So, I'm sure most of you (especially the ones who have been here for a while) know the "The artist in thee" thread, where people are supposed to share their artwork. Well, how about you all share some of your writing? I'm sure there are a lot (read: METRIC FUCKTON) of people on this site who are aspiring authors, either trying to finish/perfect their work or find a publisher. So go ahead, copy your favorite chapter from your literary masterpiece and share it in here, and feel free to constructively critique whatever you read in here. Share your novels, screenplays, story outlines, poems, song lyrics, fanfiction, dissertations, conspiracy theories, ransom notes, whatever you have that's in writing. Hell, if you're lucky, a passing publisher might see your work. Of course, being the OP, I'll start-
ALSO, remember to put longer passages in spoiler tags: [.spoiler=Give an optional short description here]TEXT[./spoiler] without the periods.
ALSO, your passage may be too long for one box. PREVIEW YOUR POST FIRST. If it doesn't fit, just split it somewhere and put the rest in another box.
ALSO, remember to put longer passages in spoiler tags: [.spoiler=Give an optional short description here]TEXT[./spoiler] without the periods.
ALSO, your passage may be too long for one box. PREVIEW YOUR POST FIRST. If it doesn't fit, just split it somewhere and put the rest in another box.
"Steve is a human being. Such a thing is usually not worth mentioning, but Steve believes it to be so, and so it has been mentioned. Steve is also living. To clarify, he is a living human being. He lives in an interesting land, sometimes called magical, or said to be "where [his] cousins used to live," but Steve knows it as his home. People often ask how he feels about his home. He thinks it is his home. He usually responds with something similar to "it's my home." Occasionally, if he is in a better mood than the day before (it's all relative to him, you see. The general mood he is in doesn't affect him as much as how it contrasts his mood yesterday), he will respond with more detail, perhaps "I don't know, I guess I was born here. That makes it my home, I guess."
But today Steve is in a different place. It confuses him. He is confused. "No," he says, "it's not redundant; I can be confused at the same time as being confused."
But he realizes he was a bit vague, in two ways. He wasn't necessarily in a different location. He woke up on the floor. This was perhaps the most confusing part. And while on the subject, he believes he was vague in his explanation of his confused state. He can be confused by something, receiving the act of confusion, and he can be in a state of confusion, confused being an adjective rather than a verb in this case. Both being "confused." Although that is a little redundant. But you don't need to tell him that. His hip hurts this morning.
He figures he fell on the floor, possibly rolled off his bed during the night, but he wonders why this did not wake him. Perhaps he was in a deep sleep when this occurred. Perhaps not. He tries to think of other explanations to be more specific, but he really can't. "I really can't. I'm sorry. Just, just go with it." He says to go with it. I would oblige him, he's tired.
Steve wearily forces himself up by his arms. He imagines he is performing a push-up. It does not encourage him. "Actually, it's a bit discouraging." Steve is up anyway. He pulls his jeans up a bit and looks meaningfully at the window. If he could sing, or whistle, or hum, or if he knew an appropriate song of which to do these things, he would not hesitate to do so.
Unfortunately (but fortunately for any poor soul who would be in earshot of an atrocity such as that), he can do none of these things. Steve leaves his quaint bedroom and enters his bathroom. "I call it quaint. Really, what I mean is exceptionally small. But that's what I get for not being able to pay for a bigger place." Actually, this place of Steve's residence was owned by his cousin, Bill. Or William. Steve does not remember which his cousin prefers. Not that it matters to either of them.
Steve is still entering the bathroom. He has now entered the bathroom. He does not feel accomplished. He picks up his little toothbrush and rubs the crust out of the bristles. He turns on the faucet. A familiar rushing sound fills the quaint bathroom. "Yep, also quaint." No water emerges. Steve hits the faucet. Water begins to emerge. Steve brushes his teeth, slightly wincing each time he feels a small object on his tongue.
His alarm clock rings. "Son of a *****." Apologies. Steve cannot always control himself around company. He spits out the frothy, minty, saliva mixture he has been accumulating and leaves to turn off his alarm. The alarm complies with no resistance, surprising Steve. "It just seems like one of those days. I have a feeling something's gonna be wrong at work. I'll probably have to work two shifts today. Someone'll be sick, I just know it. I can tell these sort of things. It's like magic. Or it's more like 'I know how bad my day is gonna be.' Er? Nevermind.
"But really, it seems like every day is bad. Yesterday I trip on the sidewalk, and I- wait, maybe that's why my hip hurts. Or maybe it's because I fell off my bed. Or it could be both, I don't know. Anyway, each day has kinda sucked more than the last." HE starts losing his train of thought and believes himself to be amusing. "It's 'cause o' the man, man. It's a conspiracy. They're conspiring against me! I tell ya', man! Man!" Steve laughs quietly to himself. He enters the kitchen and approaches the refrigerator, opening it. He stares into it, hoping for a glimmer of enlightenment into the subject of his coming breakfast. He receives no such enlightenment and opens the carton of eggs in the refrigerator door. Only one egg remains, and it will now be his breakfast. It will be brutally mutilated and destroyed, and burned beyond recognition to satisfy one insignificant, lonely man for a few hours. "And I wouldn't have it any other way. Wait, remember, go to the store, get eggs." Steve looks at the stove top and realizes he forgot a pan. He places the egg on the countertop, slowly, keeping it from rolling, and bends down, opening the cabinet under his stove. He hears a faint sound near him. He springs up, catching sight of the egg speeding toward its untimely demise against Steve's kitchen floor. Luckily, for the both of them, Steve stops it just before the end of its fatal journey, puts it back to its earlier position, and places a wooden spoon in front of it. He feels clever and reaches for the pan again, this time uninterrupted, and consequently successful. Go to the store, get eggs. He lays the pan on the burner nearest him and turns it on, then lifts himself onto the counter on the stove's other side and sits down. Go to the store, get eggs.
Steve's mind begins to slightly fade. He feels it, fully aware of his slipping consciousness, and enthralled by the sensation. The idea of losing mental control (now this doesn't mean instability, just less control, like a dream) has always fascinated him. Recognizing his changing emotions, when he feels depressed during a low pressure system, he can almost not comprehend the workings of his mind in these circumstances. He becomes unaware of his surroundings, drifting into another state of consciousness, still awake but shifting through his reality. He loses his sense of presence and time, and is surrounded by the projections of his mind.
The stove beeps. Steve realizes he was over-thinking the situation. "It's still fascinating though." Steve had considered a psychology minor, but instead went with the safer path of English, something he had always been able to understand well, it being a concrete idea and all. He still studies psychoanalysis, looking into the theories of Jung and Nietzsche and Freud and that entire generation of psychologists. He slides off the counter, feeling a sharp pain in his bare feet as he hits the floor. He picks the egg up from behind the spoon, returning the spoon to a ceramic jar. Steve takes a breath and composes himself for the coming trials. He holds the egg over the edge of the pan, making the motions of the actions he must soon perform. That he will only have one chance to perform. The pressure builds inside him, physically in his chest, and his hands begin to perspire. He decides to go through with it before his hands are unsuitable.
Steve lifts the egg up, maybe half a foot above the pan, and strikes it on the edge. It doesn't break completely open. A crack appears, spanning nearly half the egg's circumference. Steve slides his thumb between the sections and pries it open. The yellow mass falls into the pan in a pool of white, literally and figuratively, in an interesting coincidence. Steve feels accomplished. He tosses the shell in a loose trash bag and rinses his hands of the stray egg substance. Go to the store, get eggs.
He decides to change clothes while the egg is cooking. He realizes he can't remember the last time he put on a new pair of jeans. "It might've been Tuesday. Or Monday. Or? yeah, I think? I probably put on some new ones for work on Monday. That would make sense." Not that Steve consistently makes sense. He changes pants anyway, something that will not be described in detail, as that would require an emergency medical team present and the signing of a small few waivers covering liability for psychological trauma or death.
He returns to the kitchen and investigates the sizzling egg. "I don't like that word. Sizzling. It's like "moist." But I don't really have a problem with that one." The egg is near completion. Steve watches over it, shakes the pan a bit, and keeps watching. He takes a plate down from a cabinet and sets it near the stove. The edges of the egg white are becoming slightly brown, and Steve slides a spatula under it. He lifts it, accidentally leaving a small amount in the pan, and drops it on the plate. He places the pan in the sink and runs some water over it. He opens a drawer near him and takes a fork, then reaches for a pepper shaker. He enjoys his egg to a great degree. Although it is a bit overcooked. He knows he should have taken it off as soon as he noticed brown on its edges.
Steve decides that he will put off washing the rest of the dishes for the night, although he knows that this will never happen and he will have more to do the next morning. But he doesn't care. He has other business to attend to.
He walks over to his single window and opens the blinds. The sun hurts his eyes for a shirt while, but they adjust, leaving Steve with a somewhat impressive view of the New York skyline. "Yep, New York." As something Steve remembers once said, "Just like all good stories, it starts in New York. Or something like that. I can't remember what it was that said that. And it's not really true. I mean Lost was on a fictional island, Star Wars is in space, so is Star Trek, CSI is in? what, Chicago? I think so. Although there is a CSI in New York, but? whatever." Steve goes back to the refrigerator and drinks some orange juice out of a near-empty carton. He grabs his keys off the far counter, puts on his shoes by the door, and leaves the quaint apartment.
He goes against his better judgment and takes the stairs rather than the elevator, having the rare feeling of actually wanting to improve his life, in this case by exercising. "It's only five stories. And I'm going down, anyway. Won't be that bad." Steve is luckily correct, and he reaches the bottom of the staircase. He leaves the apartment building, into the street. The obnoxiously loud, busy, foul smelling street. How he loves this city. Traffic is at a complete stop, causing Steve to decide to walk to work rather than spend half an hour in a cab, with an even fouler smelling strange man honking and yelling at people. Steve starts to feel more optimistic about the day. "I feel like I have control. I know I should've washed those dishes, but I can still make up for it. I might even stay late for work if they need it. I just? I just feel like doing something good. Today. I don't know why."
But today Steve is in a different place. It confuses him. He is confused. "No," he says, "it's not redundant; I can be confused at the same time as being confused."
But he realizes he was a bit vague, in two ways. He wasn't necessarily in a different location. He woke up on the floor. This was perhaps the most confusing part. And while on the subject, he believes he was vague in his explanation of his confused state. He can be confused by something, receiving the act of confusion, and he can be in a state of confusion, confused being an adjective rather than a verb in this case. Both being "confused." Although that is a little redundant. But you don't need to tell him that. His hip hurts this morning.
He figures he fell on the floor, possibly rolled off his bed during the night, but he wonders why this did not wake him. Perhaps he was in a deep sleep when this occurred. Perhaps not. He tries to think of other explanations to be more specific, but he really can't. "I really can't. I'm sorry. Just, just go with it." He says to go with it. I would oblige him, he's tired.
Steve wearily forces himself up by his arms. He imagines he is performing a push-up. It does not encourage him. "Actually, it's a bit discouraging." Steve is up anyway. He pulls his jeans up a bit and looks meaningfully at the window. If he could sing, or whistle, or hum, or if he knew an appropriate song of which to do these things, he would not hesitate to do so.
Unfortunately (but fortunately for any poor soul who would be in earshot of an atrocity such as that), he can do none of these things. Steve leaves his quaint bedroom and enters his bathroom. "I call it quaint. Really, what I mean is exceptionally small. But that's what I get for not being able to pay for a bigger place." Actually, this place of Steve's residence was owned by his cousin, Bill. Or William. Steve does not remember which his cousin prefers. Not that it matters to either of them.
Steve is still entering the bathroom. He has now entered the bathroom. He does not feel accomplished. He picks up his little toothbrush and rubs the crust out of the bristles. He turns on the faucet. A familiar rushing sound fills the quaint bathroom. "Yep, also quaint." No water emerges. Steve hits the faucet. Water begins to emerge. Steve brushes his teeth, slightly wincing each time he feels a small object on his tongue.
His alarm clock rings. "Son of a *****." Apologies. Steve cannot always control himself around company. He spits out the frothy, minty, saliva mixture he has been accumulating and leaves to turn off his alarm. The alarm complies with no resistance, surprising Steve. "It just seems like one of those days. I have a feeling something's gonna be wrong at work. I'll probably have to work two shifts today. Someone'll be sick, I just know it. I can tell these sort of things. It's like magic. Or it's more like 'I know how bad my day is gonna be.' Er? Nevermind.
"But really, it seems like every day is bad. Yesterday I trip on the sidewalk, and I- wait, maybe that's why my hip hurts. Or maybe it's because I fell off my bed. Or it could be both, I don't know. Anyway, each day has kinda sucked more than the last." HE starts losing his train of thought and believes himself to be amusing. "It's 'cause o' the man, man. It's a conspiracy. They're conspiring against me! I tell ya', man! Man!" Steve laughs quietly to himself. He enters the kitchen and approaches the refrigerator, opening it. He stares into it, hoping for a glimmer of enlightenment into the subject of his coming breakfast. He receives no such enlightenment and opens the carton of eggs in the refrigerator door. Only one egg remains, and it will now be his breakfast. It will be brutally mutilated and destroyed, and burned beyond recognition to satisfy one insignificant, lonely man for a few hours. "And I wouldn't have it any other way. Wait, remember, go to the store, get eggs." Steve looks at the stove top and realizes he forgot a pan. He places the egg on the countertop, slowly, keeping it from rolling, and bends down, opening the cabinet under his stove. He hears a faint sound near him. He springs up, catching sight of the egg speeding toward its untimely demise against Steve's kitchen floor. Luckily, for the both of them, Steve stops it just before the end of its fatal journey, puts it back to its earlier position, and places a wooden spoon in front of it. He feels clever and reaches for the pan again, this time uninterrupted, and consequently successful. Go to the store, get eggs. He lays the pan on the burner nearest him and turns it on, then lifts himself onto the counter on the stove's other side and sits down. Go to the store, get eggs.
Steve's mind begins to slightly fade. He feels it, fully aware of his slipping consciousness, and enthralled by the sensation. The idea of losing mental control (now this doesn't mean instability, just less control, like a dream) has always fascinated him. Recognizing his changing emotions, when he feels depressed during a low pressure system, he can almost not comprehend the workings of his mind in these circumstances. He becomes unaware of his surroundings, drifting into another state of consciousness, still awake but shifting through his reality. He loses his sense of presence and time, and is surrounded by the projections of his mind.
The stove beeps. Steve realizes he was over-thinking the situation. "It's still fascinating though." Steve had considered a psychology minor, but instead went with the safer path of English, something he had always been able to understand well, it being a concrete idea and all. He still studies psychoanalysis, looking into the theories of Jung and Nietzsche and Freud and that entire generation of psychologists. He slides off the counter, feeling a sharp pain in his bare feet as he hits the floor. He picks the egg up from behind the spoon, returning the spoon to a ceramic jar. Steve takes a breath and composes himself for the coming trials. He holds the egg over the edge of the pan, making the motions of the actions he must soon perform. That he will only have one chance to perform. The pressure builds inside him, physically in his chest, and his hands begin to perspire. He decides to go through with it before his hands are unsuitable.
Steve lifts the egg up, maybe half a foot above the pan, and strikes it on the edge. It doesn't break completely open. A crack appears, spanning nearly half the egg's circumference. Steve slides his thumb between the sections and pries it open. The yellow mass falls into the pan in a pool of white, literally and figuratively, in an interesting coincidence. Steve feels accomplished. He tosses the shell in a loose trash bag and rinses his hands of the stray egg substance. Go to the store, get eggs.
He decides to change clothes while the egg is cooking. He realizes he can't remember the last time he put on a new pair of jeans. "It might've been Tuesday. Or Monday. Or? yeah, I think? I probably put on some new ones for work on Monday. That would make sense." Not that Steve consistently makes sense. He changes pants anyway, something that will not be described in detail, as that would require an emergency medical team present and the signing of a small few waivers covering liability for psychological trauma or death.
He returns to the kitchen and investigates the sizzling egg. "I don't like that word. Sizzling. It's like "moist." But I don't really have a problem with that one." The egg is near completion. Steve watches over it, shakes the pan a bit, and keeps watching. He takes a plate down from a cabinet and sets it near the stove. The edges of the egg white are becoming slightly brown, and Steve slides a spatula under it. He lifts it, accidentally leaving a small amount in the pan, and drops it on the plate. He places the pan in the sink and runs some water over it. He opens a drawer near him and takes a fork, then reaches for a pepper shaker. He enjoys his egg to a great degree. Although it is a bit overcooked. He knows he should have taken it off as soon as he noticed brown on its edges.
Steve decides that he will put off washing the rest of the dishes for the night, although he knows that this will never happen and he will have more to do the next morning. But he doesn't care. He has other business to attend to.
He walks over to his single window and opens the blinds. The sun hurts his eyes for a shirt while, but they adjust, leaving Steve with a somewhat impressive view of the New York skyline. "Yep, New York." As something Steve remembers once said, "Just like all good stories, it starts in New York. Or something like that. I can't remember what it was that said that. And it's not really true. I mean Lost was on a fictional island, Star Wars is in space, so is Star Trek, CSI is in? what, Chicago? I think so. Although there is a CSI in New York, but? whatever." Steve goes back to the refrigerator and drinks some orange juice out of a near-empty carton. He grabs his keys off the far counter, puts on his shoes by the door, and leaves the quaint apartment.
He goes against his better judgment and takes the stairs rather than the elevator, having the rare feeling of actually wanting to improve his life, in this case by exercising. "It's only five stories. And I'm going down, anyway. Won't be that bad." Steve is luckily correct, and he reaches the bottom of the staircase. He leaves the apartment building, into the street. The obnoxiously loud, busy, foul smelling street. How he loves this city. Traffic is at a complete stop, causing Steve to decide to walk to work rather than spend half an hour in a cab, with an even fouler smelling strange man honking and yelling at people. Steve starts to feel more optimistic about the day. "I feel like I have control. I know I should've washed those dishes, but I can still make up for it. I might even stay late for work if they need it. I just? I just feel like doing something good. Today. I don't know why."
