Redd Tramp's picture
Redd Tramp from Los Angeles, CA is reading Mongrels by SGJ; Sacred and Immoral: On the Writings of Chuck Palahniuk; The History of Sexuality by Michel Foucault October 23, 2014 - 7:06am

Something I'm working on now. This is the first paragraph.

The ceiling growls, orange all around me, and a chunk of the floor above comes down and slams into my shoulder. I don’t feel a thing, might as well have hit the decapitated mannequin standing in the window. But I can’t move it either, and when I pull up the sleeve of my T-shirt to look there’s bone peeking through sticky red. A piece of flaming wood falls, lands on a pile of busted TVs, and I have to step back to avoid a shower of glass shards. The back of my heel catches on the neck of someone’s old guitar autographed by some dead guy and I fall into a rack of charred leather jackets.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami November 6, 2014 - 1:54pm

This is the original ending, that actually became the midpoint:

     It was no trouble meeting the two bag limit, for neither of them carried much of anything. Richard missed the draw of the display screen; dreaming of the pink ocean-sea that was no longer there. And how he could no longer swim in it. How he had to make his own games to play. Ellen, by the nature of being raised in Purgatory, while she enjoyed the jack ins, was not as drawn to it. Largely because she was already all to familiar with many of the problems with it. It was only her father, that was still around. She lost much of her family to Doxy-pira.
     But Richard was family now.
     “You won’t miss it on the trip.” said she.
     “You think so? I already have a head ache.” said Richard.
     “Weren’t you a foodie?” said Ellen.
     “Yes why do you ask?”
     “Then focus on that.”

I also went against the normal ending I normally do as well.

Devon Robbins's picture
Devon Robbins from Utah is reading The Least Of My Scars by Stephen Graham Jones November 6, 2014 - 4:10pm

When the black fades, you’re alone. There is blood in your mouth, and around you gold strips of sunlight leak through the slat wood walls. Antique dust swirls in the rays. The dead skin of past dwellers. This cabin—it’s like déjà vu. A place where your father took you as a child. Where you’d sit on the counter and learn how to gut fish, peel the skin from rabbits. But you don’t remember having a father.
You don’t remember a lot of things anymore. Why your knuckles are busted open. Your teeth loose. Why there is a loaded .357 magnum revolver in your lap and your skin is covered with rosy patches and blisters. What you do remember, is that you have a name. You remember the scars on your face, and how they got there. You remember the girl. That her name was Maria. That she was drowned six weeks ago in the spillway of the Alvaro reservoir.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami November 6, 2014 - 9:16pm

     I am the cross-eyed, that stares at one. Then say that person’s head looks like an igloo. The flower, not waltzing, flows along the river. As it flows quietly into the moonlight, the melody of a soft cello bows softly in a wind never quite a storm yet close. And the dirt that crawls over the worm that at least does not revel in your germs. Quietly softly, something coming. Uncovering, a moonlight gaze.
     I gaze forever into the night. Let the sound of a wolves bay, tear apart the night. It was not the sound of rivers flowing, that tore apart the night. But the sound of nothing there. Come lunar sister, call out tonight. For it will be another bed night. I see shapes, faces following me. Yet there are no faces. Yet at once I feel as if I may become another shape. A mouth that never could scream, acts as it’s own tape. A struggle never quite a struggle. Craving a hug, or some other embrace Yet never quite making it to a kiss. That kiss from many a year ago, it was something to miss.
     Yet I am a realistic zombie. Who would ever consider kissing a mere zombie. It was a cold night November, with the rain pouring. I walk to go to somewhere I see in the distance. I am not sure whether it is a village or mirage. Yet there should be no mirages within a forest night. Except the images of things following you forever, that always seem to know where you are. Thus I seek the call of the bed, for a soothing night.
     Give me a bed, give me the night.

From what I'd like to call a complete partial

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surenpillai from Germany is reading Philosophy, Technology November 7, 2014 - 7:06pm

From my blog: http://therebelliousvoice.wordpress.com/2014/11/05/generation-of-wretches/

We have stopped respecting the earth that gives us the food, which keeps this body together. We are happy to buy the colourful poisons lined out on the shelves of the supermarkets. We are happy to pay the gods in white to treat us for a myriad number of diseases. We keep and nurture animals to slaughter later, cook and eat. We have time for the idiot box called television, we have time for the bars and clubs and hours of work helping the corporate identities to make money and we are happy to stuff our poor bellies with loads of junk food.We are ready to lie in hospitals, the houses of mercy, and writhe in pain and die after being pumped with a load of morphine or other pain killers. We call ourselves evolved! When the tiger kills, we call it macabre and when we kill, it is named nutrition.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami November 9, 2014 - 2:19pm

Ellen felt a very strong sense of unease; a very fast beating of the heart. “Ellen. Ellen. Will you let me in? I want to talk to you about your report cards. We need to talk about your grades." She walked slowly, and opened the door. It was always like this, even when she tried to talk to her father. But after her mother died during her birth, he has been the same always. He has done nothing, once he got home from work. Other than looking at that television. Ellen had given up watching television, when she turned fifteen. It was not just the educational channels that gave her a strong headache, but also the cartoon channels. She knew she was a little bit of a snob about it, and on some level she still wanted to reclaim that particularly lost joy in the glow of flickering lights. But there was nothing left but pain. “Ellen. Ellen. I’m talking to you.” her father said, and she could see his very prominent furrowed brow. “Took you long enough.”

One of the paragraphs in the third chapter of part one. After finishing my nano novella, I'm already noticing some inconsistencies in back story. Mostly because I totally pantsed the second and third parts. The first 3rd was completely plotted.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami November 9, 2014 - 11:16pm

Also add, having a hard time making myself write because I find myself becoming more particular about how my language flows, and seem to be constantly unsatisfied with how I write. Like I want to have a style more like:

Can you sing a songful tune, longing. Can you hold my hands, reaching. 'Oh, how I long for your lasting kiss. That eternal bliss, that lasts till the end of time. Sing me a little song, from your little book. That gives one tears, hand me a beer. Sing me a song, at all times of the year. That sings a song, of many a year ago.

Yet I can't seem to manage that kind of language for a 15,000 word novelette or longer.

Matt Oddfield's picture
Matt Oddfield from nowhere in particular is reading Embassytown November 13, 2014 - 11:03am

I'd venture a guess that nobody's reading it anyway, so.

For a brief spell, I want you to meet Bobby Long. He lives in the house with the quaint curtains, he and his gang of seven. It’s a typical story: a group of friends working for the same corporation, hanging out in the same places, one moderately wild night decides to take it up a notch and register as a family. None of them has much luck in romance, so why not?

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami November 15, 2014 - 10:39pm

From the beginning of two poems:

Who can you trust,
When the sky, turns to dust,
Can you trust, the shadows watching,
They are like paint, splotching,
Splotching, splotching the night.

Come to the hallows, where one may arrive,
Dine with the skeletons, one's conjecture derive,
Where is Mary, only a statue on stone,
Peering down, one may never atone.
Come to the catacomb.

Still note sure I'm satisfied with them. I may never be.

G.Myers's picture
G.Myers from Cambridge is reading Americana, Don DeLillo November 17, 2014 - 2:40pm

Random Thought Spillage. Thoughts?

Tortured Writer... November 17th, 2014.
The room is silent. Well, nearly silent. The gentle, inaudible echoes of voices in apartments parallel are all that’s to be heard. I’m sitting at the breakfast bar in my kitchen, freezing. Nobody uses the heating. Not even sure it works. The only thing that suggests life is the occasional groan it produces. My right leg is fidgeting, my knee bouncing the way it always has when I’m either bored or restless and find myself seated. I just got off the phone with Andy. He says he’s been having a hard time with his girlfriend recently and wants my two cents. If I’m honest, if I was me, I’m not even sure I’d want my two cents. It’s not that I’m useless at giving advice, more so mentally stunted in caution of not saying the wrong thing. All that ends up leaving my lips are sappy sentences so fucking cliché that you can almost see rose petals stuck in my teeth and doves violently trying to escape from my windpipe. I’m better at writing this kind of shit down. Or at least, I think I am. It means I can actually think about what I’m actually spewing without the constant, subconscious quoting of romantic films I’d seen, novels I’d read, or music I’d heard. I don’t want to break the guys heart, but I hate the fact that whenever I’m taxed with giving relationship advice, I always end up playing it safe and telling people what they either already know or want to hear in the hope that maybe, just maybe, some raw, fucking truth will surface. Something real. My fingers are near numb from cold, despite the workout they’re getting from all this typing. What’s left of my coffee is just brown piss. I never finish a hot drink. Ever. Why I’m not sure, I just always leave a little at the end. I’m not fond of the idea of getting left over bits of coffee or sugar or whatever that have sunk and stuck to the bottom of the cup. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s drinking something with the fucking horrifying experience of having something solid swallowed down with it. I mean, fuck, if I wanted otherwise, I’d have eaten something. If I’m drinking something, the last thing I want is something solid washed up in there, too. For all I know, it could be an insect, a fingernail or dried food due to my adept dish washing. Or, maybe it’s just because I can’t see the damn bottom! Maybe it’s the fear of not knowing what’s going to be at the bottom of that black, ceramic mug that prevents me from going all the way to the bottom. The fear of the unknown. Imagine if you were presented with two rooms. One room has a glass door, the other a solid, cast iron motherfucker through which you can’t see a damn thing. Upon looking through the glass door, you can see nothing but four, white walls. No danger, right? But what’s the guarantee that through door number two will be the same, safe solitude? Exactly, there isn’t. Same deal with the coffee mug. If it was a nice cold glass of water, or Sprite, I’d know if there was something in there that shouldn’t be, such as a flake or last night’s pizza, or that fingernail that ricocheted around the kitchen sink that one time you thought it was a good idea to cut your finger nails over the kitchen sink because someone was taking a steaming dump in the one and only bathroom this luxurious pad of mine has to offer. You dirty bastard. There’s a fear, an unknowing, in routine. An uncertainty in apparent certainty. No matter how used you get to something, in my case knowing that there’s nothing in this coffee but coffee, sugar and milk, there’s always that chance that one of these days you’ll be thrown a curveball. Maybe when I let my guard down, if only for a second, and turn to put the milk and sugar away, an insect  will take to practicing its ten point dive into my hot beverage. I have coffee very morning just as I take the same route to work every morning, but maybe there’ll be a morning where I’ll have an exotic, surprise ingredient to my latte, and maybe there’ll be a road block on my morning commute. No matter how much you think you know something, the world might just show you otherwise. There’s a metaphor here. Somewhere. There you go, over two pages on the potential reasons why I never finish a hot beverage. I’m pretty sure my advice to dear old Andy will work wonders, though, getting back to the point. A hot brew is always sublime preparation for donning the role of Agony Aunt.  I’ll be damned, I’m nearly at three pages.

 

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami November 23, 2014 - 2:34pm

Current draft is not yet in this style:

I was sitting in my chair, you may think I can sleep through anything. But my bestie was playing, with my hair. Or at least we were besties at one point. Now I'm a stranger there. It was Monday like any other, yet not.

Having a hard time making it fit with the otherwise YA novella I just finished draft II on.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami December 10, 2014 - 4:42pm

Lala jerked her blue ribbon hat, to keep it from falling off having no string. It was simply to much work to run on home again, for she had worked all day carrying buckets from the well to her and her mother’s home. Thus she skidded, through the dirt. Her mom peeked, and noticed she had a hard time getting up. Instead of worrying whether she was hurt, “Lala, don’t rip your dress. It will be a long time, before I can afford the material to knit you a new floral one.” It was just as well she would say that, at this point Lala felt it was simply to much to expect of her mother to say anything polite.

This is from a short story I'm currently unsure whether I'm going to add to the final Bailie And The Owl's Tome chapter book.

SConley's picture
SConley from Texas is reading Coin Locker Babies December 11, 2014 - 6:09am

I squeeze the rat skull between my fingers until blood and brain fluids seep out onto the wall in shapes, patterns, dreams, smears of a stillborn world wilting away like the abortion it once was. I must eat before I am out of time. Before the bell rings.

Cody Gabehart's picture
Cody Gabehart from Kentucky is reading Art of War December 22, 2014 - 7:11am

         My trigger hand shook under no weight at all. I held my breath so she wouldn't notice that somewhere it had lost its rhythm. The sounds of rain and thunder poured through the speakers with an artificial decay, any warmth of life had been remastered with 24 bit digital desolation. The red July moon bled past the window onto her face still cold to the touch. I couldn't help but stare. Before her eyes even opened she whispered something that fell like an empty shell casing as I searched unknowingly for the wound I had only anticipated.

"What are you doing?"

"Just looking at the mess I've made."

eyeright's picture
eyeright is reading c.s. lewis excerpts December 22, 2014 - 10:48am

He was drunk, strung out and driving to a restaurant in a part of the city where numerous beige jewelry stores sat on every corner, diamonds pouring from the windows. He sped manically in and out of the BMW’s and Mercedes littering the roads. “I thought we were going to a dive bar up the street?” I said while clinging to the leather seat and he turned up the music.

We walked in and he immediately ordered a bottle of Cabernet. “Yes, sir.” The waiter obliged kissing his ass. “Here, you need to drink the whole thing,” and he ripped the bottle from the waiters hands mid-pour, dumping the wine rapidly into my glass, filling it to the very brim. "The whole thing, okay?" And a smile crept across his face as he held the bottle. Waiting. 
 

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami December 22, 2014 - 7:04pm

She walks through, the meadow / flowing seeds, of flowers,
That plant new, young flowers / drifting on, wayward.
Come to, the meadow green / where the long, river flows long,
Swim along, the river of / the valley, of flowers.

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

Experimenting with higher syllabic stanzas.

newgirlsghost's picture
newgirlsghost from Land of the Pines is reading take-out menus. Constantly. December 22, 2014 - 9:14pm

This is the first time I've posted anything seriously, writing wise online.  I hope I'm doing this right.  So, here goes.

Abracadaver
By Sema Krishna


Chapter 1 
Had a dream.  I was swimming in a black water tropical ocean.  My flip-flops were still on.  Kept thinking that footwear would impair treading water. But it seemed I was swimming as well I always had.  Splashing, I dove naked through the translucent ink.  The thought of flip-flops, provoked trepidation, like an undercurrent.  Night fears shimmer with symmetry.

 

 

newgirlsghost's picture
newgirlsghost from Land of the Pines is reading take-out menus. Constantly. December 22, 2014 - 9:50pm

And I'm submitting this also for now, Its more representative of the lyrical quality.  I have so much to learn here, I need the basics. But I know I've got a good damn solid story synopsis in my cranium.  Anyways, its a start...

Abracadaver

by Sema Krishna

Chaper 6 (last paragraph)

The sun sets on the sand’s edge.  It’s a long drive home past the desert peek-a-boo gambol between billboards and staggered metallic monoliths.  Evangelistic electric temples seamed with stucco and scaled with windows patterned like acid dipped Monarchs, recede in a Doppler blur.  A barrage of tarted up icons frosted with neon pin-ups woosh faster across the panorama.  Still other structures eschew perspective of things, which could easily fit in one’s hand, are here constructed larger than life.  Everything is made to look like falling down the wrong end of a telescope.  Looming concrete partitions, veil suburbanites hustling like a hungry infesation of harvester ants, in and out of their boroughs.  All dizzying optical illusions, like a mirage of hopeless ends.  And endless hope.  Fucking Vegas.

newgirlsghost's picture
newgirlsghost from Land of the Pines is reading take-out menus. Constantly. December 23, 2014 - 6:12am

I think the first paragraph is way better. Less is more.

Jim Woods's picture
Jim Woods from ohio is reading Fight Club December 23, 2014 - 7:25am

I squeeze the rat skull between my fingers until blood and brain fluids seep out onto the wall in shapes, patterns, dreams, smears of a stillborn world wilting away like the abortion it once was. I must eat before I am out of time. Before the bell rings.

This one really pulls you in. Dreams doesn't fit with shapes patterns and smears IMHO. The I must eat before I am out of time makes me think he/she is starving, but the bell part makes me think again. 

Jim Woods's picture
Jim Woods from ohio is reading Fight Club December 23, 2014 - 7:30am

The first paragraph on a novel I'm working on. 

The gun is cold and heavy in my mouth.The second a revolver is placed on your tongue, everything moves in slow motion. You notice a fly hovering around the room, the wear pattern of the carpet. How light comes in through the window and sneaks in through the curtains. The stain on your pants. Little things you never noticed.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami January 2, 2015 - 9:46pm

This is from a new story approaching regular short fiction length:

It was a warm day in the month of spring, and she skipped around in her wooden shoes through the daisies and tulips in the large garden. Then she took a rest, and plopped into the grass, where the flowers grew. A large blue sky, filled with clouds. It had been many months since she had looked at the sky fully. And what a sky it was. Her long white dress with a brown vest, flowed softly in the breeze of the late morning. Her long dark brown hair covered her face in its own bliss, as she avoided staring into the sun. “Oh how these shoes hurt.” said she, for she had worn the shoes for a very long time. Sooner than she realized it, many an hour came to pass.

eyeright's picture
eyeright is reading c.s. lewis excerpts January 14, 2015 - 6:11pm

"Have you seen that small green Altoid box anywhere?" he said, and glared at me with a rabid, paranoid look permeating his eyes. My stomach twisted into cold knots. "Hey, did you hear me?" His relentless questions made my eyes water. "No, I already told you I haven't seen it." "Do you know how much money those drugs are worth?" he yelled as he manically started throwing open drawers in the kitchen, the sound of silverware crashing made me uneasy.
"No I ---"
"Only about a grand. A GRAND!" he cut me off. "You wouldn't take things from me now would you?" he said in a tone void as cold as a corpse.
"Never mind," he pulled vodka from the freezer, and made himself a drink on the rocks. It was noon. On a Tuesday. "Call into work tonight and fuck me all day and night, okay babe?" he said while kissing me on the forehead like nothing was wrong.

Jose F. Diaz's picture
Jose F. Diaz from Boston is reading Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel January 15, 2015 - 12:03am

Opening paragraph for my honors thesis. 

"Children, starved and naked, sat on the dirt. A man stood before them in a gray suit with his hand held high, a piece of bread pinched between his fingers; not a loaf, not a roll, just a piece, a tiny morsel. The children’s hands reached for him. They begged. “Please mister, please, please just a little bite, just one, oh please mister.” They said it over and over. All save one. Every bone in their bodies was visible through the shroud of dirty skin. They had no concern for modesty. They didn’t try to cover their genitals. The man continued to tease them with the morsel. He had a smile on his face as he teased them. Four men stood behind him. They all laughed and smiled. One had a pistol in his right hand. He tapped it against his leg. In his other, a cigarette burned half way down. The men smiled, smoked, and laughed as their friend teased."

Thuggish's picture
Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal January 22, 2015 - 7:30pm

Hey, Jose is back around...

Jose F. Diaz's picture
Jose F. Diaz from Boston is reading Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel January 26, 2015 - 12:44pm

Yes, yes I am. I should be around for a bit, not as active as I would like to be, but I'm here.

Dwayne's picture
Dwayne from Cincinnati, Ohio (suburbs) is reading books that rotate to often to keep this updated January 27, 2015 - 1:35pm

Welcome back.

Jose F. Diaz's picture
Jose F. Diaz from Boston is reading Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel January 27, 2015 - 6:06pm

Mahalo

aculous's picture
aculous April 16, 2015 - 8:42am

"building a temple to her he wept. Loss is a simple, calculated affair, it requires nothing but attention and leaves ever so slowly. Closure is all that one longs for in these situations and loss cannot oblige. It must twist and torture and leave you with memories, dulled by the passage of time. He wandered constantly, looking for her. Once found he built this temple of light. Struggling through the thickness of the pines, the cool dusty air of the forest washing over him, he stood silent. He would intermittently lay upon the moss of green velvet remembering over and over again her sweet awkward loneliness and he would smile at the warmth meeting her would bring. But in a naive stroke of events he failed to realize he did not lose her, he was just away. Spiraling toward the end."

 

first post. Comments welcome of course. Trying to shift gears a bit and write every day. This was just off the top of my head which I toiled away for the man, my solace of course during lunch was a paragraph :)  

rikjam's picture
rikjam from Long Island is reading Dan Brown April 26, 2015 - 4:02am

                                                   The Isle of Thom by Richard Miller


     I should know by now. Whenever I want to get going, I have to start an hour or at least a half hour before, so that those who shall remain nameless (Rinah, my wife) can do all her business and be ready to go when I am ready to go. But no, I always fall for the fake, figuring she’s ready when- of course she’s not. What was I thinking? I grab my hat and keys and say “All right, let’s go,” and that’s exactly when she’ll say “Okay, first let me put up a load of wash.” or “Okay, first let me go to the bathroom,” And I’m like..huh? You had all morning to…” Oh, what’s the use?
     It was the middle of June. A week from the official first day of summer, though it felt like it had been here for a few weeks already. Temperature was eighty, brilliant blue sky and smells of fresh cut grass and lilacs. We live in the quiet town of Islip on the south shore of Long Island. (Our house is actually two miles inland, but locals still say ‘the south shore’.)
      I sat in the car; packed, dressed, sunglasses on, engine running; as she takes care of her ‘issues’.  We’re both in our mid-fifties and there are always personal ‘issues’. I myself, for my sixtieth birthday am expecting to receive a gift-wrapped prostate the size of a potato. If I’m not up three times a night my name isn’t  J. Radford Sweeneytodd the Third.
     Actually, that’s not my name, my name is Jay- but you know what I’m saying.
     We were heading out east to spend a weekend with our friends, Steve and Barbara. I’m in the eye-care industry and Steve is a small local sunglass manufacturer. They have a summer house in the North Fork community of Laurel, heart of wine country. Steve is into ballooning and the next morning we planned to get up early, hopefully without any ‘issues’, and fly in the balloon with him. (Our kids are married, we have six grandchildren, Steve and Barb still have two kids, one just entered middle school, Sophie the little girl is in fourth grade.) We were both pretty excited about going.  Well, okay, maybe I was and Rinah wasn’t so much. But she agreed to go along so that was something.
     The back door finally opened, Rinah came out, closed and checked that the door was locked and walked to the car with a bag and a big red hat in her hand.
     “What?” she said as she got in and closed the door.
     I rolled my eyes. “Nothing. Got everything?”
     “Yes, and I saw the eye roll buster.” She said.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami April 26, 2015 - 8:16am

For my flash fiction Daisy Darling:

I went through several lovers. For me, I was always called the one day lover. Got around. Until one day when I met a woman that referred to herself as Daisy darling. We were together meeting with other friends at a local pub. Some would play their wind instruments. I always wondered how she managed to walk around with those shoes.

Daisy had shortish blond hair, about shoulder length in curly cues. Wore a dress that shined in the glow of the city lights, with an orange background and daisy painted all over. She always wore a pair of wooden clogs, she purchased in one of her tours to the Netherlands. Being to poor to afford a pair of tap dancing shoes, she made due with tapping in these.

As we ate together at the bar, I would hear her shoes clack together. "How do you do," I said, saying how do you do was a standard greeting. But she took the gesture literally, then we flocked together weeks later.

Haven't had much energy for novels latelly.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami May 1, 2015 - 4:57pm

From my Wattpad short Legally Dead:

It was eight o'clock sharp, when he got off work. He had no reason to leave, except for the fact that his employer wanted him on the dot, and thus get good sleep tonight. Though for the reason that his boss wanted him to not be late, Darin suspected his intentions. Even for a factory job, there was still exercise. While he sat in his office rotting his brain. Many cars were driving by, he hated cars. As every one of them reminded him of people refusing to take him for a ride to somewhere nice if he were hitch hiking. But he was now a long way from the man, that only went biking. Everything was just going to be a wonderful evening for Darin.

Thuggish's picture
Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal May 5, 2015 - 8:58pm

I don't think we post to this thread enough... So I'll do my part.

 

The wind blowing past is too loud to hear anything else. She slips from my grasp and veers away as we begin to fall. Her parachute still in the crook of my arm, I steer to her, trying to get within reach. At the altitude we jumped we have maybe seventy seconds before our parachutes deploy. Fifteen are gone. I reach for her hand but she’s flailing too wildly. Angling to get above her head I grab a fistful of her hair and pull her to me. Her hands grab my wrist like a vice.

Tucson's picture
Tucson from Belgium is reading Late Essays - J.M. Coetzee May 7, 2015 - 12:16am

Poor hair, lucky woman.

Tucson's picture
Tucson from Belgium is reading Late Essays - J.M. Coetzee May 7, 2015 - 12:22am

From a short story I wrote, (a boy visiting an exposition with his uncle):

It had been Picasso and Ludger had talked about it as if the man himself had come to Brussels. Sure, they were paintings, but these Milan could understand. Bright colors, childish lines and bodyparts in all the wrongs places. There was a special tourfor children and they'd taken this. At one pint they sat down and drew like the Spaniard had done. Everything was great, no matter how ugly. When they continued the exposition on their own, Ludger had pointed out hidden breasts and a penis lying on the face of a woman. A penis had always been funny, but especially at that age.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami May 10, 2015 - 11:14am

Thuggish: Is a story about skydiving?^^ Sounds amazing.

And here is mine:

While the pain had long sense gone away sense it was severed, the reminder because of her prosthetic gave her a sense of agitation. Danna's eyeball had been aching over the last few months, and her clothes as of recently as well had started to be eaten by moths. Along with the others, in her neck of the woods there was only hand washing, as the machine washers were only bought and sold by those few rich enough to afford it. It was day in, and day out. Her eyeball that she had just started getting used to, started to get an odd database discoloration. Every so often the operating system would pulsate. This would give the feeling much like a stroke at times. Part of her wondered why she had not yet gotten brain damage.

Thuggish's picture
Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal May 10, 2015 - 1:47pm

Well, at one point they skydive...

Thuggish's picture
Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal May 10, 2015 - 2:32pm

When we arrive I see his blue mohawk in a corner booth. He’s ordered for us and the food is waiting. Smart as ever, he’s limited our interaction with the waiter.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami May 14, 2015 - 7:18pm

In my new Flash Fiction called Moments:

She stole them after they were dumped to the street. He saw her, was about to call the coppers and the pigs. But then they would search the cocain in his wig. The shop owner gave her clogs on her feet.

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Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal May 16, 2015 - 9:45am

search = find? 

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L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami May 16, 2015 - 10:00am

I didn't notice that, thanks a bunch.

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Species84 from Fluidic space is reading UNIX a standard operating system (1985) by Austen & Thomassen May 17, 2015 - 8:57am

Call the coppers AND the pigs? Dail 911 twice? I don't get it. Sorry.

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Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal May 17, 2015 - 11:53am

I think the police are either "coppers" or "pigs" in the mind of the girl.

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L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami May 18, 2015 - 1:14pm

Yea I ended up making the correction, when I was reworking the draft:

Her job was low-paying, but she was glad to have anything. Ailene remembered how for the longest time she hadn’t been able to afford shoes. When she had visited an antique shop, where the owner sported a powdered wig, she had noticed he was tossing a pair of old wooden clogs in the trash. She stole them when she thought he wasn’t looking, but he ended up seeing her do it. “I’m going to call the cops.” he had said in a thick accent. Seeing the tears in Ailene’s eyes, he had changed his mind.

A flashback sequence.

This is part of my most current poem:

There is an echo / whispering my name,

I hear her calling / I know not her name.

She's been each night / crying at my door.

Shall I call her here / or walk to my door.

Or stay in bed now / waiting for the morning.

     No chance for the sad and mourning.

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simulacrum from Las Vegas is reading shit May 18, 2015 - 7:09pm

      Their attendance was conditioned on the occasion of paying respect to Jonah whose recent novel had been received with overwhelming acclaim. Critics declared that he was continuing the legacy of Hamsun, Dostoevski, Balzac — indeed, he was the heir of a literary tradition that was allegiant to no region. His intense profile, a calculated scowl, confronted the readers from the front cover of numerous periodicals. Academics, critics and laypersons alike have all answered the modern day’s most insistent question: “Have you read Rinaldo?”
      This gathering that had assembled to offer their abundant applause to Jonah was in attendance of the award ceremony at a prestigious literary festival in New York. Jonah, whose oil and sweat was viscerally illuminated by the stage lights, had been invited to receive the trio of awards he had earned for his best-selling novel. What his congratulators, his critics, his fans, and he himself had yet to realize was that his novel, A Coast by Moonlight, had been plagiarized in total, each word of every line having already been penned by an author of a time long past.

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Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal May 21, 2015 - 9:18pm

Something catches my eye. A security guard tapping someone’s shoulder in the VIP section, shaking his head subtly, but sternly. The patron holds his hands out in protest but quickly gives in. They exchange a few private words, the guard points, and the patron nods and stands. In his hand I see what the fuss was about: the young man has a small bottle with a dropper on the end that he stuffs into his pocket. He heads to the bathroom. I follow.

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L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami May 23, 2015 - 9:27pm

I once painted on a canvas. For a long time I had always wanted to be an inventor of sorts, up till I was around the age of nine or ten, though I can’t remember the exact age specifically. There was a seemingly very large angle board, that I would use watercolors on. Before I would paint, I would sketch out whatever it was that I was wanting. In my mind, I wanted to sketch an entirely new world. But I only ever managed to paint some odd machine that, while my parents were kind of enough to comment on how it looked, who likely didn’t know what it was either, was something I was not quite sure what kind of machine it was at the point I finished it.

From a flash fiction Alcor The Devil. Well where is the devil, well the devil's in the details.

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L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami May 30, 2015 - 1:59am

From part 1 of 3 of How The Cyborg Got A Job As A Mini_Mart Sweep:

There was nothing left for him. There was nothing left for the others either that would come from him. He owed nobody anything, not anymore. There was nothing he had inherited from being born and raised away from these parts, this Purgatory Road. Only random luck that he had not been shot. Not yet, but maybe soon. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe right this second, he didn't know. He inherited nothing but the stained Earth of his new life.

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Dwayne from Cincinnati, Ohio (suburbs) is reading books that rotate to often to keep this updated May 30, 2015 - 5:14am

Great title!

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Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal May 30, 2015 - 6:20am

^ I have to agree