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/lit/ - Literature / Fanfic / Poetry

M-my hands are w-writing on their own~!
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🎉🎉🎉 Happy Birthday Madotsuki! 🎉🎉🎉

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i wrote this for a roll story thread on /x/ that fell off the last page a month ago pls tell me what parts you hate most. (correct answer: all of them.)


I hate losing. It’s aggravating, humiliating. Like last night. My brother had his friends over, and I have mine over. I was supposed to go out, to the theater, but someone fucked the movie reels, and my and my friends’ plans were ruined. So we stay, and eventually everyone’s playing those party packages with a bunch of minigames, the four- and eight- player ones. We move on to Just Dance and DDR, and I do fine, well enough to keep my good mood. When everyone’s tired of jumping around, and most of them are sitting around snacking or going to the pool out back, my brother puts in Generic FPS 1000 and starts a little tournament. I join in, seeing as I’ve kicked his ass before and can certainly do so again. And I do.
But. His friends. They are so good at this game. It infuriates me. The first one absolutely wipes the floor with me, and I take it pretty well. I’m only a little ticked when the next tournament starts, a half hour later, and I get beat again. It’s un-fucking-believable how good they are. I’m shaking a little the third time, and when the guy who kicks my ass makes an offhand remark about how good I am for a girl, it’s all I can do to set the controller onto the coffee table and not into his eye socket.
I decide to go swim to cool off, but I’m still fuming. I was so goddamn stupid, thinking I could beat them just because I could beat my brother.
The little tournament ends around six, and they start playing zombie games. I figure, surely I’m good this. I play these enough on my own.
These fucking people. Now everyone else is playing, and some of the people who sat around snacking are kicking ass. The girl who drank most of my favorite soda got double my kill count. Game after game, I’m humiliated. How is this possible? How are they doing this? My score keep going lower and lower. It’s a fucking wonder they don’t all turn on me and laugh now. Or maybe they are, maybe everyone’s laughing and I can’t notice because I’m just doing that bad.
Later, much later, it's time for everyone to leave. My parets take my brother to drop off his one friend that lives in another suburb. I wait until I shut the door and the last person is out before I burst into tears. I can’t believePost too long. Click here to view the full text.
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I see one stumble through the bushes along the field and reach for my bow. I slip from under my blanket and creep closer, readying an arrow. I see its face and remember my brother's dying mask, twisted, sick, not immune. It lurches towards my little camp, moaning low but loud. I remember my brother's mindless humming and tears blur my vision.


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Still writing shitty first-draft OC.

The Long Claw

You stop, beside a stream, with your mate and child. You look back, at the valley far off, and think of home. Two other members of your group stand guard, scanning the trees. You wait, still wary of the darkening woods, for your mate and child to dip their mouths down to the water before you relax and bend for a drink. You lift your head just as one of the others touches you, taps you, and nods their head towards the low area behind you. You alert your mate and child, and everyone looks to the low space, to the edges of a clearing.
They are there, long-limbed, strangely tall, moving in your direction. Your group begins backing away slowly, moving to hide behind the bushes and trees, out of sight, when the things all suddenly crouch down, looking away from you. Seizing the moment, you spur your group away, fleeing as silently as possible from the idling threat.
You look back several times, and see nothing.
It is night already when you find a good cave, one with a wide but short entrance, but a comfortable space within. Your friends immediately lay down to sleep, tired from keeping many days' guard. You play with your child a little before it tires, and curls up to sleep beside your mate. You sit next to them, quietly watching the entrance, until your eyes begin to close.

A scratching sound wakes you. Eyes snapping open, you see it in the low moonlight - the long limb ending in the weirdly splayed paw, feeling around the cave mouth. Slowly and without a sound, you rouse your group, push them against the opposite side of the entrance. The thing's head appears around the bend, and you stifle a cry at the disgusting thing, smooth and furless, large white eyes searching; your comrades give you a look and you pass this to your mate, who holds the child closer. A moment, and then a flash of movement - all rush out, out and away, but the thing cries out and another appears, as if by magic, waving its long, long arms, unnatural claw lashing. There is a fire searing through your leg but you push your mate and child ahead; you feel as if you can not run, but you do, and the only time you look back, you see them, the things, tearing into your friend, your friends, twitching, the things, the thing, the one who looks up and back at you.

You stop, beside a stream, with your mate. It has been a few hours, and you listen ever vigilant to the sound of the Post too long. Click here to view the full text.


Found out five seconds after I posted that the correct term is "persistence hunting".


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Another /x/ roll story.


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Found a stupid passage I wrote angrily on the back of a napkin at work a few months ago.

…Indeed, the typical Wal-Mart customer is incapable of looking down, and does not believe that either the floor or the trash cans exist.
I recall one day long past in which I witnessed a legless man pulling himself around the store. Exhausted, he took his heavy basket off his back, and settled onto his chest to catch his breath. Terror overtook his features, and I rushed to ask him what was wrong. With a loud wailing and wringing of hands, he cried out: "I LAY, BUT I KNOW NOT WHAT ON."
I told him it was no great mystery, but he crumpled into tears. Shaking his head, he screamed at me, "THOSE ON LEGS CAN NOT UNDERSTAND SUCH PROXIMITY TO TERROR."
My attempts to comfort the man failed, and he left the store without purchasing anything.

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Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh:


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>teenage sex scenes written entirely in a broad Scots dialect
>the book


It's literally all he's ever written, but at least he's pretty good at it.


Watched the movie recently, its pretty good.

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Does the e/lit/e speak another language?

How and why did you learn it? How do you keep the level?
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germanfag here

"I will be for a bike trip"(lit.) doesn't really make sense. Do you mean to say "I suggest.." or "I'm going to.."?

+Ich wär für eine Radtour

+Ich werde eine Radtour machen


I think I was going for "I'm going for a bike ride."
Thanks for the help, there.
A lot of times I get confused on which words to use, and which situations I should use them in.


Don't bother with Spanish. It is the worst of the western languages. Go with German or some Escandinavian ones. Not kidding.



I'm >>455 and I agree with you. Worst language, worst translations, and the only cool point is that since it has latin roots is easier to learn French, Italian, etc.


No probs
Got steam or something? I know that german can be tough for some people so I could impart my wisdom if need be

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This was what happened, critiques are totally acceptable.
Original thread: http://www.ponychan.net/chan/chat/res/40976044.html
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>Now I'm getting complaints from the other board's owner that his board is under attack

Since when posting in a thread is considered an attack? And wouldn't that make every anon who posted (either from here or there) a culprit as well? Including the other board's mods that were laughing in that thread.


>Ponychan under attack
>From Ubuu
lol we dont even have youtube


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This thread isn't the attack. Someone's been putting gorespam on their email, and some faggot is starting autism battles in their IRC channel. I figured it would be better to just make this thread gracefully disappear since it seems to be the starting point for all this.


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I wrote a poem…
I hope you guys find it interesting…
not that turned to toiling discussed || those which take decision of metallic indifference
whilst gleaning knowledge from naught what forces || proliferating innocence skepticism despised
the ideals placed in such regard || when none found to take it
placed of circumstance but not situation || wrought the furnace’s child born
correctly in empathy not knowledge given || inseminate germane ideas in womb
mind peace allows not the inverse || conflict of factual rather than supposed
allow that then one can refuse not || visceral notion spilling viscera if not placated
forgotten to rust affecting flower and flora || imposed air parasitic in nature
posed normality a risk as correctness of diplomatic || interest feigned gave before compassion
apathy superseded || judicial intervention bypassed by jury
Windows to which one can see the outside from within: A situation misguided and hopefully lost.

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Okay, I write pretty regularly. Lately, though, I've been experimenting with more stuff that evokes a little bit of eroticism in depictions of youth, preteens. I think I'm seeing how far I can go in order to prepare for a story I'm planning about a hikikomori girl, without making it come off as pervy (there will be situations where she's judging her body in a mirror).

But these stories probably *do* come off pervy. Uboachan should eat them up! So, enjoy.

Tell me if you think they're obvious pedo-glorification, or if they come off as sappy or clunky, or if you honestly enjoy it. I'm not planning on doing anything with these stories, just doing some writing exercise.

This one's rather long, 4,000 words, and is kinda sappy, but tell me what you think:



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And here's a second one, much shorter, and a little darker.


If this topic is too borderline, feel free to delete it. Just putting my stuff out there in an arena I feel comfortable with.


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I'm not a writer so I can't give any crit, only praise.

I love your stories. I don't see anything pervy in them. The ending to the first was a little cliche, but not terribly.
I can't say I was too excited for yet more media about men and young (semi-)naked magical/mystical not-men at first, but I enjoyed reading them a lot, especially Channeling Dolores.


Why thank you! I just happened to check back on this thread and saw your comment.

Glad you liked it! I just re-read Channeling Dolores again, and yeah, the ending does come off as kinda sappy, but not nearly as bad as I initially feared.

Thank God it doesn't come off as pervy (whew!)


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Slow board, eh? Anywho, I'm back. Here's another piece I wrote (not recently; rather around the same time I wrote the other two). It's super short, meandering, and is sort of an attempt to encourage debate.

I've also re-uploaded the other two, since they've since expired:

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Welcome to my thread, hopefully you'll enjoy it in some way. I'll start it off by posting something I wrote about a month ago, and something I created mainly in the last week. I wasn't originally going to post a thread, honestly (you mostly have Kyoko to thank/blame it being here), and I'm rather nervous in showing some of what I've written, but here goes:

As I said to someone who had surely guessed as much by the work of mine he’d seen earlier on, I’m in a creative drought. I’ve spent the last hour or so combing through the unfinished writing projects I’ve left be, almost all of them totally incompatible and many of them blatantly terrible. I don’t know what to do with them so I guess I may as well just start typing about that indecision itself (well no shit).

I don’t really know for certain what I should write. Should may not be the right word, I guess I shouldn’t really do anything and by the same token I may as well. Anyway, the odd motions I’m making and these half formed thoughts should be proof enough I have no real idea of what I should (there’s that word again) write.

A lot of people see themselves as performing some great service by simply writing about what they do, and many of those same people as well as yet more see themselves rendering even greater service to the race by simply writing about who they are. Many times they might well be; in case what I just said sounded overly cynical, it wasn’t intended to be nearly as judging as it may appeared. That brings me to something people don’t seem to state enough (regardless of its total lack of context or relevance in most places): perspective is a twisty, incommunicable pit of consciousness. And yet the desire to convey mine drives me to write, and as a result of it being so, I see almost everything I do produce in my unproductive state to be an utter failure.

Anyway, going back a little, I haven't done much of anything that would warrant a self-serving description, but if I indeed want to be a writer making such descriptions regardless of how they may look is just part of the role. How’s that for a run-on sentence? (And how's that last sentence about run-on sentences work for a summary of what I've written thus far?) In any case, I should at least explain why it is I see myself as doing nothing. It’s not so much that that is exactly the case; well, that much is obvious by my being able to say as much. So what I’m trying to say is that I do nothing important. Post too long. Click here to view the full text.
4 posts omitted. Click reply to view.


Get to the point, man. A word of advice on writing about real experiences: Go the Jack London or Mark Twain route and write about physical things, hardships, ways of life that people want to know about.

Anybody can write a formless miasma nowadays of can't do's, of externalized system blame. I'd say strip all of that out; get to the core of what is really worth sharing. Think of it as a "How to" manual of experience, is it useful for the readers to add this to their minds? An illustration of the symptoms is a start, but it can only go so far.


Yeah. Twain being the one of those I'm actually fond of, I'd be inclined to agree that going in that direction would be of benefit.

>Think of it as a "How to" manual of experience, is it useful for the readers to add this to their minds?

That doesn't really approach my conception of art too closely; most things I've enjoyed reading haven't really made me more aware of anything the author had deemed "worth sharing", and what is seems largely up to the reader. I'm probably badly misinterpreting you.



Ah, your mention of art actually provides a fitting synonym. Some would argue that good art is all about stimulating a change in perception. Likewise I think part of the enjoyment of reading can be traced to the question, "Did I learn something new?"

Even the most practiced prose can falter for lack of content; it is something to be aware of as your exercises soak up that refrigerator smell, taking on all those self-conscious qualities of the derived internet– its echo-chamber of the mundane. Do not be afraid to cast off the moorings of smell-absorbent paper to steer your ship onto a more vital course. Do not cling to aspects which are seen– rather focus your efforts upon the unknown qualities which must be transcribed into understanding.


A lot of times I feel as if my only purpose in writing a given thing is to affect a certain feeling rather than convey certain information, though I desire to do both; I suppose when I attempt both at once it quickly sinks under the weight of the collective meandering bullshit.

I don't quite think I tend to draw on too much outside myself, which is probably my main problem, yet I believe what you and some others (including myself really) think I should do is try and cast off the mundane influence that creeps in probably as a result of my coming to grips with certain views while trying to find something of meaning among what are otherwise trivialities. Or maybe I'm misinterpreting you again.

This experiment has probably been something of a failure, or at least it's as much a failure as any creative exercise can be. Still, I suppose it's a better start than some have had and will have and are likely having.

Writings that aren't fully immersed in my own self-consciousness and lack of assurance seem to be the only things of worth I'm able to produce at this early point in my brief existence, so I hope that at least that in attempting to write actual stories beyond the first couple abominations I can persist to the point of having actual skill at it.

Thank you anon.


I usually see myself as having absolute absolute disdain for those I see as wasting the energy they could use saying things of worth or bettering themselves or others by going on about their own ordinary lives. The fact that my attempts at outside writing stink of the same kind of self-absorbed journal-y shit kind of pisses me off. Hopefully with that awareness of hypocrisy I won't do worse.

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This book… it made me dislike Haruki Murakami. It all starts as a tender childhood love story, like enjoying South Of The Border; the song at a really young age… and then… really made me give up on Murakami.
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I like books where they start out really easy and then put you in positions where you have to think critically.


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I haven't read either of those, but even if they're not so good I doubt they can do anything to dissuade me from the brilliance of this bad boy.

(Kafka on the Shore and Norwegian Wood come close but Wind-Up Bird will forever make my heart sing.)


Try "Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World", i read it two or three times. Such dream-based story.
I don't really like his more realistic stories. I can also reccomend to you his short stories.


This a thousand times over.


One of my favorite anime, Haibane Renmei, was actually directly inspired by the scenery of the town in that book. When I found this out, I had already been reading After the Quake, so I went and picked up Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World.

I really respect a book that makes me keep grasping at different theories the whole time I'm reading it. And the surreal dreamlike imagery had me captured. It's my favorite book in recent memory.

I started 1Q84 a while back but I set it down around chapter 2 and haven't picked it up in a while. It had a crazy twist near the beginning that blew my mind, so I expect good things from it.

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I figure I could try to make this board un-die even though that is a long fucking shot. I write a lot. In fact I enjoy writing so much I even enjoy helping other people write. However, I keep running into the same problem over and over again with the people I try to help. The problem is simple. The story simply isn't compelling. It isn't good. Someone might try to write a generic monster. The characters aren't very human. The setting is badly hashed out. But most of all, there's no real story there. It's just a bunch of events, but nothing is creative. It's just words- it isn't saying anything.

When I point this out, I'm given questions on how to get into the mindset of creativity. And I struggle with this. How do I explain something so basic? I haven't even thought of it much. What is the mindset of writing? I can only really speak for myself, but I kind of wanted to gather other people's creative processes in terms of writing, in the hopes that somehow the collective /lit/ group can hash out what it means to develop a story.

Personally, my mind works in abstracts. I take everything I learn and pool it back into myself, hidden away until something relevant comes up. Mostly these are concepts. Feelings. Perspectives. These are the emotions of people I have met. Their secret worries. Concerns. Their lens to which the world is witnessed. Their grief. Their hopes. They are collected lovingly. Hoarded with utmost care and adoration and respect for the people behind them all.

I pair this with my abstract thought, to which reality is just an option. The world comes to me in what ifs. What if we could breathe our sorrow out in clouds of gas? What if our suffering showed on our skin, and we died not when our bodies gave out but when our agony became too much to bear? I try to write from a perspective that reality couldn't allow, but now must for the sake of tale. Through this, I try to give people a point of view that isn't usually considered, a sense of a situation that never was, to use what little I have heard of human lives and apply it to extract the appropriate reaction to an appropriate situation, even if the appropriate situation could never occur in reality, and take the reader on for the ride.

That's how I try to create. Put everything in abstract, hoard until the abstracts marry to a cohesive story. Sorry if that doesn't make sense. This was just me trying to get my thoughts on writing down.

What about yoPost too long. Click here to view the full text.


I believe that it isn't a lack of creativity but a lack of emotion that you speak of.
I also create in a way very similar to your method and I think that you explained it quite well.

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I was a little pensive about posting about this here (or anywhere) because I'm always a little afraid of people and interacting with them but I'm feeling brave today :x

A while back I played YN for the first time and discovered ubuu and all the fangames and really got into them. I really liked games like .flow and after man and answered prayers and for a while I've wanted to make something similar, a piece of writing that maps out my own subconscious without dialogue

The book is called Ribbon and Leviathan and it takes a lot of influence from YN. It's quite surreal and sort of follows the same paradigm/approach in regards to a concrete dreamscape

It can be found on lulu here (http://www.lulu.com/shop/tybalt-maxwell/ribbon-and-leviathan/ebook/product-21195114.html) or if you don't want to make a lulu account you could download it from its goodreads page here (https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18464683-ribbon-and-leviathan "Download e-book")

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