>>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.
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.
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.
>>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.
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.
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.
>>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?
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.
>>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.
>>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.
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.
>>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.
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.
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.
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"!
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
How did we end up so jaded?, Me and Me? I and Myself? I saw me smiling, we knew we were boneheads. We saw her crying, we could now help. We watched our father dying, we could not care. I tell myself, perhaps we are broken-minded. We reply, on silence, all unchanged. We thought, we didn't hear ourselves. And when we finally cried, we departed. I died, I survived. Nobody mourned the aborted heart. Only the mind kept living, like a slug. Chained to life by strangers. One day passed, but it felt like two. I have to work double, we were no more. I wonder if I lost my ego, or my soul. A flesh automata, little more Since I died I feel so empty. It was the same, outside of us. We rot quickly, I see my bones. I lay beside them quietly, without fear or anger. We wait for death, in languor.
The more I suck, the better I can get. I suck real bad. Here it is anyway:
Dimly left the handle stained Upon walking cross the corner of The ingrates let the fire in A pool of blood jauntly wasted Couldn't travel through the cracks All trickled sharply their own way Together when apart is justly along the wired fence
Currently putting together ideas for a film I hope to one day direct.
The following paragraph described a single scene in the film, so hopefully it creates some nice imagery:
A man whose mind and body exist on the brink of ruin. Red upturned flesh of the land laid bare to the East, the diseased city to the West. Two opposite windows of horror, with him cradled between them. Only the mundane and familiar keep him sane; the rotating churn of a ceiling fan, a murky stain in the corner of a bathroom tile. Dilapidated, yet remarkably stable. Until of course, there is a change, a push. The scaffolding of his brain is crumbling, and a soft, terrible wind approaches from the West.
Angela walked down the steps leading into the subway. The warm, humid air rose up and mixed with the frozen street above. She pulled her jacket tighter around her waist, the thick wool blocked out at least some of the rancid air. She stepped down onto the platform, vaguely aware of signing her card onto the ticket machine. She approached the edge of the platform, looking up at the train timetable above her. The screen of the display was still shattered, the staff apparently far too busy to sweep the glass off the platform after three days. She sighed heavily, pushing her hands deep into the warm pockets of her jacket. She checked her watch as the minute hand lazily ticked over to quarter past six. She watched the platform slowly fill up, the horde of grey scale business men and women forming a dull mass lining the edge of the platform. She looked down at her bright red jacket, the polished silver buttons a stark contrast in the sea of grey. She sighed again, silently and felt her chest seize up, realising how very alone she was in all these people.
Angel stared at the poster on the wall opposite her. The image of a photo-shopped model lazing on a beach in some far eastern island nation so tantalisingly close. It disappeared as a train slid in front, blocking her view with a mass of dull grey steel. The crowd around her slowly filed into the behemoth but she didn't notice. She squinted, trying to make out the advertising slogan in between the windows and pillars of the train. “Escape… From it,” she tilted her head to see in between a passing passenger, “all.” The train, Angela only vaguely aware that she was supposed to be on it, left the platform. She stared at the poster, wishing that she could bring it closer, to study the perfectly doctored beach and the crystal waves. She looked intently at the model that was supposed to be her, trying to replace the figure with herself. It didn't fit. She looked down, the double row of steel beams, and concrete planks separating her from the supposed dream on the wall. There was probably some cruel metaphor between the rails and the poster she mused, tracing her eyes down the rails into the darkness beyond the tunnel entrance. Another train pulled up in front of her, emptying the platform of its last passengers.
There was a tug on Angela's shoulder, she heard the muffled question of a stranger through distant sensors. She stepped forwards, pulling against the stranger's grasp. “Excuse me, is this th-” “Don't touch me!” Angela snapped at the stranger, throwing his hand off her shoulder. She felt tears well up in her eyes, “I'm sorry,” she began to apologise but stopped to choke back tears. “Are you alright?” the stranger asked. She looked at him, he couldn't have been much older than herself. Maybe twenty five at most. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to...” he trailed off. “It's not you,” Angela managed. She looked at the defeated expression across his face and instantly looked away. She didn't mean to hurt him, she didn't want to hurt anyone. She stared intently at the ground until a tear dotted the cement a dark grey. She couldn't bare to look up, she had witnessed the handiwork of her deeds well enough today, she didn't need to see another hurt face. “You're crying.” the man sad softly and reached out to comfort her. Angela slapped his hand away and stepped away from him. She covered her face, refusing to be seen so weak.
Angela took a half-step back and felt the edge of the platform under he shoe. She looked up and saw another train slide into the station, it's headlight staring her down. She felt the stranger grasp her hand, lightly pulling her away from the train. She pulled herself free, “Don't.” She stepped back and fell. A hand grabbed her outstretched arm as she fell, briefly arresting her fall before she hit the tracks. Her head fell back, striking the steel rail with a sickening thud. Her vision blackened as someone reached for her and then her mind was gone.
I've had some ideas bouncing around my head for a while. Note that this is by no means the entire book, not even an entire chapter.
It's more post-cyberpunk, post-post-apocalyptic than anything. The internet is gone, civilization is limited to towns, but the future is pretty bright. It's been a couple generations since the apocalyptic event so it's not too grimdark.
The progression of the story would be of a adolescent child meeting a internet technician and traveling the states, setting up internet nodes to connect people again. This boy's journey beyond his small, rural town would be the focus. Because I'm a techno-fetishist it would feature the tech-literate as shaman archetypes since they have horded data, culture, and information from before the fall, all stored on USB drives and hard disks.
Please let me know what you think. This is the first time I've written fiction in many years. I'll continue if ya'll are interested in it.
>>3238 An aside: I'm sure this theme is something close to many of us younger lainanons (under the age of 21 at least). Being able to script and use computers efficiently and essentially being fluent this 'language' opens up many doors in the age of apps and touch-screens, where EVERYBODY uses the web. We're the first generation to grow up immersed in this 'language', utilizing forums, image-boards, and fast internet connections for socialization and aggregation of knowledge. And we're not even old enough to appreciate all this. We never had a life without it.
>>3241 It's not just using the internet to research stuff in the school library, but for youth to grow up using instagram and Facebook. Seeing my younger siblings compared to older ones is night and day. Sorry if it makes you uncomfortable, I'll put a trigger warning on it next time.
>>3242 Just because we were using dialup and our communities didn't have fancy rendering and datamining tools didn't make our shitposts any less legit. I really fail to see the difference other than market expansion. The notion that kids only used the internet to "research stuff" before Web 2.0 is absurd.
Your story synopsis sounds like a modernized 'A Canticle for Leibowitz', a book written in the 50's. Try to look past the form of things for the essence of what people are doing, nothing's changed for the human psyche since the Neolithic.
>>3243 I'm not trying to call your shitposting anything less than mine, but highlighting the different roles the net plays in our lives than generally older people. Note that I'm going off of the anecdotal evidence and personal experience with my pre and post 1997s American peers, coworkers, family, and friends. It might be region-specific, and it might just be some delusion. Only god knows, but it's inspiring this sort of fiction so we'll see where it goes.
And thanks for the criticism and book recommendation. It's a bit different than the vision I'm going for (an enjoyable fiction set in this setting I've mentioned rather than some vehicle for this ideological message that I've been blubbering in these past posts), but I'm downloading it all now and plan to read it tonight.
If you aren't aware of the shitfight "culture war" that has been raging online over the past few years then you don't live here – it has been impossible to avoid. Misogynists vs misandrists; Men's Rights Activists vs Feminists; GamerGaters vs Social Justice Warriors; /r/KotakuInAction vs /r/ShitRedditSays; 4chan vs Tumblr. On every platform, in every community, the tensions run red-hot and the trolls from both sides have come out to play. Innocuous statements, as well as inflammatory shitposts, have led to the deployment of Life Ruin Tactics from shaming to SWATing. Users today experience a textual violence unique to the 21st Century. While some call it exile or expulsion or just deserts, when users are forced to scrub all of their social media accounts to try and escape the hivemind it ought properly be called a digital murder.
We are faced not with a conflict of political affinity, but instead a problem grounded in a disagreement over whether the design of platforms can substitute for social norms: does digital freedom find its limits at the codework constraints of social media sites, in their manmade spaces of programmed possibility, or can digital freedom only exist in the presence of a robust, just, and enforced set of social norms? It is a question that has long been asked in digital spaces, but as the Web polis swells so too does the demand for a resolution. In the end it comes down to whether cyberspace ought to imitate the real world or if it ought to surpass it – whether it needs to be made material, to be reified, or if its "designed virtuality" offers the development of new patterns of social relation.
also i'd love to hear what you think about the image-hover feature. i feel like that 90s love of hypertext needs a return, in literature and nonfiction both. the unintrusive inclusion of images, at least, seems too good to pass up.
I'm currently writing a story about a vampiric succubus who escapes from a /v/irgin's astral plane into the real world, while H.P. Lovecraft is resurrected at 14 Branchland Court, and together with CWC, resolves to figure out what brought him back.
So far I've got ~5,400 words, and I think it'll be around 7K when I'm done with Chapter 1. I was thinking of uploading it to blogspot or wordpress, since those are the only sites I can think of that provide the kind of formatting I'd like (i.e., Chapters separated into different pages, spaces for comments and extra information, places for side-stories, etc.)
I also hope I won't have to end up cutting and pasting the text from my LibreOffice document, since then I'll have to manually sort all the formatting again.
Does anyone else have experience publishing stories over the internet? Any recommendations or advice?
This is a short story that I wrote a few months ago and its based on some real life experience. I translated it from my original draft in spanish. It has no tittle.
From my position I can see an arid landscape with some crags to the right and a paltry village to the left in between them lies a traveling market that is about ten squares long, there one can see hundreds of tents that sell things like the finest street food delicacies to any kind of electronic contraband of national or foreign companies, in between the masses I see all types of individuals but a detailed analysis highlights twelve persons of interest. Hired by the Merchant Assembly these men armed with electro clubs, nonlethal pulse guns and the latest generation of smart uniforms were known before the war as the local municipal police force but the privatization of government assets transformed them if what is now known as La Chota S.A. De C.V. a subdivision of the Industrias Magaña Conglomerate. The avenue was thronged one could see families buying this week groceries from smugglers, couples searching for simulations to experiment and brats on all terrain roller-skates smoking huge joints, besides that there was a strong smell of fried food amongst the dozens of neon signs some of them with missing letters that advertised in one way or another the many articles that were on sale. One could also see from time to time some unlicensed merchants offering their products through digital screens that appeared under their trench coats with lists of the items that where available just to disappear in a blink of an eye at the slightest sign of trouble. I took a deep breath and prepared myself to ask some random merchant for information on extruders for printers with the capacity to process Nano fibers, while the old man looked for the different models that he had on stock I made up a story about how my printer broke while it printed some steel wires for the wheels of my work vehicle, after that I ask him “Do you have family on Cerocahui?” he looks at me with a puzzled expression for a few seconds confused with the sudden change of topic but I wasn’t really talking to him since the question was nothing but a signal for my clothes, the system recognized the command immediately and started to warm up the engines and to start the calculations on the closest escape route. Now this isn’t really about the extruder since it is nothing special and my printer works perfectly, I’m only here to extract an experience, my suit has a special camera that costs a small fortune and it’s the wet dream of any spy aficionado because it has the capacity to record all the things I see, smell, hear and feel all through the millions of receptors spread along my body that are at the same time wired to an unknown part of my brain. The camera isn’t mine it is the propriety of a multinational corporation with headquarters on Singapore with whom I have a ten year contract of indentured servitude after my parents sold me to pay the bills seven years ago, the clothes on me are also propriety of the Asians and that is the reason of why I don’t know where the hell is that fucking thing that transmits every second of my life on high definition connected because otherwise I would had taken it off and made a run with all this expensive equipment.
>>3414 The videos that I record have the purpose of recreating experiences that range from product testing to smut entertainment but this time apart from testing the suit I’m also producing training materials for military and security corporations among them La Chota S.A. De C.V. When the old man ends its effusive demonstration of the pros and cons of every extruder he has I take one randomly on my hand and pretend to be analyzing it while in reality having no idea how it works and at that very moment I yell “Do you think I’m an idiot?”, the man speechless tries to babble something but again my question is not for him but for my suit that receives the command and shows me the escape route directly to my eye and in less than a second the extruder is on my pocket and I’m running towards the crowd. Even though escaping on wheels would be way faster the sheer number of people that is gathered on the street is overwhelming which is a bother that comes with some advantages because even if my escape is slower that means that La Chota can’t use its pulse guns at discretion. The desperate yells of the old merchant fade in background as I go deeper in to the mass of bystanders that wouldn’t lift a finger to help somebody and much less to help stop some petty thief that could be armed or worse since they could even be a friend or family member. It seemed that no Chota saw my swift escape and I start to settle inside the crowd decided to buy some beef gorditas before returning home to rest after a job well done but as I wonder for how much money I could sell the extruder a strong pain starts spreading on my left side and the suit immediately informs me that I have three broken ribs. My survival instinct kicks in and I start desperately running while the system starts administering a strong narcotic cocktail with analgesics and adrenaline so I don’t lose focus, it seems that a Chota has shot me from behind, Lead? Can you believe it?, if it had been a pulse gun I would have been on the ground already along with a dozen bystanders. I keep ruining with the Chota a few steps behinds while evading, jumping over and pushing away the people on my way in a desperate attempt of escaping the law but the guy doesn’t give up, we run through the clothing quarter followed by the food merchants and the communications hardware parlors and my helmet highlights for a moment a young couple smoking a joint while eating some tamales and I let a deep sigh. “Bang, bang, bang” Heavy pain on my left leg, back and right arm, “fucking hell” I scream with a lot of pain, but I don’t stop and the suit interface tells me that the armor is fucked beyond repair but that the avenue is almost over and once I cross the border the Chota won’t be able to follow me because its outside its jurisdiction and the neighboring micro nation doesn’t have any extradition treaties with this Merchant Assembly.
>>3415 “Bang” I turn right and my eye registers the projectile that misses my face for a few centimeters. “Bang” This time I’m too slow and I begin to feel warm on my left side but the end of the market is a few steps away, I can see the fence and I manually apply an extra dosage of adrenaline and I jump over a tent next to the wall and it hurts like a motherfucker, the Chota fires four more times with its vintage revolver in an attempt to stop me in mid air but he fails, while I end up landing face down on the dirt behind the fence,safe, the suit all screwed up, while I lay there on the ground losing consciousness my system reboots.
The last thing I wrote was a version of the Library of Babel by Borges, where the library's books are written in binary. I wouldn't post it here as it's in Spanish and my translation would be awful. Plus it plays with the exact same ideas you can read on those >tfw some bit arrangements are illegal threads in 4/g/, if they still do that now.
Back when writing meant zines not blogs, that's what I did. They were the usual nonsense including half-informed political ranting, scissors and glue art and critiquing rock bands but I slowly weeded those elements out and just told stories about things I'd seen and done. By the time I got around to that style, friends told me I had a "gift" and two people said they cried reading the very last one.
Which is odd because when I look at them now all I see is spelling and grammar errors, words misused because I thought they meant something else, eyeball wrecking layouts and either microscopic print or sloppy handwriting. I can at the very least claim that they weren't crass hack writing or too heavily inspired by the usual sources. They were crap in entirely innovative and unique ways. Someone even suggested I was lying and secretly using Photoshop for the layouts. It was all paper and glue.