ITT: We imitate an authors style and content

ITT: We imitate an authors style and content.

Bushiko walked atop the cream-coloured marble. The room was large and imposing. Small glitters of light reflected against her shoes, so she turned her gaze upward towards the ceiling. A chandelier sat in the middle, absorbing and dispelling warm light that came through the open, oval window frame. She felt as if she was the queen of the house, but in reality she had only been here for five minutes and didn't know the owners. From what she had read in the visitors pamphlet, this building wasn't always a museum. It had been owned by a wealthy sake manufacturer, but the house had become abandoned through a series of bad gambling decisions one of the descendants of the family had made with his inheritance. Only ten years ago, through some form of karmic retribution, a wealthy cultural benefactor decided to purchase the lot and renovate it in order to enrich the cultural development of the area. This area had been an important spot in many battles of history due to the geographical landscape, and so this mystery benefactor wanted the museum specialized in showing the history of these battles, and the weaponry involved in each period.

Studying a cudgel from 18th century Japan, Bushiko scrunched her face in terror at the sight she faintly saw reflected on the glass frame.

Turning around, her fears were confirmed. Stood there was the museum guard who had taken her entry payment and allowed her access to this special room. Instead of wearing his dark chinos and blue shirt, he was completely naked. Bushiko saw his willy. It was veiny, thick, with diamond like pustules of dickcheese surrounding the helmet.

As he swung his penis like a peach helicopter rotor, Bushiko became entranced. "I'm such a lonely nip," she thought.

That this microcosm of tradition is unparalleled in a certain mythic sense is evident. The reactionary movement transcends the physically bourgeois plane and henceforth a solar being is forged anew in the synthesis between the revolt against modernity and the modern world itself; inspiring in itself echoes of primordial movements of the spirit and of tradition one might see only in the earliest Indo-Aryan proto-texts.

At last, I ride through the glistening streets of Los Angeles, the sun's beckoning call behind me as the faceless men gasp and whine at my sides on every street corner. The engine of my scooter a reminiscent sound, like cattle horded into tiny, enclosed spaces, eyes looking all around for some semblance of protection from the fiendish, carnivorous beings who will put it to death in a matter of hours and sell its flesh, packaged, sold and bought like slaves in a market.

Kek

What is it with this dude and cocks? I'm less than a quarter into Kafka on the Shore and dicks have been mentioned at least 6 times.

"really", "squalid", and "doubly". do i get a prize, now?

He wiped the plate with the tortilla and ate the tortilla and thanked her.

hemingway, much?

You have not read Murakami.

I'd like to see you do a better job faggot

Just Japanese culture. Try to be a little more understanding next time.

Honestly, unless you're fluent in Japanese, you yourself have never read Murakami.

Post yours.

>no jazz reference
2/10

>le translation xD
murakami himself has said that the english translation of his works are better than the original japanese

The spider plant cringed as its owner brought forth the watering can. "I am a spider plant!" it cried indignantly. "How dare you water me before my time! Guards!" it called. "Guards!"

Borin, its owner, placed the watering can on the table and looked at it. "You will be watered," he said.

"You do not dare to water me!" laughed the plant.

"You will be watered," said Borin.

"Do not water me!" wept the plant.

"You will be watered," said Borin.

I watched this exchange. Truly, I believed the plant would be watered. It was plant, and on Gor it had no rights. Perhaps on Earth, in its permissive society, which distorts the true roles of all beings, which forces both plant and waterer to go unh appy and constrained, which forbids the fulfillment of owner and houseplant, such might not happen. Perhaps there, it would not be watered. But it was on Gor now, and would undoubtedly feel its true place, that of houseplant. It was plant. It would be watered at will. Such is the way with plants.

Borin picked up the watering can, and muchly watered the plant. The plant cried out. "No, Master! Do not water me!" The master continued to water the plant. "Please, Master," begged the plant, "do not water me!" The master continued to water the plant. It was plant. It could be watered at will.

The plant sobbed muchly as Borin laid down the watering can. It was not pleased. Too, it was wet. But this did not matter. It was plant.

"You have been well watered," said Borin.

"Yes," said the plant, "I have been well watered." Of course, it could be watered by its master at will.

"I have watered you well," said Borin.

"Yes, master," said the plant. "You have watered your plant well. I am plant, and as such I should be watered by my master."

I'll be surprised if anyone gets this.
EZ MODE: He's Australian

The tin walls of the dinghy were hot in the midday sun as Rob and his dad skudded across the bay, the box of fishing gear rattling at his feet. His skin felt tight, the way it does when you know you've just been sunburned, and the boat smelled of salt and tobacco.

Replace 'said' or 'replied' with 'beamed' and you have a J. K. Rowling novel.

What the hell is this supposed to be?

You've piqued my interest

Peter Carey?

I like the sexual tension, got a little excited.

He might have one. Dont quote me on that though.

>I'm plant
>do not water me

Kafka?

He watched mutely the girl part her mooncold cheeks. I too had pulled myself off today. Conned the shaft and sundered from it, did Onan's will. A spermicide. Billions of voices never to be heard. Now my hand keeps my pocket. The hearth darker than the sea swallowed the thong, lace smugly parting the soiled lips. user's eyes looked with shy lust. His member rose through the cloth and he cringed as the dry semen tore off.

Joyce

She was on the bed beneath me, cunt gaping and nipples puffy, the disgusting slut. Despite my revulsion I could feel myself growing hard. She reached into my boxers and grabbed my cock, working it expertly before guiding it into her pussy. A few thrusts and it was all over, although I made sure to pull out of her and cum on her tits so I didn't get the bitch pregnant.

She went to the shower to clean up, and I lit up a cigarette and gazed out of the window. The Algerian gang were on the street corner again, shouting at people as they walked by. I wish I could feel some sadness about Europe's suicide, but truthfully I felt nothing at all.

They ate the tortillas in silence then they shot the waiter right through the back of the head and they went out into the street in silence and they all spat. They rode on.

McCarthy

Nope
Tim Winton

Really well done, I dock a point for no "hot pudding" reference and another for being pasta.
8/10

Correct

What are you doing?
Doin't nothin'.
The kid grabbed his mule in an excruciating way infested with vermin violated by executioners pracitising incendarism and desanctifying the pious.

Bad McCarthy rendition.

Can anybody solve this though? It's scary.

something something greek gods, blah bluh-blah, not enough lgbtqi characters, bloo blee blah, nico's character is immensely forced and unnecessary, bloo blee blar.

...

John Norman
>was about to reflexively call you a pleb, then realized that I myself was the pleb for actually being familiar with John Norman