/lit/ - Literature

Somewhere far away there was a squawking from some indigenous woman and the tinkling of rain-sticks. Carefully engineered electrical currents deployed to give the feeling of dozens of insects scurrying across the skin of the back. Droopy eyelids lazily opened to witness a cartoon sun beaming a smile and dancing and twirling upon the foreground of blue sky that spanned the curved interior of the pod.

A warm collective of calm voices that smoothly exchanged octaves and genders with each word called out from everywhere. “Comrade Xanothia, are you ready to begin your day?”

An aerosol spray squirted a cocktail mist of amphetamines, anti-psychotics, and anti-depressants into the waking mud colored face of no discernible race or sex. The creature lifted its head and huffed greedily at the daily dose.

When the abomination had its fill it croaked out enthusiastically, “Yes master! Thank you Master!

A moment passed before the collective stated with hues of loving care. “Your waste sensors inform us that you have reached removal staging.”

A coupler attached to a once clear plastic hose that was now hued green and brown snaked down from the ceiling. The creature was naked, and at the crevasse where its genitalia should be was a bulging pouch of flesh with a twist on valve. With arms like twigs and quivering hands the thing snatched the hose and attached the coupler to its crotch. With a quick twist along the valve a horrid stench filled the oblong pod and a slurry of rancid liquid hurried up the hose. The refuse pouch was deflating quickly and with brightly colored fingernails the creature pushed down at the base of the loose flesh and ran its fingers up towards the coupler in a purpose to remove all remaining feces and urine out of its stinksack. It did this again and again and again until it was gripping and squeezing and wringing the sack free of filth. Only when the fleshy pouch was empty and flopping wildly with the force of the vacuum and only blood was shooting up in spurts, did the creature lift its face to the dancing sun and cry out. “Master I'm done!”

Need some some opinions on something I wrote.

It's called "Inside the Head of a /pol/ack"

I'm sure that at one time this world we live in was once beautiful. Brutal sure, but beautiful. And sometimes as I sit at my cubicle which isn't really a cubicle, just a painted white desk made of cheap compressed wood and half dividers on either side that give you the illusion of privacy but don't do a goddamn thing, I would sit there and wonder what the world was like when it was wide open with the unknown. A world without highways or selfies. A world without bankers or lawyers or insurance salesmen. A world without bills and divorces and taxes. A world where you would wake up when the sun rises and go to sleep when the stars poked through the thick black canvas of night. Where you would have your woman and your children and your fire and that's all you cared about. That's all you needed to worry about. That's all you needed to protect. Now you protect your credit score, your mileage, your data, your tongue. If the world was new and beautiful I wouldn't be some angst riddled desk jockey I would be different. I would be a goddamn alpha to roam a world so vast that I would have to make up stories about gods to fill in the blanks of things I didn't understand. I would lose myself in this fantasy and find happiness but then the phone would ring and I would be ripped from that little vacation inside my head. I would then deal with the irate customer and lie to him or her about why their piece of shit internet service was slower than what they signed up for. 'Miss I need you to calm down, those online speed test are just not accurate. Yes I can transfer you to the supervisor but it will be a fifteen minute wait he's in a meeting. Please hold.'

Is this decent?

James hated sleep. Loathed it. Cursed it and fought it. He knew what waited for him there. The repeating film reel of nightmarish memories still fresh. The dead weight of Jackson straining the muscles of his arms and the sounds of bullets pinging off of metal and rock. The tumbling humvee heaved from the mountain road and twisting down down down along the slope in some horrible dance in which it spun itself apart. The smell of gunpowder and sandy dirt and gasoline. The stick of drying blood on his palms and the pistol grip of his rifle. Then he would blink and the battle on mountainside would be gone and replaced by darkness. And in that darkness the faces of his fallen brethren would slide out from the black and appear bloody and pale with lips roiling wildly in whispers and eyes stark wide with pupils engulfing their irises. James would scream and that scream would rip him from that hell and carry on into the waking world. Mom and dad and his little sister would bolt up from their peacefully dreams and rush in to see what was the matter to find a wild eyes man of twenty five weeping into his pillows. They stopped coming in to see if he was alright after the fourth night. When they stopped he knew that he had become more than a burden. He had become a shrieking annoyance and an unwelcome one at that.

Barb and Bill knew that something was off about their son the moment they saw his foreign and strange face at the airport. For his smile was forced and twisted. His laugh was hollow and sharp like a bark. And his eyes were all but empty save for the times they found something far beyond the horizon and latched onto it in an intense stare.

After his friends stopped taking him out for beers because of constant rage filled outbursts and anti government tirades, James found that company with himself to be the only stable social venture. He quickly developed a ritual where every morning and night James would sit on the back porch and silently stare into the far treeline and drink a liter of whiskey and smoke two packs of marlboro reds. His mother would ask him why he would do this and he would just shrug. She then would ask why he didn't have a smart phone and he would shrug. His sister would ask why he deleted his facebook and he would shrug. His father would ask why he didn't have a girlfriend and James would bark a laugh and shrug. When the constant questions turned into an aggressive front of bitching and complaining James abandoned the ritual and decided to go out more. With the pay James earned during his tours in Korengal Valley he bought a used chevy Tahoe and got a membership at the local gun club. The guys at the range liked James and respected his shot and his service and how he donated the brass casings. The state and DEC officers got to know James as he would take the long drunken drive at night to visit Pocket Lake and sit on the same bench and stare out over black sheen of water. The first time an officer was called there he had reminded James that alcohol wasn't allowed at the park and that the park closed at nine o'clock. James told the officer that he knew but always picked up after himself and that he just needed a place that was quiet and beautiful and that the world had become so busy and ugly at the same time and that this place was like a vacation for him. The officer got to know James in the ensuing conversation and about the unit he was with and the brothers he had and lost in the valley of the damned. The officer learned of the medals he earned and threw away and of the itch that clawed inside his head and whispered that he needed to go back to find the bodies of those he had to leave behind. The officer then sat on the bench and shared a drink with James before bringing him back home in the front seat of his squad car. From that night James would bring beers and two fishing poles instead of the handle whiskey on the nights on the lake. Whichever officer on duty that night would get to know James and share a beer and every once in a while would get a walleye or bullhead and then drive him home and shake his hand and tell him that they would see him next week.

Sup /lit/ I know you're a very liberal board chock full of communists and other breeds of rodent. I bring you all a gift to gnaw on. Enjoy!

Cleveland clung to the shores of lake Erie like a rancid tumor. With a labyrinth of twisted overlapped highway and a decaying steel mill burping up tufts of steam reminding the world that it is still alive but on death's door. Cracked sidewalks lined the abandoned storefronts with iron bars protecting broken windows. Vagrant droves wander with sunken lifeless eyes at their marching feet mechanically searching for their next bench to sleep on. Every car that traversed the chipped asphalt was rusted and every driver was just as worn down. The city schools were nothing more than holding pens for the army of unwashed and uncouth army of blacks who only learned what life would be like in a prison and acclimated towards it. The billboards strewn in every corner of the city all contained the face of the champion of the city, Lebron James. A hero that did nothing for the city other than put a ball into a hoop and to be a grand distraction from the current rusted hell the citizens endured. The police of Cleveland set out every morn on a daily hunt on I90 scanning the herd of vehicles hurrying to get through the grand effigy of the steamboat era and mark out of state travelers to tax in order to fund their existence and to balance Kasich's holy budget sheet. It was as if the city became a pit when the steamboat went to the train, then transformed into a festering wound when train went to the tractor trailer, and finally solidified into cursed patch of earth when NAFTA made whatever manufacturing floating the city obsolete. A ghost town chock full of apparitions floundering about scratching here and there desperately trying to find their bodies that have had their life and future extinguished before they were even conceived. A speed trap and a pile of refuse with two coliseums and a cluster of towers standing above it. It truly is the mistake by the lake.

My flag. My flag is ripped and torn. It's bloody and frayed. When the wind blows hard it whips and rolls and threatens to tear itself apart screaming. My flag has seen three hundred suns and moons collide. It has seen god smile upon Washington and the devil dance with Sherman. My flag has seen towers crash and champions of the people lose their heads. It has seen the stretching emerald forests riding the humps of foothills on pure lands turn to gray highways and plastic mega marts. It has seen bankers and serpents beheaded and shipped across the sea only for their offspring to slither back over with friendly British handshakes. My flag has seen it all. From the shipments of heroin to the talking heads with stars of david tattooed upon their foreheads. From dogs strapped with american dollars ripping apart Gaddafi to european truth speakers being tossed into prisons. And yet still it clings to the pole slowly falling apart at the weakening hems. Bloody and frayed and tired of overseeing the horror of time and the poison of indoctrinated trust.

You don't like my flag. You don't like the idea of it or the look of it.

Am I good yet?


God I hate this fucking place. Even Satan would think this place is fucked. Holy hell. Too many fucking insects too much fucking sun too much fucking rain too many fucking savages too much goddamn mud. When god made the earth why in the hell did he make this this sweltering asshole of Terra? Clearly the lord above forgot to fucking wipe. Everything here fucking kills you even the fucking frogs and fish murder you. Even the goddamn fish. For fuck's sake there's was a fish that swam up one of my soldier's piss stream and lodged itself into his cock. Into his fucking cock. Evolution didn't create that. Some drunken asshole of a demon made that thing to create misery for any man who tread this cursed jungle. No wonder the savages eat each other clearly it is safer than fishing. I don't know why I'm here, fuck the queen and her holy journey. They said there would be gold and women and the fountain of youth and utopia and all we got was fucking death and disease. The mongoloids didn't have a speck of gold or fuckable women all they had were blue rocks and toothless dried up whores not even worth pilfering. I want to go home. I want to get out. I need to the find a way out of here but it goes on forever. It's been two days since the priest died. He was the last of my men and he shit himself to death and prayed to christ the whole time. I dragged him to the river's edge to cast him into the slow moving water in the off chance his body could make it out of this nightmare but I had to take a shit and I didn't want to drop trough in front of the deceased padre so I did my business behind a tree the size of a cathedral and when I came back I found out that I hadn't purged everything from my bowels and I shit myself as I watched a giant serpent swallowing the priest whole. It was halfway through the deed and I watched it with astonishment for a moment. It was truly a sight to behold. But through the strength of god I snapped out of it and grabbed a large rock and bashed that serpents brains in. I ate well that night. But now it's just me talking to myself and cursing this horrid jungle as I hack at the undergrowth in my path. I've long since abandoned my armor and rifle and I'm beginning to look more and more like a savage than an explorer as the mud sinks into my skin. Every so often I feel the tickle in the back of my skull and know that something is watching me. I saw a hellcat eating a crocodile yesterday morning. A fucking crocodile. I hope the monstrous feline isn't hunting me now. I just want to go home. Sometimes I see eyes and faces in the leaves and when I stop to look at them they disappear. I'm going crazy.

I wrote a poem and I don't write poetry


Please him with a life worthy of his attention.
What is wrong with me?
Where am I?
Floating through this life that I had just appeared in.
Growing with this body with this mind.
Where's my pamphlet where's my instructions?
Someone tell the guy to give a tug on the strings if he's there.
Tell him to send down a sign or a miracle.
I've lost the call. The signal's dead.
I need answers. I need guarantees.
Because I don't know how much longer I can hold out.
I don't know how much longer I will cry out.
What is wrong with me?
Where am I?
How did I get here?
Where is he?
I need him tell him to pick up.

Sup /lit/ I finished writing a novella and I was wondering if anyone here wanted to review it and give me some feedback.

It's a dystopia (yeah I know pls no bully) set in the eastern united states three decades from today.

If you want an epub or an adobe file send me an email at crmcmahon614@gmail.com

Or if you don't want to sit and read the novella I could post some short stories I have written.

All I want is an objective look at what I have written so I can fix any bad habits I have picked up.

Thanks brothers.

Critique thread? Critique thread.

I'll go first I know cultural marxists will love this one :^)

He woke up to the blaring of his alarm clock. When he sat up in his bed he glanced over to the emptiness beside him. Automated movements carried him through his morning routine. A volt of pain brought him back to consciousness when coffee seared his tongue. His eyes roved the projected screen on the wall that displayed the morning news. Cloudy with a chance of shitty. With a quick glance towards the couch and loveseat he reassured his dread that he was alone. Old and alone. Wife dead, kids off living lives with their own broken families full of strife. He scoffed at the rising depression and popped his cocktail of pills to stave off the impending heart attack or stroke that was going to kill him or worse yet send him to a retirement community. He put on his work jacket and tied his shoes and headed out the door.

When he arrived at work ten minutes early he was the only one there at the depot. It was peaceful and he knew that soon it would be broken by hooting and laughing of his coworkers so he went to his bus and gently brought it to life. He looked in the mirror and saw the empty seats with the streaming advertisements coming to life in each window. A mixture of anger and dread filled him as the thought of those seats being pack with stinking flesh and the reeking of ignorance.

Nobody of worth took the bus anymore. Nobody going to a job. Nobody going to school. Nobody going to visit their kids. Just a horde of federally pampered heathens going to the mega mall.

He had an itch at his side and his checked his service pistol. Taking careful deliberation he scanned the chamber and bore for any residue or blockage and found none. He then checked the magazine and the three bullets it held. A memory of shooting rifles and shotguns during hunting trips with his father and brother came broken and pieced together but he knew that a weapon shouldn't be made entirely from cheap plastic produced from a 3rd world dumpster. He could of swore that a magazine held more than three measly bullets but he wasn't positive.

The doors of the garage were beginning open and close and noise was beginning to erupt. To his ears it sounded like the primate exhibit at the zoo. It didn't take long before a middle aged dark skinned man with half his uniform on to approach the window of the bus.

“What's goin on Frank you get any pussay last night?”

“Nope. I watched the game though.”

The night sky was red. Crimson clouds and bright flashes and thunder. With hard eyes the man scanned the horizon for movement but only saw fire and the reaching black silhouettes of abandoned skyscrapers. His right hand made its way into his coat pocket and his fingers lazily fumbled with the four .223 rounds. The hole in his gut oozed with bile and blood and every so often he would taste copper in his mouth. Rifle shouldered and empty pistol holstered the man silently crept from his hiding place from beside a scavenged car and headed off into the direction of the black obelisks riding the edge of the world. He stayed off the pockmarked road but kept it in his field of view. He passed the skeletons of homes with their black charred bones standing and their front yards with white men and women and children laying pallid and peaceful in the grass surrounded by opened suitcases with their contents strewn in every direction. A shirt here. A stuffed animal there. The man felt a roiling deep in his gullet and tried to make his dry heaves quiet and he trudged on to the fire and thunder and obsidian sky idols. Packs of coyotes dragged limp bodies from bullet riddled cars on the road and gorged on the easy meal. A few stared at him with feral eyes but only wagged their tails. In the distance helicopters glided across the landscape in search of survivors of the flood. A Memory of a woman and young child flashed and their horror stricken faces seared into the man's vision. His ears rang with the remembered panicked shrieks of dread from a memory too fresh to suppress. The man fell to a knee and sputtered out strings of hushed words and prayers and a dribble of blood. He wiped his eyes and got back to his feet and walked on. When he reached the edge of the city he legs seized up and his mind begged him to turn round and find a hole to hide in. With wide eyes he met the men hanging from lamposts and overpasses with cardboard signs nailed into their chests all saying “cracker”. Hands shaking he scanned the Women laying naked and strangled on the asphalt and on the hoods of stripped cars with their pants still around their ankles. With empty retching he cursed his eyes as they witnessed the children left twisted and mangled in bushes and porches and doorsteps. His skin felt the kiss of warmth from the surrounded buildings engulfed in flame. The man snapped his eyes shut and whispered more prayers to himself and when he opened them he spotted another survivor of the flood. The man watched the large bearded survivor rocking back and forth sitting on the steps of a burning apartment building. In his arms he cradled a lifeless child.

'Why Liberals Are Morons'


The night sky was red. Crimson clouds and bright flashes and thunder. With hard eyes the man scanned the horizon for movement but only saw fire and the reaching black silhouettes of abandoned skyscrapers. His right hand made its way into his coat pocket and his fingers lazily fumbled with the four .223 rounds. The hole in his gut oozed with bile and blood and every so often he would taste copper in his mouth. Rifle shouldered and empty pistol holstered the man silently crept from his hiding place from beside a scavenged car and headed off into the direction of the black obelisks riding the edge of the world. He stayed off the pockmarked road but kept it in his field of view. He passed the skeletons of homes with their black charred bones standing and their front yards with white men and women and children laying pallid and peaceful in the grass surrounded by opened suitcases with their contents strewn in every direction. A shirt here. A stuffed animal there. The man felt a roiling deep in his gullet and tried to make his dry heaves quiet and he trudged on to the fire and thunder and obsidian sky idols. Packs of coyotes dragged limp bodies from bullet riddled cars on the road and gorged on the easy meal. A few stared at him with feral eyes but only wagged their tails. In the distance helicopters glided across the landscape in search of survivors of the flood. A Memory of a woman and young child flashed and their horror stricken faces seared into the man's vision. His ears rang with the remembered panicked shrieks of dread from a memory too fresh to suppress. The man fell to a knee and sputtered out strings of hushed words and prayers and a dribble of blood. He wiped his eyes and got back to his feet and walked on. When he reached the edge of the city he legs seized up and his mind begged him to turn round and find a hole to hide in. With wide eyes he met the men hanging from lamposts and overpasses with cardboard signs nailed into their chests all saying “cracker”. Hands shaking he scanned the Women laying naked and strangled on the asphalt and on the hoods of stripped cars with their pants still around their ankles. With empty retching he cursed his eyes as they witnessed the children left twisted and mangled in bushes and porches and doorsteps. His skin felt the kiss of warmth from the surrounded buildings engulfed in flame. The man snapped his eyes shut and whispered more prayers to himself and when he opened them he spotted another survivor of the flood. The man watched the large bearded survivor rocking back and forth sitting on the steps of a burning apartment building. In his arms he cradled a lifeless child. The man decided not to approach and then sucked in two deeps breathes and walked into the concrete slaughterhouse. He kept his eyes on his feet as he strode under dangling shoes and past defiled women.

>tfw you are writing something that you know is really good and will be loved by most of those who read it and might even make waves in the political world but you don't know if you can make it to the end.

>You don't know if you can keep on living with this much pain even though that is what makes your writing decent.

>You don't if you'd rather kill yourself or finish the only thing you will be proud of.


Is this what being a writer is guys?

I have plenty of friends and I make plenty of laughs and I make plenty of girls wet.

But I've been plagued with this crushing feeling and it drives me to write and read and that is it.

Sex doesn't even do it for me. Neither do drugs or alcohol.

Just writing and reading. But that isn't life.

I don't enjoy money or women or men or food or sport or family or life at the most basest of forms.

The only time I feel fulfilled is when I write. I write while in a trance as well and the only time I'm aware of it is when I stop and go back and edit the pages I have written.

This isn't life.

I wanted a wife to love.

I wanted a family.

I wanted a home near a lake so I could go fishing during the days of my retirement.


I don't know why I'm telling you dolts this. All you do is critique each others shitty short stories and brag about how much you enjoyed On the Road and do your best to imitate Hemmingway and Kafka and Fitzgerald when you know deep down that you can never scream as loud as they could.

God kill me.