Dwayne's picture
Dwayne from Cincinnati, Ohio (suburbs) is reading books that rotate to often to keep this updated December 18, 2015 - 8:19pm

Tinkerbrick, Issue 1 first paragraph

I was about to lean over and snort cocaine off the penis of a trans something stripper named Bronco Betty. She (?) was laying on a table. Randy stopped fidgeting with his maroon hoodie and raised an eyebrow and reached over it to tap my shoulder. “Baby, can we talk before you do that?”  My weird isn’t your weird okay?

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami December 19, 2015 - 8:02am

Note that the above is in now way reflective of the actual reality of being trans. For one, trans women don't necessarily have male junk. That is all.

Dwayne's picture
Dwayne from Cincinnati, Ohio (suburbs) is reading books that rotate to often to keep this updated December 20, 2015 - 9:31am

I was pretty sure "tran something" and "She (?)" shows even the narrator doesn't thinks she understands what trans means.

Thuggish's picture
Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal December 20, 2015 - 12:52pm

I'd pictured a pre-op guy with implants when I first read it. 

bethwenn's picture
bethwenn from Milwaukee is reading The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann December 20, 2015 - 6:16pm

Sorry to get off-topic from paragraph stuff, but: The sex worker community is rather quite a bit different from the mainstream trans community because their gender identity is commodified. They retain their genitalia as a business asset; the goal is to be a "transvestite hooker", not to be a transexual woman. And so what happens to their body is something commodified and informed by the desires/demands of others rather than being primarily an attempt to align themselves physically with how they perceive themselves. There is overlap, though, especially when they make it out of the sex industry, but to my knowledge most of them don't make it out because they end up dead. :( Espeically if they're arrested. The highest mortality rate and sexual victimization rate in prison is for trans people, especially ones who are also ethnic minorities. The goal is to be a taboo and eroticized in-between identity in order to gain the business of primarily upper class white men who would likely identify as straight, not to be a woman or man. (To the best of my knowledge. I could be wrong!) I think that what you have makes sense for a flawed, unreliable viewpoint narrator but if I were you I'd just keep it in my mind to do as much as possible to make sure that the viewpoint narrator's voice will be perceived by readers as distinct from your own. If you can do something more to satirize your character's usage of the word "trans", it could be helpful in saving yourself a lot of grief in the long run. The other character in the scene is a good conduit to do so. Just because many readers will probably get defensive and react quickly to see it as ignorance and transphobia on your part, rather than being optimistic and seeing it as a willful artistic choice by an intelligent author to portray a flawed character.

Don't want to bog down this thread with that discussion but feel free to PM to discuss more.

Thuggish's picture
Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal December 20, 2015 - 8:32pm

^

I've read the viewpoint character... it totally works for her.

Thuggish's picture
Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal December 21, 2015 - 12:00pm

The com flashes and a picture pops up on the screen. “Since you showed me yours.” It’s a bloody, mangled body in the streets. The face is barely intact but she has short red hair, skinny…“Explosions got her. She’s lucky I didn’t find her first.”

Dwayne's picture
Dwayne from Cincinnati, Ohio (suburbs) is reading books that rotate to often to keep this updated December 21, 2015 - 9:05pm

I have no interest in perfectly PC characters. If people think I'm anti whatever because of that, whatever.

T. Dagarim's picture
T. Dagarim from Atlanta, GA December 22, 2015 - 7:29am

We need a way to transition to the beginning. What led us up to this point. A what happened. A who said what and why. And, of course, most importantly, how it made them feel. Because, this is life: Some personally significant, yet socially obscure and misinterpreted story, drenched in pointless dialogue. Antagonist, protagonist, interchangeable. And shot up with just enough verbal heroin to make it seem relatively useful or remotely relevant. This is life. A dog instinctively screeching until your ears bleed. And later that evening making your leg his bitch in the living room. And pissing on the carpet. Shitting where you can't find it. Your best friend. A sequence of events. I was born, then this happened, and this other thing happened, I lost my virginity, bought a house, and that's all led us up to here. Ah, but it's all just instinct. It's animal. It's evolution! It's the ubiquitous completion of eternity and mortality rolled into a  chronical Diary of The Life and Times at Humanity High. It's nothing. Simply nothing. Until you introduce the one factor that truly defines humanity's frailty. Now, tell us how it all made you feel. Enter - sympathy. Enter - humility. Enter –instinct This is life. And we're all so damned dominated by the expectation that the way it made us feel is the only important thing left. What actually happened just isn't interesting or exciting enough. Our past is having the abortion of the unwanted baby of morality's psychological rape. Our feelings. We need a way to transition to the beginning. Life has pissed on my carpet. Raped my leg. And I'll tell my story out of order. No, you don't deserve a timeline. No, you don't deserve a sequence of events. No, you don't deserve the satisfaction of order and ascending or descending significance.

Thuggish's picture
Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal December 22, 2015 - 9:19am

I have no interest in perfectly PC characters. If people think I'm anti whatever because of that, whatever.

I think it makes you anti-PC. Which is awesome.

 

@ Fasset-

What kind of piece is that for?

T. Dagarim's picture
T. Dagarim from Atlanta, GA December 22, 2015 - 1:35pm

@Thuggish-

It's for a novel I've been working on called "Walt." MC gets kidnapped, but it pretty much ok with it, as long as his experience is something different than his everyday routine. He gets more than he bargained for though.

Thuggish's picture
Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal December 22, 2015 - 2:10pm

I meant more like genre-wise.

T. Dagarim's picture
T. Dagarim from Atlanta, GA December 22, 2015 - 2:37pm

@Thuggish,

Not really sure, honestly. Transgressive is probably the most apt description, but that's so broad. It's meant to be a novel with an altruistic moral, but one that is so obscured by ridiculousness that it's almost lost. It started after a real life experience I had which involved a bonfire, a man named Walt, an unfamiliar place, and a colloquial dialect which was almost entirely indecipherable, considering the fact that I was tripping pretty hard at the time.

Dwayne's picture
Dwayne from Cincinnati, Ohio (suburbs) is reading books that rotate to often to keep this updated December 22, 2015 - 4:41pm

I'm not even anti PC, I just don't care.

Thuggish's picture
Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal December 22, 2015 - 6:01pm

I thought transgressive too, so let's run with that.

You know what, your premise kiiiind of reminds me of Bandits (movie). Might be worth a watch?

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 December 28, 2015 - 7:35pm

Woo! Hoping to hold myself accountable for this shit by posting it here. No one else is going to read it otherwise, and I'll rip it to shreds and forget about it, knowing myself. Here's the next part of that beginning, I posted it on the bottom of last page where it might have been missed. I know it's more than a paragraph technically, but my paragraphs are short, and I'd like to get the whole scene up here. 

The perc/coke combo keeps his heart from giving up just yet, and at five hundred seconds he opens his eyes.

The shop is too smoky to see anything past his hands, crackling all around him. The front counter shatters under the weight of some poor sap’s bought and sold memory, a record player or a radio or a cinderblock of an old PC. Everything can burn. Nothing is safe.

Jason stands, shirt still masking his nose. He steps forward, almost slips on a singed sombrero. The heel of his cowboy boot comes down hard on something. It crunches, a wet sort of pop he feels more than hears. Something else races up his other leg, skitters up the sleeve of his shirt.

Maybe painkillerless, with a normal heartbeat reacting at animal-level instinct, Jason could have swatted the purple ball of legs before it reached his neck and sunk its fangs into the hollow under his Adam’s apple. But Jason’s grown accustomed to moving in slow motion and has to pry the exotic tarantula from his chest by the time his hands can get there, its furious fuchsia legs kicking out in every direction, squirming furry in his palm. He chucks it at a burning bass drum. It catches orange, pulls itself one leg at a time slower and slower across the face of the melting drum, screeching like a pig with its stomach slit open.

 

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 December 28, 2015 - 7:35pm

Pressing his fingers to his neck, warmer now somehow than he’d been before, he drops to his knees, still trying to count like his brother showed him as a kid. Pills and numbers have always been his best friends against his brain. Counting organizes you. But now his eyes are wet, his face is numb, and the numbers, they lose their order, are just soup in his head.

The ceiling growls, crumbles, and Jason smiles, curled up on the flattened sombrero. The shop burns. His eyelids weigh more than the whole world, and at some number he doesn’t recognize, Jason stops counting and closes his eyes.

                                                                  #

 

Jose F. Diaz's picture
Jose F. Diaz from Boston is reading Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel December 28, 2015 - 9:15pm

You are going to die. It will happen in the next 6 to 18 months, +/- 2 months. There are no herbal remedies, prayers, emergency surgeries, diets, under or over the counter medications that will keep you from dying.
You are going to suffer before you die. There will be pain, nausea, fevers and chills, weight-loss due to diminished appetite, headaches, insomnia, dyspnea, depression accompanied by suicidal thoughts and ideations, irritability, and/or flashes of anger and euphoria … among other symptoms, but these are the most common.
Your family and friends will suffer before you die. Emotional distress caused by your current condition is typical. Despite their animosity, openly or secretly, they will suffer with you. Those that do not know you well will feel it necessary to overcompensate to make up for a feeling of guilt. Those that know you well could resent you for taking attention away from their current predicaments. Do not expect to know anything about family affairs. They will most likely keep secrets from you … to make sure they don’t add any undue stress … that will cause undue stress.
Regardless, if they do or do not hold secrets from you, if they comfort or ignore you, it is no longer about you. The moment you were diagnosed with an incurable disease, a disease that will lead to your expedited death, your feelings no longer mattered. You may influence the living positively or negatively, but you may not have any real focus placed upon yourself.
The main question running through people’s minds is, “How does this affect me?”
Your death will cause financial concerns. Your death will cause the 7 stages of grieving to commence. Not one of those stages of grieving are about you … they are because of you. They are because of the disease, which at this point is now synonymous.

 

A little more than a paragraph....sorry.

T. Dagarim's picture
T. Dagarim from Atlanta, GA December 29, 2015 - 8:02am

Still, as much as I meant every word that left my lips, they remained only words - sounds formed by a slight movement of the tongue, a puffing of the cheeks, a weighted breath. They were sounds with no meaning in themselves, but empty shells, begging to be filled. And by this, we are creators, however infinitely small our universes - our words, the pride of our hearts, tucked safely in sentences, their eden. Nothing is perfect, save perfection; and every imperfect creation can only breathe what is not perfect. So our words begin to question our lungs from which they were supplied. They find meaning in themselves, and inch ever closer to the tree - created only as the contrast. There is no good without evil. Drawn like the post to the plow, our words leave the safety of their sentences, and the row veers. Moths to a porchlight, they float toward their only repose from the monotony. As we watch from above, and below, and inside, our words still find themselves alone, their creator seeming strangely silent. They feast on the tree of intention, blurring color into color into color into meaningless grey - stirring sentences into fragments, pieced together like some hurried ransom note, each feathered edge obscuring the true identity of its author.

Thuggish's picture
Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal March 3, 2016 - 10:46pm

 

Either people aren't doing this or they aren't writing enough.

 

“You’re playing that card again?”

My lips tighten. I don’t know why I came here, I knew she’d be like this. I shouldn’t care after what she did to me. “Well like I said, I thought you should know.”

She lies back down facing the wall. “Just leave.”

I grit my teeth and walk out.

bethwenn's picture
bethwenn from Milwaukee is reading The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann March 12, 2016 - 8:38am

Haven't been on here in a while.

We weren't allowed to talk about Erik because dad would get quiet and stare across the dinner table, breathing heavily and glaring out like a monster under the bed—maybe one that had just sucked on a lemon—as he twirled pasta onto his fork, while mom chided, “Don't upset your father.” Erik was gone before school was even over. I'd bring it up endlessly to family, neighbors, animals. Anyone who would listen. My big brother was away in Florida but he would be coming home when school started again, I'd say, riding my bike alongside Mr. Sylvester around the cul-de-sac and talking at him as he walked Bugsy, the wheezing, hundred year old pug. I'd talk all about my brother who's good at everything he tries, all about how we'd just moved in and this neighborhood was like Disneyland compared to our old one, about how my brother would definitely help me beat up Shannon Porcelli who got all of the kids in first period to start calling me psycho girl and barking at me like dogs whenever I walked past them in the halls. I'd give names to birds and squirrels and tell them how I was worried that he wouldn't know what house to go to when he got back to New York. I'd ambush Mrs. Peressini running to get the morning paper and ask if she'd ever been to Florida, about what it was like. Was it really ninety degrees all the time and full of sharks and alligators and old people? Do sharks and alligators like to eat old people? Would they ever eat somebody my brother's age? I'd ask mom and dad every day, sometimes twice a day, “When is Erik coming home?” Dad and uncle Giuls would say I was a chatterbox, that our family didn't need any chatterboxes, and I should know better. But dad was the one who sent him away and Giuls isn't my fucking uncle.

Yato's picture
Yato from United States is reading The Dragon's Heir March 25, 2016 - 3:42pm

Although she lived the life of an innocent child, fate threw evil at her. She gazed into the eyes of danger, possibly even death, and quivered. It stared back at her with its demeaning glare and set off its own tone as it growled. Her cheeks dampened in fear as she backed into the wall. Behind the evil were the doors that she had left open to the balcony. 

Thuggish's picture
Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal March 30, 2016 - 10:42pm

We get back to the living room and she turns to me, leaning back against the old dust soaked couch with her legs crossed and jacket open and asks me, just like always, "So what do you think?" It's her way of asking where we should do what we came here to do. 

C Patrick Neagle's picture
C Patrick Neagle from Portland, Oregon is reading words, words, words April 6, 2016 - 5:18pm

ALFRED
Sir, do you think it wise to wear the Batsuit here at the manor?

BATMAN
These are my pajamas, Alfred.

ALFRED
Right you are, sir. Tea, sir?

BATMAN
If you're wondering why I'm up at this late hour--

ALFRED
I wasn't, particularly, sir--

--From the Batman parody I'm writing for a stage production in Springfield, Missouri...

Thuggish's picture
Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal April 11, 2016 - 9:55pm

Look-it me, I'm editing...

 

“You’re playing that card again?”

My lips tighten. I don’t know why I came here, I knew she’d be like this. I shouldn’t care after what she did to me. So why do I? “Well like I said, I thought you should know.”

She lies back down facing the wall. “Just leave.”

I grit my teeth and walk out.

 

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami April 18, 2016 - 4:57pm

Blanci moved in with Malcolm a month ago. But after that many days of snow, she began to feel cold and wet. The weather had made her feel this way, and thus she wanted to make a bet. If not for herself, then for Malcolm. It was not uncommon for her affections with him to be limited. After all, there was only so much sex to go around, and she had reserved it for other affairs. For the time being, she wanted to relax sitting on the worn out couch picking at her ear wax. Then spend the rest of the evening eating the few flaxseed cereal she still had left. How long had it been since Charles had disappeared? Blanci was uncertain, and it was a thought that crossed her mind for a long time. But she was simply to afraid to bring it up. The chicken nuggets in the fast food box tasted a little bit funny a few nights ago, and to her horror it had parts of human remains in it. While she was able to warn Malcolm about eating it, the scars still remain. As her life was never normal, and was a constant repeat of multiple traumas. She longed for the drama of her life to end, and let it unfold under the glow of the ‘Meadow Of Gold.’

From most current version of Uploaded Fairy.

jyh's picture
jyh from VA is reading whatever he feels like April 21, 2016 - 6:02am

From a new thing I began last week:

There wasn't much plot to speak of, mostly interconnected vignettes, each featuring the man with the pelican jacket, whose name was never uttered, whose eventual fate was an apparently random death unrelated to any of his onscreen activities. What did that mean? S___ wondered as he sat through the credits. Was the outlaw life doomed to ignominy? Was indeed all life but a series of episodic encounters from which one may escape until one simply doesn't? He wasn't sure he liked the film, but he knew he didn't hate it.

Jose F. Diaz's picture
Jose F. Diaz from Boston is reading Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel April 21, 2016 - 6:23am

Just slightly longer than a paragraph...

Benavidez nodded. "Yes, is a common mentality on the island. Not all beginnings are good."

"Why is that?" I was glad to divert the conversation.

"Is our history. The Spanish came to Puerto Rico, that's new, the Taino Indians died. Africans were brought to work the plantations as slaves, that was new for them. The U.S. gets the island, that's new, nothing changed. We are still colonized." He waved the ideas away as if they were nothing more than flies. They were a reality that never goes away. They are things for which no one has an answer. "People think new like a baby, or a job, but new just means different, and people seldom like things that are different. We have a political party that wants to keep the island the way it is, the same, but I think you know this. So same is not good or bad either. It just is." He waved that idea away as well.

Thuggish's picture
Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal April 21, 2016 - 11:55am

I really liked JYH's last line. And I really like this puerto rican guy's (I'm assuming?) little speech.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami April 22, 2016 - 9:19pm

From Children's story, Girl Who Became The Dead:

When the day was done, she put up the pale and pet the pigs. She wore two little wooden shoes and little cotton dress. Young Bess had the dirtiest blond hair from among the best. She had once dreamed to have the self, yet her life was old book left to turn to dust on the bookshelf. The curls in her hair flowed in the wind, the wind blowing upon her small long neck. The day was done, and she went inside. “I wonder what will be for dinner tonight.” she said, then said goodnight to the pigs. There was a thought in the back of her mind, that it was not worth naming them. For someday they will be dinner, their heads with apples stuffed in their mouths. She had considered running away from home, for she herself was yet one more mouth to feed. She spent nights with her father’s straight razor, and made herself bleed. She stole her father’s weed, and smoked the night away. Then the morning came.

Thuggish's picture
Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal May 4, 2016 - 10:21pm

so close, and yet so far...

 

The door to the lavatory is still shut. I crack it open and find her at the sink scrubbing her hands, her skin raw. Her bloody long sleeve shirt is on the floor. She reaches for a towel and sees me in the mirror.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami May 5, 2016 - 6:49pm

From half my novelette, the second half Uploaded Fairy:

But instead she woke up in a breath panic reeling. She then noticed that her mom had not arrived at home. So she tried to call her mom to see if she was at the tattoo parlor, but there was no answers. Or out with friends smoking pot. But her coming home, it was as if she forgot. Vella waited, waited, and waited for her to come home. But eventually she used some her ability to see all points in space and time. She noticed then that her mother was captured by a black mini van. So she hoped out of time, and into the mini van. She made herself invisible. But she brushed her mom’s shoulders to let her know she was there. Until they arrived at “The Office”, and started pulling at Nadine’s hair. She stayed close behind them, and say there were men everywhere. The man, who she saw at the door, was tending the microphone in a talk discussion, utilizing an assistant who was able to explain power points to him.

CS's picture
CS from Biloxi, MS is reading Zen in the Art of Writing: Essays on Creativity May 6, 2016 - 8:18am

This was a much larger problem than Giles anticipated. Muttering sonofabitch would not suffice because just one son and just one bitch could not possibly encompass the shitstorm that Giles had inadvertedly walked into the previous night.

"Sons of all the bitches in the world," he exhaled as he searched for the courage to walk out of his front door and down the apartment steps, careful to avoid the broken sixth step, as he did not want to compound his problem, in part because he had enough to worry about, and besides, he had already exhausted all the sons and all the bitches he could curse.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami May 12, 2016 - 5:00pm

From Long Pig Snack #3 of my mostly true stories:

On another day, there isn't anything like seeing a fish with two eyes on the same side of the head. Then the head is whacked off by a seafood butcher, problem is you are unsure where the neck and head begins. Weird thing about fish.

At the Asian food store, you might find Ramen, Rice, and cheap veggies. I often like to sample things at the store. But sometimes things change you. Things that seem little at first expand in your mind the more you think about them.

In the seafood isle, that served to discerning consumers of wild crocs, you don't even want to stuff a finger down their mouth. The consumers would sometimes stuff an entire foot down down, and one employee stuff their entire head. They all had to be in the hospital for weeks after word. Sure they are purple and rubbery, but those sea creatures are vicious.


I didn't know life bites sometimes. Sharp teeth make great necklaces for surfers. Luckily the crocs were not hungry, so I purchased twins. But when one consumer got angry I purchased the last pair, suddenly the twins became foodies.


So take a bite out of life, it's all a great Long Pig snack.

Wordpress acting weird today do to weak wifi.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami May 15, 2016 - 3:36pm

From my post sex abuse autobiography:

"Grocery trips always carry some degree of emotional baggage for me. I never liked this one supercenter because I got a crappy stunt bike there. Its a weird turn of events when you have to go because it is the only grocery store within three miles."

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami May 18, 2016 - 11:54pm

From the moment current rewrite of Meadow Of Gold: Uploaded Fairy Saga:

I was out of a job. I had lost that far fetched dream of Paradise. I was forced to give up because of something outside of my control. Part of me wanted to walk into an oncoming car. I merely settled for the quiet surrounds of the apartment flat. I was unsure whether the land lord would come a knocking right away, or a few nights away. Part of me didn’t want to think about it at this point. I wanted to enjoy the last few nights ahead.


I wanted a permanent night. I wondered what it would be like to no longer suffer from the delusion of false promises of a new life.

I had from the top of the city to the road below to consider the answer. So the little firefly lost it's wings and fell from the sky.

bethwenn's picture
bethwenn from Milwaukee is reading The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann May 27, 2016 - 6:27pm

To the great fortune of everyone in the room, Frank stops himself before he wipes the sweat, bronzer, and powder foundation from his brow with the back of his Gianni Versace coat sleeve. “I mean, God—can I get some air in here?” He yells. “What is it, eighty?” If Frank's chief of staff, Ernst—not a tall man, not a noble man, but a practical man and a quick thinker—if Ernst hadn't the experience to know that the intern definitely not named Arnold was encroaching on Frank's very much needed five foot bubble of personal space, if he hadn't the foresight to grab not-Arnold's arm and reel him back outside the bubble, Frank may not have simply shaken off the room's intolerable heat.

Thuggish's picture
Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal May 27, 2016 - 10:36pm

She catches her breath, staring at my feet. “I know it was wrong. I should have never done it. It was right after the craziness of everything and I just, I just did it. I don’t know what I was thinking. I just did it. I didn’t want you to suffer anymore. I’m sorry…”

bethwenn's picture
bethwenn from Milwaukee is reading The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann June 2, 2016 - 6:59pm

Thuggish, good to see you're still at it. Do you ever post your stuff to the workshop?

Waiting in agony for my last review to be rated so I have enough points to post this damned chapter, lol.

The trees thin. Fast moving clouds dampen the sun, and in the cold morning light the road ahead, twisted on a hill, vanishes into nothing at the end. I almost catch myself before I start shouting, “Why would Drita rip apart my closet to break open a fuckin' lockbox inside a fuckin' shoebox inside a fuckin' plastic bin on a goddamn shelf she can't even reach?”

He leans over to me and hovers there, precariously guiding us along the curved road with the wheel at a blind angle, until I look back at him. “Are you high right now?” He asks. I shake my head—more frustrated than denying it—and turn to watch as suburban mansions zoom past outside, giving way to modest roadside homes and apartments under a massive web of poles and wires. “He's high. At what—ten in the morning. You think about anything before you do it? Smokin' pot, snortin' shit up your nose. Who told you that was a good idea? Huh? Which idiot friend? Joey? That mental midget? Or one of the other hundred losers you hang around with?”

Thuggish's picture
Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal June 2, 2016 - 10:40pm

^

No, maybe someday when I have a shiny complete thing (god I'm so close). But for the record, always nice to see one of your paragraphs as well. I like 'em.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami June 4, 2016 - 12:17pm

From my flash fiction "The Porn Pill Confessional":

It was the first time I used the pill, although others of my friends had varying experiences based on their natural orientation and gender dynamic. For me, I was still finding myself and it took a while to finally settle on the various sexualized grotesque channels. I could watch girls having their heads popped off all day without a thought in the world for societies mores. The porn pill allowed us to hallucinate while we slept, and experience realistic dreams of various objects of desire we desired, including some tendencies toward bondage in the extreme, of which I was only ever a light participant in any of those.

This story is about a person who first experimented with the newly released "porn pill" drug.

Buur's picture
Buur from Florida is reading The Collected Stories, by Amy Hempel June 5, 2016 - 9:38am

From Corpse Medicine:

“It’s quite alright,” said William as he strided over to the corner of the room and grabbed a ceramic bowl. He switched the basin for the bowl, spilling some of the still-warm blood on his hands, and some on the floor. The boy was talking but William wasn’t paying much mind. Something about being sorry and not meaning to. William drained the blood into a large ceramic jug that had crushed Calendula already in it. He held the basin tipped to the side until it was dripping too slowly to wait for, then set it next to the boy again. He went back into the kitchen and grabbed the boy’s cup and filled it again with some milk, then brought it to him. “Here,” he told the boy, “drink this and it will help you feel better. Do not worry, you did nothing wrong.”
The boy drank deeply, and milk stayed on his upper lip as he asked William, “What is the name of the thing you used to cut me?”

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami June 10, 2016 - 1:44pm

From a new flash fiction that builds toward other flash fiction that builds to a novelette about an 800+ year old woman courting women across centuries:

I met my girlfriend on break from work, just outside the office building. She offered to purchase me a bag of Virginia tobacco, since I stopped smoking abruptly about a month ago. “Is something wrong with what I said?” she asked.

“No no no, not at all. What you said just reminded me of an experience I had at the bus stop. This one guy offered to purchase us groceries using fenced food stamps.” I said, clearing out my throat. “Sorry, no I’d love some thank you.” I carefully tried to change the subject, but she was persistent.

Sheri Attani Rohrbacher's picture
Sheri Attani Ro... from San Jose, CA is reading The Blindfold by Siri Hustvedt July 4, 2016 - 5:13pm

From the 2nd draft of my short story "3".

He didn’t come from a TV show or a book or a movie. He didn’t even come from one of my own stories. He walked into my mind one day all on his own and decided to stay.

It happened a couple of weeks after I met F. He is not F. Except for the dark hair he’s nothing like F. Plus, F didn’t wander into my mind, he’s a real person, unlike my unnamed friend. “His” issues are not mine and therefore not F’s, since F and I both have issues that hopped aboard the same train, which is why F and I met in the first place.

*confused smiley face*

He has no name. He’s 28 with dark, wavy hair. I’ll end the description there for now since he belongs to me. But how do I write about him without a name? I’ll call him Hugh.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami July 7, 2016 - 3:06am

From The Blond Elf Girl In The Pillory:

It had been many months since I had a good hamburger, although at the time I used to take them for granted. I now live in a world not so enchanted except for the occasional ladies in Jesus sandals that are enchanting in their own good bad ugly shoe way. I took a bus trip to the local money center, and got some rent. I'm trying to get disability money, but for most of the day I was spent.

Also from another collection:

A couple of blond acquaintances, in fact both were women, were dressed up as Queen Marie Antoinette and King Louie, reenacting their final descent into the darkness after the guillotine blade drops on their necks. The facial expression indicating a kind of suicidal joy where at last they can meet their maker while their decapitated heads are turned to each other to kiss. In actuality, they are simply standing, caressing each other in a slow embrace. They were lesbians that had moved to the state from an abusive father, who had strangled them both. In a sense me and the ladies were drawn together in to threesome among psychiatric twins.

Thuggish's picture
Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal July 7, 2016 - 8:54pm

Still tweaking this...

I know what she would want. She’d tell me to forget about her and run; do what I can to save the island. Don’t take a stupid chance and throw my own life away. But doing that means she dies.

I stick the needle into my vein and push the plunger.

Jose F. Diaz's picture
Jose F. Diaz from Boston is reading Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel July 8, 2016 - 3:59am

^

I would remove the reflexive "own" from "...my own life...". And I would maybe change "But doing that means she dies," which feels off, to maybe, "But if I do, she dies." Just an idea. And I like the last line. I've always liked that line.

Thuggish's picture
Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal July 8, 2016 - 2:09pm

Hmmm...

Yeah, i think "own" isn't going to survive the sentence. I wanted to distinguish the "my" vs. "her" life with "own" but... no, just doesn't sound right.

Annnnd I think I like "but if I do" better as well. 

Shamelessly stealing. 

helpfulsnowman's picture
Community Manager
helpfulsnowman from Colorado is reading But What If We're Wrong? by Chuck Klosterman July 9, 2016 - 9:51pm

^

This paragraph was running through my head yesterday for some reason.

I wonder if you'd consider trying a breakup of the last line so part of it is at the very beginning, part at the end with the needle going in at the beginning, the decision being made, and then the plunger push remaining at the end. I feel like it's quick, the needle is in and we're on our way, and we don't get a moment to do the light body/needle horror or really feel the needle entering. Or maybe I feel like the decision is made and the paragraph is weighted towards thought and could be balanced by just a little more physical action, a stretching out of the needle feeling.

On the other hand, it's a quick punch at the end, which has its own merits. I was thinking about it  as-is while away from my computer, so that tells you something.

bethwenn's picture
bethwenn from Milwaukee is reading The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann July 10, 2016 - 9:04am

A bit more than a paragraph, but it all goes together.

At first, Horatio doesn't think it at all unusual when Frank doesn't ask for any particular destination. Such responsibilities as planning and navigation, were they ever to rain down onto Frank's shoulders, would merely bounce off him like water off a duck's back or public urination off the water-repellant walls of the city of Hamburg. What Horatio does find unusual, however, is when Fanny reaches her hand from the backseat to offer him an Altoids mint. The friendly gesture from her is a Halley's comet. He declines. Her bluish, dribbling lips with their gummy spit pucker when she pops the mint onto her tongue instead, mumbling something about der mexikanische Jude.

“Where would you like to go, Mr. Morton?” Horatio asks, his dark, spectacled eyes meeting Frank's icy glare in the mirror.

Horatio's breath smells like corned beef on rye and chicken noodle soup. Frank hates chicken noodle soup. It reminds him of fevers and sickly bittersweet cherry cold medicine. Yellow oily bubbles and wormy noodles in the broth. He'd always catch whatever Jack came down with, and Jack was a weak and feeble child—an embarrassment of an older brother, with his spindly limbs, summer colds, allergies to everything under the sun, and the stutter that was somehow immune to the work of the best speech therapists in the country. Jack always needed doctors and shots and braces and pills and glasses—round, frameless glasses like Horatio's.