Found a trove of short stories I used to write when I was in sixth grade (I'm in college now)

Found a trove of short stories I used to write when I was in sixth grade (I'm in college now).

Keep it bumped and I'll transcribe them. Some of it is a bit funny and many of my descriptions made no sense.

Other urls found in this thread:

textsaver.flap.tv/lists/1iv5
twitter.com/SFWRedditGifs

I'm game.

Grammatical errors and all:

"We found the dead dude in Bird Park, on the eighteenth of October. The sky was a flawless ocean blue. It seemed as if the sky was just a reflection of the ocean on that day.
This was all twenty years ago, and at the time we were children, me and Tom. We'd been friends for a long time and I guess it all ended that day, because of a stupid argument over a a rotting and grotesque lump of flesh. I'd met him in second grade and if I remember correctly we were in fifth grade at the moment.
He was totally unlike me. He was lean and tall with brown and silky hair that came down over his forehead, almost touching the tip of his nose like trickles of water that abruptly ended in random places. I was kind of small for my age and watched too many horror shows like The Twilight Zone and Tales from the Darkside. They were the kind of shows that would be on every weekday and the kind of shows my parents hated, always protesting when I was slumped on the couch, no life at all, hypnotized by the show. "You are now entering the Twilight Zone..."
"Jim? You watchin' that damn show again? Oh you better not be... How many times have I told you not to..."
When I wasn't locked up at home like a mentally retarted person in a Asylum I was having the time of my life. Me and Tom would walk around the whole town visiting places like Billy's Pool and Bird Park.
Bird Park. It was a long stretch of nothing but greenland, surrounded by scrubby trees as old as the building down in Death Alley, which is what we called a block of boredom down near Tunsel's Workshop where all the motorcycle gangs would team up and tell each other that they were going to kill each other, but in the end, never did as much as make someone bleed a little. They called it Bird Park, well at least we did, because of an obvious reason. Every morning there'd be a flock of birds, maybe nine, pecking at the ground with long, slender necks. By the evening there would be hundreds.
As long as I can remember, nobody, and I mean nobody, disturbed the birds. Not even the Chip brothers who, at least claimed, to have killed six dogs and nine stray cats, didn't go up to the park in the morning. I guess everyone loved the feathery flying things, by the way they acted.

There'd been no school for the day because it was the birthday of some guy who everyone remembered as smart, but wasn't really, in my opinion, that bright. Nobody's really bright in the world I don't think, only those workaholic scientists that go around mixing chemicals and saying they've got a new medicine for curing cancer, when what they've really got is a test tube full of fizz, that wouldn't even sell for ten bucks on eBay.
My mom told me to go out and get some fresh air, so I called Tom on my cell. He answered on the second ring, with his weary voice that sounded he'd been working day and night for six days in one of those old mine shafts where dust kills you if you're not looking

Transcribe your tits into pixels and send those to me through the cables you dumb whore.

Pretty good, keep going

>sixth grade
for what purpose?
also post full pic of hand

Post your feet, please. Please. Post a story about your sexy feet.

Sixth grade was my creative peak to be honest. I wrote a ton of short stories because my parents would never really let me go outside with friends so I'd just stay inside and read. The longest thing I wrote was this twenty five page thing that was supposed to be eventually be a novella.

It was also around the time I found a typewriter in my attic and I typed out some stories using that.

Most of these writings have no endings since I'd stop and go.

How old are you when you're in sixth grade, like 12? Kind of weird for a kid to be writing stories at that age.

Post something from now.

Please cut your nails.

I want to lick underneath your fingernails.

Bump

It's not that unusual. I remember writing some video-game/scifi-derived crap for English class in 5th grade and later making a couple of abortive attempts at writing on my own in 7th grade that ultimately went nowhere after a page or so because I thought it'd be fun. I'm sure there were others besides OP with similar early attempts at creative writing.

Just because you asked. And I know my writing is trash, just posting to appease you guys and because no one outside of my creative writing group has read this stuff.

"From the age of nine he'd become aware of the gift in his fingers. It had begun with stick figures and simple shapes drawn haphazardly on broad pages the size of an easel. After that he'd taken to carrying a large sun-burnt yellow legal pad wherever he went. His father had chucked it onto his bed gracelessly one Saturday morning before heading off to work for the rest of the day.
"Here, occupy yourself. It's your mother's idea, she told me you've been glued to the television screen lately," he said gruffly before leaving. Darren, groggy, still snug under the warmth of his blanket, had only felt something land lightly on his legs and for the next ten minutes, time during which he did not rustle or make any effort toward fully awakening, he wondered what the nuisance on his leg might be. A book of course! he suspected. His parents had been making every effort humanly possible make him fond of reading and he imagined they would have attempted to cram paperbacks down his gullet if it had shown so much as a glint of a promise in working. But no, it was a legal pad with blank pages for possible drawings, not a novel of any sort.
In hindsight, twenty years later, he realized how logical the progression seemed, that his parents would endeavor to mold a Picasso out of him after failing to cultivate an avid wordsmith and bibliophile.
Pressed up against the door to his musty apartment, he peered intently through the peephole at the elderly couple waiting impatiently on the other side with uneasy and restlessly sad looks on their faces.
Their eyes were faintly wet and their cheeks held a certain sad softness that could only be attributed to a profusion of tears. The man's face was elongated and singularly sallow, shaped in such a way that lent his entire skull the appearance of a bowling pin. He towered over his wife, who in contrast, looked scrunched up with grief.
The man knocked hurriedly and Darren looked them over once more from head to toes to gauge whether they'd brought all the money he'd demanded or would attempt to weasel out with an excuse. He looked up at the clock over his door. They were eight minutes late."

...

CUT YOUR FUCKING NAILS REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

This is the first story I clanked out using the typewriter in sixth grade. I'm hesitant to post the actual transcription because it'll make me seem like I have turbo-autism.

You're an user who cares, just post it

Vgood writing for your age

Twilight Zone is the single best tv show ever made

This is why we can't have nice things.
>inb4 "white knight", "shut up meg", etc

I hope they realize I'm a guy, not a female. I do not have "sexy feet." My feet are calloused because I'm a runner.

Here's something I wrote around seventh grade for an English assignment. I don't think I'll be taking any more pictures, just posting straight transcripts. Derivative sci-fi:

"Weston reached for the holograph pad’s ON button as it rang, roused from his sleep. At the same time, with his other hand, he pressed the area of soft flesh just under his right earlobe. His artificial eye HUD promptly turned on, and his vision adjusted to the degree of darkness in the room. The sleek interface took a second to update, scan for any new notifications, and then flash the time: 3:00 am.
He tapped down on the holograph pad, muttering to himself, who the hell is it at this ungodly hour?
The wall opposite his bed lit up as the holographic image loaded and configured to the dimensions of the space. Leroy, Weston’s boss and head of the synthetic-organ related crimes department, materialized before him.
“You know what fucking time it is?” Weston grumbled, propped his head up against the bed’s frame.
“Well aware,” Leroy started, “And also well aware that we need you down by Ninth avenue, near the Forriston Intersection.”
“Can’t Jeff and Damien handle it? I was just getting into a sweet dream with some milky virgin.”
Leroy leaned into the screen, disgruntled and not the least bit amused with Weston’s cooperation. “You know their off shift, Weston.”
“How bad is it?” He asked. He stumbled over to his closet and slipped on his thermal jacket. “Is Nathan already there?”
“No, I'm getting to him next.”
There was a slight pause. Weston grabbed his apartment entry card and walked up to the screen, “How bad IS it?”
“Same as two days ago, I'm afraid. Another poor fellow ambushed and cut apart. Once again, great care and control with the incisions.”
“What’d they take?” Weston grimaced.
“Two lungs and a heart. All three premium quality, developed by Novotek.”

Here. This is actually the most recent thing I've written (about four months ago).

The password is: lit.
textsaver.flap.tv/lists/1iv5

Well, good night Veeky Forums. It was nice hearing what you had to say and taking a trip down memory lane.