?”
“I don’t know.”
Taking his hand, they began to walk back. Christopher had had enough. It was time to go back to the other grownups with their rules and manners--at least they would keep him safe from the monsters they had forgotten about.

>>6852

...the fuck?

Some sort of feedback on this would be appreciated.


I was driving northwest along the interstate, towards Rushwood, responding to a domestic violence call. I hate those calls, nothing puts you closer in touch with the absolute nadir of humanity.
I pulled off the interstate, driving quickly along gas lit streets lined with yellowing grass, flashing blue and red as I zoomed past. No people out at this hour, no need to be blaring my sirens. Silence ruled the night, apart of course from my roaring engine and the house five miles down the road where a devoted family man was taking out his aggressions by painting the walls with his wife's blood.
I pulled up along the curb of nr 2178, waiting for dispatch to give me an ETA on reinforcement before stepping out of my vehicle. The place was big, too big, just like all the others that lined it. Half of these McMansions stood unoccupied, their promises of better lives having gone unfulfilled. The neighbour on the right of nr 2178 had a sign sticking out of the yard proudly announcing you could now buy this fine piece of property for a third of what the going price was just six months ago. The neighbour on the left harbored life, a concerned looking woman peered out from behind her blinds at me.
I rang the door, no answer. The guy inside would be panicking, making some sort of useless attempt to compose himself.
The door opened a crack, the flushed face of Mr 2178 peeked out. He smelled strongly of alcohol.
"Yeah?"
Double scoth, on the rocks? Thank you, I'll have two.
"Mr 2178, I am officer Barstow, I'm responding to a domestic violence call. Is there anything you would know about that?"
I showed him my badge and shoved my foot inside the crack, thus inviting myself inside.
Mr 2178 was in his late twenties. He looked like a well groomed man, a well groomed man who had albeit been through a particularly rough night. His lawyer was going to love him for that, appearance is everything.
Mr 2178 was acting wronged, blustering with feigned confusion that this was all just some mistake and that maybe the action movie he and his wife had been watching had made some passer by unnecessarily suspicious.
This has been 'Criminals say the darndest things', Tune in next week for more hilarity. I'm your host, Martin Barstow. Thank you, and good night.
I asked him where Mrs 2178 was, he said she was having a bath.
Right, well how about we just sit down then Mr 2178 and wait for her to finish? I'd love to sit and watch him stew until the time his wife would reasonably be done with her bath, only she wasn't having a bath. She was lying in a miserable heap, bloody and bruised, somewhere in this house. To leave her lying just so I could take the piss on her asshole husband would just be tactless.
"Do you mind if I have a look around the house while we wait for her?"
It wasn't a question.
The tone of Mr 2178 changed immediately, letting me into his tidy living room was one thing, but this? This was me crossing the line.
But I had some questions that needed answers, starting with 'why is there an empty wheelchair lying knocked over behind the sofa'?
I interrupted his shouting about me invading his privacy and politely told him that if he got in my way he'd be committing a felony commonly known as 'obstruction of justice'.
He followed me closely as I searched the house, occasionally quipping things about anything from earth worms to the moon, or asking me about the ball game on saturday, hoping to illicit a response in some vain attempt to make me his buddy.
He'd fashioned himself an office in one of the larger rooms on the ground floor, there were no firearms in any of the drawers. A pink slip was lying on his desk however, those things can kill too.
Mr 2178 tried to be casual about it, making it out as if he had another job lined up. He wasn't fooling anyone.
The garage was empty, save for a Honda Accord of last year's model. Imagine keeping up with the payments on that thing while you're out of work, that's the reality for Mr 2178 here.
It was in the kitchen that I found Mrs 2178.
I drew my side arm and forced Mr 2178 on the ground, then with my knee to his back I cuffed him. I lead him out of the house to my vehicle and read him his rights, informing him that he was under arrest. He didn't resist. I radio'd in for an ambulance and got my first aid kit out of the glove box. Backup was two minutes away.
The answer to the wheelchair question was plain to see, Mrs 2178 didn't have legs below her thighs. She later told me she'd lost them in a motorcycle accident, she wasn't much for talking at the time though, her jaw was broken.
Earlier that evening she'd told Mr 2178 that she was leaving him. He didn't take it too well, there was an argument, he got violent, she got knocked over. Then Mr 2178 dragged his wife to the kitchen and really went to town.
When I found her there was an iron lying next to her on the floor, it was plugged in. I guess I got there just in time.

Pat came by to drop off his grandfather in the morning. We set him up on the couch, in front of the TV. I put a pillow behind his head. I switched to the History Channel. Old men love the History Channel. Old men get bored no matter what anyways. I heard being old is when life stops and time begins, when time starts eating up life. I'm not sure if it's true too for his grandpa. He's well past the life section but his time's not over. He's been dead for a few days already. But people around here don't like to bury their dead. They soak them in alcohol, or ether or god knows what else. Then they dry them up and they dry up good. And when they're all dried up, you bring your dead back home, you sit them down in their favorite chair, or wherever you've got room. And you've got to be careful if you've got kids, because the old folks they're so dry and fragile, they'll break if you kick them. After a while the skin it’s so dry it gets squamous and curly, all white and crispy like rice paper. And the bones too they get sugary and their thin powder ends up flying around the house.
I don’t think our tradition’s any stupid. Some people believe in ghosts. They believe your soul can still live once your body’s dead and I don’t know why no one would believe your body can still live once your soul’s dead. I think it keeps families close together. The fallen leaves of the skin and the grains of the bones they just end up in the dust around the house for everyone to breathe. So whatever your old folks were made of it just permeates the home instead of feeding earthworms.
So Pat, he dropped off his grandfather. Because he's got a big family, Pat, and the old man it'd be a burden for him. So he asked me to take him in. It doesn't disturb me. And I don't want to disturb. And I don't want Pat to be burdened. So I took the old man in.

>>6880

I gave it a title and fixed it up as I thought best. Feel free to rip on it all you want.

Issues:

Aspect.
Comma, conjunction, and period use.
Spurious anachronism, e.g. >gas lit streets.
Interior monologue.
Cumbersome, e.g. >The tone of Mr 2178

>>6757'
from a sci-fi story im workin on
http://img.megachan.net/sff/res/3287.html

I have been trying to ignore the sound of gunfire and grenades for at least an hour.
The sound had probably been going on longer, but hadn't butt-fucked
it's way into my sleep at that point. I check the alarm clock sitting on my bedside cabinet I made a few years ago, from a cable-spool painted green. Looks like I've missed day light again. My hearing temporarily leaves as I stretch my body like some kind of fucked up contortionist. I kick my way out of my sheets and fling my legs over the edge of the bed, thinking of the two greatest things on the planet; Nicotine and caffeine. Natures gift to the bafflingly lethargic people of the world.

My floorboards creak as I shift my weight to grab my jeans from the floor. I can't even remember buying these jeans, they're fucked. One of the knees has fallen out and a couple of belt loops are missing. The ankle cuffs disintegrated about three years ago, victim to the cracked, vengeful concrete of the shit-hole city I live in. Shirts can wait, I need Coffee. My door creaks aswell and annoys the ever-loving fuck out of me, but it's not even close to the motivation I need to fix it. I shuffle towards the kitchen, scratching my head with both hands and trying to blink away the mistiness from my vision.

Will post others if anyone wants. I love writing super shorts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
15 men stood in Will's kitchen, pointing guns at him. The kitchen was big so the men had room, luckily for them Will had just moved the nice oak table closer to the windows, they could all stand in an orderly formation. Turning off the fire under his omelet with one hand, he slid a large knife out of the butcher's block with the other. Every man in the room flinched as the toaster popped, and Will proceeded to butter the pieces of toast.
"So I take it this isn't a 'Take him Dead or Alive' deal thi- ouch,"
Will shook his bleeding finger, dripping blood on the floor by his feet.
"It's not nice to aggravate those who you owe money to, eventually they pay
themselves back with blood." a gorilla looking man growled from behind his shield of grinning flesh."
Funny you mention blood" Will held out his hand
"will this be enough?"
before the man's laugh could escape his throat, a grunt sounded from the front of his shield, a cry of surprise went up from the men as one of their own fell backwards, blood spraying from his neck around a kitchen knife.
"F-f-fu" the man in back muttered, his gaze still locked on the fountaining corpse. He looked back towards his target, but saw only an untended breakfast. Flashes of light sliced through the air, evaporating to nothing as if light itself grew a will to kill. Three more men fell to the flashes, spraying more blood into the air, flashes danced among the spray and drops, cutting down men with every sweep. Blood and light worked in harmony to destroy them, multiplying their allies with each drop spilled. In seconds the leader stood behind his last piece of shield.
"Ahem" Will coughed from the door way, untouched by the disaster which had befallen
the kitchen. He gave a little wave to the man frozen in fear.
"W-w-w-WHAT ARE YOU!?" the man cried as he backed towards the table. The once cocky head of an unstoppable mob watched, mouth hanging agape, as the breakfast chef turned monster reached his hand towards the wall next to him, the blood stain beside him glowing with light that reached out and encircled his hand, swallowing half his arm. A flash catching his attention, The predator turned prey turned to look at his subordinate just in time to see light begin to reach out towards him. A giant open mouth, reaching out from hell itself to eat, erupted from the blood. Like a newborn
emerging from the womb it extended slowly, opened and closed on the man, engulfing him in one bite. It sat for a moment, filling the room with it's presence, then snapped like a gunshot back into the gate it came from.
"Will THIS be enough? Will growled from his spot in the doorway.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first 2 pages of a book I am writing.

The flames were flickering in front of him, the light of the fires twinkling off of something wet on the gravel, bright crimson glinting at him. Through the flame he could see a young woman in a mud stained night gown fighting a man dressed in dirty leather clothes with a rusty chainmail shirt on. He sat up slowly realizing the liquid on the ground was his own blood. He snapped out of his confusion and remembered what was going on. He had been guarding one of the wagons on the caravan when a rock had struck him on the temple, the fire had been started from him when he fell and knocked over a lantern. It was late in the evening, a band of brigands had thought they had found an easy kill, but he was determined to show them wrong.

He stood up shaking and pulled out his mace feeling its weight reassuredly in his hand. He turned after hearing a scream. A tall and thin man who looked as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks was running right at him with a wickedly barbed spear. He reacted immediately, diving to the side and swinging his mace wide, he clipped the brigand in the side. Stumbling over the man yelled out trying to recover but too late. He brought his mace down and a sickly loud squish could be heard as the mace collapsed the brigand’s skull. The brigand slumped over, brain matter and blood spilling out of his head and over the dirt.

A merchant wearing a white shirt and stocking pants, jumped up from behind the wagon, “Thank you for saving my life sir! Who are you anyway?” asked the merchant fear evident in his voice.

The man stood tall, his shoulders broad and his chest barrel like. He looked down at the merchant with a mace in one hand that would have taken a normal man both hands to hold with trouble. “I am Ulrik Kraine. You hired me to protect your caravan, Sir. So if you will, I must do my job.” He ran down towards the woman that was struggling with the brigand. He yelled wordlessly as he collided with the man, knocking him over. He swung around and brought his mace down upon the thief. The man vainly trying to block it with his sword as it crashed down, driving it deep into the brigand’s chest. A loud gurgling noise escaped as he exhaled his last breath, a look of shock on his face as death took him. The woman screamed running back into her wagon. She stopped short, turned around and looked at Ulrik, two arrows piercing her stomach and chest. She reached out at him, fear and pain on her face, trying to say something but only blood ran from her mouth. She collapsed, falling on top of the man that was just trying to defile her, dead.

Ulrik jumped behind the wagon, poked his head around, watching for any sign of the marksman. An arrow zinged by smacking into a barrel lying on the ground. He jumped up and ran towards the direction of the shot. He zig zagged, side to side, hoping to keep from being shot. Another arrow whizzed by, piercing a merchant who was running away. The man fell, screaming in agony, but there was no time to help him. He jumped over an upturned wagon, seeing his victim. The man was short, wearing black cloth to hide in the dark. He held a composite bow with an arrow already plucked. Drawing the bow he looked right at Ulrik and loosed.

Ulrik felt the arrow pierce through his chain shirt, deep into his left shoulder. He cursed, stumbling as he lost use of his left arm. He raised his mace high and threw it with all his strength. The archer jumping was not fast enough. The mace colliding with his hip. A loud crack sounded as his hipbone was crushed. The man hit the ground hard, screaming. He looked up at Ulrik raising his hands “Mercy! Please mercy!” Ulrik walked up looking at the man disgusted, “So quick cowards are to pray for forgiveness. Let the gods find your mercy scoundrel.” He stomped his foot down, connecting with the man’s head. He felt a crack and walked off as the man died, staring at his back.

Ulrik Kraine picked up his mace and turned around in time to see two brigands running at him. The first was a stocky man wielding a bastard sword and the other a lithe woman holding two daggers with poison smeared over the blades. He roared, crashing into the overturned wagon, pushing it onto them. The woman jumped, clipping the edge of it and fell as the man took the full hit of it, falling onto of him. Poison Blades recovered and lunged at Ulrik, “You don’t have to die here. You can join us! There is always room for a man of your skill and size.” Ulrik swung his mace trying to fan her back. Stepping back away from the blades, he spat at her “What makes you think I want anything to do with a bunch of worthless brigands? Come and meet my mace, wench!” Responding just as he wanted, she ran in slashing left and right. He jumped back kicking up dirt into her face, and rolled left bringing his mace around to connect with her knee. It snapped backwards on contact and she fell screaming. She hit the ground and didn’t stir He turned to check on the stocky one, he was just getting out of the wagon. His sword had cut a huge gash in his arm. “You won’t get away with this you bastard!” He yelled, pulling out a horn and blowing it. The other brigands broke off and fled into the woods, the stocky one looking at him as he stepped back and melded away.

Ulrik looked around. A few of the wagons were on fire and many of the people were wounded or dead. The moans and screams of the dying were overwhelming as he walked through the caravan. Ulrik found Jeremy, the man who had originally contracted him. “So what do we do now, Heir Cain?” Sitting on his wagon, he looked up at Ulrik and shook his head. “We have lost over half the hired hands and you’re the only guard still alive. We will need to get the ones we can ready, and stack everything that can be saved into the wagons that are still able to move.”

Ulrik nodded and walked over to one of the broken wagons and started unloading it. He turned and saw the woman that he had tried to save, her eyes staring up at him out of focus. He went to a knee and leaned in. She was quite beautiful in life, but in death she looked like a broken porcelain doll. He closed her eyes and offered a prayer for her. He then pulled the arrow out of his shoulder, wincing as he threw it aside. Binding his wound he continued to ready the caravan.

Surely, the laptop started it all. I mean, we'd always had our computer right smack dab in the middle of the house, so that when one person was on it, everybody else would know it. I begged my parents for a laptop, claiming that Junior year would go smoother if I had one. They caved, and I rejoiced- along with the two hundred people I added on Facebook after that. But even then, I didn't wander too far on the Internet. I stayed in the well-lit areas, where profanities were filtered out, and the moderators were at-home moms who regularly attended church. If I came across a page that looked sketchy, I'd ex out of it as fast as possible, like I'd been stung by some electronic hornet. Those were the days of naivety. I thought the internet was no different than my world, where everyone had your best interests at heart. The internet has no heart. Maybe if the laptop hadn't come with a camera attached, none of this would have ever happened. That stupid little quarter of an inch eyeball was right on top of the screen, watching me all the time. I should have put tape over the damn thing.

>>6760
You repeat a lot of the same words over and over. Also, some sentences can be shortened to three words.
"it didn’t look as though it had been dyed and it wasn’t a wig."
So you could just say.. it looked genuine?

the start of a short story I wrote a while back, criticism is welcome!

The thick fog curled vehemently around the white van as it made its apprehensive way along the obscured road. Visibility was limited to twenty feet and the fog snaked past aggressively, as if too much movement would anger it. Ted sat behind the wheel of this van, inhaling lightly from the cigarette that hung between his teeth. The macabre dancing smoke should have calmed him as it flitted sporadically and mingled with the air but Ted shifted his bulky body uncomfortably. While being a stalwart realist, something about this dismal drive through the mist on Halloween night had him on edge. It wouldn't be expected that an electrician should be a lonely profession but the solitude of the fog made Ted chilly and apprehensive. He shifted again and turned up the radio, glancing at the day's newspaper which rested on the passenger seat. He'd read it earlier but the headline still made him nibble nervously on the cigarette filter.

>>6973

First sentence is useless and does nothing other sentences don't do better

Describing your angry fog once is enough

You should try underlining all of the adjectives and adverbs you are using, you'll be surprised. Not every noun/verb needs one.

>>6973

Verbosity is dead, man. Lay off the adjectives, you don't want to look like Stephanie Meyer.

I'll post some of my stuff here in a bit. I'm currently working on a story, so if I'm not lazy I'll continue on with that.

This is pretty rough. I don't like the ending to the viginette about the little girl, and I need to add in some description on the Henry & Cab Driver stories. I'm going to work on this some more over the next couple of weeks, see how long this thing takes me. I rather like it at this point though, and I haven't even gotten to the main plot yet.

One foot out the window, and then another. He started across his law. He walked about a block, to the cab waiting for him, threw the guitar case full of clothes in the trunk, and got in.
“The airport, step on it.” Jerry told the cabbie.
“It’s getting pretty cold lately. Ain’tchoo got a jacket?” asked the cabbie.
“Sorry, uh-“Jerry glanced at the cabbie’s name plate. “Ricky, but I don’t feel much like talking tonight.”
“Fine den white boy! I can concentrate on my’s drivin!” the pale man yelled as he barreled out of the gated community and onto the highway.
“If I talk, will you slow the fuck down?”
The cabbie slowed.
“Where you off to, white boy?”
“Why do you call me ‘white boy’?”
“You live in enchanted woods, ain’t no colored folk in enchanted woods.” The cabbie explained to him.
“But, you’re white.”
Jerry’s cap landed in the seat as his neck snapped to the left. The cab swung across 2 lanes of dark road. The highway was devoid of life, sans the yellow car whipping across it.
“Don’t evah call me white, white boy!” is all Jerry could make out. The man said more, but to jerry it was a slur of mumbles and incoherence hidden behind a thick fog of accent.
“So, what are you, then?” Jerry asked.
“Shut up! I’m Cajun white boy, can’t you rechanize a creole when you see one?”
“But you’re so pale, most Cajuns I’ve met have been almost red.”
“Yeah, well, my mama, bless her soul, slept with a damned white devil and out popped me! Never understood that woman, sleepin’ with snakes. Weren’t she taught better?”
“So, your father abandoned you?” Jerry got interested.
“Yassir, damned snake. Didn’t need him anyways. Me and my mama got by just fine.”
Jerry paused, and took a good look at the cabbie. He peered deep into the rearview mirror. What he saw was an aging man, around 70. Calm yet furious, his skin was strawberry red from anger. He had large muscles, smooth skin, and looked lean. His knuckles were white from clenching the wheel, his arms, locked, pushed him back into his seat. A gray beard protruded from his face and ceased at his belt line. Jerry looked deeper into the mirror, and saw two brown eyes glaring back at him. He averted his gaze.
“So a single mother raising a kid during the 40’s got by just fine?” Jerry got back to the conversation. They were nearing the airport.
“Well, I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t miss a meal or two. But I survived.”
“But, you still grew up poor, and you’re obviously blaming your father for it. Don’t you think you could be misdirecting your anger from your deadbeat father onto white people as a race?”
“Yeah, I s’pose anythings possible.”
“Why, then, do you continue to hate white people with no remorse?”
“Twenty fo ninety five.”
Jerry paid the cabbie, and walked into the airport. Even so late at night, the airport was crawling with businessmen, moms, kids, families, tourists, every type of person imaginable. He would see someone walking across the white tile one moment, then they would be gone forever. Jerry tried to take it all in, for he knew every second was a flash in time, never to be replicated again. The lobby was a kaleidoscope of flesh, disparity, and suffering moving and weaving constantly. The flight wasn’t for 2 hours more, so Jerry sat down at his favorite airport bench and let his eyes wander.
“Why are you doing that?” A little girl, around the age of nine, asked Jerry. She was a cute little girl, with a pink-sleeved baseball style t-shirt and blue jeans. Jerry looked down, and realized he was adjusting himself. “Is it uncomfortable?”
“Oh, yeah. These pants are tight around my junk.” Jerry told the little girl.
“Junk?”
“Yeah, you know. My genitals. My penis.”
“What’s a penis?”
“Oh, you don’t know? It’s what boys have ‘down there’ instead of what you girls have. It’s like a tube.” Jerry explained to the little girl. “How old are you? Shouldn’t you have been taught sex ed yet?”
“I’m 11, but my mom didn’t want me to go to that class. She said it was naughty. I got taken out of school after that.” The little girl explained to Jerry. Her face turned a bit red, and she pulled her knees up to her chest and buried her face in them.
“Oh, well that’s just silly. Where’s your mother? You’re old enough to stay in an airport alone, but you’re not old enough to know what a penis is?”
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO MY CHILD!?” The little girl’s mother screamed at Jerry. “PEDOPHILE! MOLESTOR! OH HONEY, WHAT DID HE DO TO YOU?!”
The mother was in hysterics. She grabbed her child, who was as tall as she was, and held the little girl tightly against her flabby bosom. She started screaming for the security guards. The mother was very small, hardly 5 feet tall. She wasn’t fat, but she was by no means skinny either. Brown, tightly curled hair in a shortcropped haircut. She was shaking, Jerry wasn’t sure if that’s how she usually was or if she was just overly scared. The little girl was trying to explain to her what had happened, but the mother was so scared that the child just started bawling, exacerbating the mother, which caused the child to sob harder, and so on.
“Miss, I was just explaining basic anatomy to the poor girl.” Jerry’s efforts were futile. The mother kept screaming and people started to stare. This made Jerry very uncomfortable, and this too caused the situation to deteriorate.
Eventually, two security guards came over and forced the trio into a wing of the airport Jerry had never been in. The security guards were two large, muscular men. The wing started as a dim hallway with gray walls and fluorescent lights. Showed the mother into the first room on the right, then took Jerry to a room down the hallway. There was a white plastic table in the middle of the room, Jerry sat down. The two guards eyed Jerry intensely. They seemed overeager to check his cavities. A man in a gray 3-piece suit walked in, and sat down at the table.
“So what happened?” He asked Jerry. “That mom seemed pretty upset. Don’t worry, I’m not here to throw you in jail or put the blame on you, I just want to know what happened so we can let you go, tell the mom that the girl’s alright, and everybody is happy. Okay?”
Jerry relayed this story back to the man sitting across from him, who turned out to be the prosecutor. However the little girl confirmed the story, and he was able to make his plane in time. His destination was New York, New York. Jerry’s attorney was there to pick him up.

“Max, Max! Baby, how long it’s been? A year, two years?” His attorney asked.
“It’s been six months, Henry.”
“Bah! Look, baby, doesn’t matter how long it’s been. We’re going to have some fun, I’ll score the coke, you just do what you do to make those sexy green scraps of cotton appear.” Henrry giggled, kicked jerry’s guitar case towards the chauffeur, Barry, and pulled Jerry into the limo.
“I’m not sure screaming “Let’s get coke!” across an airport is a wise move.” Jerry said, adjusting his grey felt cap.
“Max, baby, I’m a lawyer. Chill. Yo barry, lessgo! Lessgo!” Henry told his chauffeur to go to 45th street. “I know a guy.” He assured Jerry.
Jerry looked around. The limo was black, with faux-leather seats. He saw many crusty stains. Love stains? Spilled liquor? Food? He wasn’t sure. It was probably all 3. He had been in this limo dozens of times, and was never able to tell. The same stains had been there for years, Jerry wasn’t even sure if it had been Henry who had made them. He looked out the window, he saw prostitutes and crack fiends going inside their dens, he saw men lying, stoned in the gutter, he saw little children dressed in fishnets, he saw the sun rise. What struck Jerry the most, though, was everyone looking back at him. Jerry clenched his fist atop his knee.
“Max, baby, don’t worry. I’ll be right back.” Henry told Jerry, rushing out of his limo. The limo had stopped at the coke dealer’s house, apparently. Jerry had heard a lot about Henry’s various coke dealers over the years, but this was the first time Jerry had tagged along for the ride. His fist was still clenched. The eyes were still staring.
“Max, baby, I got an 8-ball of Ehn-Why-Cee’s finest yayo. We’re gonna get geeked as a motherfucker!” Henry relayed back to Jerry how great his coke was.
“Henry, I really don’t care, just get me the fuck out of here.”
“Max, baby, don’t be like that!” Henry pleaded jokingly, as he got out a mirror and a razor. “And I got this coke for you, for you baby! You’re in town for only a while, let’s party while we can! And what better way to party than to-“ he railed a line. “WOO! Man this fucking shit is the fucking bomb, goddamned fucking shit! Barry! Go nigger, go! Fourth street! We’re going to the club!”
“It’s 7:30 in the morning, and we have a meeting across town in 45 minutes that we absolutely cannot miss.” Jerry reminded Henry.
“Ha ha! You must be right! Barry, do whatever this fucker tells you to do!”
Henry’s limo got to the publisher’s meeting 7 minutes late for the meeting. Jerry wrestled his attorney out of the limo, wiped the powder off his face, and tried to straighten up his crinkled tweed suit.

The shortest thing I have is a poem called 'Ode to a Douchebag'. All criticism appreciated.

Hot damn.
Just when I thought that,
A wifebeater, couldn’t get any neater,
I forgot to take in, your flag waving, conversation saving, cheap tattoo,
And your high-top sneakers.

Maybe it’s the bad fedora hat, that really does it,
With the price tag dangling sideways,
'Til it finds itself encrusted, in your
Too much gel, scene hell,
Mess of a hairdo.

Even the way you tipped it,
In the mirror as you flipped it,
Pouting to the douchest angle you could find,
It blows my mind,
And I wish that I could be as cool as you.

The effect, is perfect,
And the way you work it,
Throwing gang signs up with greasy girls in front of flashing cameras,
As your fake tan face runs off, revealing veins and bloody pimples,
Takes my breath away.
‘You fucking gay?’ you shout and laugh in tones,
Forced deep as steroid muscles move about your brittle bones,
And you begin to scan for any bitch drinks lonely in the room,
To steal a sip from unattended liquids, taste the heady fumes.

You weren’t invited, to this party. You’re too cool to care.
It’s hot now. Gel is seeping from your horrid, blonde-streaked hair,
Combining with the tan to form the Martian rivulets, which
Flow to orange pools that roll and grow, suspended in your tits.

You’re pretty hardcore with that caffeine pill you bought as E,
And you feel the lust and violence fusing with a lack of sleep,
And all the bitch drinks, dehydration, people, parties that you know,
Seem strangely empty in that instant while your douche friends call you, ‘bro’.

But then, you’re just a douchebag, and you’re none the worse for wear,
You thrive on ignorance and in a minute you wont care,
And there’s a tonne more parties left before a drunk crash rips you up,
And there’s a few more drops of Jaggermeister sitting in your cup.

So I wont pity you,
You pity me,
Because I care,
And people so in love with life as you,
Are marvellous and rare.

>>7008
dude, that's wonderful.
you've got a gift for poetry.

>>7008
Well, shit.

I don't even know what to say. It's just....wow.

>>7019
>>7021
Aw, thanks guys! Its about my sixth poem so far. I think I've gotten better. Maybe I'll be able to deal with serious topics soon.
But yeah, any criticism is good. I wasn't sure about the irregular timing. What do you think?

“Numbers are so ubiquitous that if you focus on any one of them you can find it everywhere. Math and nature are intertwined somehow. Maybe math is just the clearest pattern humans have found so far in nature. Then again, maybe numbers are no less arbitrary than street names—just a bunch of convenient illusions to prove to ourselves that we aren’t completely lost. I think I read that somewhere.”

My stomach churned lightly as I lay on my back in the darkness waiting for sleep to instantly transport me to the bleak winter morning. When I drifted off the nightmare came…I am standing in front of the bathroom mirror noticing that my hair is covered in dandruff. The digging of my finger nails through my hair feels good. The dandruff floats down into the sink like snow. Suddenly I realize that my hair is packed not with flecks of dandruff, but little eggs. I panic and vigorously try to claw the damn things out when I suddenly come across one the size of a meatball. Somehow this egg is lodged deeply into the skin and touching the bone at the top my skull. I pry it out and feel that the portion previously imbedded in my skin is covered in oil, blood, sweat, and puss. The musty smell is atrocious. All of the various bodily juices it’s covered in cause it to slip from my hand and fall into the sink where it lands with a cartoonish plopping sound. Crawling out of the splattered egg are large pink corrugated worms. At the end of every worm there is a slimy tiny human fetus. There’s a tiny mouth on each one and despite the size they each emit a loud wailing noise that sounds like a mix between a crying baby, a screaming woman, and a squeaking rat.

Here's a recent poem:

THE PROMETHEAN

Erasmo the saddle maker, yet unsainted,
Chased the Pescaran breeze from his shop windows
To the briar bush, where it had blown
His stitching ropes, the guts of mountain sheep,
In tightened knots, which sang to him--
A drumskin each, a dimension reduced--
Until he snatched them up, set off for the luthierie,
Bade the fiddle-maker string up his vielles,
Which, from that day forward, sang in less of a widow's cough,
Having learned the rudiments,
The vowels and consonants of human speech.

>>7042
Sounds like not-quite-second-rate Borges.

>>7104

In my defense, it's the observation of a madman--I'm hardly trying to enlighten anyone...

The line to the register, register 3, out of twenty-four registers, was full of obese people and obese children, and Bobby was the only person in the line who had less than a whole cart of shit, and the only person who could touch his genitalia without lifting a flap of fat. Well, Jimmy was there, too. He wasn't fat. A little fatter than Bobby. The only people Bobby could see, other than himself and Jimmy, who weren't absurdly overweight, were quite the opposite. Page-thin people on the front page, who, somehow, hid their ribs despite their skin being stretched tight over them. Maybe their cage had been replaced with metal shapes instead of bone bars, if they thought it would make them more attractive. Then there were the “Guess who this is!” adverts showing people with a bit of cellulite on their thighs, or maybe something less than a six-pack.

>>7121
Needs moar commas.