I think I mentioned in my introduction that I was a writer,Ķ her his a sample that involves no gore,Ķ I,Äôm working up to the good stuff
Enjoy :D
I imagine that if you truly summed up life as a rode by which we travel, than that rode is lined every quarter century with out of the way purgatorial truck stops such as this. The twang of blue grass country music adds a strange comfort to the half empty restaurant. I dine with my last twenty dollars on some of the worst key lime pie I have ever had the privilege to tantalize my pallet with. The coffee however is fucking spectacular. Not one of those over priced immaculate French monstrosities; the type that are half foam and half sugar as only found in down town caf?©s. No, this is of those good old Columbian black tar brews. A coffee that stains the porcelain of the cup on contact and can only be purchased for consumption at run down greasy spoon dives such as this. To drink it is to wage total war on your internal organs and central nervesystem. It starts with a mad dog blitzkrieg on your stomach. There it will dig trenches and begin a volley of chemical warfare to the remaining digestive system. Throughout the day it will continue with a war of attrition slowly advancing all of its heavily armored forces until every organ in sight has been annihilated. In its wake it spreads the fascist propaganda known as caffeine to each and every one of your blood cells until they revolt, storm the brain, overthrow its governing body and degenerate its underling factions into total anarchy. Couple that with what ever the hell Nina gave me and you can kiss your hangover, as well as your liver, good by. The waitress approaches and serves up yet another cup of steaming hot toxic waist. It is my fifth.
,ÄúSon, ya,Äôll look justa,Äôbout have,Äôn had ta,Äô watched yer dog die.,Äù The long and shallow accentuations of her southern draw does little more than remind me of the depths to which I have been banished.
,ÄúThanks for those inspiring words, I had a hell of a night.,Äù These conversations generally go quickly. I do my best to act casual and play along so I can get it over with.
,ÄúLooks ta me like yer a,Äôman question,Äôn the very principle of his worth.,Äù She fills up my cup, then a second and sits down. ,ÄúWhat,Äôs got,Äôcha bit on the buns hun?,Äù
I have dealt with this kind before. The lost out in the middle of no where down to earth goo roo of the simple life southern variety. These people have a uniquely accurate understanding of how overly complicated we as people have made things. They have lived their entire life busting ass for tips they only get if their customer leaves les pissed off and callow than as they came. She is a bar top shrink who has heard it all and knows more than one way to make a total freak of nature feel comfortable for the first time in his own skin. She has never met me though.
,ÄúI,Äôm suffering from a pore perspective on one big fucking moral dilemma.,Äù I lean heavily on one hand.
,ÄúOh I see, your son a homo or somth,Äôn?,Äù she fiddles around in her breast pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a match.
,ÄúI just spent last night having the best sex of my life and when I woke up today I discovered that this girl was the daughter of a woman I brutally tortured, raped, and murdered about thirteen years ago.,Äù She goes to light the cigarette but stops dead in her tracks, the flame of the match burning just off from its target.
,ÄúWell now I have heard every thing,Ķ it,Äôs on the house.,Äù Mortified she stands up and walks away.
QuoteI think I mentioned in my introduction that I was a writer,Ķ her his a sample that involves no gore,Ķ I,Äôm working up to the good stuff
Enjoy
I imagine that if you truly summed up life as a rode
I stopped reading right there.
Bolded to point out why.
Shoulda kept going alphabet dude, you missed all the best ones.
Dozens there were.
Oh, man.
QuoteI dine with my last twenty dollars on some of the worst key lime pie I have ever had the privilege to tantalize my pallet with.
Ye Gawds.
:lulz:
Not to be bashing anyone, but WTF was that supposed to mean?
Apparently, he smears key lime pie on a mattress made of straw.
And ends sentences with dangling prepositions.
I know, I know, 50 post suggestion.
But still.
Oh, hell, I can't help it.
QuoteThe waitress approaches and serves up yet another cup of steaming hot toxic waist.
Quote from: LMNO on March 26, 2007, 04:06:12 PM
I know, I know, 50 post suggestion.
Go on - be a devil. Yuo know you want to :evil:
Actually if he hopes to write he needs this sort of criticism.
I was thinking 50 too, but c'mon...
He needs a dictionary/thesaurus as well.
Typically a tantalizing priviledge is not from a worst experience.
Remember GD- We are trying to be constructive.
Oh, ok then.
Quote,ÄúSon, ya,Äôll look justa,Äôbout have,Äôn had ta,Äô watched yer dog die.,Äù The long and shallow accentuations of her southern draw does little more than remind me of the depths to which I have been banished.
QuoteThey have lived their entire life busting ass for tips they only get if their customer leaves les pissed off and callow than as they came.
Quote,ÄúI,Äôm suffering from a pore perspective on one big fucking moral dilemma.,Äù
Maybe he should throw the sex and violence back in, to distract us from this sort of stuff.
Quote from: hunter s.durden on March 26, 2007, 04:14:11 PM
Remember GD- We are trying to be constructive.
Speak for yourself dude, personally I'm trying to see if I can make him kill himself :evil:
I knew that was coming...
can somebody explain why dangling prepositions are something to make a problem of?
(that was one, right? not an easy feat to accomplish, i must say)
Well, it's not "proper" grammar, and the guy did say he was a writer.
I think the AP style book is starting to cut it some slack, but still, it's not really something you want to mess around with.
:oops:
with a littlebit of practice, a dangling proposition is not very hard to end a sentence with
hahaaa, the hang is what i'm getting this of
dangling prepositions I could do without
is 'preposition' a euphemism for 'cock'? or should I have listened more in english class?
Yes.
You just answered an eitherorinism with a dangling affirmative
(okay you got me I'm making this shit up)
Quote from: SillyCybin on March 26, 2007, 07:15:16 PMis 'preposition' a euphemism for 'cock'?
if it isn't, my 4th grade english teacher certainly has some splaining to do :eek:
lol I said I was a writer... I never said I was good at it... all the same these things do need to be pointed out but besides arguing over whether or not one can tantalize (basically meaning teas) their pallet (by which I refer to the back of the tong), my grammar sux ass and I,Äôll never get it right if I,Äôm not beeten about the head and neck evey time I fuck it up,Ķ so have at it.
Any who, what about the actual piece its self,Ķ any thing to say there?
Lol god I suck.. and by tong,Ķ I would of cores me tongue
Quote from: LMNO on March 26, 2007, 04:19:37 PM
Oh, ok then.
Quote“Son, ya’ll look justa’bout have’n had ta’ watched yer dog die.” The long and shallow accentuations of her southern draw does little more than remind me of the depths to which I have been banished.
QuoteThey have lived their entire life busting ass for tips they only get if their customer leaves les pissed off and callow than as they came.
Quote“I’m suffering from a pore perspective on one big fucking moral dilemma.”
Maybe he should throw the sex and violence back in, to distract us from this sort of stuff.
Sex and violence? I can do that,Ķ but I think you misses the part at the end where he mentions he just got done fucking the daughter of a woman he brutally raped and tortured thirteen years ago
Go back to school for English.
If that's not an option, do just what you're doing. Take criticism and transform it in skills.
That last paragraph (3 posts back) was an abortion.
We'll get through this buddy.
Firefox has an inline spellchecker - that'll get you at least half way there
Hee hee hee Spell checkers don,Äôt pick up on homonyms and bad word placement,Ķ the biggest problem is that the whole piece is over 250 pages and after a while of reading and re-reading,Ķ the eyes grow tiered to silly mistakes of this nature,Ķ I will post another part and let you guys have some more fun.
I hate my job. I know all people say that, all people say they hate their job. I mean come on let,Äôs face it, work sucks. Now, I,Äôm not try,Äôn to minimize other people,Äôs pain but I guaranty my job sucks worse than just about ninety-nine point nine percent of the jobs in this world. I mean being tied here to this desk has got to be one of the most painful experiences of my life and I ain,Äôt kidding. As a matter of fact, I think that any job in this world even the slightest bit worse than mine is in my field of work. I know what you,Äôre probably thinking right now, you,Äôre thinking ,Äúoh come on, how can your job possibly suck so bad.,Äù In a world of corporate slave driving and downsizing how could it any worse than any other job. I mean there are people tending sports shoe factories in third world countries for a nickel an hour right? Well I imagine their job must be like torture but my job is torture. No really, I mean literally. When I said I was tied here to this desk I wasn,Äôt kidding. I am literally tied down to this desk and I,Äôve been dealing with a fucking psycho for three days of hell. He just got done cleaning up after his last victim and I imagine I,Äôm next. God I hate Mondays.
I manage to lift my head up just enough to see how she is doing. Don,Äôt see her breathing, must be dead. Good for her though, better that way. When I,Äôm done here I,Äôll come back for her and make sure she gets the proper passage to her final destination. She is a saint really and though I know she couldn,Äôt fathom nor appreciate her value to my work, at the very least she deserves to be properly laid to rest after what this sick fuck put her through. Finally he,Äôs done slobbering over her and dismounts. Hope she was gone before he finished with her.
,ÄúOh yeah, she was a tasty bitch. Yeah.,Äù He says licking her still and glazed eye ball. ,ÄúTight as a virgin and the way she bleeds,Ķ,Äù he breathes heavily for a second, then takes a moment to wander over to me. The solitary light bulb that hangs above illuminates the grayish pail skin sagging off his body; it is soaked in her blood.
,ÄúOh the way she bleeds,Ķ it,Äôs,Ķ fuck man it,Äôs like glass roses melted into wine.,Äù Poetic, but still fucking sick.
Even in this compromised position, all I can concentrate on is the fact that it smells like cat piss in this little dungeon of his. His long, stringy, greasy hair brushing over the back of my neck. A few moments of this before hot wet and sticky soaks through the back of my expensive business shirt. That,Äôs okay, I didn,Äôt pay for it, it was provided by my employer. Really, I just don,Äôt want mister happy,Äôs love juices dripping all over me.
,ÄúFuck, oh yeah fuck me,Ķyeah, oh I can tell you like that don,Äôt you,Ķ,Äù taking this moment to gloat, he rubs himself on my back in his cum.
,ÄúYou sick fuck!!!,Äù I cry out, making sure to add the proper huffing with the undertones of helpless whimpering. ,ÄúI,Äôll fucking kill you! You bastard!,Äù
He,Äôs been eating up my performance for the last three days and it has been quite the show. The ,Äúno don,Äôt hurt her,Äù and ,Äútake me instead, let them go,Äù plus the every so often the ,Äúyou sick fuck, I,Äôll kill you,Äù shpeal. They all love killing the hero last. The most valiant and brave is always the best to brake last. They revel in it and rub it in your face like a beaten dog. Oh look Mr. Hero, another victim you couldn,Äôt save. The rest all die first because I pretend to give a shit about their lives. Man I am such a fucking tool. But hay, it works and it gets the job done. Maybe one of these days I,Äôll get an academy award for my performance. It will probably be an honorable mention when I,Äôm long dead and no one is left to praise my daily sacrifices,Ķ not that any one would in my line of work but that,Äôs the job. They could at the very least pay me fore my work but then they would just say penance is my payment.
,ÄúYeah that,Äôs right talk dirty to me bitch!,Äù he cackles for a moment ,Äúfuck it gets me so hot, you talking like that.,Äù
His clammy claw like hand gets the grip of death on my face. Squeezing my cheeks he torques my head to look at him.
,ÄúI really don,Äôt dig guys my self but I think the master prefers them.,Äù He shoots me a toothy smile of jagged yellow and brown rot. ,ÄúOh and when the master is pleased,Ķ,Äù he whispers sensually through his cracking sores covered lips. Fuck knows what I have contracted from this creep. No matter, I,Äôll just have the apothecary take care of it when I get back. First, I got to teach this little pervert a lesson.
He unties the restraint that,Äôs been pinning me to this desk. I take this moment to make a show of force; looking like I really want to escape. Really I do but I,Äôm not finished just yet. It,Äôs his master I have come for, not him. Sending his ugly ass to hell will be a nice reward but his master is what I really want. That,Äôs my job you see. Get to the root of the cancer and kill it all. Every little sycophant and hell spawn. Can,Äôt leave this little nest without making sure another one won,Äôt just pop up in its place. That,Äôs what we call little slices of haven like this, nests. It,Äôs simple really, evil makes a nest and then spawns. Must be handy having trained pets like me to do the dirty work of God without question. Oh I,Äôm sure I could just leave but believe me there are worse things out there than my job; at least that,Äôs what I keep telling my self, it,Äôs one of the only reason I keep going.
Happy drag,Äôs my chair away from the light, over the greasy damp cement floor, towards the dark undefined walls of his little dungeon. I struggle some more for show and start to work my self up for the next step of removing this nest. Happy is pleased with my performance and rewards it by rubbing himself while leering at me with his empty dead eyes. A line of drool drizzles down the side of his cheek as he breathes heavily in and out with eager trembles.
,ÄúYeah that,Äôs right you fight, you all taste better when you do that. He will fuck your soul then eat it. And if he likes you he will fuck me next. Yeah, fuck me hard with your soul dripping off his dick,Ķ yeah.,Äù My friend is obviously getting a little over excited now and turns to the dark empty tunnel behind him. It looks like it opens into a cave about fifty yards up,Ķ no telling at this distance.
,ÄúYeah he,Äôll come, he likes you brave types.,Äù Staring into the tunnel, his voice becomes distant, hallow, even a little impassioned. ,ÄúHe will come and make me whole.,Äù
As my friend gets lost in the moment I take this opportunity to begin the final cleansing process. Now believe it or not, this part hurts a hell of a lot more than most of the nest leading up to now and if you can,Äôt tell, it,Äôs been no trip to fantasy island. Muscle by muscle a small steal jig works its way down the lining of my skin from the top of my shoulder down into the palm of my hand. There, I begin to force it out, slicing the skin serrated inch after serrated inch. A little Houdini trick to go along with all the miss direction. I have gotten use to it by now but it still hurts. It,Äôs not even the worst of the tool,Äôs I have on me right now, tucked some were under my skin. Slowly I begin to cut the duct tape that has me bound to the chair.
A hot breath of air rushes down the dark tunnel and my friend happy seems to be in some sort of trance. He,Äôs mumbling something. Bet if I could see his face, his eyes would be rolled into the back of his head,Ķ this job gets so fucking clich?©. It,Äôs like scenes from a really bad gore movie. The tape is almost done but I can,Äôt be too hasty. I must make sure his master comes first before I act. My weapon of choice, a carnafex, begins it make its way out of the other wrist. Off down the tunnel something begins to stir. I slip from my bonds and jamb the carnafex into the back of happy,Äôs scull at the point where it meets the neck. The approach of his master becomes apparent as he collapses to the floor like a bag of drowned rats. I drop to my knees and begin forcing my self to regurgitate a small cross and pestle in my stomach. His masters approache hastens. I take a vile of holy water from the cross and smash it over the pestle. Down the tunnel I can make out the sight of his master,Ķ big mother fucker too. Looks like a Dreton, maybe a Diedder: spider like demons with the bodies of men. No it,Äôs some form of incubus so it must be a Dreton. Those are Asian in origin I think,Ķ doesn,Äôt matter he,Äôs going back to hell any way. I recite the incantation over the pestle. I bless it. The demon strikes. The pestle ignites into a brilliant light. The demon is paralyzed. I strike with my carnafex. The nightmare is over. I hate Mondays.
Quote from: hunter s.durden on March 27, 2007, 07:53:51 AM
That last paragraph (3 posts back) was pure Engrish gold
Fixed.
Quote from: Genocide Device on March 27, 2007, 08:16:16 AM
Hee hee hee Spell checkers don,Äôt pick up on homonyms and bad word placement,Ķ the biggest problem is that the whole piece is over 250 pages and after a while of reading and re-reading,Ķ the eyes grow tiered to silly mistakes of this nature,Ķ I will post another part and let you guys have some more fun.
I hate my job. I know all people say that, all people say they hate their job. I mean come on let,Äôs face it, work sucks. Now, I,Äôm not try,Äôn to minimize other people,Äôs pain but I guaranty my job sucks worse than just about ninety-nine point nine percent of the jobs in this world. I mean being tied here to this desk has got to be one of the most painful experiences of my life and I ain,Äôt kidding. As a matter of fact, I think that any job in this world even the slightest bit worse than mine is in my field of work. I know what you,Äôre probably thinking right now, you,Äôre thinking ,Äúoh come on, how can your job possibly suck so bad.,Äù In a world of corporate slave driving and downsizing how could it any worse than any other job. I mean there are people tending sports shoe factories in third world countries for a nickel an hour right? Well I imagine their job must be like torture but my job is torture. No really, I mean literally. When I said I was tied here to this desk I wasn,Äôt kidding. I am literally tied down to this desk and I,Äôve been dealing with a fucking psycho for three days of hell. He just got done cleaning up after his last victim and I imagine I,Äôm next. God I hate Mondays.
I manage to lift my head up just enough to see how she is doing. Don,Äôt see her breathing, must be dead. Good for her though, better that way. When I,Äôm done here I,Äôll come back for her and make sure she gets the proper passage to her final destination. She is a saint really and though I know she couldn,Äôt fathom nor appreciate her value to my work, at the very least she deserves to be properly laid to rest after what this sick fuck put her through. Finally he,Äôs done slobbering over her and dismounts. Hope she was gone before he finished with her.
,ÄúOh yeah, she was a tasty bitch. Yeah.,Äù He says licking her still and glazed eye ball. ,ÄúTight as a virgin and the way she bleeds,Ķ,Äù he breathes heavily for a second, then takes a moment to wander over to me. The solitary light bulb that hangs above illuminates the grayish pail skin sagging off his body; it is soaked in her blood.
,ÄúOh the way she bleeds,Ķ it,Äôs,Ķ fuck man it,Äôs like glass roses melted into wine.,Äù Poetic, but still fucking sick.
Even in this compromised position, all I can concentrate on is the fact that it smells like cat piss in this little dungeon of his. His long, stringy, greasy hair brushing over the back of my neck. A few moments of this before hot wet and sticky soaks through the back of my expensive business shirt. That,Äôs okay, I didn,Äôt pay for it, it was provided by my employer. Really, I just don,Äôt want mister happy,Äôs love juices dripping all over me.
,ÄúFuck, oh yeah fuck me,Ķyeah, oh I can tell you like that don,Äôt you,Ķ,Äù taking this moment to gloat, he rubs himself on my back in his cum.
,ÄúYou sick fuck!!!,Äù I cry out, making sure to add the proper huffing with the undertones of helpless whimpering. ,ÄúI,Äôll fucking kill you! You bastard!,Äù
He,Äôs been eating up my performance for the last three days and it has been quite the show. The ,Äúno don,Äôt hurt her,Äù and ,Äútake me instead, let them go,Äù plus the every so often the ,Äúyou sick fuck, I,Äôll kill you,Äù shpeal. They all love killing the hero last. The most valiant and brave is always the best to brake last. They revel in it and rub it in your face like a beaten dog. Oh look Mr. Hero, another victim you couldn,Äôt save. The rest all die first because I pretend to give a shit about their lives. Man I am such a fucking tool. But hay, it works and it gets the job done. Maybe one of these days I,Äôll get an academy award for my performance. It will probably be an honorable mention when I,Äôm long dead and no one is left to praise my daily sacrifices,Ķ not that any one would in my line of work but that,Äôs the job. They could at the very least pay me fore my work but then they would just say penance is my payment.
,ÄúYeah that,Äôs right talk dirty to me bitch!,Äù he cackles for a moment ,Äúfuck it gets me so hot, you talking like that.,Äù
His clammy claw like hand gets the grip of death on my face. Squeezing my cheeks he torques my head to look at him.
,ÄúI really don,Äôt dig guys my self but I think the master prefers them.,Äù He shoots me a toothy smile of jagged yellow and brown rot. ,ÄúOh and when the master is pleased,Ķ,Äù he whispers sensually through his cracking sores covered lips. Fuck knows what I have contracted from this creep. No matter, I,Äôll just have the apothecary take care of it when I get back. First, I got to teach this little pervert a lesson.
He unties the restraint that,Äôs been pinning me to this desk. I take this moment to make a show of force; looking like I really want to escape. Really I do but I,Äôm not finished just yet. It,Äôs his master I have come for, not him. Sending his ugly ass to hell will be a nice reward but his master is what I really want. That,Äôs my job you see. Get to the root of the cancer and kill it all. Every little sycophant and hell spawn. Can,Äôt leave this little nest without making sure another one won,Äôt just pop up in its place. That,Äôs what we call little slices of haven like this, nests. It,Äôs simple really, evil makes a nest and then spawns. Must be handy having trained pets like me to do the dirty work of God without question. Oh I,Äôm sure I could just leave but believe me there are worse things out there than my job; at least that,Äôs what I keep telling my self, it,Äôs one of the only reason I keep going.
Happy drag,Äôs my chair away from the light, over the greasy damp cement floor, towards the dark undefined walls of his little dungeon. I struggle some more for show and start to work my self up for the next step of removing this nest. Happy is pleased with my performance and rewards it by rubbing himself while leering at me with his empty dead eyes. A line of drool drizzles down the side of his cheek as he breathes heavily in and out with eager trembles.
,ÄúYeah that,Äôs right you fight, you all taste better when you do that. He will fuck your soul then eat it. And if he likes you he will fuck me next. Yeah, fuck me hard with your soul dripping off his dick,Ķ yeah.,Äù My friend is obviously getting a little over excited now and turns to the dark empty tunnel behind him. It looks like it opens into a cave about fifty yards up,Ķ no telling at this distance.
,ÄúYeah he,Äôll come, he likes you brave types.,Äù Staring into the tunnel, his voice becomes distant, hallow, even a little impassioned. ,ÄúHe will come and make me whole.,Äù
As my friend gets lost in the moment I take this opportunity to begin the final cleansing process. Now believe it or not, this part hurts a hell of a lot more than most of the nest leading up to now and if you can,Äôt tell, it,Äôs been no trip to fantasy island. Muscle by muscle a small steal jig works its way down the lining of my skin from the top of my shoulder down into the palm of my hand. There, I begin to force it out, slicing the skin serrated inch after serrated inch. A little Houdini trick to go along with all the miss direction. I have gotten use to it by now but it still hurts. It,Äôs not even the worst of the tool,Äôs I have on me right now, tucked some were under my skin. Slowly I begin to cut the duct tape that has me bound to the chair.
A hot breath of air rushes down the dark tunnel and my friend happy seems to be in some sort of trance. He,Äôs mumbling something. Bet if I could see his face, his eyes would be rolled into the back of his head,Ķ this job gets so fucking clich?©. It,Äôs like scenes from a really bad gore movie. The tape is almost done but I can,Äôt be too hasty. I must make sure his master comes first before I act. My weapon of choice, a carnafex, begins it make its way out of the other wrist. Off down the tunnel something begins to stir. I slip from my bonds and jamb the carnafex into the back of happy,Äôs scull at the point where it meets the neck. The approach of his master becomes apparent as he collapses to the floor like a bag of drowned rats. I drop to my knees and begin forcing my self to regurgitate a small cross and pestle in my stomach. His masters approache hastens. I take a vile of holy water from the cross and smash it over the pestle. Down the tunnel I can make out the sight of his master,Ķ big mother fucker too. Looks like a Dreton, maybe a Diedder: spider like demons with the bodies of men. No it,Äôs some form of incubus so it must be a Dreton. Those are Asian in origin I think,Ķ doesn,Äôt matter he,Äôs going back to hell any way. I recite the incantation over the pestle. I bless it. The demon strikes. The pestle ignites into a brilliant light. The demon is paralyzed. I strike with my carnafex. The nightmare is over. I hate Mondays.
It's almost as if Clive Barker met Dr Seuss and then they gangraped a dyslexic person.
Quote from: SillyCybin on March 27, 2007, 09:58:26 AM
Quote from: Genocide Device on March 27, 2007, 08:16:16 AM
It's almost as if Clive Barker met Dr Seuss and then they gangraped a dyslexic person.
I have learned from years of lexdysia that it exists for no other reason than for the amusement of others
Agreed. It's kinda like tourettes in that sense.
I would suggest Open Office (Spell Checker) and more paragraphs instead of indentations. Indents are much harder to read, especially on the internet. Beyond that, I would also say read this in order to help give more fluidity and presence to your writing style: http://www.lifehack.org/articles/lifehack/fifty-50-tools-which-can-help-you-in-writing.html
Cain,
was also crap at writing, once upon a time.
Quote from: Cain on March 27, 2007, 02:58:02 PM
Cain,
was also crap at writing, once upon a time.
Don't believe it for a minute. I'm sure if we dissected your mom we'd find your earliest prose, scratched into the walls of her womb.
An I bet the syntax would be perfect too
Quote from: Cain on March 27, 2007, 02:58:02 PM
I would suggest Open Office (Spell Checker) and more paragraphs instead of indentations. Indents are much harder to read, especially on the internet. Beyond that, I would also say read this in order to help give more fluidity and presence to your writing style: http://www.lifehack.org/articles/lifehack/fifty-50-tools-which-can-help-you-in-writing.html
Cain,
was also crap at writing, once upon a time.
Haha... if all else fails cheet... or throw money at it... thx for thine help
Ok, tell me you're now misspelling things on purpose.
Please.
my smut my smut my smut
my lovely lady smut
check it out
That's what I hear in my head every time I see the title of this thread.
I now return you to your regularly scheduled thread, already in progress.
Quote from: LMNO on March 27, 2007, 06:24:40 PM
Ok, tell me you're now misspelling things on purpose.
Please.
no but when i comes right down to it i'm too lazy to spell right all the tiem any way so.... fuck it
Quote from: LMNO on March 27, 2007, 06:24:40 PM
Ok, tell me you're now misspelling things on purpose.
Please.
Is it weird that I kind of like it?
It has a sort of Engrish charm.
Quote from: davedim on March 27, 2007, 06:37:03 PM
Quote from: LMNO on March 27, 2007, 06:24:40 PM
Ok, tell me you're now misspelling things on purpose.
Please.
Is it weird that I kind of like it?
It has a sort of Engrish charm.
engrish... i lke that and i'm afraid bad english is the only engrish i'm good at 8)
Quote from: Genocide Device link=topic=12027.msg375735#msg375735 no but when i comes right down to it i'm too lazy to spell right all the tiem any way so.... fuck it
/quote]
Spelling and typing correctly all the time improves you.
You may want to make more of an effort to enhance your writing.
it's true. i gave up correcting spelling mistakes over chat once, after one of my many drunken chat sessions of old i figured friends would still understand me even if i as much just bashed the keyboard and roughly aim at the right keys, and it would save me time.
never really got better ;-) i still make loads of spelling mistakes in chat, accidentally switch a few letters due to clumsy typing and, nah, just press enter, they'll know what i mean :)
on this board i try to fix the spelling errors as much as i see them. i should also apply that rule to proper capitalization and sentence structure .. you wouldn't recognize me i think :-D
Funny that my spell checker has improved my spelling more than college,Ķ it forces me to pay more attention,Ķ what I meant though is not that I don,Äôt try to spell properly all the time, its that I do try and just suck that bad,Ķ for that you will have to forgive me.
Yes I am fully aware that my technical skills in writing are god offal,Ķ what I do have is the ability to tell one hell of a story the rest I can improve with practice.
I was more than perfectly aware that you guys would jump right on that, how else am I supposed to learn. All the same, did any one find it interesting aside from the bad grammar? :mrgreen:
Quote from: Genocide Device on March 28, 2007, 09:22:27 AM
god offal,Ķ
Okay I just did a complete u-turn on the spelling thing. Yuor spelling pwns!
To be honest, it sound like reheated Raymond Chandler.
Example:
"I went to the kitchen to make coffee. Yards of coffee. Rich, strong, bitter, boiling hot, ruthless, depraved. The lifeblood of tired men. It was a couple of hours later when he called me. 'Ok, wise guy,' he said, 'get down here and suffer'."
Indeed I see where you are coming from,Ķ first person is always hard to make a good narrative out of,Ķ it sounds so campy when the narrator is telling you in all the silly details of life, what he is doing,Ķ especially when he tries to make something as boring as coffee seem fantastic in any way. But there in lies the trick, the coffee in the first piece as an essential description of the purgatory the mane character feels he is a part of. I cant just say ,ÄúI sit down and drink some shitty coffee.,Äù I got to make it sound like something it isn,Äôt,Ķ suggestions?
Quote from: Genocide Device on March 25, 2007, 04:38:33 PM
I think I mentioned in my introduction that I was a writer,Ķ her his a sample that involves no gore,Ķ I,Äôm working up to the good stuff
Enjoy :D
I imagine that if you truly summed up life as a rode by which we travel, than that rode is lined every quarter century with out of the way purgatorial truck stops such as this. The twang of blue grass country music adds a strange comfort to the half empty restaurant. I dine with my last twenty dollars on some of the worst key lime pie I have ever had the privilege to tantalize my pallet with. The coffee however is fucking spectacular. Not one of those over priced immaculate French monstrosities; the type that are half foam and half sugar as only found in down town caf?©s. No, this is of those good old Columbian black tar brews. A coffee that stains the porcelain of the cup on contact and can only be purchased for consumption at run down greasy spoon dives such as this. To drink it is to wage total war on your internal organs and central nervesystem. It starts with a mad dog blitzkrieg on your stomach. There it will dig trenches and begin a volley of chemical warfare to the remaining digestive system. Throughout the day it will continue with a war of attrition slowly advancing all of its heavily armored forces until every organ in sight has been annihilated. In its wake it spreads the fascist propaganda known as caffeine to each and every one of your blood cells until they revolt, storm the brain, overthrow its governing body and degenerate its underling factions into total anarchy. Couple that with what ever the hell Nina gave me and you can kiss your hangover, as well as your liver, good by. The waitress approaches and serves up yet another cup of steaming hot toxic waist. It is my fifth.
,ÄúSon, ya,Äôll look justa,Äôbout have,Äôn had ta,Äô watched yer dog die.,Äù The long and shallow accentuations of her southern draw does little more than remind me of the depths to which I have been banished.
,ÄúThanks for those inspiring words, I had a hell of a night.,Äù These conversations generally go quickly. I do my best to act casual and play along so I can get it over with.
,ÄúLooks ta me like yer a,Äôman question,Äôn the very principle of his worth.,Äù She fills up my cup, then a second and sits down. ,ÄúWhat,Äôs got,Äôcha bit on the buns hun?,Äù
I have dealt with this kind before. The lost out in the middle of no where down to earth goo roo of the simple life southern variety. These people have a uniquely accurate understanding of how overly complicated we as people have made things. They have lived their entire life busting ass for tips they only get if their customer leaves les pissed off and callow than as they came. She is a bar top shrink who has heard it all and knows more than one way to make a total freak of nature feel comfortable for the first time in his own skin. She has never met me though.
,ÄúI,Äôm suffering from a pore perspective on one big fucking moral dilemma.,Äù I lean heavily on one hand.
,ÄúOh I see, your son a homo or somth,Äôn?,Äù she fiddles around in her breast pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a match.
,ÄúI just spent last night having the best sex of my life and when I woke up today I discovered that this girl was the daughter of a woman I brutally tortured, raped, and murdered about thirteen years ago.,Äù She goes to light the cigarette but stops dead in her tracks, the flame of the match burning just off from its target.
,ÄúWell now I have heard every thing,Ķ it,Äôs on the house.,Äù Mortified she stands up and walks away.
1. Do
not give up your day job.
2. Run, do not walk, to your local community college. Sign up for every creative writing class they have. A remedial English class might help, too.
3. Resign yourself to the fact that nobody wants to read about your torture fantasies.
4. Take up macrame.
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on March 30, 2007, 07:35:50 AM
Quote from: Genocide Device on March 25, 2007, 04:38:33 PM
I think I mentioned in my introduction that I was a writer… her his a sample that involves no gore… I’m working up to the good stuff
Enjoy :D
I imagine that if you truly summed up life as a rode by which we travel, than that rode is lined every quarter century with out of the way purgatorial truck stops such as this. The twang of blue grass country music adds a strange comfort to the half empty restaurant. I dine with my last twenty dollars on some of the worst key lime pie I have ever had the privilege to tantalize my pallet with. The coffee however is fucking spectacular. Not one of those over priced immaculate French monstrosities; the type that are half foam and half sugar as only found in down town caf?©s. No, this is of those good old Columbian black tar brews. A coffee that stains the porcelain of the cup on contact and can only be purchased for consumption at run down greasy spoon dives such as this. To drink it is to wage total war on your internal organs and central nervesystem. It starts with a mad dog blitzkrieg on your stomach. There it will dig trenches and begin a volley of chemical warfare to the remaining digestive system. Throughout the day it will continue with a war of attrition slowly advancing all of its heavily armored forces until every organ in sight has been annihilated. In its wake it spreads the fascist propaganda known as caffeine to each and every one of your blood cells until they revolt, storm the brain, overthrow its governing body and degenerate its underling factions into total anarchy. Couple that with what ever the hell Nina gave me and you can kiss your hangover, as well as your liver, good by. The waitress approaches and serves up yet another cup of steaming hot toxic waist. It is my fifth.
“Son, ya’ll look justa’bout have’n had ta’ watched yer dog die.” The long and shallow accentuations of her southern draw does little more than remind me of the depths to which I have been banished.
“Thanks for those inspiring words, I had a hell of a night.” These conversations generally go quickly. I do my best to act casual and play along so I can get it over with.
“Looks ta me like yer a’man question’n the very principle of his worth.” She fills up my cup, then a second and sits down. “What’s got’cha bit on the buns hun?”
I have dealt with this kind before. The lost out in the middle of no where down to earth goo roo of the simple life southern variety. These people have a uniquely accurate understanding of how overly complicated we as people have made things. They have lived their entire life busting ass for tips they only get if their customer leaves les pissed off and callow than as they came. She is a bar top shrink who has heard it all and knows more than one way to make a total freak of nature feel comfortable for the first time in his own skin. She has never met me though.
“I’m suffering from a pore perspective on one big fucking moral dilemma.” I lean heavily on one hand.
“Oh I see, your son a homo or somth’n?” she fiddles around in her breast pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a match.
“I just spent last night having the best sex of my life and when I woke up today I discovered that this girl was the daughter of a woman I brutally tortured, raped, and murdered about thirteen years ago.” She goes to light the cigarette but stops dead in her tracks, the flame of the match burning just off from its target.
“Well now I have heard every thing… it’s on the house.” Mortified she stands up and walks away.
1. Do not give up your day job.
2. Run, do not walk, to your local community college. Sign up for every creative writing class they have. A remedial English class might help, too.
3. Resign yourself to the fact that nobody wants to read about your torture fantasies.
4. Take up macrame.
1. thats why i still have one
2. am still in and doing my best
3. wrong and deal with it... people have read and enjoyed it... not my fault they had no taste
4. will do when i can
Quote from: Genocide Device on March 30, 2007, 08:33:51 AM
3. wrong and deal with it... people have read and enjoyed it... not my fault they had no taste
They lied. Friends do that, to avoid unpleasantness.
*cries in self pity* WHY GOD WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS!!!
Eh,Ķ its hard tot tell. The public generally sux for taste which give me some good odds.
A good example is metalica fans,Ķ they swallowed the load and the reload.
When I comes right down to it about 45% or our countrymen suck and will buy shit if you tell them it tastes like raspberries. On those odds I think I,Äôll be okay. All the same if you have something constructive to add Roge. I,Äôm all ears and if not, mehh I,Äôll get by.
Quote from: Genocide Device on March 30, 2007, 09:10:04 AM
*cries in self pity* WHY GOD WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS!!!
Eh,Ķ its hard tot tell. The public generally sux for taste which give me some good odds.
A good example is metalica fans,Ķ they swallowed the load and the reload.
When I comes right down to it about 45% or our countrymen suck and will buy shit if you tell them it tastes like raspberries. On those odds I think I,Äôll be okay. All the same if you have something constructive to add Roge. I,Äôm all ears and if not, mehh I,Äôll get by.
Well, if you have no pretensions of "art" (ptouii!), you can always write Executioner,Ñ¢ stories. That involves all kinds of gore, and no real storyline.
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on March 30, 2007, 09:21:03 AM
Quote from: Genocide Device on March 30, 2007, 09:10:04 AM
*cries in self pity* WHY GOD WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS!!!
Eh… its hard tot tell. The public generally sux for taste which give me some good odds.
A good example is metalica fans… they swallowed the load and the reload.
When I comes right down to it about 45% or our countrymen suck and will buy shit if you tell them it tastes like raspberries. On those odds I think I’ll be okay. All the same if you have something constructive to add Roge. I’m all ears and if not, mehh I’ll get by.
Well, if you have no pretensions of "art" (ptouii!), you can always write Executioner™ stories. That involves all kinds of gore, and no real storyline.
I,Äôd like to think there is art in my garbage, much like there is art in Troma films,Ķ but if I have to sell out to get by, fuck it.
You wouldn,Äôt know the number by an chance would you?
Quote from: Genocide Device on March 30, 2007, 09:31:12 AM
I,Äôd like to think there is art in my garbage, much like there is art in Troma films,Ķ but if I have to sell out to get by, fuck it.
You wouldn,Äôt know the number by an chance would you?
Everyone sells out. Do it sooner, and you can sometimes name your price.
Google "publisher Executioner Mack Bolan".
and on that note more of my garbage
Chelsea
You may have seen her at the diner on Friday nights trying to pick up the older boys. You may have wondered to your self why she was out so late. You may have been upset with her parents for letting their daughter dress like a hooker. The way she flaunted her self was to disturbing to think about for a girl no older than twelve. You may have gotten angry when a boy picked her up and took her home. You may have even thought about calling the police. You did all the thing that people do without actually poking your nose in or getting involved but that never stopped her. At least four nights out of the week she was at that diner. I wonder; did you ever try to stop her? Did you ever try to talk to her and encourage her to be something better? Did you ever go to her parent,Äôs house and yell at her father for being so oblivious to his child? Did you ever want to be her father? The truth is regardless of your effort, fathers were not something Chelsea wanted any more of. You would have been right to be angry with her father; however if any one should be angry, it is Chelsea. A thousand time or more she would be sent home in a cop car. A thousand times or more she would come back to the diner. Did you ever bother to wonder why or were you too busy being pissed off to see past the thick makeup and the scant clothing.
They used to mock Chelsea. They would call her things like hoar and slut. They would pick her up because she was easy, because it was taboo, because she asked for it and that meant they could get away with it. Hell she was even experimental so it didn,Äôt rightly matter what you did when you got her. It only cost you a spot on your couch for the night.
Her body had lost all meaning to her. Her father made sure to take that away when she was eight. The boys might make fun but at least they didn,Äôt hurt her first. At least they made her feel welcome in a way no one can understand; no one that has a real home any way. Her body became little more than a tool to get away from him, the man that would use it regardless of permission. At least Chelsea got to chose now, though she had no choice as to why. She even learned how to get the cops to leave her alone. Most could be bought off with a simple blow job. I wonder, why it was that she tolerated the boys? Did she think she deserved it? Was she trying to make her old man jealous; the way he would get when he found out some one else had touched her. Did she honestly know no other way to avoid home? After all it wasn,Äôt much of a choice but it was a better one. Or was it that she just wished she could find some one to take away the pain. The years spent before she was brave enough to escape. Did she hope that some one could free her from the scars left by her father?
When Chelsea turned fourteen she found a man and ran away with him. He was much older but the things he promised her. He fed her and bought her nice clothing. He said he would give her a place to stay. He showed her something that made the wounds feel okay for the first time since she could remember. All it would cost her was her body. She was use to that. That,Äôs all men wanted any way right; some one easy, experimental, and taboo? It was not the happy wonderland he promised to her. After only two weeks the man began to beet her. He would call her things worse than the other boys and the stuff that made the wounds stop hurting now made her sick.
It found her behind the bowling ally of that ,Äújust passing through,Äù town where no one tells you their name. A town that eats the souls of girls like Chelsea. A place you only live if you want to die without a friend or a hope for the future. She was too week to put the needle in her vain but she kept trying any way. Pretty little Chelsea, hoar and junky. It found her barley able to talk but she still managed to offer it her body. How delicately it held her hand. How warm its body felt as it lifted her off the ground. How gentle and caring it was. It fed her, bathed her, even gave her a bed of her own. It took away the sickness and made the wounds hurt much less. She didn,Äôt even have to offer it her body. For the first time in her life she had a real father. It took care of her and gave her purpose that transcended her body. It introduced her to many others and they didn,Äôt call her names. The boys didn,Äôt even call here names. They were all kind and generous, they even started to call her momma because she was one of the oldest. For the first time in her life she had sexual freedom. More than that, she had sexual choice. She never needed to sleep with a single boy there. She did it because she wanted to. She did it to heal their wounds, because they too were once lonely or abused and they too knew how it felt. Her body surpassed that of a mere object and became a device in which she could heal the wounded. It even let her live an extra year because of how useful she had become to the community. Momma Chelsea, the beloved care giver to all children.
It gave her every thing her father took away and she loved it more than any one could ever understand. It was kind and generous. It gave purpose to her life beyond that of a toy by which men satisfied their needs. It loved her and held her close. It made her feel like no human had ever made her feel. All it asked for in return was food. It asked for her to feed it and she did that more than willingly. She even told it she loved it just before it ate her. The children made it very clear that it never hurt her.
They honored her passage with a celebration fit for a queen. They told stories about her and every one loved and missed her. They painted pictures of her and called her a saint. St. Momma Chelsea the Healer.
I place a rose on Chelsea grave as I approach the mine where it waits.
Rest in Peace Chelsea R. Masters.
This is one of the hardest things I ever had to write,Ķ it, in part, is about some one I know.
Don,Äôt worry about that, eat it up or eat it alive I could really use the help here
well alright its safe to say i'm not impressing any one here... not that i really expected to but thaks all for all the help... flaming is worth its wait in gold should your skin be tough enough. :wink:
Quote from: Genocide Device on March 31, 2007, 02:35:54 AM
well alright its safe to say i'm not impressing any one here... not that i really expected to but thaks all for all the help... flaming is worth its wait in gold should your skin be tough enough. :wink:
Weight. WEIGHT! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!
:lulz:
It's almost not a laughing matter anymore.
This brutal spelling is making Americans looker stupider.
OK it is still pretty funny.
Quote from: hunter s.durden on March 31, 2007, 09:24:19 AM
It's almost not a laughing matter anymore.
This brutal spelling is making Americans looker stupider.
OK it is still pretty funny.
I put up with it on Pinkboy forums.
But not here.
and the sad part is I reallllly am trying... but at least you won't have to read any more pieces of my writing.
Quote from: Genocide Device on April 02, 2007, 02:32:20 AM
and the sad part is I reallllly am trying... but at least you won't have to read any more pieces of my writing.
Spellchecker is your buddy.
And Cain posted a link to fifty writing tools which really is quite good, if you can read it for that long, there is a lot of stuff in it.
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on April 02, 2007, 03:56:19 AM
Quote from: Genocide Device on April 02, 2007, 02:32:20 AM
and the sad part is I reallllly am trying... but at least you won't have to read any more pieces of my writing.
Spellchecker is your buddy.
Going to be nice and play devils advocate here for a sec.
1. Spellchecker doesn't know what "wait" you mean because it's still technically correct
2. Maybe, jus maybe, Genocide is Lisdexic and is trying his best to overcome it by being a writer. Just a thought.
To my knowledge, thats the best way to overcome it. That and reading a book you literally can't put down.
At least, thats what worked for my sister.
Quote from: Lysergic on April 02, 2007, 04:29:29 AM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on April 02, 2007, 03:56:19 AM
Quote from: Genocide Device on April 02, 2007, 02:32:20 AM
and the sad part is I reallllly am trying... but at least you won't have to read any more pieces of my writing.
Spellchecker is your buddy.
Going to be nice and play devils advocate here for a sec.
1. Spellchecker doesn't know what "wait" you mean because it's still technically correct
2. Maybe, jus maybe, Genocide is Lisdexic and is trying his best to overcome it by being a writer. Just a thought.
1. Even my stoopid little spellchecker in my Bill Gates stuff would green flag that.
2. No, he's using the wrong words, not transposing the letters.
Thread needs moar longcat
Quote from: Payne on April 02, 2007, 04:31:42 AM
To my knowledge, thats the best way to overcome it. That and reading a book you literally can't put down.
At least, thats what worked for my sister.
What did you use to stick the book to your sisters hands? Super Glue? Duct tape? Buckled to an electric chair with a buzzer designed to go off when the weight of the book is lost from it?
I could make a killing from the marketing idea.
Quote from: Idem on April 02, 2007, 08:44:15 AM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on April 02, 2007, 06:26:01 AM
Quote from: Idem on April 02, 2007, 05:48:43 AM
Thread needs moar longcat
Save that for AKK.
I'm afraid if I see another continuation of his writings... :?
no.
you may recall the large amount of second chances (and sometimes third, and fourth) AKK got, and he STILL didn't get it with his stubborn dumb head? that's why he deserves what he's getting now.
GD, although he can't write, and i can imagine we're still feeling a littlebit triggerhappy, hasn't really proved himself yet to be as hopeless as AKK (unless i've missed something).
he should read those 50 tips Cain posted and use a spellchecker (and indeed one that doesn't only redflag misspellings, but also greenflag other possible mistakes), and then continue to
not try out his writing experiments on this board ;-)
let's not longcat everything that makes you go UNNG
(PS, AKK we're not talking to you, this is talking about you, so pre-emptive STFU--just in case)
I like GD, but it should be known I have many friends with his sense of humor and taste (or lack of) in entertainment.
My fucking with him is a reaction brought on by conditioning.
My friends make me sit through shitty horror films, and I hate them.
So it's nothing personal GD, but I hate you.
Quote from: Payne on April 02, 2007, 03:57:56 AM
And Cain posted a link to fifty writing tools which really is quite good, if you can read it for that long, there is a lot of stuff in it.
I can safely say that site is one of my top 10 ever finds on the web.
Quote from: hunter s.durden on April 02, 2007, 02:36:29 PM
My friends make me sit through shitty horror films, and I hate them.
What the hell is wrong with you?
Quote from: Lysergic on April 02, 2007, 02:10:21 PM
Quote from: Payne on April 02, 2007, 04:31:42 AM
To my knowledge, thats the best way to overcome it. That and reading a book you literally can't put down.
At least, thats what worked for my sister.
What did you use to stick the book to your sisters hands? Super Glue? Duct tape? Buckled to an electric chair with a buzzer designed to go off when the weight of the book is lost from it?
I could make a killing from the marketing idea.
:lol: She chose to do it herself unfortunately. No animals were harmed in the making of this program.
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on April 02, 2007, 05:44:28 PM
Quote from: hunter s.durden on April 02, 2007, 02:36:29 PM
My friends make me sit through shitty horror films, and I hate them.
What the hell is wrong with you?
Where to begin...
I get very, very lonely sometimes.
I watched House of Wax to sate that loneliness.
That should eat up any respect you may have accidentally gained for me.
Quote from: hunter s.durden on April 02, 2007, 06:56:59 PM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on April 02, 2007, 05:44:28 PM
Quote from: hunter s.durden on April 02, 2007, 02:36:29 PM
My friends make me sit through shitty horror films, and I hate them.
What the hell is wrong with you?
Where to begin...
I get very, very lonely sometimes.
I watched House of Wax to sate that loneliness.
That should eat up any respect you may have accidentally gained for me.
Rob Zombie is the best director/producer EVER.
Was that sarcasm or not?
He wasn't involved in that was he?
no it was a first time director
Zombie did house of a 1000 Corpses
I didn't think he'd touch that piece of shit.
I love Rob.
I liked Corpses and Devils Rejects.
Also think his music is fucking tops.
Quote from: hunter s.durden on April 02, 2007, 07:28:34 PM
I didn't think he'd touch that piece of shit.
I love Rob.
I liked Corpses and Devils Rejects.
Also think his music is fucking tops.
Fuck yeah.
You've heard his version of brickhouse, right?
Hell Yeah.
I love the look I get from people when I say "Lionel Richie and Rob Zombie."