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/lit/ - Literature / Fanfic / Poetry

M-my hands are w-writing on their own~!
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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 believe how badly I did. And in front of everyone else, too. I spend a few minutes crying pathetically in the entrance room. I remember when I did badly in a championship volleyball match, and beat that girl who kept blocking my shots almost to dwhen I panicked in the pool and almost drowned at a swim meet. One failure after another. One failure after another. One failure after another.
I finally get up and walk back to the living room. I head straight for the console. The zombie game is still in; I start it and play. I can’t believe how badly I did, but I will sure as fuck never do that again. I focus. Alone, with nothing but the game, I focus more intensely than I had ever been able to before.
My start is shitty, of course, but I get better. I spend hours and hours playing. I don’t even notice when my family gets back, or if they even do at all. I just play. Aim, shoot, run, jump, aim, shoot, run, jump, aim, shoot, aim, shoot, aim, shoot, over and over. I almost beat that fucking slut's high score. I start another game, and know that this time I definitely will beat it.
And I do, by a wide margin.
Feeling confident, I play a level I haven’t seen before. I don't look at the scores, if there even are any. For sure, whatever I get will be the top.
I’m in an empty house, unarmed. The game is on the highest difficulty, so I am very thorough; I check every room. There’s medicine in the bathroom, of course. Upstairs, in the drawer beside the bed, there’s a pistol, and in the garage, a shotgun. I take all the ammo I can find and stuff it into my backpainventory. I decide to leave the house through the kitchen; I check it and find a knife in a drawer. Just as I’m putting it away, a short zombie wanders in. I point the pistol at it, and it screeches. I pull the trigger, and it drops. My score goes up by ten points, plus two points for the headshot. I hear another zombie screech upstairs, and I hide behind the counter. Two zombies run downstairs, and they both roar, screaming like animals. Almost sorrowfully.
I take aim.
Twenty points, plus four for the headshots.


Not bad at all; it could have a bit more of emphasis on little details that can give more clues, so you can understand he was cold-bloodedly killing his family, but you get the point anyway.

Short, but not bad.



File: 1370639845186.gif (453.94 KB, 180x180, 1331418136708.gif)


I'll definitely be thinking of some more hints.



Yeah, it's not a bad story, but is not something you read and 'Ohhhh shit THAT WAS SO GOOD I CAN'T BELIEVE IT!'. It's pretty average, but not bad at all; enjoyable, if you want to put it in easy words.
Writing is like a muscle; you have to exercise it if you want it to grow. So for a practice this is pretty good.

>macfag gif



That's probably the second thing I've written in two years so I'm not expecting to lift much with these muscles. Just to get an idea out. If it's enjoyable, then fuckyes

I have touched probably two macs in my life; the gif is more for the emotion than the product.


Roll story.
>If anyone else wants to post roll stories, please do!

The theme was ritual.

>I ignore them.

I wait at the bus stop, ignoring their approach.
"Oh God, don't look."
"What, why-"
"It's her."
"Oh, ew."
I ignore them.
"God, why would you even do that?"
"You know she's crazy."
"Yeah, but-"
"I know. Too gross."
I ignore them and stand; the bus pulls to a stop in front of us. They hurry ahead, afraid to touch me.
"Go, go, before she-"
I ignore them.

In class, I sit in the back of the room, and I ignore them. The tiny bits of paper, the loud whispers, the pieces of eraser, the snickers and laughs.
The teacher starts roll call, and I wait. There it is.
"Here," I say, hoarsely, and the kids nearest me all cover their ears and pretend my voice hurts them. They lower their hands and laugh and I ignore them.

I ignore them in the lunch line, and at my table, where I'm having trouble opening the milk carton with my newly bandaged hands. They watch, giggling, and suddenly grow quite. One of them stands up, approaches, and I ignore him.
I ignore him and continue struggling.
He finally coughs, and I look up, acknowledging his presence. He doesn't immediately look away or feign illness, and I feel a little hopeful.
"Do you need help with that?"
I nod.
"I could help you with it."
I hesitate, then hand him it. They're watching, but I ignore them.
He takes the carton and opens it.
"Th-thank-you," I stammer, as he starts handing it back.
His hand suddenly seems to spasm, and he squeezes the carton.
I'm covered in milk.
"You're welcome," He laughs, dropping the crushed carton on my tray.
They laugh, and I ignore them.

The bus ride home is boring. Some kids scratch at me. One of them takes out a pair of scissors and pretends to cut me up while the others hold me. They scream and chant and I ignore them. The bus driver eventually stops to break them up; he pulls me away and keeps asking me if I'm alright but I ignore him, too.


I walk directly to my room, my bureau. There are papers and books on it which I push aside; some candles, a knife, and a small box of matches which I have trouble opening. I eventually give up trying to light one and go ask my dad to light the row of candles. He pulls a lighter from his pocket.
We sit, watching the smoke rise silently together for a minute.
"It's been quiet."
"The paper's quiet."
"I know."
"No one's died lately."
"Not a single death. No accidents. Nothing."
"I think it's miracle."
"Hey, give me some of that credit!" I give him a mock-glare.
"But I really think it might be God," he says, and we both laugh until we tear up.
He gives me a kiss on the cheek before he goes.

In the mirror, the reflection of the smoke coils around my face, and for a moment I see it without scars.
The smoke shifts, and a mouth forms.
"How are you." A dull murmur.
"I'm fine."
"You seem troubled."
"I'm fine, I said."
"You need not do this alone."
"We already talked about this. I can handle it."
"There are others."
"No. Leave my brother alone, he's just a…" I pick up the knife, clumsily. "I agreed to do this by myself."
"Very well. On this day…"
I feel as if I am starting to shake. I suppress it.
"A man would lose control of his vehicle."
That could be serious. That could cost a lot. It's fine, so long as it's not the hands again. No one else has to be involved if I can just use my hands a little.
"Your nose. Ten lines." it hisses.
I relax; I've done my nose before. I recall the pain as I touch the knife to my face; cold, then hot.
Cold, then hot; pink then red. Ten times. I try to get away with five lines on either side.
I sit still, licking away the blood, while it judges. I tell myself it's not even that painful anymore, and the taste of iron almost convinces me.
"Very well. Your commitment is tested, and rewarded."
The easy part is done.
"On this night…"
I start shaking again. This will cost.
Not my hands.

I go to the bathroom to clean myself up. My mom walks in just as I finish wiping the knife dry. Her eyes are red, but she's smiling as she starts fussing over me.
"Oh, dear, let me get your nose for you."
"Mom, come on, I can do it-"
"Let your mother fuss over you, this is what I do." she says, opening the medicine closet and grabbing the bandages. "I used to be a nurse, you know."
"Yeah, years ago. You-ow-" I hiss as she dabs at my face with something.
"Sorry," she smiles. "But, darling. Your birthday is coming up."
I feel like I've been punched in the gut. How can she say that and smile? I try to say something, but I feel like I've drunk acid again.
"We want it to be special. You know."
I know.
She finishes with my face, and closes up the box of bandages.
"So, if there's something you want, tell us, okay? However you want it. We can have that chocolate cake you love, anything. Just let us know." She kisses me on the forehead and leaves. I shut the door behind her, and lean against it.
It makes sense; it should be special. Last things are important. Your last one should be special, because your last one is important. I try to bury myself in thought, but I can't think fast enough. My legs give and I drop to the floor.
I feel all my scars. There is an itch everywhere, one I can't scratch with what remains of my fingers. I feel pangs in the holes in my back. My throat is tight. The burns on my chest are on fire again, all my stitches burn.
I catch myself crying and wipe my eyes, straighten up, breathe deeply. I'm daddy's little savior. I can do it. For mom and my brother, safe in his crib. There is a pang in my chest, and I want to see him. I can do anything if I can just see his tiny smile again. Before tonight, I'll hold him while I still can.
I hear the low rumble of my dad's voice and my mom's sharp laughter echo up the stairs.
I remember the kids at the lunch table, and I ignore them.



This one is probably worse. Mostly because it's longer and more "serious", and God Knows that's a recipe for disaster.


I forgot, NSFW or whatever! The previous story has injuries and whatnot.


File: 1376609746566.jpg (2.65 MB, 2913x1856, hills_mountains_road_count….jpg)

You walk down the road to the school bus stop, ahead of your new friend, very early in the morning. It's a thin dirt line, with thick forest on either side. You get into a quiet patch below the hills, dead silent with no movement, and turn back to watch your house fall below the horizon. The black wind rustles the trees across the road and chills you through your thin sweater. The shadows in the leaves look alive.

Your friend spooks you from the side with a push and a lame "Boo!", and you jump and fall into the ditch beside the road, screaming. Your friend laughs and smiles. They lean down to help you out, drawing you up with one quick pull.

When your embarrassment dies down, they tell you a local story about the forest, about the murders and the strange remains of mangled bodies in it. Bodies found in pieces, scratched and clawed until nobody could recognize them, gutted and then bound with their own entrails, impaled on branches, and with faces smashed into tree trunks. Some bitten, some chewed, all supposedly the work of a local monster.
They tell you about the creature, a patient beast with large mouth, and rows and rows of teeth. It prowls through the trees, following cars and passerby, until it chooses its victim. Then it tests, with a howl, with the sound of snapping branches, or with a blood smear directly in the victim's path. It might test someone hundreds of times. The myth goes, if the victim reacts the right way, it goes in for the kill. Of course, no one knows what the "right way" is, or what all the "tests" are. If the victim somehow fails, the monster continues prowling the woods and bothering farm animals until another possible victim appears. It's a clever creature, and has never been caught, not even on camera.

It's a stupid myth and of course you don't believe it, and by the way your friend laughs and smiles, you know they don't either. You laugh with them, and keep walking down the dark morning road.

You get into another low point in the hills; only one car has passed. You're still a good ten minutes from the stop, but you have time to waste. Your friend idles beside the road to throw stones into a creek, and you wait with them, sitting on a flat boulder. They whistle a slow, low tune, until the wind picks up and all you can hear is branches crashing against branches. They stop and look towards the woods, grinning, saying something; you can't hear them over the wind, so you stand up and ask them to repeat it.

They lean in close, as if to tell you a joke. Their eyes reflect red in the rising sunlight.


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I love to snuggle into my blankets when winter comes. The smell of the fire and the bright warmth is so comforting.
I remember when my dad taught me to make my first proper fire. The heat of that fire felt special. I chopped and kindled all the wood myself. I still think of my dad when I sharpen the cutting axe.


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I remember my mom teaching me to make a few meals on the wood-burning stove, for when the electricity cut out, and to save money. A few weeks in, we made a stew with the best of her garden crop, and the meat of an undiseased deer. It was the first healthy deer we had seen in months, and the meat was delicious. I still think of my mother when I sharpen my hunting knife.


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I remember my older brother, born sick and not immune like me. I remember the songs my mother hummed to him, and the way my dad always helped him to walk. When I sat guard at the attic window, he would struggle up the stairs to sit with me and keep me company. I still think of him when I sit watch, and miss the warmth of his back against mine.


File: 1380332025093.png (47.62 KB, 197x190, 4.png)

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 leaves, watch carefully the light through the branches, vision blurred with fatigue, shaking from exhaustion. You wait, panting, as your mate bends to drink and chokes on the water, raises her head unsteadily, still greiving for the child, and despair and rage shoot through you, like the long claw, forcing you down. Before you can taste the cool waters, she keens quietly, and you know. You whip your head up as she begins hunting for a place to hide, a place to run. You see them on the horizon, coming over the hill. You see the glint of a long claw and the stirrings of fear rise in your stomach. Your mate nuzzles you; the touch is too short. You run.

The only time you look back, you see one of the humans point in your direction. You know there will be no escape, but you run.

>Inspired by Distortion's post in the random thoughts thread in /ot/. Pursuit predation is hardcore.


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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