Best of Veeky Forums OC writing

As I look to the sky, in my mind I see the sun, blue heavens, white clouds, birds, and balloons, stars and moon. No, there is grey, and smoke, and ash, and the wailing voices of misery from men wishing for the return to the life they knew. But its all gone. I can't see the horizon. My head is cold, my soul is aching, my breath is short. I'm scared, and I can see the faithlessness in the eyes of my fellow men, stammering over the corpses of their friends and enemies. How faint we feel, knowing that we too could be there on the ground, lifeless. My breath is so short, I cant feel my legs. Oh God, even your breath escapes me in this wickedness. My lungs long for the breath of life, Lord, but instead they are filled with vility of men. I would rather exhale and never breath again to be rid of this suffering. But I recall, all those things from home. Gone, are the old ways. I'll never see them again. If it not be for we, the brave, none shall ever see again the world before the horror of this atrocity. I pray my death keeps those things safe, and whole. Onward to glory.
Psalms 23:4
-A lonely soldier

East

Drive east, and clouds surround the peaks
In soft gray mist, laden and low.
The mountains collect them into creeks
Before they breach the rainshadow

Which rules beyond, where sky can speak
The stupid blue of only sky,
And summer, lounging, kicks up its feet
With fading pinks in mid-July.

>walk into this thread
>post my own writing
>360 and walk away

same. i cant even read OP

Dear Mr. Safran-Foer / Jonathan,

Please don't continue beyond this sentence if you are busy or otherwise distracted with more pressing matters. You kept reading? Great! Well first for introductions. My name's [my name] and I've read your first two books. Everything Is Illuminated wasn't great in my opinion but Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close really was a gripping read. I digress. The reason for my writing you today is to inquire as to whether you could provide for me any advice that you would have given to yourself at a younger age when you were writing your first novel and no-doubt dreaming of literary (and other) success? Wow, still haven't introduced myself, huh. Well, here's the slim. I'm 23 years old and I recently graduated from university with a degree in English Literature. Suffice to say I've struggled to find a job but I have in the time I have been unemployed written a novel that I am confident will have a major effect on the literary world should it find a publisher willing to give it a chance. Here's when you come in, Jon (do you mind me calling you that?). I have discovered your address via legal means online and I am wondering whether you would be willing to receive my manuscript in its entirety, along with a synopsis (I'll even throw in my author photo for free!) and first of all give me your feedback on it and then, providing you enjoy it to pass it on to your friends in the publishing world (I know how well-connected you folks are) so that I can avoid the dreaded slush pile of doom! Anyways, so let me know asap and I can have the manuscript on your straw 'Welcome' mat by the end of the week. If you'd rather I hand it to you in person and take some time to discuss our respective views on literature contemporary and otherwise I would love to visit your office at [his university address] and spend a few hours shooting the lit (see what I did there?). So let me know Jon and we can then discuss the next step of our correspondence. Thanking you again and again, [my name].

Bump

Ream-ridged, the waxen hand of jumentous Alfred Weineschöpfer hung, loose and spasming, hooking over his hip and fly as he swivelled about the balustrade with a navicular pop - a half-sucked shaltnot - the brittle almondy crust beneath his sole tangling amongst the coral of the carpet as he sashayed towards the peeling cedar of the doctor's office.
Sustained by the impetus from his spiralled ascent of the stairhead, Weineschöpfer severed his unatrophied hand from the holster of his pantspocket, slipped his flavour-stained sleeve with a groaned stretch, drew a breath of slathered calamine and spritzed citrus as he opened the door with a perverse turn of wrist and elbow.
A receptionist, ovine-eyed, revolved apace, past the marmalade banquette and paused, in ruminant awe, at a bouquet of polyester and its littered pollen of biscuit crumblings, patchily tracing her fitful circulations between pantry and chair.
Alfred coughed, soggily, dabbed the vermilion junction of his lips with a callused thumb - grimaced at the blunt scraping of nail on his epicene flesh - and recited:

-Iambic to see docker, rashly.

-Take a seat Mister Winoshopper, she retorted, unturning.

Displeased, he settled into the lather flecked jam of the bench and frigidly stared at the hued corpuscles of a pointillist bather: pitching a blanched and freckled rump about a patinaed tub as they stared at the floortiles; an unpainted primate relished from the doorjamb, obscured by the bulbous projection of a Hellenic column. Alfred doubled up, revealing a network of sanguine filament beneath his tomentum crown, the putty of his gut burrowing blindly. The indigestion of impressionism.

This aesthetic spasm settled itself into the nidus of Alfred's thoughts, oozing - crusting - amongst the arbour and goutweed:
Was the relationship between his frothy cramps and these paintgrains correlated quadratically or exponentially? Could the insatiable gluttony of a gaze cause bloating when subjected to stale and half-baked images? Was the slight pressure at his temple caused by a visual overindulgence and resultant fattening of the eyeballs?
These, and many other questions, singed the frowzy turf of his mind - burning underfoot, their fragrant wisps stoking the honey-hoared fleece of his forearms -shovel-sliced from the peat of a mired cognisance, crumbling as they tumbled off the scavenged gewgaw and gimcracked scree of a geriatric broodground.

Clouds of coffeepot vapour glistened in the barbs of light, varnishing the pulp of an orange segment playfully turned by the receptionist as she called Alfred forth, blinking at the desk grain. A fermented smile rose upon his chin, disrupting the ripple of his jowls. The final pucks of oneiric thought, exposed to the tannic gob of forgotten or unknown etiquette, sputtered, and sank back into the rut and furrow of Alfred's mind.

Lysidike took her ability to read his mind as a matter of course, but his converse power was still unsettling. Time was only Anaximander ever gleaned what she thought with any proficiency; but he deduced her nature from what his oily smarts told him was the nature of a person, and only sardonically hinted at his mastery. Tlexictli didn’t even have to puzzle to catch her straight away, so the privacy she took for a metaphysical given in her youth broke up, and she felt her disagreements with her husband as dumb sensory pressures, like heat or cold. Their cross-purposes weren’t any easier for their transparency, but there was nothing to worry over – they’d conducted business together before becoming sentimental.

nice

I would really like to read this guy's book

its fucking word salad.

1. The guy who is writing the abstract expressionist war piece. I believe it is about WW1 and starts out “Marching marching marching,” and was surprisingly good.
2. The guy who had a long poem about Appalachian life and culture. It starts something like “It ain’t Appalachia come down from heaven.” Was a dope poem.
3. Greater than everything I ever read is this prose piece which I for the life of me cannot remember the subject of, but reminded me of One Hundred Years of Solitude in the matter of fact way that it described impossible or strange things, and I remember the writer seemed like they had a pretty intimate knowledge of anatomy and medical terminology. At one point they described someone cutting off their hands, or getting their hands cut off, and seeing the bones or veins? Hard to remember but it was the best writing I’ve ever seen here and I wish I could remember a line to track it down in the archives.

My sweet caring mother, I did as you told me, you darling thing, and woke myself up when I heard your crashing. I am delighted that you do like making pancakes for me. Yes, now I can remember that morning when I dined with you for so long, so hungrily. It was the fluffiest batch of pancakes you ever gave me, mother. My fork was stuck in my mouth for hours, shoveling in and in those lovely steaming hotcakes. I felt your craftsmanship on my tongue and saw the care you used in your baking. At every bite I took the marvelous flavor came bursting past my lips and if I chewed it for a while longer than usual, lovely gobs of syrup came rushing from the dough. I had a plateful of pancakes that morning, mother, and I ate every single one, big turgid ones, flat cakey ones, round fluffy ones and a lot of tiny little hotcakes ending in a lovely feeling of euphoria. It is wonderful to eat from a plate of fluffy pancakes when each cake reveals another one under it. I think I would know my mother's pancakes anywhere. I think I could pick hers out of a table full of pancakes. It is a rather light batter she uses, not like the thick flowing one I imagine other mothers make. It is creamy and soft and sweet like what a master chef would prepare for the most high paying of his customers. I hope you will make no end of your pancakes in my kitchen so that I may know their taste always.

Damn

is "long windy fellows" the greatest euphemism ever?