What's your favorite author, literature?

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>>	Heinrich Karl Bukowski 13/09/15(Sun)20:13 No. 719 ID: 76f292 Jorge Luis Borges

>>	Lucif3r 13/09/23(Mon)04:06 No. 720 ID: d27172 File 137992358429.gif - (607.83KB , 256x192 , dfw.gif ) >>312 Fag. Pic related OP

>>	Heinrich Karl Bukowski 13/10/18(Fri)00:35 No. 721 ID: 60843d File 138207093742.jpg - (20.89KB , 271x400 , Vidal - Julian.jpg ) I like Thomas Paine, Christopher Hitchens have just found Gore Vidal. Julian is all I've read so far but I will be going back for more.

>>	Heinrich Karl Bukowski 13/11/16(Sat)02:06 No. 722 ID: a33989 >>325 vidal is great. try creation. it blew my mind. i was on a thomas hardy kick for the past two years, but i just started pearl s. buck which i think i'm going to love.

>>	Soumy 13/12/11(Wed)13:35 No. 723 ID: 55c7aa File 138678692427.jpg - (62.49KB , 785x960 , gaimen.jpg ) u wot m8?

Are you guys nicer than the /lit/ board on 4chan? They seem to all be overly-critical douche bags that won't even open a "mainstream" book.
I just wanted to know if I should come here for my /lit/ because you guys certainly seem a bit more open.
Pic related: Me a lot of the time on 4chan /lit/

I'm going on a trip to the American Northwest (read: Seattle and Portland) for a week before returning to Canada to visit friends in BC (read: Vancouver and Victoria)for roughly another week, and I'm at that great quandry all backpackers face: what book to bring for said trip. I've narrowed it down to one of Moby Dick, Crime and Punishment, and 1984. Really can't decide; help me /lit/. Been wanting to read all of them for the last few years, been greatly disappointed that none of them have shown up at all for school (while I've had to read books I despise instead). Leaving tomorrow morning, lets see if I can get a response before then to help me decide.

Pic extremely unrelated.

So I fucked my sister last night..

been reading a lot of evelyn waugh lately. can anyone suggest similar authors? thx

Theres this story on this dude's tumbler that he just started and I think it has some potential to be pretty awesome, I'll post the link to the first part if ya'll wanna read it.

http://jpslim.tumblr.com/post/53501847118/tales-of-kerby-pasha-pt-1

This is my first shot at a short story in a long time. First shot at a horror-themed story and I'm pretty uncertain that I got the pacing down, so any criticism is greatly appreciated.

“I see you brought your famous brownies again, Marsha.” Paul was smiling at her and eagerly eyeing the pan she was placing on the refreshments table. “Famous” might have been a stretch, most people liked chocolate and who would turn down a brownie? All the same, she smiled back at him amiably.
The classroom was half full of parents milling around, chatting politely and waiting for the meeting to get started. Marsha looked around the room, happy to see that at least one parent of each seventh grader was present; this was an important year for the kids and they all needed to work together to make sure each child was in good hands. One man caught her eye. He was new to the school, to the area, in fact, and she was a little surprised that he had attended tonight. From the little she knew of him and his family, they had moved because of the economy and both he and his wife had to take lower-paying jobs because that's what was available. Those kinds of jobs usually had weird hours, but it seemed that he had managed to take the night off and be present.
A flash of movement caught her eye and she realized the host of the meeting had arrived Eric was a somber man, slow to smile but thoughtful and pleasant enough. She had leaned on him for support a great deal when her oldest daughter was in seventh grade. That had been an especially hard year, losing her partner and becoming a single mother to a teenager and a nine-year-old. Eric had helped her through it, offering companionship and a willing ear to listen as she raged against her fate. Straightening her cardigan on her shoulders, Marsha crossed the room and greeted her friend warmly and felt her cheeks flush a little when he rewarded her with a rare smile.
“Everyone's made it tonight,” she remarked.
“Yeah, good thing too, tonight's going to be tough.”
She glanced at him, then felt her eyes fall upon the new parent. His name was Warren, she thought. “Is it his turn?” She turned to Eric, surprise painted on her face, “He's barely been here three months! Why should it be him this time?”
“Marsha,” he regarded her wearily, “you know how it works. We all get a chance, everyone has the same odds of getting picked. It just happens to be Warren this year. Probably a good thing too, his daughter is kind of a handful.”
Marsha could picture the girl, long-limbed, freckled and shy. She had come to Marsha's home a few times to study with her son, always had good manners and more than anything, seemed in need of a friend. She was a perfect target in this school, where her classmates were boisterous and competitive, always vying to be first in everything they did. Still, it didn't seem fair to choose Warren.
Eric excused himself from her side and went to the front of the classroom by the chalkboard, calling for everyone's attention. The adults stopped conversing and began to take their seats in the circle of chairs arranged in the middle of the room. Eric took his place in the center of the circle and began the meeting.
“Evening, everyone,” he nodded to them, “it's good to see you all here. It looks like we have a good bunch of kids this year and I know that I'm looking forward to seeing great things from them. I won't take up too much time, I know we've all got to get home so we can pack lunches and get ready for tomorrow.” He paused, just as he had done so many years in a row at these meetings, and clasped his hands. “I'm sure everyone here has had a chance to meet Warren,” he gestured to the man, fidgeting with his jacket zipper, who looked up and smiled shyly at the room. “Warren is this year's honor roll parent,” Eric went on. There was a murmur around the room, some adults looking at him with gladness, others suddenly stony faced. “Let's make sure we all give him our support and help him in whatever he needs,” Eric said firmly, “Warren, why don't you come up here so we can get started?”
The newcomer rose to his feet, carefully placing the jacket on his chair and running a hand through sandy-brown hair as he joined the host in the middle of the circle. He shuffled a little and smiled. “Thank you for your support,” he said to his fellow parents, “it's meant a lot to Nancy and me that you've welcomed us into your community.” Marsha frowned as she watched him. He seemed lost, as if he wasn't sure of what to say or what to do. Had she been that nervous when she was chosen for the honor roll? She couldn't remember, tried not to these days. It just made her think of Kate when she did.
The room was silent, everyone waiting and the air filling up with anxiety and urgency. Warren shuffled a little more, mumbled a few half-formed sentences and looked at Eric, who had produced a necklace with a tiny silver hammer from his shirt. “Let's bow our heads and offer a prayer,” he said, waiting for everyone to do so before raising his hands. From beneath her lashes, Marsha could see Warren looking around, confused, shifting his feet in small circles. His behavior was out of place, it wasn't appropriate to look at other people or move around during prayer. From either side of her, she could feel rustling of agitated parents, obviously thinking the same thing. Eric didn't pause, but began softly speaking the prayer, ignoring the man fidgeting beside him.
“He knows what's going on, right?” Hannah, a younger woman sitting to Marsha's right, whispered.

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This morning I had a beautiful walk. The period of day awaiting the waking of the sun is one that seemingly allows time to walk more briskly, making way for a quicker and more efficient reach of its destination. The walker in question will rejoice in the new day’s goals, as to be walking at such a time means there is something more in store for the day.

Such was the case with this day. Upon the light’s arrival, it was more evident that there was a fog surrounding myself and clouding the atmosphere. The air was crisp, cool, and surprisingly, clean (but only before the humidity was met with the sun to make the fog), despite the dozens of machines racing right past me by the minute, ignoring the potentially vulnerable girl to their right with an obvious lack of defenses.

The fog was much like that you’d find in Silent Hill, and a pang of nostalgia which reminded me that this place was my very own Hell also brought to my attention just where I was going after this…

I’ve reached an age where no one place is home during these days. Whereas I have a territory, and property, I don’t have a sense of comfort. This same logic does not apply universally for the accompaniment of my friends, however, at least as this point in time. Some semblance of comfort can be reached in this case.

And so walking is not much of an issue. There is a new sense of health that accompanies the act of it. Even in the blazing, blistering, and frankly, hot Florida sun, I can ignore the fact my skin cells are screaming, constantly absorbing and needing a replenishment of the SPF dose I had given it fifteen minutes before and that the sweat dripping into my eyes is causing a burning sensation that even onions are not capable of. The salt is proportionated in this sense to the man-made canals just some miles further east that lay dormant in the backyards of the pseudo-winter-ridden families, which blankets my eye with one of those “wool” blankets you get from Grandma for Christmas only it’s scratchy as hell and you only ever use it to go hang out with your friends in the woods so you can have something to shield your clothes from the Earth.

This is something that Floridians and other like-climated Meditterraneans have to deal with year-round, even in the latest season of the year. It has become accustomed to, and the point at which complaining is universally deemed useless gets long passed early on. Kids grow thick skins here, and their clothing choices often and unavoidably get reflected in their behavior. On the teenager’s behalf, it’s hardly blamable that “trespassing” occurs when Auntie’s house with the pool is still a mile-and-a-half off and they’re walking by a rental with a clear one, now. It’s so fucking refreshing, if you don’t know what it’s like to be surrounded by perfectly-temperatured and forbidden waters. The thrill of it not being your water makes it all the more…exhilarating.

And so because I am only a girl, I succumb to the temptation of resisting effort and take the fucking bus. Walking it, fuck that. It’s not entertaining if you’re alone. I have to carry a bunch of shit. My caddies are not around. How would it even be worth it if I don’t have a cat to look forward to going home to…

pic related R.I.P. Fuzzy

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Could some of you give your interpretation of this?

Shots fired.
Casualty at 100%
Nothing is lost

Candid natural mutilation
View life from behind a fissure
See no truth that is not gain
Sacrifice null to the wisher


Those who fight for value
Corporeal nonetheless
Are made up to be heros

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Here's the first chapter of a story I really like that I've been writing. I'd love to know what you think.

Ch1

The city was dark and hollow, a vast grey fossil of an extinct civilization. A permanent dusk shadowed the Earth, light from the sun was smothered by thick clouds of ash and toxic gases. Nearly everything living had withered and died years ago when the radio storm began.

Sparks sat on the edge of a concrete bridge, overhanging the river. Her bulky plastic boots dangled above the inky black water that shimmered and rippled along with the tide. A thin layer of oil covered the entire surface of the river, having leaked from one sunken ship or another. Perhaps a destroyed oil platform off the coast. Or perhaps some yet unknown particle in the radio storm had reacted with the water or something in it, transmuting it into an oil slick. She didn't know where the oil had come from, but she didn't want to take the chance that it would just wash off. Her airtight plastic suit was heavy, and ten sizes too big for her, and it baked her in the direct sunlight.

She couldn't take it off though, not yet. She shifted her gaze regularly, from the shadow of an iron bar jutting from the bridge, to the grooves chiseled into the concrete in an intricate banded figure eight, with nine X's carved along it. It was an Analemmatic sundial, tracing the projection of the tip of the iron bar's shadow throughout the solar year. Around the Analemma was a series of carved rings, marked with quarters of hours. The third quarter of the ninth hour was marked with a notch, and punctuated with red dye. The shadow of the iron bar was gradually approaching the red notch.

Sparks panted heavily, and scrunched up her nose as prickles of sweat itched her skin and stung her eyes. It wouldn't be long now. She gazed down at the greasy water, fifteen meters below her, and sighed.

A hissing, cracking sound became audible to her, and she looked up as the sky began to fracture and fall apart. The phase shift was beginning. She watched the sky carefully, waiting for the colours to come. The clouds were low, she would have little warning, and would have to be quick if she was to live through the shift. Flashes of purple and teal broke through the clouds, gaining intensity, punctuated by orange beams like lasers lasting fractions of a second, tearing angularly across the sky in angry bursts. Sparks stood up awkwardly in her big plastic suit, and shuffled close to the edge of the concrete bridge, still watching the sky.

The clouds began to glow a burnt orange colour, and Sparks knew there would be only a few seconds before the shift came. She braced herself around the chest. Then it happened. The clouds shimmered and turned from puffy grey cottonballs into harsh, blood-red wisps. The entire sky shimmered as the shift raced earthward. Sparks took one last breath, held it, and stepped off the bridge.

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If anyone is still interested by the end, I'll post the rest.

In August of 2012 my girlfriend brought home a six-pack of Cherry and Mango Nature-Jooce, and started a fight. The state legislation on fruit juice importers stated that a product could not be labeled "Juice" unless thirty percent of its ingredients by weight was unmodified liquid juice from fruit. Most people thought that it was called Jooce just because it was quirky and cute, but the real reason is that it's forbidden by law for them to call their product "Juice" . It was their way of saying 'No fruit was harmed in the making of this colored sugar-water!' while still getting people to buy it.

I know these things, and so I don't buy Jooce. I buy the real juice, that was made from fruit grown locally, without added sugar or color, that hasn't been watered down or modified in any way, even though it costs three times as much. I would never ask my girlfriend to buy me Jooce. However, she says I did. While she was in class, I sent her a voice message, asking her to buy me some real juice on her way home. She knows what I mean when I say real juice, she always bought me the right brand before. That day, she claims I specifically asked for Cherry Mango Nature-Jooce. We bickered back and forth for a few minutes, and then she said to me "I thought it was really strange, I know you hate that stuff. But you asked for it so specifically."

"You knew I hated the stuff?" I asked.

"Yes. I almost didn't buy it, but I thought you might want it for guests." She explained.

She was certain of it. However, since her voice messages are downloaded, then deleted once they have been listened to, she had no proof.

It bothered me more than it should have. How could she have heard me say something, in my voice, that I would never say?

In October of that year, I found a book about search-engine construction, and read into it a little. What interested me the most was something called a spider trap. Search engines use machines called Spiders, which autonomously crawl the web, looking for new content. Basically, they are powerful computers with a high speed internet connection that navigate across webpages, using hyperlinks and text URLs to jump to other pages to index their content and provide accurate search results. However, not everybody wants to have their websites thoroughly indexed, and so they build spider traps. The most basic of spider traps is a set of web pages with millions of hyperlinks on them, each pointing to a page that is only created when it is requested. Each page is generated to contain another million links, and so on, infinitely deep. The spider will get to the master page, and attempt to access each one. Although these spiders are very powerful and can run thousands of copies of themselves at a time, it would take one years to get even a dozen pages deep, and so the spiders get stuck. Spider trap.

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Hello, William.

If you've got some spare time, why not skim through the 21st release of The April Reader? And while you're enjoying what this month's authors have to offer, why not give them feedback and criticism?

theaprilreader.wordpress.com

What is TAR? It's a monthly online journal that publishes a variety of written works from a diverse array of authors from all around the web. Ultimately, we aim to foster original content and discussion among reading/writing-related communities. In the end, we just want to share good reads.

If you want to send the editors submissions, feedback, or are just looking to chat, you can get in touch at [email protected]

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Inaugural issue of The Metric Heinrich Karl Bukowski 13/03/01(Fri)07:03 No. 547 ID: 4c410a File 136213937937.png - (626.14KB , 459x685 , MetricIssueCover1.png ) Read it online: http://issuu.com/themetric/docs/metricissue01?mode=window Download the PDF http://www.themetric.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2013/02/METRICISSUE01.pdf Home page: http://www.themetric.co.uk/

This is the sparkle jams
the worldwide reunion
bossa nova bossa nova
and the spiraling citadels too

so we've left center sparkle
tippie-toed around barnyard animal numero dos
and now its frankincense
fester more please

best suit is now being worn and they really don't like it
I'm disappointed sometimes with my clothing choice but who cares
why not right go blowout fashion booming large
it's panic attacks and leftover cheese nugget from last saturday
now I'm with the in crowd

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He came into the nightclub, hoping to be liked. She made eye contact and smiled, hoping to be liked. They danced together awhile, grinding sharply, their erogenous zones together, faces close but never touching; neither one could speak above the noise. She felt lucky, she loved muscular men. He felt lucky too, he loved pussy. They kept close all evening, smiling, staring, feeling nothing new, but very, very old. He was seasoned: his cock remained limp against her well-maintained ass carved from marble, frotting it forcefully into his groin, as he felt her modest breasts, she was worried. They left and drove both drunk in their respective vehicles.
They are in his home now, tongues furious and they are having now strange twisted faces. They waddles, faces latched with his hand rubbing her panties, into his bedroom. She is pushing him, playful, onto his back onto his bed she is smiling curtly, and exaggerating her hips' natural swing greatly to make her buttocks look all the more tantalizing though he cannot see them. She is fucking sexy. She peels off her gold-colored top and lets him watch her sinewy torso, respirating, her creamy tummy pale and softly twitching. She adopted an air of “well, fuck are you waiting for?” projecting as much Bitch as she could muster. This particular Subject demanded patience; the willingness to wait being a total deal-breaker, with this Subject.

He is worrying now, just waiting for her to notice the warehouse-like state of his home. For her to freak out and bolt, from the unfurnished bedroom and empty picture frames or, God forbid, notice the stock photos of black children he clearly does not own still in them. He freezes. Maybe he is thinking he may enjoy plowing this broad more if he thought she was understanding and rational and didn't conclude the best sort of reaction to slight aberrations is to run, screaming. Or he is simply petrified, though funnily enough his cock still not yet rigid. Or, perhaps, he is picking up what's being laid down, so to speak, that he's in control and giving her illusion of control. They stare. She is lowering her jeans with the hips-wiggling shake younger females find to be cute. He in perfect rhythmic conjunction begins unbottoning his green-on-white pinstripe Oxford dress shirt enough to pull it and his undershirt over his head and off and onto the floor. Light shines through the triangular gap above where her thighs meet, the sight of which fucks up the wiring in his brain and gets him immeasurably hard; his penis has a slight magnetic field emanating from it. He reaches for his belt buckle and she is grabbing his wrist, sez Ladies First very soft w/ a shit-eating grin she believes to be coy. He mentally cringes at this totally played-out cliché, nut says nothing. She isn't there for stimulating rhetoric, after all. She unbuckles her bra, unshy, casts it aside—slings it, really—lets the girls have some air. Her tits are perky and firm, w/ average, perfectly normal nipples that point mainly forward, perhaps slightly up. Perfect ski-jumps atop two grapefruit-shaped breasts. They are no paler than her other regions and jiggle pleasantly in her gait; they hang, scraping his slacks slightly as she moves to kiss and then unbuckle him. He is a firm and lifelong tit man, one that is able to appreciate an exquisite pair of titties when in front of him, although he admits he prefers a greater distance b/w the nipples and the heart. He feels she has a fine ass as well.

His slacks and boxers are off entirely. She is commenting on how big it is and sez she isn't sure if it will even fit, like every other girl he's been with. The over-enthusiasm w/r/t his member's membership status (so to speak) previously enraged him; he is more than old enough to understand pornography is a drastic misrepresentation of normal anatomy, that a ruler coupled with Google can enlighten any insecure or frightened male, that there's been studies on this sort of thing, that vaginas don't work linearly like that, that his dick is well-within a standard deviation of the average size and is entirely suitable to slay any similarly average, not overly-large vagina and sufficiently please its owner; and like where exactly did they get off anyway patronizing him like that? and did they even know what kind of a massive violation of trust that represented, to so obliquely and indiscriminately lie, as surely he wasn't the only, there, right to his face, after and about that most intimate part of his body, he decided to expose to them, these girls, who he once had angry and still swollen w/ blood berated as a flithy worthless slut and kicked her out of his apartment? But he's since learned to quell this part of himself, not take personally you know, to let these girls remark and feign astonishment at his totally average cock, to let the tide ride way out. The scent of him fills her nostrils. It is the same air of all the other dicks she's sucked, she does not know it is the scent of rotting flesh. She traces the outline of his cock with her tongue, teasing, giggling, flicking his frenulum, but making no effort to begin this night with a handjob. She is not one to fuck around. She gives him one final lick from base to tip along the outline of his urethra before she purses her lips and kisses his penis's head. She lets him watch her lips, first suckling the glans, then dragging, to slowly envelop his entire penis as she takes him into her mouth. He thinks how long it's been since he's fucked a girl that could deep throat him proper, her lips reach and recede from his abdomen w/o any gross, sticky gag noises usual in the process of oral. She unsheathes his cock from her throat, her hand following her lips, bombs on the tip, suckling, making great use of her tongue under him, goes back down again. He moans and wishes to buck his hips, but does not. Her unoccupied hand pets his hairless abdomen, traces his Apollo's belt w/ an extended index finger, suggesting play. Her eyes are forward, loosely focused on the shaft b/w them; he has closed his, feeling awkward to watch. She oscillates nursing the tip of his penis w/ throating him violently. Any man will tell you that enthusiasm comprises about 80% of a blowjob's pleasure, the other 20% by this girl. She lets her free hand dip below his knees, fondling her breast that's exothermic and pointed, her nipples almost solid how erect they are, before she reaches down below herself and feels her moisture; her back is arched to jut her ass high into the air, rubbing her clit & labia from outside her panties, moaning as attractive as she can with a dick firmly lodged in her throat, reaching along underneath her taut stomach, gracing her navel, to arrive, longing, at her pubic mound. She is frenzied in her throating, now, his cock's forceful withdrawals leaving a vacuum in her esophagus, her grip becomes firm, she slips a finger knuckle-deep inside herself, practically w/o friction, then another. Fingers scrape her cunt's anterior wall, clawing in search of G-Spots or clitoral stimulation, to match the frantic ploughing of his phallus between her teeth.

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Lucif3r 12/10/20(Sat)17:03 No. 524 ID: d27172 File 135076701091.jpg - (29.05KB , 600x750 , 428bC.jpg ) She feels the slight subtle pre-orgasmic twinge of his dick in her neck and retreats, not wanting to spoil their fun, back to sit ass-on-heels to display redundant and stupid how fucking horny she is, to paw her fingers in-and-out of her wet self, to, as if he didn't fucking pick up on her hints, clearly indicate that she totally wants the dick tonight. He watches her penetrate her own body slickly, groaning high-pitched and fondling her breast and bucking her hips quite lewdly, as he uses her residual saliva to masturbate. He is disinterested and finds himself quite bored, watching her please herself on his bedroom's white carpet as he jerks off; though she is quite visually into it and looks to be on the verge of a prophetic experience, he feels her saliva evaporate and his hand chafing his prick but wonders if it would be weird to jerk off w/ his own spit? To stop would be to admit defeat, she is biting her lip and moaning inflectively upward to sound pleading, desperate, like but notably less shrill than a Japanese porn star or maybe a seagull. She vocalizes in her mind things her conservative Evangelical adolescent self would consider monstrous and perversion: that she is a filthy little slut, a cumdumpster whose life only bears meaning w/ a cock viciously impaling it, &c. Relatively innocuous dirty talk she is afraid to say, stemming from a fundamentally naïve perception of how truly gross sex w/o bounds is. He is only now realizing she not once in the course of face fucking him sucked nuzzled or otherwise touched his balls, which were genuinely more plump than most and seemed aesthetically pleasing to most other girls, and tried to not be bothered by the incongruity. She finishes the mutual masturbation show through one final throw of the groin, a shudder and a long, slow gliding stroke of her womanly hips against a gentle upward cycloid curve to mash her vaginal lips against her palm and extend her middle & ring fingers as deep inside herself as she is able; at the moment's apex, she clenches her buttocks tightly but does not cum. She is a taut sail in high wind. She is slow in removing her fingers, seeming w/ great difficulty to extricate them, a strand of natural juices clinging to her. Finally she rises to approach him, long since run dry, just tugging on his cock desperately to prevent going limp. She straddles him, they kiss deeply, thrashing tongues, sharing breath and mashing lips; she breaks to giggle at his penis that jabs her belly button. Their nipples touch, swirl around eachother to trace eachother's areola. He snatches her wrist from her, to put her ring & middle fingers into his mouth and suck them dry of her flavor, maintaining eye contact , resolute. Licking the crevice of web between the two fingers, tonunging her fingerprint pads to know them well, he slowly draws them out, taking time to suck each knuckle. She steadies her now-free hands on his shoulders to push to stand and present her still-clothed bottom to him again before she bends low w/ her drawers to reach the earth. Her perineum, cunt, asshole are razed bare, save for a small patch of close-cropped hair adorning her pubic mound, which she presents to him, turns around, exposes her naked body to him. He sees a glimmer of moisture from sweat and lubrication, shining off the thighs that frame the gap just below her vagina; where no flesh meets and light shines through. He is totally beside himself at the sight and would not have hesitated a moment in marching over to give that teasing Bitch a hard dicking, but she approaches now to mount him face-forward on his long thighs, her own atop his. Her ass remains unsupported and suspended in air. This position affords him his first direct view of her cunt; he now can appreciate why slang for vagina is 'slit.' She has the prettiest vagina he's seen, image or flesh. Her clit is so small it could hardly be said to exist at all, nestled under her neat, rigid pink lips that radiate so much warmth his sack loosens. Her labia is surgically tight, extending no more cells than needed to cover her entrance, which is practically a faucet. He moves to touch her, but too quickly she leans her weight to him, laying him down on the bed. It's the first time he has changed position since his pants were removed. Again the Subject demands patience, rubbing herself on his dick, making eye-contact and biting her lesser lip. Her cunt lips curl around his penis, pressed flat against his belly, ground herself into him. She lifted herself up with a sigh to line up with his penis, up above, he penetrated her sinking groin. In his life he'd fuck dozens of women, often cowgirl because he enjoyed to watch their breasts jiggling with their grunts and heavy breathing. But this was the first girl to truly ridehim. To take such glee in the act, not simply bouncing south to north off his crotch. She arched her back to tap her cervix, bucked her hips in a sine wave to curve eliptically back again, clenched her pelvic muscles on the upstroke to grip his cock like she didn't plan on ever letting go. He felt more suction beneath her than when she was sucking him off. She moaned and called upon God at exquisitely appropriate points in time, eyes closed in bliss not seeming to acknowledge his existence. Grabbed her breasts and periodically stops to grind her pubic mound into his so she can lose focus, look down at his member fully inside her and resumes driving him wild. He feels his cock swallowed far deeper into her pussy than any other, its walls closing in on him tighter despite how sopping wet she is. He sits up to meet her chest and plunges a well-lubricated finger into her asshole. She is drunk enough to enjoy this tremendously, and he begins to finger her w/ a rough in-up motion. He sucks on her tit, flicking his tongue across her nipples, they shift to the center of his bed. He sits in the lotus position, she sits in his laps, to accommodate her technique. Though afforded more control here, he offers none. Her cunt is too pleasurable, he has no desire to interrupt. She begins again her thrusting, now much more linear and rising in frequency. He inserts a second finger inside her, looks at her taut belly and jiggling breasts, hands' motion growing manic and uncouth, like he was displeased by the anatomical position of her asshole and simply wanted to move it somewhere else.

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Lucif3r 12/10/20(Sat)17:04 No. 525 ID: d27172 File 135076705734.jpg - (422.08KB , 1375x1530 , 134301418318.jpg ) He feels her breath failing to a weakened sigh, an unhuman, guttural groan emitting from her throat, patternless spasms clench tight from her asshole and cunt; her face is twisted and frightening to him as she begins her ascent. The vaginal spasms, from her unnaturally strong kegels, quicken his progress. He feels an indescribably good orgasm on the horizon, one that will dichotomize his life into pre- and post-orgasm eras. He slams her down on her back, to assert his dominance least of all for his own personal climax. But he'd been watching her tits oscillate and her fantastic, wide ass grind on his dick, not the headboard, so as he came he only heard the sickening gunshot-loud Snap of breaking a crisp stalk of celery that was her neck breaking on his headboard. In this moment there is no fear, sinking feeling of anxiety in him, he feels quite lucidly in his cock her spine severing and the subsequent pulses of death diffusing throughout her body; he knew she was dead and he was cumming inside a dead body. He shot several—upwards of 10—thick ropes of semen into the corpse's pussy, far past its cervix into the upper chambers of its womb. The spasms are so powerful he thinks for a moment he might ejaculate his own asshole. He thinks how he knew there were serious risks involved in having unsafe sex but this is a tad unreasonable. Too late for that, he's almost faint with ecstasy and collapses fetally on his bed, staring w/ wide-eyes and horror at the body of the girl he just fucked to death. Her face is frozen in her O-face, twisted and frightening. The body begins to walk to the bathroom to clean itself of vaginal excretions and cum before getting dressed, unaware its head is only attached to its neck by skin, lolling around loosely, the severed spine jutting up outlined by skin from where the nape of her neck once was. He follows her out the door naked as a jaybird, too bewildered and freaked the fuck out to think to clothe himself, to watch the body pause, wave goodbye, and start its card, its head slowly circling the neck and skin beginning to rip and expose bloody ligaments and splintered bones. The taillights faded to disappear, and he goes in to frame photos.

It's midnight... or at least close. I don't feel like checking the time. My hands greedily absorb what little warmth my pockets provide in the cold dark air. My feet traverse the cracked and unmaintained sidewalks. A footstep behind me catches my attention. Paranoia creeps it's way into my mind and I pull out my phone, my trusty butterfly knife tucked into my palm, folded, latched shut, and hidden from sight. As I open the phone, pretending to read a text, I steal a glance behind me. The fairly short and skinny dark skinned male lazily trailed behind me, sending a text of his own. My mind was slightly at ease, but I still undid the latch on my knife, refraining from putting it away just yet. I picked up my pace just a little, walking through the scarred streets, listening to the sounds of domestic dispute, addiction, and pain. These streets seemed to ooze hopelessness some days.
“Damn, it's 1 a.m.. What am I doing?” The thought floated into my head, I walked and turned a corner. Two adult males and one woman with them. The woman, dressed in clothing too tight to possibly be warm in this freezing weather, brandished a can of mace, obviously showing it off to her friends. I kept walking, feeling no threat here.
Further down the street I noticed another two adult males, one Asian, one white. They both appeared to be in good shape, and their body language told me that they had some manner of violent intent. Besides that, just what in the fuck are an asian and a white guy doing in this area? I decided that I would cut through a nearby alley to avoid them, sprinting to put some distance between us after cutting from their line of sight. I took an immediate left into a dimly lit alleyway and took off.

“Oh hell,” I breathed to myself. This was not a good situation. The alleyway was a winding maze of fences topped with barbed or razor wire and brick walls, leading ultimately to a dead end. I thought of taking my chances with a barbed wire fence, but I knew it would just leave me vulnerable and bleeding. I backtracked, jogging, hoping that my instincts were wrong and that this wasn't a trap. Of course, I was right. As I turned, just at the exit of the alley, my face seemed to explode into sudden, burning agony. Foam covered my eyes, it felt as though it were eating through me and devouring my face. I screamed, frantically wiping the horrible substance from my eyes and immediately guarding my face as I staggered backwards, retreating into the alley. Through blurred eyes, I blocked a sloppily thrown hook aimed at my face and punched an unknown assailant in the throat, following up immediately with a deafening palm smack to his ear, simultaneously grabbing him by the head and hurling him to my left, knocking another would be attacker off balance for a few vital seconds before front kicking them a third male figure into a nearby wall.

I glared at a figure who looked like the girl from before, staring in absolute rage, knowing she maced me. She aimed the canister at my face again as I caught sight of her. She attempted to spray me, but I dodged left, grabbed her wrist, and slammed my elbow into her upper arm, just below the shoulder. She screamed in agony as her arm fractured, forcing her grip to loosen. I snatched the mace canister and rammed it into her mouth, breaking her front teeth on the metal rim and filling her throat with burning foam. A baseball bat smacked into my back. I fell to the ground, groaning in pain as I looked through my damaged eyes to see another swing coming towards my head. I extended my left leg as I was on the floor and deftly stepped over it with my right, rolling my body left as the bat conked into the asphalt where I once was. The bat wielding thug lifted his weapon for another swing but I dragged his right ankle with my own as I got up, pulling him just off balance enough for me to quickly latch-drop my butterfly knife open and stab clean through the fabric of his coat and into his armpit. I violently jerked the blade around in it's wound, hoping to permanently injure his arm somehow. The thug dropped the bat as he roared in pain and I kneed him in the solar plexus, air bursting from his mouth as he fell to the floor. I took advantage of his vulnerability, standing over him as he clutched his armpit, and delivered a vicious kick to his kidney, ensuring that he would piss blood later. A punch to my temple blurred my vision more as I stumbled. I was caught by another attacker, held in place as my face was pummeled by at least two punchers. Blood streamed from my nose as I managed to kick the man holding me in his groin, loosening his grip. I threw him to the ground using his own weight to toss him from my hip, but in the process I took another hard punch to the side of my face, my vision blurring to blindness again as I fell to the ground.

I struggled, trying to get up, half conscious, spine in agony, face still on fire. I heard the sound of wood dragging along the concrete, muffled as though my ears were filled with cotton, the bat bumping on the cracks rhythmically. I feebly attempted to put my arm up to defend my head from another hit. The baseball bat cracked into my leg, breaking my upper thigh bone. I collapsed to the ground, and a brutal kick to my skull ended my consciousness.

Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep...

I woke up to the sound of my heartbeat displayed on a monitor. Bandages, casts, and all manner of medical apparatus covered my body. Apparently my assailants continued to beat me while I was unconscious. None of my belongings were missing. I inched my neck up, only to moan in pain at the stress it put on my back. My eyes darted down towards my body. My legs were broken, my ribs cracked, and apparently I received a stab to my gut out of revenge for destroying one of their arms. I didn't need a mirror to know that my face and head had taken punishment as well. I sighed to myself, knowing it was my own dumb ass fault and pressed the call button for the nurse. If I was going to be this badly beaten, I'd be this badly beaten with some god damned steak or bacon depending on what the hell time it was...

Regrading all errors in editing and grammar, this is the result of two instances me writing between the hours of 2-5 AM while blasting bad music and under a fading caffeine high. It is also still a WIP.

A bitter wind blew through the dark city night, biting and stinging the flesh of the few still out at this late hour. It carried with it dirty ice and snow from the deep muck blackened snow banks, reducing visibility to a couple of blocks at best. The working streetlights served only to create glare to better blind unfortunate travelers with. Bundled within layers of clothes to fend off the bitter cold a traveler walked. With every gust, he felt the chill cut through his flesh and into his bones. He tightened his bundling and strode on as the decaying brick buildings glared down upon him. Until now, it had been a good day for him. He had taken a mental health day to escape life, and spent the day going from museum to museum all about town. A morning at the aquarium with breakfast at a greasy spoon diner lead to an afternoon browsing fine art with lunch from a street side hotdog vendor, and an evening at the science museum with Chinese for supper. Now he made the slow trek home, looking forward to the bundle of heated blankets and space heaters at his apartment.
However, his return was delayed, not by the hostile cold, but by the stranger that had been following behind him. He had made several extraneous twists and turns in his route to be certain there was no odd coincidence at work. Sometimes when turning he caught a brief glance of the man stumbling after him. His gait was odd, but not the loose stumbling of a drunk. His legs seemed too stiff and his back too loose, causing the man to sway as his arms hung limply by his side. He also seemed to be making strange snorting noises as he went, loudly huffing. Not wanting to lead his stalker to his home the traveler dragged his feet, taking as long as possible and with as many detours as he could to extend the commute. Running might lead to a chase, and there was no predicting how that would go. Confrontation it would be. Taking a sharp corner the traveler opened his coat and drew his black ceramic pistol from its leather holster in his armpit and moved it into his coat pocket before sealing himself back up to ward off the bitter chill. Up ahead was a dead end alley with no windows looking out into it. The perfect place for a good day to end poorly.
The pursuer entered the alley after him, pausing at its apparent emptiness before stumbling toward its end, haphazardly poking amongst the refuse searching for the one he had been following. The pursuer slumped face first against the brick wall at the alley’s end, sniffing the air and scratching his nails against the bricks as he let out a low growl, frustrated at lost prey.
“I do not believe we have met.” The traveler said in a deep and gravelly voice that echoed in the mind, suddenly in the middle of the alley where nothing had been before. His gun was in his hand at his side as he tapped his gloved trigger finger against the weapon’s side. “I don’t suppose you wo-” He was cut off as his stalker lurched into motion with a loud shriek and charged arms outstretched, desperate to grab a hold of his prey. Two shots rang out, sending hot lead through cold flesh and spraying the alley’s wall in black ichors from the stalker’s body. Stumbling, the man’s hood fell and revealed his twisted face; his flesh was shrunken and pale, with a sickly looking dark green splotch across much of his forehead, his lips were a bloody mess from chewing them to shreds, his hair stark white and stringy, and his eyes bloodshot and yellow. Letting out another high-pitched shriek he charged again, two more bullets tearing through to little effect before a third carved out a chunk of his face and he collapsed to the ground. The traveler let out a sigh of relief, too soon as his stalker gurgled and struggled to stand once again.
“What in the hell?!” The traveler yelled as two more rounds ruined the remains of the stalkers skull and left him twitching for a moment on the ground. The traveler approached cautiously, firing his last two rounds into each of his fallen pursuer’s knees for good measure and reloading with a fresh magazine. Stepping on the corpse’s back to hold it down he began searching its pockets and inspecting the body, tossing aside a wallet and set of keys to look at better later. The first thing he noticed was the black ichors draining from the corpse when there should have been blood, and how white the exposed innards were in comparison. Strangest of all was that he confirmed his first shots were dead on; they had all struck the man in the center of his chest, undoubtedly repeatedly striking the heart with what should have been an instantly fatal wound. That most certainly did not bode well. He stepped back and rolled the body over, giving the entry wounds and ruined face a good look. The man’s condition made all but the vaguest guesses about his identity impossible, the details of his face so warped.
Three shots rang out as the corpse again began to hiss, but this time it did not spring into motion, but its skin cracked, split, and crumbled as the corpse liquefied into black ichors, oozing from the crumbling skin. Spooked the traveler quickly collected the man’s wallet and keys, along with his own spend shell casings and left as quickly as possible, watching for any signs of witnesses or the sounds of sirens approaching. He made one last set of detours before his return, his nervous excitement turning every howl of the wind into another pursuer. He was long gone from the scene and his trail cold by the time officers arrived to investigate the reports of gun fire.
The traveler liked to think he lived in one of the areas nicer apartment buildings, the elevator worked more often than it was broken, nothing leaked, and there wasn’t much noise. The traveler hurried up the elevator and to his door, quickly opening the many deadbolts he had added to his door. It was not until those deadbolts were locked behinds and he was enveloped in the apartment’s heat that he let out a sigh of relief. The apartment’s other inhabitant made herself known by meowing at the emptiness of her food dish, his pudgy tabby cat did not appreciate his late return. He removed his boots before serving a can of food to the pushy feline who showed her thanks by trying to stick her face in the can as soon as it was open. The traveler hung his coat to dry and set to shedding his unnecessary layers and putting on something more comfortable. He donned a simple button up shirt and slacks, taking a moment to double check his appearance in the mirror.
The traveler, Ahmose, or as his Anglophone acquaintances call him, Amos, was a slender man, and stood a little over five and a half feet tall. But with his winter layer shed his most prominent feature was revealed, the bandages that covered him head to toe with slits for eyes, ears, mouth and nose that allowed only slivers of his black and shriveled skin to show. He even wore dark glasses to obscure his eyes. Or rather, where his eyes had once been. Now the glasses lay aside as he straightened his attire in the mirror, and upon his face sat two dark and empty sockets. His vision did not mourn to the loss of its once related organs, much as his voice did not mourn the absence of a tongue in his mouth, his breath did not mind his lost lungs, or his breast the beating heart that had once been all that stood between him and death. So many pieces of himself gone and yet here he stood, no worse for the wear. However, Ahmose himself was known to mourn such losses at times if he allowed himself, those seemingly small sacrifices made for such a great reward. He donned the glasses once more, hiding once more behind their dark glass.

13 posts and 7 images omitted. Click Reply to view.

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Heinrich Karl Bukowski 12/01/07(Sat)03:35 No. 331 ID: f5f9d2 “Now Amos, it isn’t the pay that is important. It is the benefits. Healthcare, dental, a pension. However, since you likely won’t be making use of those, I’ll have to find some special ones just for you. Like not tipping off the IRS about the various fake identities you’ve been conducting your trading as to hide your income. Tax evasion and fraud, how naughty you’ve been Amos. You also always seem to have some uncanny tip on how stocks are going to go, might be worth an insider trading investigation. All moot of course, since your brokers will be sad to find out that you’re dead, I’m sure they’ll shed a tear as they lay claim to your assets. But those are minor, white collar issues. The elephant in the room is your confession that you shot and killed a stranger tonight. You claim it was self defense, but then why did you not contact the police, flee the scene, remove evidence, including the poor man’s wallet. It is beginning to look more and more like you may have killed and robbed that man. Add possession and you are looking at some very serious criminal charges. Of course a normal prison couldn’t be expected to hold someone like yourself. The bureau would have to take you. We have some interesting theories about ways to block the use of magic. I wonder how they’d effect someone whose life is tied to it. And who would feed your poor Cat? It’ll be so lonely without you.” Ka sat, mouth agape at how far Drew was willing to go on this. “You are a damned bastard. I hope you are proud of yourself.” “I’m not, but I swore to protect this country. I’ll be damned if I’ll let your greed and laziness get in the way of that. Agents are already in state, and are on their way to you. So I need to know, are you in, or are you out?” “I’ll dance to your tune, for now.” Ka grumbled as he severed the connection. Drew smiled, it was tenuous cooperation, but it would have to do. Grumpy as Ka could be there was a decent human being buried in him somewhere, hopefully they could dig it out of him for this case. Using his computer, he quickly checked the location of the GPS transponder that had been installed in Ka’s cat. It would be rather embarrassing if they had the wrong address after all this. The gun store clerk looked over Ka’s gun permit and the long-winded documentation from a doctor stating that he had a legitimate reason for his face to be hidden under bandages and why he had to wear dark eye concealing glasses. He of course did, just not the one in the paperwork, and this half-truth was moot by the fact that the permit was for one of Ka’s many false identities, this one conveniently a New Hampshire resident. The clerk found his concerns about the validity of the documents kept slipping out of his mind as fast as Ka could subtly ply his will into the man’s mind. He could walk out with the full contents of the store if he chose and leave the clerk clucking and convinced he was poultry if he so chose, but such an overt show of the supernatural could bring a world of hell crashing down on him if the man reclaimed his mind and remembered him. On the other hand, subtle manipulation meant the clerk would remember him as just another uninteresting customer. The clerk finished entering Ka’s information into his computer, set the permit down on the counter, and shook his head. “Now pardon me saying this, but you don’t look like one of the typical punks that come in here because he saw one of these in a movie.” He indicated to the large automatic pistol Ka had selected for purchase. Normally his 9mm would have been sufficient for anything short of WW3 breaking out in front of his home, but it had taken an entire magazine to put down the man he had encountered the night before. If he had encountered more than one junkie, he would have been overwhelmed. The stopping power of a .50 AE round would be more than able to do the job, and getting it only took a short teleport across state lines. Ka originally intended to purchase a more recent incarnation of the M1911 that had been the 9mm’s predecessor, but he’d be damned before he’d follow Drew’s advice. Tragic really, he had received the .45 as a gift and used it for fifty years before decades of barely compatible replacement components caused the gun to fire half its magazine from one trigger pull before misfiring a round out the ejection port and exploding. Somehow. “Those punks are the problem; body armor became a fashion statement somewhere along the line. They make armor now that looks just like normal clothing.” Ka had even ordered a few outfits, including a tailored suit, online the night before. One advantage of un-death was that your measurements did not change. “If someone breaks in I don’t want to have to use an entire magazine to beat them to death with bullets. Meanwhile his buddy has turned my living room and myself into Swiss cheese with a submachine gun. Terrible times we live in.” “Uh huh.” The man clearly was not buying the story. He had no problem selling the gun, he just wanted to give Ka a hard because it looked like he was just out to buy a penis extender, and with a rather bad excuse to boot. “Protecting your home is a noble idea and all, but if you have a group breaking into your house armed with automatic weapons you should be concerned with who you pissed off so badly. I’d also suggest you file a police report, maybe update your life insurance. A handgun might not be your best option either, would you like to add some real power to your home defense?” The clerk indicated to the shop’s displays of long rifles and carbines, and Ka did not miss the push to get him to buy more. He however had a slightly better plan, the FBI would conceivably be bringing in firepower greater than he as a civilian could purchase. He wanted to get a look at what he could get from them free first. “No thanks, I prefer to avoid being put on a federal list, and I already have a rifle.” This reminded him, he was low on ammo for said rifle. “Speaking of which, I will also need some .308 cases, primers, bullets and some powder. My reloading supplies are a bit low.” The clerk shrugged and followed him to the reloading supply display after locking up the handgun. “So, what king of rifle do you have?” The clerk asked as he unlocked the case displaying the plastic containers of gunpowder. “A re-chambered Garand, possibly a couple of them if I find all the parts I swapped out over the years. The oldest parts would be dangerous to use at this point though, I have had the thing since the Second World War.” The clerk whistled as he relocked the case after removing Ka’s selection as Ka drifted into memory lane. This left the clerk a little too clear headed. “Wait, how could you have gotten it then, you were only born in 19-” The clerk froze in place as Ka snapped back to attention, the tendrils of his mind freezing the clerks as he ripped away the memories of the slip-up in his story. “-A modernized M1? Let me guess you ruined a classic by sticking some ridiculous scope on it and replacing the beautiful wooden body right?” “Guilty as charged, but she’s still a beautiful beast.” Ka smiled as the clerk grumbled and rang up the order, thoughts of why Ka carried so much cash on his person whisked away. Message too long. Click here to view the full text.

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Heinrich Karl Bukowski 12/01/07(Sat)03:36 No. 332 ID: f5f9d2 “I emptied the magazine into him, nine 9mm rounds, plus a few more when he started melting. The first several rounds where center of mass, and when I checked him out after it looked like I hit his heart, which should have killed him almost instantly, but he kept coming so I shot him in the head. I had to do that again when he tried getting up again, and shot out him knees just in case to finish the magazine.” “Are you absolutely certain you hit the heart? The holes you left in the alley indicate the rounds went clear through; they should have hit the spine too. Surviving massive amounts of physical damage, even to the brain, and not being killed by the shock is certainly impressive and something we should worry about, but to stay mobile with a hole in your spine spits in the face of biology. Are you absolutely, positively, certain you hit where you thought?” “I saw the wounds afterward, my aim was spot on. I cannot say if the bullets damaged the spine or not, but if there is some sort of possession involved here that could explain some of the durability. Anything else?” “Is that the gun you used there?” He indicated to Ka’s holstered 9mm. Ka nodded. “Have you cleaned it? We’ll need to take it as evidence for now, run ballistics and such. You only get so much special treatment, you stilled shot someone, justified or not. Hand it over.” Ka drew the weapon, ejecting the magazine and clearing the chamber before dropping it into the clear plastic evidence bag Berry was holding out. “I haven’t cleaned it, and you are going to get ammo for your tests yourself. Is the Q&A done yet?” “For now, yes.” “Well that is all I know, so what exactly do you expect me to do to help you here?” The female agent spoke up. “You are a necromancer, we want you to summon the man you killed and make him talk. If possible, we want you to do the same for the pusher killed in the incident with the DEA. I don’t pretend to understand how your ability to magically peep works, but if it can track where things have been we could find out the source. Or if you can use your abilities to tell us anything about this crap they’re trying to push, all the more advanced tests that were run on the DEA’s samples were inconclusive.” “Inconclusive?” Ka asked curiously “They made the samples explode.” “Wait, wait. What? How does that happen?” “We don’t know, they ran some basic chemical tests on the samples that went fine but when they put it in some of the big testing machines to find out what all the strange extra chemicals in the drugs were the sample exploded, wrecked multimillion dollar equipment, terrified a lot of lab techs, and produced a lot of toxic fumes. You might be able to tell if there is something supernatural going on with this stuff.” Ka rose to his feet and started to the kitchen. “I’ll take a peek; I only took a brief look before and saw nothing special. Let me get a pan to do this in before I lose my security deposit.” Ka returned carrying an iron pot, and directed the agents to put a small sample of methamphetamine into the pot. He put the pot down on the floor in the entry hall, and took several steps back. The tendrils of his mind delicately reached forth, seeking the sample. He could barely even find it, it seemed to have far less ethereal presence than it should have, perceived nothing abnormal about it, no hint in its presence in the ether that it was anything other than what it seemed to be to mortal eyes. “I don’t see anything odd yet, this might be regular meth. Hold on.” He dug deeper into the ether looking for more. The pot sang every it’s detail, he saw it’s every flaw and perfection, and knew every detail of the pot’s creation from when the iron was mined to the casting, but the meth remained oddly silent. He decided to apply a little persuasion, energy flowing from his mind toward the sample to force its secrets out if it. The sample began to glow as the ether around it was sucked into the sample as it rapidly gained energy. “Or not.” The sample released the accumulated power in an explosive burst that left the mortal agents ears ringing and a flash that left their eyes in shock, causing them to stumble as they attempted to jump to their feet. The pan jumped, acrid smoke flowing forth until Ka trapped in it within the pot with a wave of his hand and his will. He picked up the pot and washed the smoke down the drain leaving the pot in the sink. “You find anything?” Berry asked him when he returned. “No, but I have some ideas of how to dispose of this stuff when you find it. As soon as I applied force it exploded, this might make scrying junkies interesting but it will be no help initially finding them.” Message too long. Click here to view the full text.

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Heinrich Karl Bukowski 12/01/07(Sat)03:36 No. 333 ID: f5f9d2 “Redundancy might explain how they could stay standing after being shot in the spine.” Ka said, rubbing his chin in thought. George nodded and noted that down, ideas flying back and forth from IIAD’s headquarters deep in the basement of the FBI’s headquarters, the J. Edgar Hoover building in Washington DC. “Possibly, some extra branching nerve passages to bypass any break in the spine. They seem to be built to take a lot of punishment. They don’t show signs of shock you would expect from severe injuries. You shooting one in the heart should have caused it to lose consciousness from the loss in blood pressure, but something also prevented that.” “If they have something blocking them from losing consciousness it could prevent them from sleeping, slowly drive them insane from sleep deprivation. That might explain the odd behavior of the guy that attacked me.” “Possibly, though it would be hard to prove.” Berry said from the front seat. “Meth isn’t kind to the psyche normally, and extra parts being added to the nervous system, plus anything else supernatural could all be influencing their psychological state. Plus your guy might have been the only crazy, we only have solid proof of two of them, and the guy the DEA ran into acted relatively normal for someone trying to offload a truckload of narcotics.” “Until he started biting people.” Ruth quipped. Berry could only shrug. “You got me there.” “I am pretty sure the one I killed was trying to grab me when he attacked, he could have intended to bite me. It might be some sort of instinctive reaction, to bite when fighting. What we have to worry about is if they can spread their mutation via a bite. It does not make much sense as a combat strategy otherwise.” Ka shuddered inwardly at the thought, not sure if these creatures were more horrifying as violent zombies or bodysnatchers. “The injured DEA agents got a thorough examination after the incident; they went looking for the presence of anything viral or chemical that may have been transmitted and found nothing other than some normal mouth bacteria. They even spent some time in quarantine just in case and nothing showed up. At any future checkups they will double check all of that, though their first concern is HIV and infection, not mutation. George, show him the medical reports.” George search through his tablet’s memory for a moment and passed it over to Ka. “Medical records are supposed to be private you know.” Ka said as he took the tablet and skimmed the report. The only symptoms noted were a slight fever, redness and swelling from a small infection in the bite area, which quickly passed as doctors bombarded the DEA agents with a variety of antibiotics and antiviral medication. Four agents were bitten, though only one fatally. The fatality was from the first agent bitten, whose throat was torn out, and the others received superficial bites on their arms and hands as they tried to pry the attacker off their comrade. However when dealing with meth users the major concern is that the attacker is HIV positive, the drug had the side effect of greatly enhancing the user’s libido while impairing their judgment, leading to frequent STI transmission caused by unprotected sex among users. They were fortunate he did not appear to be, otherwise there would have been four fatalities because of the incident. Berry waved off his comment. “We only get free access to government employee records, everyone else requires a subpoena signed by a judge. You can stop pointing out every time we go into a constitutional grey area; we know what we’re doing. The department plays pretty cautiously with the Constitution. Of all the things to get us revealed to the public we don’t want it to be the ACLU dragging us before the Supreme Court.” Ka handed George his tablet back. “And are there any theories on why they melted?” “The massive amount of acid they produce when they die probably.” Said Ruth waving her hand dismissively, cutting off George’s response. “Could you possibly be any more condescending? I did not ask you.” Ka shot her a nasty look, their mutual dislike compounding with every interaction. “Of course I could be, but I wouldn’t waste it on you sorcerer.” Ka could perceive her disturbance in the ether as a close outline of her, and she looked to be turned to glare at him now. “Children…” Berry growled from the driver’s seat. Message too long. Click here to view the full text.

>>	Heinrich Karl Bukowski 12/01/07(Sat)03:37 No. 334 ID: f5f9d2 FUCKING SIZE LIMITS

>>	CH33353 12/06/30(Sat)05:20 No. 473 ID: f5f9d2 File horror.doc - (154.00KB ) I filled in some spots I previously skipped over, not thrilled with it and haven't done any editing on them yet.

Howdy. I haven't been writing anything for a long while now. I've been busy with training. However, I'm settling back into a groove of sorts and I might be able to start writing again soon. The only problem is, I don't feel as much inspiration as I used to.
So, let's have a thread where we post things we've written that we'd really like to have others read. Maybe we can inspire each other. I'll start with a link to the only two things I've written that still exist anywhere.
http://johnnywells.deviantart.com/gallery/
Sorry that you have to go to deviantart to read this.

I need to write something but am finding it hard to get motivated, not knowing which idea to begin with.
Of the following pitches, which interests you the most?

A - Essay. Putting forward a scientific rationale for astrology. Comprehensive citations and references backing up the argument. Multiple small illustrations, either traditional media or digital - monochrome.

B -Essay. Philosophical argument to disprove omniscience as possible. One large monochrome traditional media illustration.

C - Twin essays. One expounding a rationalization of "vibes" (Full digital illustration - brightly colored), the other presenting a visualization of a psyche and how it can be thought to develop with experience. (Numerous small illustrations, mixed traditional and digital media - partial color).

D - Prose. Slightly dreamy, fictionalized depiction of a walk between an urban and rural area. Writing to create an atmosphere. Monochrome, traditional media illustration.

I have until roughly the end of the month.

I guess Ill post this here, if nothing else just so I have it saved somewhere, for my economy class I was supposed to write a small paragraph about inflation and how illegal immigrants affect it, hope you like it I guess, criticism welcome!

(The over economic sounding stuff is the stuff that we had to include; medium of exchange/unit of account and store of value)

A Day In The Life Of Money


Pedro San Garcian was by all modern means of the word, a simple man. He spent his days working under the blazing Nevada sun on a construction job that he wasn’t even guerenteed to have at the end of every week. Roughly around four pm every evening he left to his humble apartment on the outskirts of the outskirts of Las Vegas. He took of his gear, took a cold shower in his stained bathtub, and then dried off on one of his two itchy blue towels. After bathing, he would make a modest meal of tortillas and beans usually, and retired to his front room (which also served as his kitchen, and more then often his bedroom). He would pop a bottle of Coca Cola in solitude and end his night by watching the reruns of his favorite Spanish soap opera, waiting anxiously for the finale episode that came closer every day.
Pedro has a family, but isn’t necessarily a family man. He has a wife, a son, and two daughters in his native country of Mexico. He saves his extra earnings at the end of every week (he gets paid in cash as to avoid unnessecary attention from the IRS) in a small glass jar that used to have jelly in it. At the end of every month he takes the money from the jar and mails it to his family back home to live off of. Sooner or later he is hoping to one day bring them out to the US to expierence the lifestyle that he so strongly wants for his kids to grow up in. The end of the month was two days away, and it is about time for him to send the cash.

That morning was just like any other for Pedro. Pedro was planning on going to work, he was planning to watch his soaps and planning to put the pay for the day in the savings jar. But plans don’t always work out the way thery are supposed to in the dusty Nevada wasteland, especially on the outskirts of Sin City. Pedro was eating his morning bowl of Wheaties (another subtle daily ritual of his) when a coworker that he seldomly talked too, and knew nothing about except his name called him up on the apartment complex’s communal phone. The man’s name was Sam and he sometimes worked with Pedro on asphalt duty, but never spoke to him because he mistakenly assumed that Pedro didn’t speak any English. Sam was calling because he wanted to know if he could pay his bail to get him out of County Jail, four counties away, on account of some wild midnight escalades that he failed to elaborate on to Pedro. Pedro reluctantly agreed that he would.
Pedro agreed for two reasons. First was that he had made virtually no friends in the two years he spent in this country, and that he thought that maybe it would be healthy for him to make one finally. The second was that he was a devoted Catholic, and lived by a creed of helping those less fortunate than him, so it led him to regrettably help his acquaintance out. Pedro figured that right after they could go to work and explain to their overseer the situation which rendered them late. Again plans never go right in this land.
Pedro washed his bowl, put on his favorite (and only) pair of snakeskin boots and disembarked on his journey, away from the miserable stench of his slowly decaying apartment. He walked out over the dead grass his landlord consistently failed to water, and felt condolence for the yellow-brown stalks. For the first time since he came to this country, he allowed himself to fully reflect, and he felt that that grass became a direct avatar for his life. Almost miracously during this moment of observance, he remembered that he forgot the bail money. He retraced his steps to the musty brown, patched couch that served as his chair, his bed, and also his safe. He lifted the dusty cushion and retrieved his savings that were due to his family the next day, and set upon his journey for the second time.

Pedro was about twenty minutes out towards the jail where his closest thing to a friend was being detained, when he noticed that his used pick-up truck (if it could still be classified as such, given the decayed condition it was in) was again near empty on gas. The Nevada sun took its toll on man and machine equally, because Pedro assumed that it evaporated into the desert air (in actuality, the neighbors routinely siphoned his gas, knowing if they got caught there was nothing the illegal alien could do about it). Pedro also noted his somewhat fortunate luck in the way that one of the iconic “Last Chance” gas stations that are sparsely littered across the American Desert was coming up, and he happened to have a whole months worth of wages by his side in the passenger seat that hasn’t seen any use since he bought the truck from a retired coyote. Pedro pulled over and walked into the mangy establishment.

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Hey friends, I posted some stuff here long ago and got some outstanding advice, namely to read Tolstoy and Hamsun, which I have done. Anyway, I'm back with something new. Let me know what you think.

Somewhere Out There

The French night wraps cool spring fingers around you as the barracks door closes and you are left alone with the belly of April pressing against you, swollen with life. The muted voices of your comrades force shards of conversation into your ears. Someone-it sounds like Marcel- asks Mathieu if he received a reduced sentence in the gulag for voting for Mitterrand. Mathieu says the gulag sounded better than being a millice before the sound of a scuffle cuts him off and their indecipherable shouting shakes the pillars of silence erected during sunset.

Go.

You are almost late for sentry duty and must report to the officer in charge.

As you wade deeper into the loamy Marne darkness, wandering through the army base that has become as familiar to you as your hometown, it occurs to you that you are taking part in a sacred ritual of your homeland; the ancient insomnia of the sentry. Sleepless sentries have waited through centuries of French nights such as these and here you are, ready to stand watch like a pouli in the trenches, a rear guard of Napoleon’s Grande Armee, a Frank crusader or a tribal Gaul.

Stop.

You have reached the building you need. Enter the small hut and smell the stench of old sweat, smoke and mildew in this concrete slab of a building. Listen to the tinny radio playing an old Serge Gainsbourg song you’ve never enjoyed. Think of how kitsch he seems, although you’re fond of his absurd drunken antics and the shit he pulled at Strasbourg in 1980. Now talk dully to the officer sitting behind the battered desk with little on it besides a small French flag and a clipboard. Try to sound relaxed yet formal as you say: “Private Emile Baudin, reporting for sentry duty.” The officer doesn’t look up from the old copy of Paris Match. “You’re late,” he says and you have no idea if he’s right or not since the room has no clock and your watch was stolen last week. The officer doesn’t seem too concerned and throws down the Paris Match in disgust before scribbling something on the clipboard. You see the cover. It’s a pre-election issue.

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