/lit/ - Literature

>>3948784
Vocaroo?

I can’t rap,

You can take that,
To the bank,
And have a laugh,
Try’na cash it.
Cuz I smash it,

I’m an iceberg,
You’re the Titanic,

I’m the Hindenburg,
You’re the panicked masses.

I’ll make your blood spurt,
Like I was something fast,
And Jurassic,
Like a Raptor.

I’ll make ya girl squirt,
Like she mistook my lap,
For the crapper,
Cuz I go like the clappers,
I’m pretty dapper,
But I’m not the nicest,
But I already told you lad,
I’ll jab ya,
I’m not the polite-est,
Give me a reason and, mate, I’ll slap ya,
I bet your face would be priceless.
You ain’t no rapper.

I’ve got weed, that don’t make me a dealer,
I’ve got some pills, that don’t make me a healer,
I’ve seen you at cyphes, man, you’re a peeler,
All yours are writtens like mine, try something realer,
Also, you look like a right pants-stealer,
So jog on before I go free-wheeler,

I'll carve smiley faces on Ibuprofen,
Take 'em to festivals and sell 'em them,
Watch 'em get all zen,
I won't tell 'em, friends,
No, I don't give a fuck any more,
I'll shag 'em first and tell 'em then.
Cuz I ain’t no Eminem.

I ain’t. No. Rapper.

I’m ill enough to breathe on a flower and kill it,
This mic’s startin’ to wilt, from the power and skill it’s,
Ability,
That kills MCs,
Not bling and cheese,
This thing’s not pleasin’,
Me so I’ll switch the rhyme,
Like sixty nine,
Like when you was doin’ time,
And your missus was round mine,
Like her, I got a pole to climb,
But mine’s a bit more greasy,
So it’s less easy,
Than lyin’ back and going ‘squeeze me’,
‘Tease me’
‘Gimme release please’,
Bitch, you want a freebie?
Get away,
I won’t lay you,
I’m too ill to get diseasy.

Zippo.
That’s what they call me in the circles where they sniff coke,
I’ve been dope,
But takin’ me for one’ll get ya hip broke,
And Ya bitch choked,
Like she just toked,
On a phat smoke,
And on the exhale I made her giggle,
You’re a shit joke,
I’m a challenging riddle,
Fuck with me, though,
Your face’ll get melted to a griddle,
And your low-low’s,
Petrol tank full of piddle,
I’ll get a bread knife from Lidl,
Play your neck like a fiddle,
Singin’ ‘Hey diddle diddle’,
Put your missus in the middle,
Make her moan like a little,
Kid at Christmas gettin’ shit-all,
Gettin’ fucked off like dismissal?
’S only cuz your rhymes are abysmal,
And mine are clear like crystal,
You’re mad cuz I don’t own a pistol,
And I still go ‘pow’ like your Mom’s dick go.

Self-bump.

Rather interested in what people think of it, people.

>>3948303
Ok, but I've set the expiry thing to one day.

Captcha: 'xclustc meam'. I think we all agree.

http://pastebin.com/3EKBTJ8F

Amidoinitrite?

I have 88 pages in total but I'm only willing to post these ones for free on the internet sort of thing. Also: I end this preview abruptly and you might find it dissatisfying. Fair warning, yes?

And other people on here are posting THEIR shit and getting some straight-forward answers, dammit lol.

Because I'm not very experienced with this. Christ, people have even shorter tempers on here than I thought and I've been lurking fucking 7-odd years.

When the Tall Man’s drink arrived (not ethanol or absinthe, I don’t know what, use your damn imagination.) he near enough dived straight into it, the greedy bastard. He took half of it at a draught, his apparently cosmetic eyes bulging, and turned to the football.
“Watch this. When someone scores he won’t react. Their eyebrows interpret the telly just as a flat surface and the volume isn’t on.” whispered the bloke who, for his looks, could have been Gene Kelly’s stepbrother. Roth Face watched and waited for a goal in the time it took for the tall man to finish his drink and get through half of his next one. Unfortunately, though, it was a Harriers game so that one goal could have happened any time between kick-off and next season. While they waited they pretended to play a game they made up on the spot involving peanuts and a coaster. Roth Face was losing heavily when the tall man finished his drink and promptly stood up and walked to the gent’s. “Alright. You go in, jab it in the eyebrows and go to town; let some steam off, you know? Then, after you’ve proved you can do that much, come and sit back down and I’ll go in there and do the rest. Ok?” asked the man who looked like anyone but Robert Pattinson.
“O’ll be bock.” Roth Face put on his best Austrian accent, downed the rest of his pirno and black (what a fucking girl) and stalked off after their target.
When Roth Face got into the gent’s he was struck by a foul smell. A different one to usual. It was a sharp, sweet smell. Like rotten apples. He supposed that when these things emptied their tanks they didn’t empty them of the same by-products as humans. It was apparent that the tall man was using one of the cubicles instead of a urinal so he pulled out the vicious knife, stood on the outside of the only locked cubicle and got into a ready stance. “Weird robot thing. Come out of the cubicle. I’m not going to hurt you.” He was lying, of course. The pissing sounds stopped immediately and for a moment there was no sound and then: “What are you on about, mate? I’m try’ner ‘ave a shit ‘ere.” The pissing sounds started again.
“Save it. Get out of the cubicle and I won’t hurt you. You wanna be blinded? Come out.”
The pissing sounds cut off again. “Mate, you’ve ‘ad a bit too much of somefink not quite kosher, I fink. Fack orff.” The accent and the voice were probably stolen from an old film. Lock stock? That didn’t half sound like Hatchet Harry’s wingman…

The two men watched from their peripherals. “Right, shall we have a little run-through?” muttered Mr Roth Face.
“I don’t see why not but keep it the fuck down. We don’t know how well they can hear yet. There’s a lot we still don’t know about them. What’s first?”
“You look to see if they’re really tall.”
“Good. Next?”
“They drink like humans and are powered partly by alcohol but once they get to two pints they gotta go and piss immediately. So a pub’s a good place to look. Also, if you manage to get their shoes off, none of them have toes. Or they do have toes but it’s like they’ve been melted together.”
“Good. So what do we do?”
“Wait ‘till he’s had two pints, see if he goes to the bog straight away?”
“Then?”
“Follow him and smash the fuck out of him.” This was the part Rothface knew for definite.
“Indeed.”
“Now I don’t want to be a worry wart but how are we going to go about smashin’ that up? It’s gotta be a fucking hundred foot tall.”
“Here.” The man who had a notable dissemblance to Chad Kroeger produced a vicious looking knife from the inside of his overcoat and passed it to Rothface under the bar. “Go for the eyebrows. After that it’ll be a lot easier. We’re not really supposed to, just in case, but I’ve been in this a long time and I know one when I see one.”
“Fair enough. But why the eyebrows?”
“It’s how they see. Sort of like antennae. The eyes are just for show.”
“Cool. Has anyone ever made the Terminator comparison? Cuz those things are like Terminators.”
“Don’t be stupid,” his response was immediate and heated, “These robots don’t have toes. That’s loads different to Terminators. Why would you even say that?”
“Alright, alright.”

>>3948075
Here. :)

Dumbledore’s Inclination.

He started in his seat but didn’t turn around. “Really? At the door or did it come in while I was pissing?”
The man who didn’t look like Hannah Montana confirmed that the case was the former whilst eyeing up a tall black man behind him in the reflection of his pint glass. He was a very tall black man indeed. Easily 6ft 8” He made his stilt-legged way towards the bar and whopped a fiver on the wood. The barman who up until now I’ve been ignoring nodded at him, jutting chin first, apparently glad to have another customer besides the group of teenagers posted in the back corner rolling a joint, and what he assumed to be a gay couple sat at the other end of the bar under the red neon Coors sign. The tall man said “Pint of fackin’ effanol,” and clunked down on the nearest stool. “Unless you got anyfin’ strongah.”
“I think I got some absinthe in back?”
“Sur-fackin’-prise me”
The barman walked to the back room mumbling something I could have sworn was racist.

"Really? I.T. technician?" The man who didn't look like Fatima Whitbread wouldn’t have admitted it but I noticed: He was glad that old Rothface had changed his facial expression, however momentarily, from bored and slightly miffed to that face blokes pull when they hear that they’ve been undercharged for something or they see a nice arse. You know, when they turn down the corners of their mouths, raise their eyebrows and nod?
"Yeah."
"Swish." He didn't really look anything like Chaka Kahn, either.
"You seriously just guessed that? Right off the top of your head?”
"Well you talk about the internet a lot but..." He trailed off, the novelty of his accidental sleuthery worn off already.
"Mate, you should’a pretended like you knew. Did some Sherlock Holmes, Ace Ventura shit. I'd have been fooled."
"Yeah, but then I'd have to keep it up."
"I suppose...” There’s nothing more pathetic than two blokes sat at a bar that can’t think of a single thing to say to each other. Did I mention they were in a pub? They were in a pub. Whetherspoons, why the fuck not? “BRB. I gotta drain the mains." He stood up off his stool and made his way to the gent's with admirable surefootedness for a man on his sixth pint. The man who didn’t look like Prince pretended he was turning in his seat to watch the football but really he was lifting one side of his arse up so he could fart. Silent but violent. Anyway, I'm sure- what with all this discussion of their respective professions 'before'- that you're wondering what these men were up to. Apart from discussing whether or not a fictional character is a paedophile, that is. Well, I'm just gonna get it out there and tell you now. They were really dreaming. I made that up, that wasn't true. I'm sorry.
The man who had the same bright blue, deep set eyes, high cheekbones, stony forehead and fuck-off shnozz as Tim Roth or whoever the fuck I said came back and sat down.
"That was quick”
“You know when you're completely bostin' but when you get there it's only like a little trickle?"
"Shut up. It's here."

Red Means it's Fucking 2011


"The writer even admitted it." He looked like a young Tim Roth, I’d say. Think Reservoir Dogs, suit and everything. Apart from his arguably ill-conceived decision to wear a pair of black and white Converse with it a-la Dr Who.
"Why do you gotta say 'admitted' like it's a bad thing?" Ah, I remember this cunt. He didn’t look much like Tim Roth. I’d say he didn’t much look like anyone.
"Well he's fiddling up speccy first years an-" Mr I-Look-Like-Tim-Roth’s curtain hair don’t bobbed up and down comically when he was being enthusiastic. Acting enthusiastic. I wouldn’t say he was the sort of person to actually be enthusiastic. I’m sure he’d agree. But not too strongly.
"Rowling said he was gay, not a paedo."
"Yeah but he wrote in a load of tension between the two. I mean, have you seen the thing on the internet where they replace the word 'wand' with 'penis'?" Tim Roth was never ginger. At least not to my knowledge. This bloke was.
"No I haven't. But that's the internet. They replace everything with penis. And it's 'she'. J.K. Rowling's a woman. everyone knows that, you dildo."
"No!" He was genuinely surprised. You believe that shit?
"Yes. You been living under a fuckin' boulder?" He didn’t really look like Johnny Rotten, either.
"I don't believe you."
"Why?" Or Marylin Manson.
"I dunno I jus-"
"Is it that hard to believe?"
"I dunno, I just di-"
"Especially as it's common fuc-king knowledge."
"You know, your language is filthy."
"So's your shirt. What is that? Mustard?" He tried to do that trick that everyone becomes immune to after the first time - Where you pretend there’s something on their shirt and flick their nose when they look down - but this was not the first time for Mr Oh-Look-at-Me-I-get-to-Look-Like-Tim-Roth and he only got a ‘I-may-look-like-Tim-Roth-but-do-I-look-stupid?’ look for his troubles.
"Don't turn this on me. You know I was starting to think you were a teacher or something before but you definitely swear too much to work with kids."
"Don't try to guess." He looked even less like Damien Marley than Marylin Manson.
"Oh come on. Like you haven't been trying to guess?"
"I.T technician."
"Woah. Ok I'm gonna have to change my guess to spy or something."

Rosie, six years old, emerged from the shadows, dishevelled and shivering in a scuffed, grotty, expensive PE kit and a huge, even more battered brown leather bomber jacket wrapped around her like a shawl. “Is he dead?” she asked. The History teacher stayed where he was, head hung, arms dangling limp and forgotten on the tiles. “He is, isn’t he?” Her sweet, chirping voice was as informed as any elderly widow he’d ever met.
“Yes.”
“Did you take out his ‘pendice like you said?” Maybe not so informed.
“No.”
“Why not?” She was obviously hurt. “You promised you’d save him!” Betrayed. Close to tears.
“I didn’t promise.” His own voice came from a distance. “I said I’d try.”
“You only cut him open a little bit! You didn’t even try!”
“I did. I tried. There wasn’t time. I was about to…”
“You wouldn’t cut him open properly cuz you’re scared of bleeding!” she was beginning to tear up.
“No.” Wasn’t there anything else he could say? Anything comforting? Anything reassuring? He saw nothing.

He hovered the glowing knife over Danny’s midriff. Danny Patterson. Danny had always had trouble concentrating, except when the topic of the week was Romans. Danny had always been very interested in the Roman Empire and once he’d even raised his hand to ask a question (Something like “Real lions?”) instead of staring out the window or doodling as usual. “Jesus.” The teacher breathed and made as if to make the first incision where he thought an appendix might be, if luck was on his (And Danny's) side. “First Incision,” he half laughed, half cried That about covers my surgical expertise. I’m sorry, Danny. He steeled himself and put the knife against Danny’s skin. There was a sizzling sound and the History teacher lost his nerve. “Jesus!” he shouted at the ceiling, bleary-eyed and scared. “This is a job for trained professionals!” but there were no trained professionals. No doctors, no paramedics. He’d had emergency medical training himself (A pre-requisite of becoming a teacher) but that only covered CPR and putting plasters on booboos, not major surgery. Just to add to this sweet little deal he had going on: He was scared of blood. He hovered the knife again, took it away, hovered the knife, beat at his own eyes and shouted at the roof, hovered it again. He fixed his face and his resolve. If the kid was going to die anyway the History Teacher may as well try and help. He held his breath and pushed the knife against Danny's stomach on the right side. Danny woke up again with a new set of lungs in him. He screamed louder than ever, one brilliant blue eye half-closed and puffy, the other wide and pleading. His shout rang around the tunnel and provoked worried whispers from the shadows. There was a low rumbling sound from somewhere inside Danny, his scrawny back arched, the History Teacher quickly withdrawing the knife, and with one final yelp, he settled. His eyes remained three-quarters open, but the spark from behind them was gone.
“No.” The History teacher let the knife clatter to the floor tiles. “No, no.” He grabbed the boy’s brittle, anaemic wrist and felt for a pulse. “No!” Pressed his ear to the boy’s chest. “NO! NO, YOU LITTLE CUNT, NO!”

Green Means It's The End Year, OK?


Screaming. “Alright” he whispered to himself “Just a few slashes, badda bing, badda boom.” He was hunched over a screaming nine year old. “It’s ok, it’s ok, stop crying. Do you want some more rum? It’ll all be better soon. It’ll all be ok again, I promise.” The screaming wouldn’t stop, no matter what shade of bullshit he gave the kid. He took the cheese knife off the barbeque grill where he’d left it to heat up until it was glowing red. The nine year old Danny was writhing and screaming on the floor, his hands bound above his head with insulating tape and the History Teacher was hunched over him, wondering where he should cut first. Somewhere on his stomach… Jesus, he knew this was a bad idea. Danny’s tightly scrunched eyes snapped open during a particularly loud shriek, his dazzling blue orbs rolling in their sockets in a pain delirium and settling on the tip of the knife. They widened in fear and his breath caught in his throat for one blissful, silent moment. The History teacher shifted his sweaty, quivering attention from the kid’s striking eyes and moved it back onto the rest of him. The parts that needed fixing. Danny’s lost-property-box-assembled sports kit had become caked in dirt and subway-station grime and one of his shoes had come off. He started screaming again and tried to pull out of the grip of the insulating tape without result. The History teacher sighed and raised his fist. He scrunched up his own eyes as he cut off the sound of screaming and replaced it with a dull whump-crunch and a pitiful little yelp. The teacher forced his eyes back open and raised the knife again. He unbuttoned Danny’s shirt and gave him a once-over. Apart from the obvious bruises and scrapes that one expected for someone in his kind of situation, the kid looked fine. The History teacher knew this wasn’t true, though. The sickness was inside, enflamed and pulsing, and he had to get it out. Cut it out before it became his undoing.