Write a story in a single post

Write a story in a single post.

I called a pizza place and ordered a pizza. They delivered it to my house. I ate it.

The trap door only opens for those that close it.

>Write a story in a single post
user typed with a smug grin, as he affixed an image of a chimpanzee smoking at a typewriter, solved the captcha, and pressed "post." "Surely no one shall rise to this challenge" he opined while adjusting his full brimmed black felt cap. After several minutes had passed with no replies, user grew complacent, opened a new tab, and started auto-fellating himself to pornography featuring his favorite paraphilia. He was not prepared for what lie in wait when switched back tabs, jizz drool seeping from the corners of his chapped lips.

This is pretty off topic, but just because you mentioned auto-fellating.

I've had a lot of dreams lately about being able to suck my own dick. I'm sitting on my bed, and I think to myself, I haven't tried to blow myself in a while, might as well give it a go, not really expecting anything. But when I go for it, but penis fits easily into my mouth. I am too stunned to actually suck myself off. I think to myself, "holy shit, I have a dick in my mouth, and its MY dick!" and then I wake up.

Almost every night for the past few days. I'm not even joking.

What does this mean?

"I don't get how you could be so fatuous as to post this.

"What the fuck is so interesting about it? what do you hope to gain from this thread?"

I wrote, wondering about the enigma of OP's mind.

John Baxter woke one day and found that the universe had left the building.

He didn't understand this of course, at least not at first, but when he opened his eyes ready to embark in another day of routine work at the town's butcher's shop, he saw nothing but white. A confused scan of his surroundings revealed that there was no horizon and no floor beneath his feet either. If not for the fact that he did not feel any kind of wind rushing against his body, he would have sworn he was in free fall.

Nausea didn't take long to set in. John could feel his stomach lurching, trying to expel whatever remained of his midnight dinner like it was pure poison. He tried to resist, but in the end, the reflex won. A stream of bile, with a puree of semi-digested food mixed in, shot out of his mouth, coalesced upon itself into a ball and remained there, floating in front of him.

"Bloody fucking hell" he spat. Or at least, that's what he tried to say. His vocal chords found no purchase at all, and he suddenly become keenly aware of the deafening silence that permeated this place.

The only thought that resonated inside his befuddled, and slowly panicking mind was "Where the hell I am?"

I'm no psychologist but I think it means you want to suck your own dick.

don't we all?

There were few things in Quadree's life less tolerable than his coffee. It smelt of raw fish and had distasteful color, somewhere between the light tan of a fawn's coat and the yellow of an ancient newspaper. Even so, he drank it each morning without fail, spending each night in preparation rather than sleep. This state of affairs continued for his entire adult life, from the age of twenty-four to his death from pneumonia at ninety-six. Upon his deathbed, surrounded by his hundreds of foster children and a pack of Adventist ministers, he cursed the coffee bean and all who partake of it, dooming all who do so to a end more gruesome than his own.

These are excerpts of a story, and not stories themselves.

Stories must a have a beginning, a middle, and an end.

Aboard a spaceship. Darkness reigns inside the vessel. No lights except for a few glowing buttons here and there. A group of 5 people is aboard that spaceship sleeping in cryo tubes. 3 men and 2 women.
The lights in the cryo area go on and the tubes slowly open. One by one they waken from their slumber feeling weak and dizzy.
They go through their mandatory exercise routines to jumpstart their muscles.
They talk and laugh while preparing food.
>"So, when do we arrive on Earth?" Mark asks
>"What? We are in deep space. We are nowhere near Earth. Why would we?" Juliet answers halflaughingly
>"I... I don't know. Where are we going?"
>"You didn't read the contract again, did you?"
>"What contract? I don-"
>"Jesus, Mark! We've talked about this!"
>"We have?" Unsure whether he's asking her or himself
David intervenes with a questioning smile on his face.
>"Calm down, Jules. And Mark? Stop fucking with her and help me out with the cargo."
Mark knows about the cargo. Faintly. Does he? He can't tell. Something about his state of mind is weird. Not complete. Somewhere else.
>"Sure! No problem!" He said confidently while winking at Juliet
He doesn't know what he's supposed to do.

Geared up wearing protective armor and four levels down in the belly of the ship they are standing in front of a heavy metal door. David enters a code using a touchscreen next to the door. It opens and they enter. On the other side, next to the door, there are rods with two pins at the end. “Shock batons.” Mark murmurs to himself.
>“What?”
>“Nothing. Cleared my throat.”
Mark grabs two batons and hands one to David.
>“Thanks.” David says as he grabs it
>“The batons...” Mark thinks to himself. “It felt like I was supposed to do that. Like I knew what I was doing...”
David said something to him, but Mark didn't understand it. It was drowned out while he was lost in thought.
He looks up to David and sees that he's already turned his back to him and is walking.
Mark takes a few long steps and catches up to him.
>“So what now?”
>“What do you mean? Protocol. We feed it.” After a pause he asks Mark “Are you okay?”
>“No yeah sure! Just wondering if anything else has to be done.”
>”Like what?” he stops walking and looks Mark in the eye. “No. We check if it's alive and feed it. That's what we do. That's what we do everytime.”
David keeps looking Mark in the eye. Trying to figure something out.
>”When we're done here I'll ask Lisa to give you a brain scan.”
Mark doesn't know how to respond. Can't welcome the idea. Can't laugh it off. He's scared and wants to find out what's going on. Can't fight it.
>”Whatever.”

Feel free to continue this.

Wow Aristotle tier

Some random bullshit off the top of my head. I hate how many "he, him, his" I put in, but I won't revise this at all.

Enthralled with the realisation that he could now comprehend the waves of the ocean pulsing over him, he woke in his bed, staring into the black of his room.
"They're back," he thought to himself. "Only a matter of time until they've faded away."

Several faint circles composed of television-like static lay in the walls, approximately a half-metre across, many with impressions of fangs and slanted eyes staring towards him.
They moved slugishly in a meaningless pattern.

He felt an extreme soreness from the absolute lack of tension in his body. Then, one by one, the beings disappeared into nothing. He moaned as he turned to stare at the ceiling.

"If I close my eyes, I'll surely die," his silent mind stated.
He blinked once, and the sun was vibrantly shining through his window. He sat upright, causing the world to spin around his head. Nausea overcame him. He reached blindly towards his night-side dresser and felt the chilling touch of glass. Popping the cork, he drank three mouthfulls of the drink. Sickness became a unique energy, one derived from lethargy, and he proceeded out the door to the crashing waves he stared at before.

Filling his lungs with the harsh, cold, and salty air, he gazed upon the horizon with a sense of nostalgia pulling his heartstrings.

Composing himself moments later, he reached to his front pocket, pulling out a worn photograph of a young and beautiful couple in each other's arms, smiling in bliss. Sighing deeply, the nostalgia transitioned from a borderline euphoria to melancholic desire.

His vivid green eyes welled with tears, his amber brown hair flowed to and fro with the wind, his rough hands reached into the comfort of his pockets, and his feet trudged forwards, towards the sand and into the water.

Also, the idea was that Mark feels weird because the entire thing is a high tech virtual reality tour. He and his 4 friends are at some company where you can take virtual reality adventures based on a story you pick from a catalog and everything seems super real. When you go under, it programs your mind to make it seem like you belong in the story and don't know that's it's fake but Mark's brain somehow didn't accept that programming so he has no idea what's going on. Some things go wrong and in the end they encounter a black hole which they are actually supposed to get pulled into because that's the trigger that pulls their minds out of the virtual reality. But since Mark wasn't a working part of the simulation they do things that weren't intended for the adventure so in the end they actually manage to avoid the black hole while Mark keeps telling them to fly into it. Their minds never get to leave the virtual reality adventure.

that seems like a poorly constructed mind-reality system. you'd think a fail-safe would be among the top priorities in development prior to market application.

I didn't invest too much thought into this short story I literally just came up with.

I know that's the most important aspect but I'd use the excuse of one of the people inside fucking up the system because the process that put them in failed on him for some reason.

Anyway, I like the idea and I'm sure it could be built upon for a nice 20 page short story.

Our Story
There was nothing. Don't try to imagine what it was like you can't because by trying to imagine it you negate the absolute lack of anything that was this nothing. Then a universe started,some stuff happened and then the nothing rolled back in again. De End

A hundred eyes watched Bibblesbop from the shadowy trees. Fearing the worst he drew the tiny blade and charged forwards, ignoring the hoots and howls from either side. Just as the little man approached the great door, a bolt of lightning struck him down, a mere cinder of a thing at his last.

Daddys already given me 8 fresh cummies

But I want more

HIs cock went off like a spunky firework. Stately, plump Buck Rogers came down the stairwell nursing his flagging tumescence. The guests sat at the window watching the evening invade the avenue. Mr Scott, the freeholder, was roused from his reverie by Bucks close heat. A glossy aerated one so near made him keen of eye and tongue. He buttonholed Mr Kearney and Kearney denied him and the whole group laughed and laughed as if their hearts would break.

Holy fuck, I have this dream a few times a month. It's incredibly realistic (?) and I am shocked every single time, aware that I've had the dream so many times and believing that this time it's actually real. It's bizarre.

Neck yourself, seriously

The story of our race is the story of the great triumph of science. First we had faith, but not sight. As we gained sight, we lost our faith. Then we discovered the information field intrinsic in the universe, the residue of the interwoven determinism of all. We discovered its non-locality, both spatially and temporally. We discovered that every mind is interwoven with this lattice structure, that primitive occult notions of invocation, possession, and channeling pertained to, in effect, the indexing of a biological computer into a vast, timeless array of data. The brain only holds symbols that point to the mind, not the mind itself. With this realization, a new faith emerged, and we were liberated from the nihilism which had overtaken us

Then our physicists discovered there were other universes. This too was greeted with wonder and gratitude. Travel between universes became possible, and many were colonized. That was when the final truth was delivered. With the data gathered from each universe, a horror became apparent, made infinitely terrible by the hope we had earlier been given:

The multiverse is a false vacuum tree.

The crude form of the local axiom is attached. The particulars are, there is one true, stable universe which acts as the source of all others, which it births outward in a tree or vinelike pattern, each universe becoming successively less stable and more prone to entropy. This is not the horror. The lattice structure that represents to us immortality, a source of meaning, and so much else dissolves into pure undifferentiated energy at the time of collapse. This is the beginning of the horror. The time of collapse is unpredictable given purely internal data, which can only determine the constant in the given equation. As your race say "But as for that day or hour, no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father"

Do you understand? The time of collapse can only be determined empirically

And so, as we listened to the screams of ~9E6873 dead and dying souls as they were robbed of eternity, we collected ourselves, listening to the last transmissions of scientific data from our best citizens and timing an evacuation through the source into the next iteration of universes; an evacuation of such limited means, so precarious and exact it required calculating food as a partial function of mortality rate and saved in the end only a few thousand. Of these, most became thoroughly immoral or went insane

And so, in this form, robbed of sanity, of morality, of purpose, of most of our technology and knowledge, alone in a new and equally cruel universe, we came across your race, and you murdered us. Many of us were cruel, yes. Some of us tried to teach you, and these you regard among your ancient primitive gods and goddesses. On the whole you remember us as monsters. Regardless, you are not advancing fast enough to escape the next collapse. Thus, our story ends

It was the great triumph of science.

And thus a story was written.

Fin

It took about an hour to write the first paragraph, which I saved knowing that I'll probably never come back to it. Maybe writing just isn't for me, maybe I should just stick to what I know. Even if I had enough written to send to a publisher, or just the confidence to let someone else read my work, I doubt it would accomplish anything worth the effort.

And why should I put effort into anything? Why should I leave home when I know how that anxiety will wash over me, how again I'll be confronted with people, countless people. They're human just like me, yet I have the regrettably intimate knowledge of that fundamental disconnect. The fact that no matter how close I become with another person, that they’ll never really know me. Never really understand. If I could just write it out, then there might be that chance of someone recognizing the face between the lines.

But I can’t, instead I browse Veeky Forums and happen on a thread. “Write a story in a single post,” says the OP. I read through some of the posts…

And they’re all absolute trash! It’s no wonder they’re all unpublished NEETS, and hell, I can write better than these posts. I start writing and immediately realize why I NEED to write, it’s because I’m better than everyone! THE WORLD NEEDS MY WRITING, WITHOUT IT THE PLEBS WILL NEVER KNOW WHAT LITERATURE CAN BE. STEP ASIDE DFW, THE NEW KING OF LITERATURE HAS ARRIVED.

Pack it up boys, this thread is /threaded

oh mighty king of literature.

which one of our garbage stories was the least bad?

I liked these few because they don't take themselves too seriously like pretty much everyone else in this thread
but this one in particular is my favorite, since it got a good chuckle out of me.

So you hate sincerity and are a completely uninteresting typical modern man.

>sincerity
>on Veeky Forums

I come on lit for a good laugh and the occasional insightful post. I have never found a good piece of literature written by an user on Veeky Forums, if I wanted good sincere lit I'd pick up a good sincere book. I feel sorry for people who take chinese cartoon forums too seriously.

A person woke up. This person sat in front of a computer right away, and spent the rest of the day in front of it, with occasional breaks for bathroom necessities and food. The person then gets up and heads to bed, falling asleep some time later.

A person woke up...

>changing tenses

that would be 10 cents per word bub. I ain't working for free.

I was wrong. Now she's gone. Goodbye, everyone else.

At the beginning of her life, the child had hope.
Floating through the vague cycles of the days and nights punctuated by brief visits from Mother, the girl envisioned a future that held sunlight, happiness, and freedom. Imagined views from castle windows and midday picnics were within reach if only Father allowed it, Mother had told her. The loneliness, damp blankets, weak candles-- once Father agreed, all of it would become a hazy memory.

Once she was eight years old, the girl's hope began to dissolve.
Illusions gave way to the inevitable doubts of an abandoned and imprisoned child as Mother's appearances grew rare; in place of day trips and sunsets danced demons and witches, villains more wicked than any hero pure. Nightmares and hunger pained her as sleeplessness and longing tore at her.

At the end of her life, the child had no hope.
Though defined by misery, she no longer wept, for her mind and body had long since been desensitised to any emotional release to be had from tears. All that remained was a vision of Mother that drifted around the cold bedroom, an image whispering cruel, soothing words; that same kind Mother finally opened the door, let light pour in, and threw the starved corpse of her husband to her dying child before shutting them both behind the door for eternity.

I WANT MORE

In the winter, there are fears that hide in all things. Not least of these, are the times when the night grows deep and is dragged all the slower back into the shadows of the day, only to inevitably take the snow-crested trees of the forest once more, as the sun slowly begins to die.

But it is not, I believe, truly the night that men do fear, it is the formless terror that lies within; that horror that is carved into our very minds from when we hunted with stones, and the jungle canopy held only the jaws of Death itself, and unblinking eyes devoid of anything but malice and hunger.

But now it is that I find, when mankind stares and shrieks its cries into the star scarred night, that as we gaze long into that abyss, we are chilled at the thought that whatsoever dwells within will rear its head to gaze back,

And bare the same crooked maw,

And open wide the same hateful eyes.

Baby shit for sale, still warm.

You should try to suck own dick. It's possible.

I woke up. Slowly opened my eyes to let them see some light. But I saw nothing. Again. I couldn't cry, I couldn't scream. I had no body, nothing surrounded me. I felt no wind, I felt no gravity. This was my life. Why did this happen to me? Why could I feel? Why could I think? Why did I have dreams? No one could answer me. I saw a light, far, far away... "What is it? Maybe the universe finally woke up? Maybe God saw me and tried to help?" It was coming closer, and closer... I saw the gates of heaven... I woke up. Slowly opened my eyes to let them see some light. But I saw nothing. Again. I couldn't cry, I couldn't scream. I was alone.

TORTURED
O
R
T
U
R
E
D

“Kill yourself Earthling!” the huge octopus-like brain commanded. Its long, thick, purple tentacles flapped restlessly. “You are worthless!” “You will never amount to anything.” Its high pitched, echoic voice hurt the human’s ears. “Life is only suffering. You know that deep down you truly want to end it all, but are too cowardly to go through with it. Don’t fret, once it is over, you do not have to withstand life’s torment anymore.”
Each sentence the monster said, although it hurt, ringed true to the human’s ears. As consequence, his mental health was diminishing rapidly, as if each word slashed a piece of his self-confidence.

You've got a problem.

What?

Can I sugeest a wee edit?

>I called a tortilla place and ordered a tortilla. They delivered it to my house and I ate the tortilla.

This way sounds more 'biblical' to my ears.

This is actually good as far as Veeky Forums goes

It's the realism of it that gets me to be honest. I feel now that I know what it feels like to have my own manmeat in my mouth depsite never having managed it in my waking life.

I didn't think this would be a dream other people have. Maybe there's something Jungian going on, some archetypal collective unconcious shit, dig?

A SHARP BURNING WHITE STUCCO ROOM ON THE MEDITERRANEAN COAST
Pierre: You know, you needn't pose for him if you don't wish too.
PIERRE REACHES TOWARDS EMMANUELLE, AS IF TO EMBRACE HER, IN A GESTURE AUTOMATED BY LONG FAMILIARITY, BUT HALTS HIMSELF
Emmanuelle: Of course.
EMMANUELLE GLANCES WITH DARK AND UNREADABLE EYES TOWARDS PIERRE BEFORE GIVING HIM A GLANCING KISS ON THE CHEEK
THEY WALK THEIR DOG
Pierre: Let's walk into the ocean
(THEY'RE ON THE BEACH)
A YOUNG MAN APPROACHES, SELLING FROZEN SWEETS
Saint-Loup: My name is Saint-Loup
Emmanuelle: Oh?
Saint-Loup: My practice is popsicle based. I paint with popsicles. I would like you to pose for my painting.
EMMANUELLE GLANCES SHARPLY AT PIERRE
Emmanuelle: Of course I'll pose for you
TWO DAYS LATER, IN PIERRE'S ATELIER
PIERRE IS THREE QUARTERS THROUGH PAINTING HIS LATEST PAINTING. IT HAS ALL THE HALLMARKS OF THE WORK WHICH HAS MADE HIM A BURGEONING SENSATION IN THE ART WORLD.
Pierre: And what do you have to say too now?
Cockroach: Only that here is when you must recognize what the light gleaming off my carapace signifies.
Pierre: Of course, I told her already. I told her and she already knew. The light that is reflected from your carapace is already the light that burns in my veins and in my brain and the fire which it pains me to know I know how to direct.
PIERRE CRUSHES THE COCKROACH UNDER HIS ITALIAN LOAFERS
ANOTHER HOTEL
EMMANUELLE AND SAINT-LOUP ARE DISENTANGLING THEMSELVES LIMB-BY-LIMB IN THE SWEAT WHITE SHEETS OF SAINT_LOUPS HOTEL
Emmanuelle: Pierre's work ranks among the sharpest.
Saint-Loup: You know I am a great admirer.
Emmanuelle: Take the pictures you need now.
SAINT-LOUP RISES, TAKES SEVERAL PHOTOGRAPHS OF EMMANUELLE, AND EXAMINES THE IMAGES. AS HE PASSES FROM EACH TO THE NEXT, HE SEES EMMANUELLE'S GLEAMING FORM RISING FROM HIS BED, WALKING OUT HIS BEACH-FRONT DOOR, AND WALKING TOWARDS THE OCEAN. HIS LAST PHOTOGRAPH OF EMMANUELLE CAPTURES HER BEFORE SHE REACHES THE WATER-LINE; HIS LAST PHOTOGRAPH OF ALL CAPTURES HER NOT AT ALL.

>xD
You see that cheap, symbolic recreation of pleasure turned vacuum above? That's your mind, a defiled, confused place of whom you're afraid to speak, a tool only used to waste time and greed. Truly, millennials are fucking pathetic.

FUCKING REPLY YOU COCK SUCKING DICK SHITS!!!!!

Wow, that is an awesome backhanded compliment.

It was a cool fall morning as Dick awoke from his dreamy slumber. Pulling the heavy woolen covers from his bodice, he heads down to the kitchen to brew a hot, dank cup of coffee. Dick loves any type of coffee, in particular, dark French roast which he measures a plentiful amount of sugar and creamer to his tastes. "I love coffee", says Dick as he takes a seat at the kitchen table. A few minutes later, after drinking half of the delicious and succulent nectar of the gods, Dick realizes that his stomach has begun to rumble with a pit like feeling. "I feel like a nice coffee shit is upon the horizon", Dick excitedly states. He stumbles to the bathroom, clearly still tired as the coffee has not kicked in yet, to deposit a large, dank, smelly shit into the bowl.

The end.

He had spent the first hours of the collapse posting on his favourite internet website, not knowing of the madness that was taking place around him.

For a hikkomori, life always had the same appearance, smell and sound. Moldy walls, the stench of sweat and cheetos, the rumbling sound and companionship of a computer processor, the familiar noises of a mother doing dishes and the mailman outside.

It was precisely that sudden calm that first alerted Shun that something was wrong. As he got up from his chair to peer at the street outside through the indiscrete spaces between his blinds, he was bemused by the thought... how the sounds we most hate are the ones we miss the most when they are gone.

His next thought was not so amusing as he froze, watching the inert body of her mother laying on the street, her face contorted into a visage of terror.

As he left his room for the first time in 4 years, crossing over other inert human remains to get to his mother, he realized this was the end of his life as a NEET and the beginning of a terrible and much more sinister existence.

Gregor was suddenl;y woken up by the excruciating pain coming from his shithole.
He tore off the covers and looked in shock as he saw another Gregor (or someone who looked verymuch like himself) trying to claw his way out of his anus.
The shit was flying everywhere from his arsehole and Gregor passed out. When he woke up, all he saw was darkness and some suspicious looking brown logs.
After feeling his way around the cavern, he came to see a blinding light.
He forced himself out of it, then realised that he had just been shat out of someone else.
So the process continued and thus perpetual energy was discovered, and the Gregor's shitted forevermore.

I walked down to the store to buy milk and some Japanese breadcrumbs to make macaroni and cheese. I brought them home and followed the recipe, then I realised that it would make enough to serve four people and I cried because my entire family died from being hit by four different trucks.

For sale, OP shoes, never straight.

Actually funny.

>not drinking it black

I don't like Dick.

The luminous shore blows it's tides, as the clear blue sky hangs above it as far as the eyes could see. Titanic hunks of floating steel docking by the shore, waiting for the free man and enslaved man to gather aboard, bringing hedonistic lunacy with them. Concrete jungle is built upon sand, as if it was an allegory to the foundation of the Babylonian race that built this faux habitation, may God spare their misguided souls. Here I am, I was, and I am to come, striving in the middle of this man made utopia of destruction. Hoiting! Man is vain dear damsel, but I am hoiting!

Slick Shyster, The Pestmeister, as they call me. A stinky dinky Latin aficionado. As conduit waterfall pour on my body, memories of my companions flashed before me. What a impertinence man I was, I played three card on the roadway of no sanity. A Zen poet once said, no mortal man shall intervene with the frog. Grief gracious, am I not anything but the frog! I shall be known, for all eternity, as the deviator of all axiom, the righteous malefactor, and the most repulsing of all, the man of scam. Art is selfless, but I am a scam of an artist. Though I have hid my shaken self behind a million disguises, I still abhor life as a specific being. A terrific, terrific being I am.

Fucked your mom 20 something years ago