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I wrote a thing, read and critique if you want and if you have written a little thing post it here and me and hopefully some other will read it and critique it as well.
that's pretty much the premise, let's go niggas
I used to be addicted to it though I was deprived of it’s presence. A perpetual withdrawal from serotonin aching throughout my viscera, constantly pulling at every sinew and tearing itself a home somewhere behind my ribs. But eventually I got my fix, I cast out my unwanted visitor and life was breathed into me from the lips of a false prophet, dripping honey as the crescent shaped feminine lips whisper inaudible spells. I felt the vibrations of being vibrate beneath my skin providing the illusion of becoming, I bowed before my illegitimate goddess and offered her my essence in exchange for her promise of an answer. But eventually I lost favor, I ceased to be and began to crawl back to the abyss, I peeled back the tissues of my chest and welcomed back my soul drinking parasite with open arms, this time slicing a lesion in me to make his bed within my dieing heart . Alas the pain grew to a dull hum, aside from the wound to my heart which I expect to stay sharp until the end, and I did find others, but those false idols too spoke a gospel of betrayal through tightly closed teeth stained with honey. They too infected my viscera with vermin who I welcomed once more slicing again into my flesh to provide them with shelter, some took place as a knot in my stomach some as an ached in my spine. Yet never did I slice as deep as the first time. This constant cycle of birth and death occurred over and over, snake swallowing tail, until eventually I acted. Knowing I could never heal the wounds of my heart I finally resolved to remove the source of my anguish.
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> Go to goodreads.com
> (register an account if you haven't done it yet, trust me, the site is also a great site for people who actually read books)
> Find your favourite book.
> Filter; 1 star
> Rage and post most ragesome one here.
Mine: 1984 by George Orwell
"This...wasn't really worth it, actually. It's main fault is the plot. About halfway through the book, the plot twists, turns, goes out to a bar, gets high on crack, walks into an alley and gets shanked backwards through the stomach, and its mutilated body is pushed down Mt. Kilimanjaro into a pile of something sharp and painful.
WHY would you write a book where, for most of the story, the main character is AGAINST the totalitarian government, only to end it with the same character being a total patriot TO THE SAME GOVERNMENT? I wanted (and expected) to read some sort of awe-striking, totally B.A. anarchy-muckraking after the conversation between O'Brien, Winston, and Julia. But what do I get? Winston thrown in prison and brainwashed (BY O'BRIEN) through verbal means - which, I might add, I was able to find loopholes in (and I'm thirteen!).
No, Orwell. Just...no
Ok, I am trying to keep my head cool, but what the actual fuck does this reviewer even expect? Some kind of fucking A-team twist? Explosions? Big Brother being brought forward to a crowd to be slaughtered after a world peace has been declared and all the proles live happy ever after? Winston and Julia riding a boat to a lovely sunset whilst ripping apart pieces of the posters whilst intimately kissing in freedom?
How the actual fuck can you even start to think that would be a better plot.
My guess and hope is this is a troll because of the "I am thirteen years old"
Flash Fiction Thread
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Hey this went over pretty well yesterday so I think we should try it again. If you're like me and bored on a Friday night, might as well give it a shot.
Flash Fiction: Famous opening authors edition. So just roll first, and then start with what you get and branch off from there in any direction you want.
1. Call me Ishmael
2. It was a pleasure to burn
3. A screaming comes across the sky
4. It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.
5. Mother died today.
6. I am a sick man . . . I am a spiteful man
7. The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.
8. This is the saddest story I have ever heard.
9. In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.
0. In the late summer of that year we lived in a house in a village that looked across the river and the plain to the mountains.
Dubs. Anon, light of my life, fire of my loins.
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Obscure word thread, perhaps?
If you've got some interesting etymology to throw in as well, go for it.
A lover of obscure words.
Also, work characterised by long, polysyallbic words.
1610s, from Latin sesquipedalia verba "words a foot-and-a-half long,"