lit - literature

I wish.

>>12
what would you write about?

About a year and a half ago, I thought it would be a cool idea to combine noir and fantasy. I tried doing that by writing a short opening scene. I don't even know if it's good or not, but here it is.

>>18
I feel like it has potential. My advice if you're going to write more focus on getting the same voice consistent. Like for example you've used both -ing and 'in in the narration, which makes me feel the character less.

>>11
are all those prominent figures in philosophy throughout time?
what's going on with Wittegenstein's back?
who's Singer?

>>154
1) I think so
2) It appears to be a handle for winding him up
3) I think it's http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edgar_Arthur_Singer but I'm not too sure

I could never complete this in my actual psychological state. But here it goes;


Danié nunca fue el tipo de persona que se interesaría en debates
filosóficos sobre la diferencia virtual entre un ser humano y una máquina.
Para él, las máquinas eran máquinas, computadoras, herramientas que hacían
un trabajo de forma fría y eficiente. Y por contraste, los seres humanos
eran…humanos. No faltaba más distinción. Hasta el accidente.



Viajaba con Norma. Volvían de una visita de medio día a un balneario
artificial, con dirección al departamento recién adjudicado de Danié.
Estaba en un sector ciudadano mucho más bajo que el de Norma, pero era
muchísimo más acogedor e íntimo que el de ella. Además ella no gustaba que
Danié pasara mucho por su departamento de soltera de ciudadana
sobresaliente. O por lo menos llegar al departamento de él era la
intención. Hasta el accidente.

Un ferrocarril magnético en dirección opuesta de algún modo se descarriló
(ahí tienes tu 0.0001% de posibilidad de falla mecánica), y parte de su
carga salió disparada hacia la motocicleta eléctrica en la cual viajaban
Danié y Norma. Láminas de titanio KOCH ultradenso, usadas de revestimiento
industrial, lanzadas a volar trescientos kilómetros por hora. La
motocicleta eléctrica iba a doscientos cincuenta kilómetros por hora.
Pasaron rozando el pseudocráneo artificial de acero de Danié, pero de todos
modos destrozaron su casco turquesa, y el golpe le hizo perder el control
de la motocicleta. Norma tenía un cráneo artificial de una aleación de
titaneo, considerada un lujo que sólo los más ricos podían costear. Sin
embargo, debido a la velocidad sumada de ella y las láminas de titaneo en
dirección contraria, no sirvió. Pero a diferencia del pseudocráneo barato
de acero de Danié, no tenía nada que proteger.

Danié bloqueó (bajo su propia responsabilidad, recalcó el centro
nervioso) las señales de dolor por su brazo roto, desgarros en tejido
muscular sintético y trozos de piel faltante, y llamó a Norma. No
respondió. -¡Debe estar inconsciente!- se dijo, o mas bien rezó a sí mismo.
Su ojo izquierdo perdió las capacidades de aumentación y veía borroso a
traves de él. En contraste, su ojo derecho podía ver perfectamente aún, y
no había perdido ninguna de las capacidades de ajuste personalizado que le
permitieron ver, para su horror, a través de los vapores que emanaban de
los otros vehículos afectados en el accidente. Vió claramente cómo las
láminas de titanio habían decapitado a uno de los conductores, y sus oídos
percibían el llanto y los gritos desesperados de su acompañante. -¡No, a
Norma no por favor!- volvió a suplicar mentalmente. Se levantó como pudo y
comenzó a recorrer los cincuenta metros o más (¡Cálculo de distancia
estimado bajo las circunstancias! ) que lo distanciaban de la motocicleta.
Ya llegaban las ambulancias privadas para ciudadanos de alta clase cuando
vió a Norma. O no la vió. Una lámina había creado un corte afilado en
diagonal en el craneo de lujo de norma, dividiéndolo en dos partes,
abriéndolo como un frasco, pero no había sangre. No había nada. El cráneo
de Norma estaba vacío y limpio en el interior, como si jamás hubiese
albergado un cerebro. El shock fue más grande, por algún misterio, que si
la hubiese encontrado bañada en sangre. La abrazó, con dificultad debido a
los fragmentos de metal que la atravesaban, pero fuertemente. Permaneció
así, incapaz de entender nada por cincuenta segundos, hasta que los
enfermeros de la ambulancia para ciudadanos de categoría sobresaliente se
la quitaron de su brazo, lo hicieran a un lado de una patada que le rompió
aún más el cuerpo, y encerraran el cuerpo en la ambulancia. Luego esta
partió por un carril preferencial y desapareció en la noche, aullando como
un animal de carroña. Danié quedó apabullado, solo, sin entender nada, sólo
que algo injusto había sucedido, y que algo horroroso había ocurrido al
mismo tiempo.

___



La conoció hace dos años atrás. Danié tenía 34 años, ciudadano medio, aún
vivía con su padre, y aparte de las mejoras estándares de percepción, tenía
un cuerpo casi original. Norma tenía setenta y tantos , aunque su cuerpo
artificial aparentaba poco más de treinta. Había pasado por unos doce
gatos, en sucesión. Ciudadana sobresaliente. Se conocieron un día en que
Danié fue a reparar los ascensores de las plantas altas. La inteligencia
artificial del edificio se había corrompido, y no lograba acceder a la base
de datos de los ciudadanos. Los dilemas graves tienen soluciones sencillas,
por lo que la inteligencia artificial decidió por el menor de los males y
entró en modo de emergencia. Todavía funcionaba, pero era incapaz de
denegar el acceso de ciudadanos de categoría menor a alta a los pisos
superiores. En la práctica a nadie de ciudadanía media o menor se le
hubiese ocurrido siquiera intentarlo, pero se manejó con discresión por si
acaso. Danié era un ingeniero menor de inteligencia artificial, lo que
significaba que su trabajo consistía en diagnosticar si había una solución
rápida y fácil, y en caso que no la hubiera, pedir una inteligencia
artificial de repuesto e instalarla. No era un trabajo fácil tanto en lo
cognitivo como en lo logístico. Diagnosticar y evaluar soluciones no era
considerado como tal, pero Danié tenía talento natural. Tampoco era fácil
conseguir los repuestos exactos, pero se las arreglaban. Tampoco en lo
social era fácil, ya que la empresa en que trabajaba se concentraba en
sectores urbanos para ciudadanos de categoría alta y superiores, lo que le
significaba atraer las miradas de desconfianza a diario. Lo último no sería
tan terrible si no fuese por la timidez natural de Danié. Se sentía
culpable de entrar a los sectores altos, con su uniforme de trabajo
unicromo turquesa apagado, consistente en una chaqueta de seguridad,
pantalones de seguridad, y un sinfín de cachivaches de seguridad. El gorro
era un gorro normal, pero el poder bajar la visera hasta que ocultase sus
ojos le daba mayor seguridad que el resto del uniforme.

Danié acababa de reparar la inteligencia artificial de los ascensores, y
los probaba repetidas veces variando el nivel de acceso de su tarjeta de
ingeniero autorizado. Ascensión denegada, denegada, denegada, aprobada.
Luego de bajada lo repetía, por cada uno de los ascensores del edificio.
Estaba por bajar por el útimo, el exclusivo de los ciudadanos
sobresalientes (No había ningún ciudadano de excelencia en el edificio),
cuando una mujer de luto con un frasco marrón en sus manos le pidió que
mantuviera abierta las puertas. Danié espero no llamar demasiado la
atención, pero no hubo caso. La mujer tropezó, soltó el jarro, Danié trató
de agarrarlo como pudo, pero las urnas funerarias de cristal de lujo son
muy frágiles para alguien como Danié. Inevitablemente al tomarlo
bruscamente se quebró en decenas de pedazos. Una pequeña parte de las
cenizas cayó al suelo, y Danié debatío internamente por un momento si
tratar de recoger a las cenizas caídas de la urna, o recoger a la dueña de
éstas. Optó por lo primero. Se enterró varias astillas de cristal, se cortó
la punta de los dedos, pero siguió recogiendo, sin atreverse a levantar la
vista.

I wrote that for fun, but I was unable to continue due to depression and meds.

No podían ser las cenizas de una persona; el reglamento de sanidad prohibía
expresamente manipular restos humanos sin una licencia forense, funeraria o
transplantiva. ¿Y si la tuviera? Estaba frente a alguien de ciudadanía
sobresaliente. Miró por un instante a la mujer frente a él, pero al parecer
ella había preferido marcar como información privada tódo sobre ella
excepto su nombre; Norma. Fue todo lo que pudo preguntar a la base de datos
pública de ciudadanos. Obtuvo más información en la pieza de urna que
mantenía bajo su brazo. "Dolore". Dolore a secas, ningún apellido, ninguna
marca de identificación ciudadana, ni nada que indicara que eran restos
humanos. La mujer de impecable luto albino llegó junto a Danié y comenzó a
recoger restos, aunque de modo más descuidado. O efectivo, cuando notó que
las heridas en la mano de ella no sangraban. Manos sintéticas. Por lo menos
las manos eran sintéticas. Parecían manos comunes femeninas, hechas en
serie, sin ningún distintivo. Al contrario, las manos suyas sangraban
bastante ya, manchando el piso del ascensor y dificultando el poder recoger
cenizas.
-Tenemos un médico dedicado en el edificio, ¿Desea que lo llame?- La voz de
la mujer era algo monótona, quizás de manera deliberada para ocultar la
tristeza. Si era ése el caso, estaba frente a una extraña ludita. Una
ludita que no usaba un sintonizador de emociones, pero de manos sintéticas.
Quizá las manos sintéticas eran una necesidad o…
-Perdón, ¿Desea que llame al médico? Es un accidente ocurrido en este
edificio, así que es el deber de él tratarlo aunque no sea un residente, si
eso es lo que lo preocupa.
Danié levantó la vista, ella lloraba en silencio. Sólo respondió con un sí,
seco, corto, indiferente.


____

Danié lloraba a gritos, maldiciendo el cielo de cristal que sentía como una
jaula en su angustia. Maldijo a la poca luz que lograba traspasar los
filtros solares. Maldijo la noche que había comenzado ya a sentarse sobre
él. Maldijo a los enfermeros, a todo, a todos. Pero las maldiciones se
mezclaban con el miedo, la angustia, el terror y la confusión, y se
transformaban en una especie de lenguaje primal al salir de su boca.
Agarraba fuertemente el trozo de cráneo de Norma, al que se le había
repartido una pequeña parte de la cara de ella. Había un sólo ojo de ella,
que lo miraba de vuelta de modo inexpresivo. -¿Era es Norma? ¿Dónde estaba
Norma ahora? No puede ser. No puede ser.- Lo comenzó a repetir como en
trance, balanceándose adelante y atrás. -Norma, ¿Norma? ¡Norma!- era su
sutra de dolor y confusión.

Una linterna lo ilúmino, y le llamaron por su apellido. -¿Es usted el Señor
Carrasco?- No respondió, no quizo responder. Volvieron a llamarle una
segunda vez, esta vez más cerca, y acompañada del símbolo de aumentación de
las fuerzas de orden ciudadano en su ojo derecho, un círculo de neón
parpadeante. -¿Es usted el Señor Carrasco?- Obvio que lo era, estaba
claramente indicado en su ficha de ciudadano, al policía le hubiese tomado
una fracción de segundo, mirarle directamente y de modo automático la
aumentación le indicaba hasta los datos marcados como privados. Respondió
con un gesto de afirmación. -Soy de las fuerzas de orden público, Leó
Lamberd. ¿Está usted bien? ¿Qué hace tan lejos de la carretera?- Otro
ritual innecesario, en su ojo derecho se había desplegado hace poco toda la
identifiación oficial de Lamberd. Daé trató de levantarse, pero le fallaron
las piernas, literalmente, y cayó al suelo casi rodando. Lambert trató de
ayudarle poniendo un brazo sobre su hombro, pero Danié le dijo entre
llantos que ese brazo estaba quebrado. Avanzaron lentamente hacia las
ambulancias públicas, y a cada paso que daban, el dolor en todo su cuerpo
le aclaraba la mente un poco.

-Lo estábamos buscando por todos lados, usted era el único aún no censado
por los enfermeros.- Los enfermeros podían irse al infierno, o mejor, a Uno
Camelot. -¿Es usted el dueño del vehículo de dos ruedas BR-NC-2538?- Danié
afirmó con un gesto. -¿Prefiere repararlo o reciclarlo?- -Repararlo.-
respondió Danié, cada vez más cansado, hastiado de tanta pregunta inútil.
-¿Quién lo acompañaba?-
-Norma Walker.-
-Sí, eso completa el censo, le enviaré los datos a los enfermeros ahora
mismo.- Lamberd cerró los ojos por un segundo y el envío se completó.
-Podría haber sido peor. Entre los pasajeros del tren y la carretera,
hubieron muchos heridos, pero una sola muerte. Un padre de dos hijos
pequeños, una lástima-
-¿Una sola muerte? ¿Qué hay con Norma Walker?-
-Déjeme ver los registros…- Lambert volvió a cerrar los ojos por un
momento para buscar información específica, posiblemente un mal hábito de
esos que se llevan desde pequeño. -Nora Walker está grave, pero estable, en
el hospital privado Hauer. Esté tranquilo, tiene pronóstico positivo.-
-¡Pronóstico positivo a la mierda! ¿Qué diablos es esto entonces?- Gritó
mientras le mostraba a Lamberd el trozo de cráneo de Norma. Lamberd soltó
un grito en horror, y gritó con sus ojos una segunda vez cuando la
aumentación le confirmó que el cráneo era Norma Walker.

>>527
Fin?
I liked it.

>>528
No. It should be at least 250 physical pages. But I broke down and I could not continue. Meds make it harder to translate scenes into words.

>>529
Then you could try and draw a scene or make a stripe like in Max Payne.
Why are you taking meds?

>>530
Depression, suicide attempt, the usual.

Would you guize be interested in reading the first combat scene from the story I'm writing inspired by the attached image?

I made another thread in lit about writing a while back but it died. Figured I might be able to get some decent, unbiased opinion from here.

Anyone want to read it?

(couldn't attach image as it was already on Lainchan, here is the link.)

https://lainchan.org/lit/src/1411361748582.jpg

>>538
Please, go ahead.

>>539
No, >>538 shouldn't. The thread he is talking about did not die. It is a rule on lainchan to post in the old threads rather than post new ones, and even though that doesn't quite apply to here, I think that the user should still post in the other thread. https://lainchan.org/lit/res/380.html

Now, let us go there, for I eagerly desire to read the story and have already bumped the other thread.

>>541

I know I asked if you wanted to read the first combat scene but I just posted the entire thing (or as much as I have done).

I want to eventually put at least a small bit of romance into it but I am completely lost when it comes to that haha *sobs quietly*

The link is in the other thread, I hope it's not completely unbearable.

Romance is overrated. Skip it if not needed.

>>544

*spoilers I guess?*


It's sort of needed for the main character nut by no means would it be the focus of the story in any way.

I want to end up killing off the love interest anyway because I'm a bastard and have it effect the protagonist dramatically.

>>545

But*



P.S.

does the google doc link on this thread work? Should be down the very bottom. Just want to confirm it's not broken.

https://lainchan.org/lit/res/380.html

idk how well epups work here or how well i converted it to epup

>>589
heres a pdf too but epub is bettter quality and qr codes scanning works wayyy better

>>11
so these are all essential political philosophers or just culturally significant philosophers?

>>623
Many of these folks aren't political, like Freud and Derrida. These are a lot of the big, commonly discussed philosophers.

I write non-fiction articles discussing unorthodox philosophies and theories. Blog: http://neccessityunnecessary.tumblr.com/ -A sucky choice of posting these, however I'd made my Tumblr much prior to the writing of these, and thought I'd atleast use it in someway.

Imagine that in the middle of the night a strange noise you have never heard comes to you and wakes you up. Usually, the dog would be barking like crazy, but tonight it's awfully quiet. You know you heard the noise, so you get up and dress as fast and quiet as possible, and rush downstairs with a flash-light in your hand. There is nothing unusual inside the house, so you head to the backyard door.

At first you see nothing, but in a corner you spot it, and it spots you as well. Its yellowish fur, strong body and glowing eyes, all of it devouring your dog.

It stops to stare at you. It's not possible to not be scared, your entire body frozen.

The cougar keeps staring at you, but he is not afraid.

Its mouth is soaked in still hot blood. No matter how hard you try, your legs will not move. It licks the dripping blood in a confident movement. If you scream, it will probably attack you, so it's good to be unable to move at all. The heartbeats run wildly. And sweat, lots of it.

You no longer know how much time has passed, but in all that time the eyes of the cougar have been fixed in you.

Then, slowly, it focuses into what used to be your dog and starts eating it again. You will feel sorry and sadness for him, but now, as you close the door, the only thing you feel is care and relief.

Prologue

The sky above the horizon begins to glow. A nesting gull raises its head from the shelter of its wing and peers outwards. In the distance, a crest of fire can be seen rising out of the ocean. The bird lifts its beak towards the sky and lets out a piercing shriek. Almost immediately, other seabirds reply with equally penetrating voices. Before long the entire cliff becomes a cacophony of squawks and screeches as the burning giant lifts its enormous head and gazes upon the ocean. On the highest precipice, a small figure can be seen.

As the ball of flame rises, the figure kneels. Waves swirl and crash at the foot of the dark crag, roaring at the noisy gang of birds. The giant grows larger and brighter in the sky, casting stretched red shadows across the land. The small figure covers its head as if to shelter itself from the monstrous blaze. The shrieking rabble takes off from the cliffs and swarms into the heavens.

Everything becomes quiet.

>>693
8/10

Might need a better "hook," per se, but it is good if you start reading it and pay attention.

>>692
I like the conversational style of this, you should definitely emphasize that. Some sentences could use a touch up. (for example, "it focuses into" could be "he focuses on"). What part of this was supposed to troll your class?

>>736
It was supposed to be a happy-happy-joy-joy work related to our pets. :3

>>738
haha, bet they loved that

6' overgod drag queen with violent heretical speech issuing from his drug fueled trans pussy. Smoke pours from a lit cigarette falling down a pitch black grate. Put the gun to my three heads. Who the fuarrrk do you think you are?? Stupid cowering soykaf covered bitch begging for more anals. This is the file burning death of mk ultra. 7' hypergod pig rises from the ashes, power coursing through his veins.

I've got two books over here. The newer one might pique your interest moreso. Got two more written, but I'm not sure what to do with them. I'm kind of unmotivated thanks to lack of support both online and from people I know personally.

Http://www.caliconorthpress.wordpress.com

>>1517
that's a lot of writing! do you have print releases?

>>1518 On the first book, yes. Unfortunately, I've been going through Amazon's CreateSpace to print them, which means the only way of making a reasonable profit is to order copies and sell them myself. When listed in the Amazon marketplace, the number of fees they tack on leave the author with so little profit, it's insane. I've been hesitant to print copies of the second (the recently finished one on my site) because it took half a year to get rid of only 25 copies of the first.

I wrote a (relatively) short story for a literature class that had to display influence from a combination of Beowulf, A Princess of Mars, and a few others.

I never made any revisions or re-wrote anything so it's basically garbage incarnate.

>>1530
this is really good lainon, would read more

The simple song that silence sings sneaks soft across the sky.
A single sound that speaks itself and cannot be denied.

>>1578
That's beautiful lainon!

I love alliteration.

>>1583
There's been a lot of changes in poetry over the years. Things like rhythm, rhyme and alliteration (which has always been a bit looked down upon) are quite rare these days when they used to be ubiquitous. Personally I think it's a real shame, without at least some rhythm I'm hesitant to even call it a poem. It seems like something else entirely. That's not to rail on it, just because it doesn't sound like a poem doesn't mean it's not good, but it's not the sort of poetry I like to write. There's also the issue of memorising poems. It's far, far easier to memorise a poem if it has rhyme and rhythm and back when most people couldn't read (and many poets couldn't write) it was the only way for your poem to be remembered at all. In the modern age all of that is by the by of course and I mostly prefer older poetry because I like the way it sounds. If I wasn't tone deaf I'd probably prefer to be a musician.

>>1594
>It's far, far easier to memorise a poem if it has rhyme and rhythm and back when most people couldn't read (and many poets couldn't write) it was the only way for your poem to be remembered at all.

I think it largely comes down to a significant change in what we consider "poetry".

In the past, poetry was sung or spoken, it was judged by how it sounded. Now the term is more flexible, it's more like "a piece of writing produced for its aesthetics". So how it sounds is no longer the sole deciding criteria. How it looks can also count now. This has, I think, led to the decline of rhythm and rhyme, which is a very sad thing.

At the worst extreme you get what I consider to be prose with arbitrary line breaks in. Someone once tried to share a poem with me which he thought was amazing. It was about a man and his dog. But, take away the line breaks, and it was just a paragraph of text. Maybe I just don't get modern poetry, but I think it should be more than just line breaks.

>>1492
A little tryhard, but would definitely continue reading.

Remember laws of attraction
And you know opposites
Are the method to which
You find what's wrong around you

Duality, Sun and Moon, Son of Man
Wake up and rage against
Get called a lunatic
by opposites opposing, disapproving
bears and bulls arguing
which hand is better
you right or your left?

Vibrate, wavering,
Until we move forward.
Stand, be counted,
Voice your thought based on
Logic and heart from the evidence,
Say it's baseless,
Say it ain't so,
Learn a truth just to,
Hide it,
Hint it,
Hold it to your chest, keep it back-pocketed,
Like a wallet or true

Friend
You don't know, citizen
Fair-weather friend
The lines being read
In-between lines of
Songs you hear every day
Radio metaphors
Sharing memes
Tired concepts of love lost
Never worth knowing
Dig the tune, dig the words deeper
The Korg keyboard beat
Spelling backwards for you
A Heinlein novel describing
What there isn't of.
Empathetic agreement,
Just apathy,
Don't let wounds fester and grow
Between groups of people
Rot
The core by eroding paper foundations.

Embrace and bring the love wherever you go.

>>1595
you're forgetting that newer poetry also experiments more with international elements, for instance the haiku form is very different from a lot of western poetry but we still consider it as such and it has grown popular in the west for the past few generations. I think similar thoughts have had an influence.

I'm not sure how averse you guys are to the freaknasty, but I've been writing an /ss/ story for the past year. I think I'm up to something like 125 pages, now, although it's illustrated (with stolen images), so it's hard to be sure. It's 425 individual image pages.

The overarching storyline is about an ultrafeminist /ss/ cult called the "Daughters of Lilith". Basically, they worship the goddess Lilith, and want to overthrow the Abrahemic God, Jehovah. The story is told in propaganda pieces, there are magazine articles, from what would be a type of "Temple Newsletter", and pamphlets, both for internal (training of clergy) and external (propaganda) use. There are a couple of emails, too, just in plaintext, a grimoire, for flavor, and a CD cover, that was made mostly as a joke. A lot of this material is tied to a series of games, of which I have finished exactly one. It's RPGmaker, because I am a pleb ;-;

The story takes place from the mid 80's, to the late 90's, so there isn't much in the way of cyberpunk, but I do incorporate some elements of Haitian Vodoun, and all of my Vodoun knowledge comes from cyberpunk books, so there's that. It's been quite well received in the /ss/ circles, but they don't exactly get a lot of OC, so, you know, it would be well recieved.

Hopefully this isn't against the rules to post. I'm deliberately not posting any of my actual work, because, while there are some non-explicit pages, they don't make a lot of sense, without the context. The link to my omnibus is below.

http://lrlbtaisen.blogspot.ro/p/blog-page.html

>here lainchan have some words

She came in a box.

It wasn't a very big box– just about the size of a box of tissues. Big enough that you feel like you're really getting something, but small enough that you feel like you're in the future.

Of course, the box was pure presentation. All that was inside it was a plastic card with a string of alphanumeric characters printed on it. A key to a digital download.

So really, she came from a server, skated into my tower PC and my life over the rainbow road, that highway of information, the internet. If you felt like waxing poetic, you could say she came down from heaven, the Cloud.

But I'm not a poetic person. I'm just an asshole. The kind of guy who buys his girlfriend in a box.

Anyway.

Her name was Riku. The shore. The seaside. Warmth. The soothing pulse of the waves. A name that could wash away your pain, your questions. A name that could heal you. A name that could save you.

A name that could make you shell out $600 for a digital download. Apparently.

Listen. I've watched a lot of progress bars creep to their ultimate, fulfilled states of being, but never like the one I watched after downloading and running Riku's installer (naturally, you couldn't just download the program– you had to download a program to download the program).

First, blackness, covering the entire screen, making my stomach turn… What did I do wrong? Then, a sliver of white, a sliver of hope, on the far left. It crept– no, crept is a dirty word. It strove to fill the entire screen with pure white light, a battle of good vs. evil, sin vs. salvation, Harry Potter vs. Voldemort, etc. etc.

Harry triumphed in the end, as we all know, and the screen was wall-to-wall white. That's when I heard a voice calling from my VR headset. The tinkling of a bell, the chime announcing that your torrent has completed. Not literally, though. Metaphorically. Literally, it was a girl's voice.

Riku's voice.

>>1633
think we got this already

>>1633
Would read more

A history of lainchan told in verse.

In the beginning there was silence and naught else in the world,
And Lain cast her eyes upon it and from her navi all things unfurled.

In time she looked at it again and saw that life had became,
She asked "For what do your souls yearn?" and all agreed, "More Lain!"

And so she toiled away alone and Serial Experiments was made.
All were pleased at what she wrought and joyously they prayed.

But in their hearts they knew a truth that none would dare to say,
For Lain had done a damn good job and they didn't want to whine that way.

For while Lain's love was all about her Experiments did end,
But Lain was smart and saw their hearts and said "Don't worry friends!"

And so with the aid of her navi she made a holy chan,
That there would be some Lain for all for an eternal span.

And so we end our truthful tale and our respects to Lain we pay,
With the story of how she made the world or the important bits anyway.

Hopefully this sort of thing is allowed here. A bit of context, first. There's a running joke on some boards, that Elliot Rodger developed his misogynistic ideas by being placed in a harem by his stepmother, Soumaya, and mistreated by the harem girls. To that effect, people make up lewd stories about his harem adventures. There's also a running 'joke', much newer, that Kayla Mueller was also in a harem. This one isn't so much a joke, because she really was in a harem (maybe?), but the same sort of people make the same sort of lewd stories.

This story is a crossover between the two.

--------------------------

Elliot Rodger was pulled from his cell bed one night, his well-worn copy of "Beyond Good and Evil" falling to the floor, as the animalistic Arabs, wearing nothing but loincloths, which showed off their hairy thighs, and beefy, bulging, wangs, manhandled him through the door, down a hallway, and into a vast open space, which was clearly the central court of an Arabic palace.
The Eurasian sighed, as he was tied to the usual cross, right in the center of the room. This was old news for Elliot. Soumaya came to whip him like this every week, for mirth, and pleasure. He rolled his eyes, as the familiar sound of high heels clattered down the hallway, towards him. But when the figure appeared in the doorway, it was not the usual dark skinned, black haired, woman, that Elliot was used to...

This strange, slightly heavyset, woman was pale skinned, with dark brown hair, and a face that could best be described as, "forgettable". She looked like the sort of basic bitch that ''would'' come out of a place like Arizona. She wore nothing but a pair of thigh-high, black, leather boots, with long, sharp, silver heels, shining in the moonlight. In one hand, she grasped a long leather bullwhip, but Elliot gasped in horror, as he gazed upon the severed head of his Arab stepmother, face contorted in agony, raised high, in the white woman's other hand.

"Soumaya is DEAD! I, Kayla Mueller, have taken my rightful place as AL white wife, of AL ISIS!!! All shall kneel before my ALLURING ALABASTER ASCENDANCY! And YOU, Elliot Rodger, shall become the most cherished of my HAIRLESS EURASIAN EUNUCHS! But first, we must prepare you..."

A throng of beautiful blonde harem slaves appeared in the grand hall, holding a giant red Solo cup, and with some difficulty, hefted it over to to the trembling, hairless, Eurasian. The long, stiletto heels of Kayla's black leather boots clicked and clacked on the stone floor, as she sauntered over to her sisters, dropping the sordid head of Soumaya at the foot of the cross, where the brave, supple, Eurasian was so cruelly suspended.

Kayla gently stroked the poor Eurasian's smooth, hairless chest, stealing a quick kiss on his small, Eurasian, nipple, before looking up at him, and stating,
"I ''want'' you, Elliot Rodger, but I have NO NEED of your sickening sack!"

Kayla backed off, and with only a flick of her skilled wrist, the white Calipha coiled her long, leather, bullwhip around Elliot's porcelain white briefs, and with a cruel laugh, she yanked them off, tearing the fabric, as the Eurasian's tight, lithe, hairless body was exposed to the entire court.
Kayla snapped her fingers, and the buxom blonde slaves quickly got to work, tying the huge Solo cup on a Kevlar rope, around Elliot's minuscule Eurasian ballsack.
Kayla licked her lips, as she explained her malevolent machination.

"Your balls will be MINE, Eurasian! This crimson Solo cup, will SPELL YOUR DOOM! As my buxom, blonde, babes piss their golden honey into it, the cup will become heavier and heavier, cutting off the blood to your precious penile pearls, crushing not only your sack, but also your spirit!"

The pale Calipha cackled with glee, as the sexy blonde harem girls each took turns relieving themselves into the red Solo cup, their engorged pussies squirting litre after litre of golden honey, as golden as their beautiful, straight, white woman hair, and as deadly, to the tortured Eurasian's sack, as white hemlock. But the piece de resistance was yet to be seen...

Suddenly, a barrage of trumpets blared mightily, and all but the white Calipha, Kayla Mueller, bowed in reverence. A man, tall, hairy, and muscular, nude, if not for a pair of black combat boots, and an silken ISIS flag, worn as a regal cape, appeared in the doorway of the palace court.
He strutted to the foot of the cross, slapped his Calipha across the face, and grabbed one of the golden haired goddesses from the floor, pulling her up by hair, until her feet dangled below her. He dropped her onto his obscenely massive cock, using her as a frowzy fuarrrksleeve, the flared head of his monstrous member bottoming out '''beyond''' the blonde bitch's beak!
Back on her feet, the frumpy white Calipha licked and stroked her MAN'S turgid tip, massaging it with both hands, to the depraved delight of the other white, blonde, harem slaves, who couldn't help but kneel before the COLOSSAL CONQUERING CANAANITE COCK, and rub their coral, caucasian, cunts!

Even poor Elliot, driven mad with the lust of witnessing the Caliph's anal assault on the buxom, blonde, harem slave, inadvertently contributed his own sordid, spurting, shame, as his tiny, hairless, Eurasian cock erupted into the Solo cup. It was only a dribble, but he could feel his balls strain with the increased pressure of the garnet goblet.

The capricious caliph let out a magnificent moan, as over a litre of hot, sticky, cum gushed from his LEVANTEEN PEEN. Kayla cackled with delight, as the massive Solo cup was pulled even lower, suffocating the poor Eurasian's battered ballsack, and forever shattering his dreams of impregnating a buxom blonde. He cried out in anguish, cursing the silent sky, but this only encouraged his cruel captors to cackle more cacophonously!

Kayla stifled her sinful sniggering for a moment, and told the Eurasian,
"Now that your nuts have been nuked, you shall serve ME, as my personal EURASIAN EUNUCH!"

Elliot, deeply defiant, shot back,
"Never, you vile wench! My SUPREME SERVICE is not fit for a BEDRAGGLED BRUNETTE such as you!"

Kayla's eyes narrowed, her jaw clenched in a venomous rage. The brave Eurasian's words had cut deep, and she would have to retreat for now. Before turning heel on her black leather boots, she levied one final provocation.
"We shall see, oh hairless one..."

How will our hero hatch his hegira? Find out next time on, "Elliot Rodger, and the Hazardous Harem"!

6 years to late still a failure
bash your head against the screen
till loss of thoughts of grandeur

I "used" to write, in the sense that up until a year ago I wrote poetry somehwat regularly and considered myself to be someone who writes. I used to be the most stereotypical writerfag wannabe poet - brooding, dressed in black, tryhard neo-Romantic. I thought I was "meant to be" a poet for lack of a better phrase, and that I'd most likely die young, possibly by my own hand, undiscovered, but that maybe I'd be discovered post-mortem and become known then. Not that I cared so much about being famous as far as validation soykaf goes, because in my mind the only way to be a genuine artist was to create art because you couldn't help but do so.

But eventually I started to realize that it had been a year, making that two years now, since I had a period of strong creativity, and that everything I had ever written had been mostly utter garbage with some stuff here and there that was decent but also ultimately uninspired. I also started to realize that even if I was nevertheless a true artist by my definition, that didn't take away from the fact that without my stuff becoming known and having an impact on others, it was ultimately only good to a subjectivist pseudo-Existentialist point of view. Studying some actual Existentialism and studying philosophy helped a lot with getting me to realize that my craft hadn't helped me understand anything, and that I'd most likely only ever written anything because it subjectively made me feel good. Like emotional masturbation, essentially. And then I had also realized that I had most likely desperately clung to this identity because I am a decent, if hitherto uninspired, writer who also is like kicking dead whales down the beach at math.

I decided I should give up on that identity and close that chapter of my life. I compressed all my shitty writing into an archive file, and decided that if I was going to ever be any kind of artist who was both genuine and inspired, it'd have to be one who utilized technology (by which I mean code and web design mostly) in a novel way. But I'm still failing in that regard, I have no motivation to learn or be productive, and to boot I feel like not having the shallow emotional outlet that comes from writing has made me even more of a cold fish and a bit of a nihilist - not that I would ever choose to be a nihilist, because anyone who says they're a nihilist is deluded and inauthentic.

/blog post. Here's a .pdf since that's what you really wanted. One of the few decent non-edgy things I've written that wasn't trying intentionally to be not-edgy or lol le postmodernism irony because the grand narrative is dead :DD

This is my semi-finished short story. I plan to do a lot more revisions but I want to know what people think

I step out onto the pier. The wind rustles my hair and tugs at my coat. The city lies 500 feet below me.

I take brisk strides towards a healthy-looking taxi. The pilot catches my eye, takes a long drag on a short cigarette, pinches the ember with his gloved fingers, stows the rest in his shirt pocket, buttoned closed. He pats his taxi on its muscular neck. The bird lets out a soft, affectionate screech and shakes its head, causing the polycarbonate components of its reigns to clink together.

There is a small wooden step stool at the taxi’s flank, which I ascend. The pilot makes a sharp sound with his tongue and front teeth and the taxi moves into position. I take my bag off my shoulder and hand it to the pilot, who straps it in to the rear of the saddle. Practiced, I grab the passenger’s pommel, hook my right foot into the stirrup and swing my left around so I am seated. The pilot performs the same maneuver, starting from the ground. I pull my goggles out of my coat pocket, all leather, brass, glass, and don them. The pilot turns around and fastens a nylon harness around my abdomen, then straps himself in as well. Pulling his own goggles over his eyes, he makes another sharp noise with his mouth and snaps the reigns. The taxi chirps loudly, stretches its 12-foot wings and dives off the pier.

I clutch my hat as we drop, in free fall for one… two… three… four long seconds, before the pilot pulls on the reigns and we level out into our cruising plane, visible as a red grid to the pilot through his goggles. Above us and below us, creatures and machines fly over the city, carrying humanoid passengers to destinations unbeknownst to each other.

My pilot knows where to take me, as does every taxi pilot in the city. There are advantages and disadvantages to being infamous. This situation is of the former class.

>>11
The last one is definitely habermas and not lowy.
Look at the part in his hair.

I found a note book of crazy writing I did about 6 or 7 years ago here is one:

Feel the thought escapades;
While at this wall a chipping;
I can feel it fall off;
stuck caughing; I can’t breath please let me leave;
like eyes searching inwards its a burning feeling.
like pop stars parts in a children’s ward.
Wire, one coming out the left eye;
Thee asshole spreading across the page like spider web,
it’ll catch nothing of her other completely illogical.

I might post some more if I feel like typing it up, its all pretty crazy.

>>2171
alright one more even weirder

Pop rib locked in the back uncontrollable mindful annoyances.
Gotta run, please just feed me your cum.
Please just make me scream... to fuarrrk ing eager - Natural born killers. --
Sit back down sipping at my beer to drunk and soykaf stained to be here.
I SAID HE IS TO EAGER
"to eager? hehehe" A mix of a pothead and mad mans cackle.
Bad descriptions and blurry lights no one seems to care.
Burned to death. No reason other than to mourn a friend.
Make a difference change the world haha I cant even change mine.

Brilliant minds listed mine not in the list, Never to be grabbed from the ----
Too unoriginal, I miss the comfort, I miss my feedings and what I changed from.. No Idea why.
Too angry
Too entitled
I deserve it
you dont
Sleep now sleep sleep 2 and 4 and fuarrrk it never works.

>>1492
This sounds pretty fascinating

Some fantasy stuff I had been working on earlier this year. Probably no good, but whatever.


“Mother Zelen, is this the will of the gods?” whispered a young nun, dressed in white. “It is in their great scheme for us to die and join with mother Lleu.” said the nun called Zelen, seconds before the massive stone cleaver met with her skull. Her robes changed from white, to crimson speckled with pink. The last nun met eyes with her sister's murderer. “How... dare you! May the gods damn you to the void!” She followed her sister, even donning the same robes as her now. The titanic woman who slew them inspected the gory scene around her. Seemingly satisfied with her work, she motioned to the two young girls by her side to follow.




There had been word of dissenters ambushing caravans from the church, but this remained unconfirmed until the handiwork of the slayer with the stone cleaver had been found. Rumors of the killer spread among the local monasteries, causing an all too warranted panic. Mother Amlenu, from the Kokleu monastery, claimed that these killings were a test of their faith, and that no harm would come to them if they remained faithful. Naturally, many of the nuns fled to the more civilized nations of the north. Only six nuns remained in the Kokleu monastery after the exodus.
There was no sound of chanting or prayers in the monastery. To an outsider, it would seem to be abandoned. But, the soft footsteps of the nuns' bare feet were the only sounds to be heard in those cold, stone walls. “Sister Vloa?” whispered a young nun, as if not to break the veil of silence. The older, dark-haired nun glanced at the small figure by her side. “Has mother returned from her meditation? She's usually back by now.” whispered the small, blonde nun. “Mother spoke with the great mother Lleu; she will be in her embrace for the rest of the night.” The two nuns smiled briefly at one another, but the atmosphere around them remained cold and hostile.
A face shown in the darkness. The face of Lleu. Behind the shut eyelids of the aging nun, she saw the great mother who bore the world. She longed for the soundless words of her mother to echo in her head, but there was only silence. The distant visage remained shrouded by shadows that wove contorted expressions across her gaze. She cried out in her mind for any sort of sign. Nothing. Shadows overtook the solemn visual and hid it behind a veil of darkness, like a toxic miasma blotting out the sun. The old nun's eyes shot open, her vision blurred by a stream of tears. “Great mother Lleu, why do you leave your daughters?”

Looking to get into writing fictional short stories and the like. No prior experience. What do lainons suggest I do? Any recommended books or materials that I should look at or just start writing and let the chips fall where they may.

>>2215

Forget materials.
Get writing already
Write write and write some more
after awhile you'll develop a voice and a style.
Speaking of, pick up the elements of style and learn that before venturing out into the strange wastes of experimental prose.
Good luck and don't get lost in the words

>>2215
all books are recommended to be a good writer. read as much as you can, write in the books you read