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586 No. 586 ID: 75624f Stickied hide expand quickreply [Reply] [First 100 posts] [Last 50 posts]
POST BOOKS!

REQUESTS GO IN THIS THREAD.
134 posts and 91 images omitted. Click Reply to view.
>> No. 863 ID: 6c1540
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863
The Code Book by Simon Singh
Covers the history of cryptography and includes samples to crack in each chapter.


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577 No. 577 ID: e77e1a hide quickreply [Reply]
THE PRICE OF STARBUCKS IS TOO DAMN HIGH!

(USER WAS TOO DAMN HIGH)
>> No. 765 ID: bee2b7
I've never noticed before how much that negro man fucking loves water.
>> No. 886 ID: 3352c2
>>765
One table is for him, the other is for the guy next to him. Donno why the stage directors gave two bottles a table.


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62 No. 62 ID: b7464a hide expand quickreply [Reply]
Hey, let's play a game. Recently, a friend of mine asked me to take a look at something he wrote.
I challenged myself to write it in my own words, and I kind of like the end result.

CHALLENGE: Write the story below in your own words. This is the story my friend sent to me.


He looked at her with eyes of discontent. Early morning sunshine peers in through the smoked stained window. Foggy and muddled particles paint the air in the room. The bed was ruffled up do to tossing and stretching in hopes of a touch. His voice almost spilled out what his heart was yelling to his brain. That just wouldn't do. Not now at a time like this. He contemplated the calmness of a mountain side but all he felt was his own thoughts. A picture was being painted in his mind, but he could only peek through an eye hole.
"What did you say"- Jessica had mumbled under her breath.
-paranoia had set it, "Are my thoughts coming through so powerfully, that they're audible?.......ok, what the fuck, no." - He thought to himself. The paranoia retreated.
"huh? nothing." - he said with a slight laughter in his voice, getting a chuckle at his own mind.
4 posts omitted. Click Reply to view.
>> No. 87 ID: c18aee
He had only just silenced her life a few minutes ago. Panting, his head resting on the frame of the blood-soaked bed. bedding was strewn across the also blood-soaked carpet, a sign of a struggle as sure as the steak knife lodged in his former girlfriend's back. The voices in his head had been crowding his head for so long, whispering commands into his ears, and finally he had given in to them. And instead of feeling sad at brutally murdering his girlfriend, he felt happy. Why? Because for a brief few minutes, the voices had stopped rushing about. He now knew what he had to do. He needed the precious silence.

He whips his head around to her splayed corpse.
"What did you say?" he thought she might have still been alive, that someone might have seen, that the police were already on their way. This WAS the first time he had done something like this, the possibility for error was incredible, or so the voices in his head told him. -Aah, that was it, there was no witness, she was indeed dead. It was just the voices in his mind starting up again. Paranoia recedes as he leaves her grave through the fractured doorframe. A chuckle, or a sob, (impossible to tell) escapes his lips in a remark of what his new life would be, trying to find silence from himself.
>> No. 94 ID: 1116c4
>>87
I was ABOUT to go in this direction but decided against it. It's really close to what I was gonna write too. Scary.
>> No. 109 ID: 9d3bf4
She mumbles something and I look over at her. I can't hear what she says. She says it again. I look into her eyes. I say speak up, speak up I can't hear you. She rolls her eyes, closes them, goes limp after a few minutes.

Wait.

She's not there is she. She can't be there because she's in the bathroom. I sent her there because she was being too noisy. I sent her there because I could think. I need my brain I need my ears I need to think if I can't think I can't do anything. So I put her in the bathroom. I told her, go to the bathroom. Maybe she's still there.

I open the door quietly, half expecting her to scold me because she was in the bathroom for some long. But why would she scold me I should scold her after all she took away my ability to think.

She's taking a bath, that's good. She should be clean and if she's taking a bath she won't be annoying me with all those words she can't say anything to me if she's behind the door in the bathroom if she's behind the curtain she can't take away my ability to think can she.

What's that sound what is it is it her again is she trying to take away my ability to think? Can she do it with that small sound? It better not be her. Oh god its her. She's making noises again. Why is she making noises I told her to stop I made her stop. Fine. Its time to make her stop again, this time more forcefully.

Why is this on the floor this should be in the kitchen why is this here is she going to use it. Oh my God she's planning something.

Oh my God she's planning to kill me with this, this knife, I knew it. She's in the bath planning to kill me with this knife. She left it on the floor here she's planning it what do I do. Oh my God what do I do. But I can't make her not. If she speaks then I can't think. And if I can't think then she kills me.
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>> No. 110 ID: 7c544c
I spied her through the small gap between the door and the doorframe, taking advantage of this rare and wonderful opportunity to observe her form without having to quickly glance away.

The sheets are twisted around her full figure, indicating a restless night. I know she pines for the return of her husband, but I am certain that will never happen.

I allow my thoughts to accelerate through ideas, fantasies, memories, possibilities, plans that I will never dare go through with, glimmers of hope quickly destroyed by the realisation of reality. I want her but not in the way that she wants me.

I'm suddenly brought back to the present by a stirring coming from the bed, and an incomprehensible murmuring. Did she just tell me to go away? Shit, she knows I'm here. She knew I was watching the whole time. She was just pretending to sleep. What shall I say?! What- Oh wait, I'm pretty sure she's asleep. She wouldn't roll over exposing her bare behind like that... Or would she.. I don't think so.

Damn I don't know. Jessica, mother I wish you felt the same way.
>> No. 885 ID: 36a696
So, I remembered that I did this so many years ago. And I decided to rewrite it. If you participated in this before, I'd highly encourage you to redo your submission, but of course new entries are always encouraged.

here it goes:

Discontent weighed heavily on his thoughts, staring at the form of his unconscious lover. Light painted jaundice filled the room, dust motes dancing lazily, only to finally lay to rest on the unmade bed and the people still in it. The memories from last night were still fresh in his mind, inciting desire again. He thought to say something, but didn't want to wake her. So beautiful when she's sleeping, it just wouldn't do. Attempting to redirect his desire, he pictured something more chaste, more awe inspiring, but it didn't last. His peripheral thoughts kept creeping in, tainting the image of nature he tried to conjure.

Reality sunk in on him again when he thought he heard her say something.

"Impossible." He muttered, a soft smile forming on his lips, and got up. The man put his bloodstained clothes from the previous night and as silently as he could, left the room.


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482 No. 482 ID: 0d25ab hide expand quickreply [Reply]
I must remember every day
To thank the Lord in all his grace
That I don't live in Derry, Maine,
That wretched, blood-soaked place.
1 post omitted. Click Reply to view.
>> No. 756 ID: 33260c
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756
I saw some old friends today whom I'd not seen in almost a year.
They apologized for their tardiness, and some had still yet to appear.
But you could see they were coming.
And really it's the thought that counts.
Coming to erase the gray away and a more conspicuous spring announce.
>> No. 776 ID: 33260c
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776
You can try to please and appease the environment.

But it still wants to kill you.

You make offerings of austerity and sacrifices of money.
Yours.
..and others

But it still wants to kill you.

Looking for a cause.
The reason why?
Who.
Is.
To.
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>> No. 867 ID: 6c1540
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867
Poem I'm writing for a friend. Working on a longer version.

Sometimes walking home in the darkness I hear her
Over on the hill by tannery row
She beckons me to come nearer
Her faint ethereal voice from below

As I approach I hear a pulsating sound and the ground begins to glow
And she beseeches me to harken her words
To grab on and hold, grab on and hold
And Love, Love, Love before I go
>> No. 872 ID: 6c1540
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872
A re-interpretation of Emily Dickenson's Autumn I wrote 4 or 5 yrs ago for somebody on here.

Woke up to a garbage truck beeping.
Bleary eyed looked out to see the sound.
The dim blue of morning and my cold window weeping, below steam vents spewing from the ground.
Early commuters bundled walking down the street,
steam coming from their mouths.
Dreary grey winter is coming
and I already miss summer being 'round.
>> No. 875 ID: ae109c
ew metrics and rhymes


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869 No. 869 ID: 7511d9 hide quickreply [Reply]
feeling alone in a team of five
last hitting shittily,
oh god now's not a good time to dive

this game isn't even good
i mean, they retconned the lore
what makes it fun
when we don't even know what we're fighting for?

lagging hard because the server shift
lost another tower because all of us are mid
dammit, keep pushing, i just want to win
nevermind, i'm uninstalling. this is it.
>> No. 870 ID: 6c1540
Haha, nice.


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800 No. 800 ID: 0df675 hide expand quickreply [Reply]
This thread is dedicated to posting literary contests, fellowship opportunities, local poetry readings, whatever you can use to get you rname out there. I submitted htis piece to a writing contest yesterday, why haven't you?
2 posts omitted. Click Reply to view.
>> No. 806 ID: f89417
Where do you go to find mags for your submissions? I know someone who has an account on one of the paying sites, but I'm too lazy to figure it out.

Somewhere I stumbled on this: http://pred-ed.com/
It has reviews of publishers and agents, written by authors. They used to have a section where you could sort by compensation, and genre listings, I don't think those are up there anymore.

I'm looking for a market for my speculative morality fiction.
>> No. 812 ID: 0df675
>>806

Thanks for the link. I usually check out writer's & poets, and there's this Writer's Market book I once bought that has thousands of listings; unfortunately it's for trash genre and nonfiction mostly, but it's got a solid repitoire of literary submissions.

>>804

Cool man, let us know how it goes.
>> No. 855 ID: c60245
So has anyone here considered going the Maoyuu route?
Apparently the author wrote the original LN in serial form on 2ch. After this achieved some notoriety, he was contacted by a publisher directly.

I'm wondering if that's the sort of thing that only happens in Japan.

Also a side question: What do you believe is the fine line between inserting random literary references, and making references in good taste?
>> No. 864 ID: 6c1540
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864
Came across this list of contest a while ago. Some are already over, but plenty still open.
http://thewritelife.com/27-free-writing-contests

Also, the British Poetry Society's annual poetry contest has some good prizes and is open to international entries. (There is a £6.50 entry fee)
http://npc.poetrysociety.org.uk
>> No. 865 ID: 6c1540
Okay so I just came across a news article about a contest where the prize is a house, and in looking at that one saw another article about a couple doing the same with their house. The catch is the entry fee.. ($199 and $150 respectively), and there's a minimum number of entrants for the prize to be awarded (refunds are given if they don't get enough though). Kinda neat idea or more of a raffle? Any thoughts?

http://www.riverhousecontest.com

http://columbusloghome.com/


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226 No. 226 ID: a897f7 hide expand quickreply [Reply] [First 100 posts] [Last 50 posts]
If you see this thread
You have to write a haiku
Or at least try to
111 posts and 12 images omitted. Click Reply to view.
>> No. 788 ID: 6140a7
It's time you were told
You write like Kobe Bryant
And fuck like Hawking
>> No. 789 ID: 6140a7
This is like 4chan
But harder to navigate
Why does this exist
>> No. 807 ID: bbd9bb
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807
spine was bent all day
aspiring mountain flower
on the hunch I grew
>> No. 859 ID: a3b605
Tried to type haiku
On my laptop on the couch
Connection was lost
>> No. 862 ID: 6c1540
Russian twerking girls
We cannot compete with this
The war it is lost..


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856 No. 856 ID: f649c2 hide quickreply [Reply]
Posting for reference
>> No. 857 ID: be7c49
I really appreciate that Joyce is featured in three different levels, but I also really, really hope that "Gibberish" is used in a humorous, sarcastic tone.

Finnegans Wake is not gibberish.

also, there are numerous essentials missing, most noticeably in the field of poetry, but whatever.
>> No. 858 ID: c2fa2c
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858
>>857

From what I understand of /lit/ culture, gibberish is a compliment.


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78 No. 78 ID: 5fa15d hide expand quickreply [Reply]
How about a drug addled writing thread? We could try to guess what each poster was on, lie about what we were on and criticize each other until we cry.
2 posts omitted. Click Reply to view.
>> No. 847 ID: 09da75
Currently under the influence.

Whatever I'm currently on has broadened my interest in music and literature.
I've never been much a fan of poetry but now I want to write.

What is happiness
Maybe meaningless
Left with nothingness
And perhaps pointless

Longed to be happy
I craved it badly
Felt sweet as candy
It was quite dandy

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>> No. 848 ID: 33260c
word.
>> No. 849 ID: 25df26
>>847
And another

Thought it too good to be true
When I fell in love with you
Felt warm and heavy in my heart
Damn Cupid and his stupid dart
Infatuation clouded my mind
I'm becoming soft and kind
"The hell with this!" I yell
Sounding weak and frail
Overcome with intoxication
Fueling my indignation
Never want to feel like this
All I ever want is my bliss
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>> No. 850 ID: 25df26
BTW, ibfeel like I should reenact this scene
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m6uypVXjfIk
>> No. 854 ID: 133efc
Marlee lay awake in bed in a dark room, alone, the room lit by early morning glow seeping in through the curtains. Her eyes were open.

After a few minutes, her phone beside the bed began to buzz and vibrate as her alarm went off. It read 6:15am, Monday. Marlee did not react. After a minute, the alarm shut itself off, and Marlee rolled over and closed her eyes tight.

Hours later, the room was now much brighter. Marlee was still awake, staring at nothing. The phone on her bedside table buzzed again as it received a message.

Contact: Work. Message: Where are you?

The time on the phone read 9:48am on Wednesday. Marlee barely noticed.

Marlee stood in the bathroom, skinny in her grey underwear and tank top. Her eyes were baggy and she looked in the mirror and touched her face as though she didn't recognize it. Her phone buzzed again.

Contact: Boss. Message: We need to talk ASAP. The time is 11:07am.

Marlee sat in the office across from her boss. Her boss was speaking in an angry voice, but Marlee wasn't listening. She was dressed decently, but her hair was just gathered in a messy ponytail. She was not looking at her boss, but at a pink form on the desk.
Message too long. Click here to view the full text.


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818 No. 818 ID: f89417 hide quickreply [Reply]
Statistically, women were more likely to hold out than men - who talked at the lightest application of pain. For women in love no statistics were needed. Not for Peter Riviera, at least.

Ese. A thin brunette, out of her first year in college. She was young for it, having went to university a year early. Peter had seduced Ese, and recruited her to the false flag protest movement. She joined out of love. She had no idea he had turned her into the authorities.

He was proud of his Ese. She had held on until the end. How many months of unspeakable torture had she endured. She had given up many names, save one. Ese never gave up her Peter. But, the men tormenting her knew she was lying, thus they persecuted her relentlessly, until the day she was sent to die.

They tortured her to the very end, and she limped now, though attempting a brave show of it. Now, to put an end to that. As Ese was walked off to the courtyard, she caught Peter’s gaze. He had stood intentionally in her path. He wanted to be seen. As Ese stopped, she was grabbed and forcefully moved on.

“No.” She spoke. “Peter! Peter!” Ese screamed, flailing now. The guards beat her into submission with their rifle butts. Her hands were tied behind her back, and she was blindfolded. She was reduced to sobbing. “Peter… Peter…”

She probably couldn’t comprehend. Months of torture will do that. Peter was probably the only shred of hope she had left in this world. She would deny his betrayal to her grave.
The officer shouted the presentment of arms. “Fire!” Ese was thrown to the ground by the power of the shots, dead.

Another blasphemer dead. Another enemy of the Islamic Revolution gone forever. Peter didn’t care. All he cared for was her youth, her beauty. The dimples in her smile. The love that she would die for, did die for. Every time they fucked, he had fantasized about this day, knowing that he was not only fucking her, but killing her as well. Killing her by fucking her and releasing so much oxytocin, that by the end of it there was no hope for the girl inside.

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>> No. 832 ID: 2cefe8
Every part of this game aroused him. Watching her from class to class, working so diligently and with her purpose, so unaware and helpless. She was in her own world. As a biology student Ari was busy with many classes and papers. She was organized which made her distracted and out of touch with most social inclinations. A mature and studious girl, she knew how attractive she was. The fine ass and smooth almond skin she had were what she tried to hide from.

She wore thick framed glasses and spent many hours in the labs wearing her white coat, looking through microscopes and recording data, she could not help bending down and showing her figure through the thin layer of white fabric. It made a warm coil through Peter when he saw her concentrated face. Her dumb ignorance. She tried so hard. She wanted to be taken seriously so badly. Yet her well formed breasts and short brown hair only drove more practical aspects of biology against her.

The other university students were clearly not on her level as romantic candidates.However Peter, a finely dressed older man, he could give her what she desired, he could be perfect for her.

He would watch her finish for the day, hang up her lab-coat and collect her things to return to her room. Biology was soon becoming phased out, like physics and other hard sciences, it was believed that they detracted from religion and the doctrine of the Islamic state. However the government could not simply shut down such institutions without a proper excuse, or face a larger and unified front of dissonance. Ari might do nicely as that excuse, it certainly would mean more money for him if he could produce a key target of their agenda. He could imagine when she was brought to the tribunal that the judges would clamor to agree that she was turned against the state because of her scientific practices.

Over the next few weeks, Peter would casually "run into her". It was always at times that were convenient He liked to use romance as a way of keeping distance, to keep her from knowing too much about him at first.

She would be halfway home when he would make himself known. Walking quickly as she crossed the quad or before going inside her building, grasping her shoulder from behind, the soft cashmere sweater covering her collarbone between his fingers.

"Hey."

He would say it exactly the same each time he greeted her, a way of instilling his supposed character. It would be this crucial mystery of identity but feeling of character that would remain in her head as he drove her towards the same fate as Ese. He had already forgotten about her, yet the happily surprised look in Ari's eye as she turned, the sudden glint of recognition, the loose and open guard of her virtue in his presence, it brought back, not so much a memory, but a fading hint.
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>> No. 853 ID: f89417
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853
It was only supposed to be a small protest. Peter had already notified the authorities. Less than two dozen people, easily handled.

This was wrong.

Strange moods came over Peter as he cradled Ari's bloodied body in his arms. He called for an ambulance, and whispered soft words, words of hope, of succor, knowing full well what a military caliber hollow point could do.

The military police were in no mood for games today. As soon as the leftists arrived, they were immediately confronted by armed riot-breakers. Shots rang out, and the demonstration scattered, dragging behind their dead and wounded.


Peter held Ari for half an hour, while her life slipped away. No ambulance came, nor was there ever one coming. Even the police had left. They had more pressing matters to attend to.

They ruined everything. This isn't how Ari was supposed to die. She hadn't been broken, hadn't lost her self, had not even yet come to worship Peter, as she would have before the end.

What an Allah damned mess. If this government wasn't going to kill his girls the proper way, then maybe it was time for a new government.

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543 No. 543 ID: 8de4d8 hide expand quickreply [Reply]
Tell me.

How do you prefer your coffee?
When did you get your first macbook? (Posting this from my PC, forgive me...)
And finally, beer or wine?

>Black
>2007
>Wine

Your move.
9 posts omitted. Click Reply to view.
>> No. 769 ID: d4a4b0
>>768

I stopped smoking weed. Need a break for jobs/tolerance. Funny thing is, I wrote the first chapter of my novel when i was high on res. I'm not sure I want to keep it exactly, but pretty much the entire story was spawned that day, from nowhere. It's also still my best chapter as far as actually sounding like real writing, instead of brainstorm notes. I think it only happened because I was procrastinating on my other novel.

200 rambling pages later, I seem largely incapable of writing in a coherent narrative. Time to be sober for a while. I honestly think I'll be lucky to get four acceptable chapters out of this mess.
>> No. 786 ID: a408d1
>>769
Are any of the threads on here, that chapter? I would love to see it. I like rambling narratives.
>> No. 787 ID: 0df675
Confucius Say Man
With tiny peen, is also
Man, who named John Green
>> No. 845 ID: 07ca7c
>Black with a hint of Mexican vanilla
>Don't have a macbook. Currently on my Dell with Windows XP
>Beer, preferably Tecate or Modelo.
>> No. 846 ID: 33260c
>>845
Can you write me a haiku in Spanish?


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813 No. 813 ID: 0df675 hide quickreply [Reply]
How does anyone supposed to even know what to do get more story ideas from?

I saw a rat stuck to a foam trap today at work that was trying to escape by ripping a hole in it, and it got me into this piece about an old guy at a club drinking whiskey and wriggling around in a pleather couch. What's sparked stories in your mind?
>> No. 815 ID: f89417
If I've had a particularly vivid dream I'll write it up. My dreams tend to be narrative, linear, with some flashback (where you actually physically flash back). To dream well one is recommended to avoid smoking the marijuanas at least two hours before bedtime.

Basically, every dream has its intrinsic logic. So I take that logic and make it the paradigm with which I cast the world. Then I write the story in a burst of hashish and music.
>> No. 842 ID: 4a75a5
1.Reading the bible and the lost books of it that the religions don't want people to know about.

2.Taking dph and playing two different games so that they will merge in my hallucinations

3.Things I want to do someday


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773 No. 773 ID: 33260c hide quickreply [Reply]
I met a robot girl on the train today. I mean, at first I didn't know she was a robot. She was very pretty, and after about the third or fourth glance she caught me looking at her and before I could even think what to do she turned her head towards me, smiled and in somewhat too loud of a voice said “That's a nice shirt!” I kind of half laughed and smiled back and said “Thank you”. She then stuck out her hand and said “Hi, I'm lola-bot, but my friends call me April.” as she looked down at the Best Buy name tag on her shirt that said the same. I half stood up and shook her hand and said “Very nice to meet you..April” “Nice to meet you too!” she said with an even bigger smile than before. “So...you're a robot?” I asked. “Yep! Been a robot my whole life.” she said half laughing at her own joke. “And you work at Best Buy?” “Yep” she said. “Is that because you're good at fixing computers and stuff I assume?” “Oh I don't fix computers. I just work the registers and help people find stuff.” “Oh, I just thought maybe since you were a computer you might know a lot..” “Oh, I'm not a computer.” she said “I'm real.” “Real?” I said. “Mhmm” she nodded. “Look, I'll show you.” She then reached up under her blue polo shirt, squinched her eyes, made a couple of twists.. and then held out her hand for me to see. “See? I have a heart!” And it was.. a heart. About the size of a plum, gold colored with deep intricate engraving covering the whole thing. Almost like a Fabrege' egg. “Wow” I said, not really knowing what else to say. She then glanced to either side of her as if making sure no one else was looking and then carefully pressed a little button on one side of the heart and carefully opened the top half to show me what was inside. And it was the most amazing thing I had ever seen. It was like all the shiny gold and silver wheels, cogs, levers and spinny things of 20 of the finest watches you had ever seen all in this one little heart ticking, clicking and spinning away, each at its own pace. And right in the middle, mounted on a single gold pin and seemingly not connected to anything else was a little gold hummingbird, maybe half an inch long, with little wings that were buzzing as fast as could be. As I leaned in to get a closer look I could actually hear them, buzzing, just like a real hummingbird. Astonished I looked up at her, and she kind of just nodded back at me as if to say “Impressive huh?”. Just then the conductor came over the loudspeaker “Bremen street”. “Oh! This is my stop.” she said as she gingerly closed the heart back up and again reached up under her shirt and with the same decided scrunchy face and couple of twisting motions put it back in its place. She then straightened out her shirt with her hands then said “It was very nice meeting you.” and stuck out her hand again. Still a little taken aback I shook her hand and smiled and said “Nice meeting you too!” The car door opened and she stood to and started walking towards the door. “Wait!” I said, “I didn't tell you my name! or..” She turned and said “I'll remember you” and she pointed to her heart, smiled, turned and walked toward the platform.
>> No. 792 ID: 0df675
Eh. Seems gimmicky, and that whole very casual style is megaplayed out. 4/10 would not bang
>> No. 794 ID: 33260c
>>792
What if I told you she does a mean LBJ impression and in part 3 goes to defend our southern border with her spic seeking laser vision?
That doesn't happen, but that would be pretty cool, huh?
>> No. 809 ID: bfcbce
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809
so . . . how did she get her heart out and not show you tittage?
>> No. 828 ID: f4fb7d
>"I didn't tell you my name!"
>was wearing nametag
besides that not bad.


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819 No. 819 ID: aaad3e hide quickreply [Reply]
I longed for a girl who sat on the other side of the room in primary school. The infatuation faded, I never saw her after graduation, but I obsessed over the idea of her. I met up with her at a coffee shop and wrote this over the next two days. For anyone who is curious, she has decided that she isn't romantically interested in me, is still getting over her last ex, and we're going our seperate ways. I'm okay with it. Rejection is all it took to break the aweful spell I was under (and, perhaps, having started bipolar medication..)

-She hates birds-

She plans to go to Chadstone Shopping centre after the coffee and later visit her brother in law and sister in Brunswick
She used to live in Brunswick and Fitzroy
She wants to build her cold tolerance
She has back to back OT placements then work so she is tired when she comes home
She says she lives nearby on K[redacted] and hasn’t moved since primary school
She doesn’t like [primary school] and can’t remember the last time she went there
I didn’t tell her about the time she rated me and [redacted] with [redacted], or that time she watched me play soccer, or about her dress at graduation
She hates birds
Hates mocha Joes cause annoying people go there
Going to the snow
Sister recently married
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>> No. 820 ID: aaad3e
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820
Here is part 2. This is the second time we met - we went for a walk around where we live. It was after this that she texted me saying that things end here.

I call this one: Sunset
I’d cancelled iceskating that weekend because I’d forgotten about the 21st I was supposed to go to. I still wanted to see her so I asked her to go for a walk with me. She answered late but said yes. I said I was at a friends house but I’d ask her again on Sunday.
I ask her to go for a walk at me at sunset
I complain that it is overcast and we can’t see the sun
She doesn’t care
She doesn’t want to around the oval, it’s a long walk
She says it got dark quickly
I say that we did come at sunset after all
I tell her about the things I’ve seen at the park like a recreational drone, the archery, and the cave clan urban legend
I tell her about my startup...lying that it is a friends idea I am just working on
She asks what a startup is
Still can’t see the fucking sunset
I tell her it’s a startup company
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811 No. 811 ID: 50f8e3 hide quickreply [Reply]
FIRE WATER STORY OF KAME, DRIVEN BY RADIANT SUNDOGS
__________________

It has been so long since he has been home. It is so bright outside that he can write from the light through the water, Kame can only give thanks that he has been able to survive this long, but the water is heating quicky, and all that is left to do is recount what just happened.Running out of time, he has to start. The smooth cave walls are the only relief.

__________________

From the crystalline V, the structure emerges
bismuth-like in regularity. well founded
and shimmering in just-beyond-reach foreign
figures, constrained only by
my tearful eye, of the straining hope observer.

First is me, then comes another
big spoon or not, containing none other
Message too long. Click here to view the full text.


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796 No. 796 ID: f89417 hide expand quickreply [Reply]
What's a good literary flashback device? I really don't want to use a dream, or sudden flash of memory.
1 post omitted. Click Reply to view.
>> No. 798 ID: f89417
I don't want the character to be aware of the flashback. It is supposed to be something they had forgotten about, so it develops their character to show the reader what they were like in the past, and that makes their current actions significant.
>> No. 799 ID: f89417
Fuck it, ill just personify some inanimate objects, or small animals, and have them remember.
>> No. 801 ID: 0df675
Do what they did in Wilfred, flashbacks to memorories where a lot of the things were noticed were simply foregrounds ot the creepy stuff.
>> No. 803 ID: 4c410a
Just write it and put it in there, present tense. That's normal for flashbacks. You don't have to have a "device". The writing just flashes back.
>> No. 805 ID: f89417
>>801

I think that's part of the problem, I see some pretty ballza narrative techniques on the telly, but it is altogether different to show than to tell. I feel like I've been given a good seasoning on plot and character development, just need to brush up to get my spandrels in order.

>>803

But, then you can't do that thing where you trick the viewer into thinking past events are present events, until the shoe drops and you see a chronological landmark.


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795 No. 795 ID: 0df675 hide quickreply [Reply]
Epub posting bread?

Epub posting bread


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781 No. 781 ID: a05315 hide quickreply [Reply]
No one really appreciates the art of theft anymore. When I was a kid I remember the constant romanticizing of it all. The Michael Mann movies like The Thief and Heat, The Driver, even Steven Spielberg got on the train with Catch Me if You Can. Right now the closest thing we have to the appreciation of thieves is the Payday video game series. I never considered it stealing. Stealing is what a common crook does. Theft takes time and patience. You can argue with me over the semantics but being a thief is a whole different league than just take, take, take. There's always a right and wrong way to be a thief.

To give an example: What seems like the best time to, let's say for example's sake, rob a house? During the night when no one can see you? Nope. During the day. But that sounds pretty risky. I mean who's to say somebody's home or not. Well you're the one who needs to figure that out. This is the part where patience comes in. Me, I normally stake out a house for minimum 10 days. It allows for any sort of variance to be accounted for. I clock in whenever someone leaves the house and the second they come in. Being routine is common nature and often times guys like me do see a change in schedules that might throw us off. Maybe it's hot date, a chance meeting, visiting relatives. So in a sense it's still a gamble when anyone's going to be home.

But really that's not the only hard part about all this. Here's a another question to anyone who has been robbed: What exactly gives away the fact that you've been robbed? For me it was having my door wide open, seeing my TV, computer and blu-ray player ripped from the shelves, my drawers ransacked and my closet absolutely cleaned out (lost a fireproof safe with $1,500 and several priceless family heirlooms). Eventually the guys did get caught, thankfully. They were sloppy like most B&E stars usually are and were pulled over a couple towns over in a U-HAUL (stolen mind you) and with the valuables of what seemed like damn near every homeowner within a 20 mile radius.

The funniest thing about me getting robbed is that if they had stolen just my fireproof safe, I would have never known it was gone. They could've just made off with that and maybe have shut the door to my apartment I'd be none-the-wiser. That's the key to making any heist into a perfect one. The best heist will always be the heist where no one knows anything was stolen. It's almost baffling how damn near everyone from a common crook to the people who make careers out of breaking into places can just overlook simple things like making it seem like you were never there. I want you guys just to follow my thought process here and see if you're thinking the same thing.

I come home and the door's closed but unlocked. Personally, I wouldn't cry foul right there. I'd say to myself "Well shit, I must've left the door unlocked. Fuck!" I walk in and see everything looks alright, nothing out of the ordinary. "Alright, no one came in here. Thank God." Then I'd come into my room and see that my closet is open (It was summer when I got robbed and I only put my coats and hats in my closet). "Hey that's weird, I know I didn't open that. Better make sure everything is there." I then check, see I'm missing my safe, I go nuts, etc. It's these little things that make or break getting away with your heist. If that closet door had been closed it maybe would've been months if not years before I noticed I was missing my safe. Even at that point I wouldn't think I was robbed. I would've just thought I misplaced the damn thing years ago and expect it to just turn up somewhere.

That's the critical part into pulling this off. The hardest part is the victim placing the blame on their own negligence. Once it happens you're pretty much scott free. This is because that the whole "getting robbed" mentality is basically how my apartment was: a state of disaster. The typical John or Jane American will never expect anyone breaking into their homes to have the common decency to just leave things untouched. It's just unheard of. As a kid I was able to figure the whole thing down to a science...


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559 No. 559 ID: 8319de hide quickreply [Reply]
I was recently given a critique that male writers are incapable of portraying female (or that white authors cannot represent minorities, etc.) characters. The argument is twofold.

First, that the author is inherently incapable of representing a character that lacks the privileges they have. That, even genuine empathy only acknowledges that it is not involved in the plight. Additionally, by trying to represent a minority, the author will always misrepresent that world view which is inherently damaging to the struggle real individuals face every day.

Second, that it is a form of rape to force a character to take actions that a real person would not take. Specifically, in the context of a sex scene, that a male author is violating the sovereignty of individuals by forcing them to effectively be publicly displayed, even if it serves the story. And, since the persons involved are fictional, then consent cannot be granted.

I want to make it clear, I don't really agree with this critique. But I am a progressive, and I want to be a good storyteller. This just hit me like a pressure point and has left me mincing since I received it. So I guess I just want someone to talk me down.
>> No. 560 ID: 7c842e
What the fuck... are we now giving fictional characters the same rights as real people?
>> No. 561 ID: 86946b
Can women write men?
>> No. 564 ID: 8319de
>>561
OP here, according to the critique I received: yes. Women can write men because a person can always imagine a world where in they have greater power and privilege.

However, I want to make it clear, I don't want to make this a "Men's Rights" issue. I don't find any merit in those claims and I do believe in greater female and minority presence in media. What concerns me is how to genuinely represent this, and to respond to this (K) respectfully.
>> No. 566 ID: d27172
This is the dumbest shit I've ever read; it's so bad it's not even wrong.

I'm really a poststructuralist type of pretentious dickwad that truly believes the author is dead but I'll try to respond to this in a way assuming that there is indeed.jpg a writer that can intentionally "create" in the traditional sense. A character is a vehicle, it is an actor, it is not a real person and cannot have real feelings or thoughts. So the second point just really doesn't make any sense, in that what sovereignty do these individuals have in the first place? We are their gods, without us they do not exist, so they can fuck right off if they don't want to be portrayed as we see fit. Fortunately they can't, so they don't, so they won't, so that argument is stupid. How can anyone possibly posit whether or not the actions of a story are analogous to what a "real person" (whatever that means anyway) would do? If you believed this idea were accurate, you wouldn't write, because portraying any character anywhichway might be rape.

The first is a bit harder to argue against, but I'll do my best. First, it runs counter to any historical object. Writers, traditionally, have all been white males usually from the upper (sometimes upper middle) class, writing about the lower classes. Burroughs, Delillo, Pynchon, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Steinbeck, Swift, Shakespeare, take your pick. To allege that their portrayals of minorities were damaging is just fucking lunacy. Look at Uncle Tom's Cabin; while Stowe was a woman, a white woman had a shitton more rights than any nigger in antebellum america. Was Uncle Tom's Cabin damaging to the real struggle of slaves during that time? Fuck no. And how exactly do we determine who has more "privilege"? Do Mexicans have more privilege than black people? Can Jews write about Muslims in America? Can Muslims in Germany write about Jews? What about an upper class black guy, is he more privileged than lower class white women?

The idea that anyone can misrepresent a "worldview" of an entire race/sex is in itself discriminatory. It implies that all women, that all black people or whatever, have the same world view. They don't. They have a unique insight into the institutional oppression that those demographics face which can be very difficult or possibly even impossible for white men to understand, but that doesn't mean they have a copyright on being black/female. The whole argument is wishywashy.

TL;DR check your privilege bro
>> No. 777 ID: 48bb4d
>>566
>This is the dumbest shit I've ever read
That's pretty much all that needs to be said here, I think. I hope you're not friends with whoever told you this, if you are I suggest removing them from your life immediately.


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563 No. 563 ID: 86946b hide quickreply [Reply]
I can't believe I'm doing this, but I'm going to pander to you guys now.

http://www.amazon.com/Tales-From-Gas-Station-ebook/dp/B00CKF7EMK/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1367462379&sr=8-3&keywords=gas+station+tales

I wrote this. You can buy it, it's .99 cents.

Also, I'll try to answer any questions you have about self-publication on Amazon.
>> No. 570 ID: 392ebf
How is self-publishing to Amazon? Is it an easy process or do they grill you about what you've written/tell you you're not good enough?

Also I'll buy it later on bro
>> No. 743 ID: f86070
*Cough*

>but first, here's a few rules:

>1. Don't promote/advertise your shitty self-published print-on-demand novels here or anywhere else. They're no better than xeroxing your shit. This board is for learning.
>> No. 748 ID: fda2d1
>>743

Personally I would offer free copies of my work, but at the same time adding that if one enjoyed it, to consider supporting the artist.


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