ITT, rewrite this in the style of your favorite author

Since time immemorial there has been one sound reviled universally by mankind. I speak not of the "BOOM!" or the "BANG!", but the "CRASH!". Nabokov declared that there was no noise that stirred more apprehension and wariness in him. Numenius of Apamea dubbed it "the sound of God's wrath". The root of this fear and rancor stems from the plainly acknowledged fact that it is seldom a harbringer of good things – of pancakes by the Seine or the unexpected presence of that particular golden canine. One morning in 1936, in a hotel in Vienna, I awoke to that abominable noise. What follows is my (likely inaccurate) recalling of the events that took place that day.

In those minor hours, those hours of awakening, those hours of the blood of the sun seeping into rooms through all east facing windows, sudden cacophony and clatter rarely foreshadow the joyous. The mother preparing food for her children will not be preceded by such, nor will the arrival of a pathetic new hound adopted by a family. Yet here this dawn, such a noise was heard.

Crash. It's never good to be awake. Mom made pancakes. We got a dog. A golden retriever. That never wakes me. It's never good.

Is this Gary Paulson or Hemmingway

A loud crash comes across the house. It has happened before, but there is nothing to compare it to now.

Other than the dog line I like this unironically

Woolf? George Eliot?

Is this Borges?
pretty good

Woolf

Son: Sirrah, mother, I have heard a crash
Should it be the morning maids awake me
With sweet day-break treats?
Or hast thou acquired us a golden pup,
To make merry this Michaelmas?

Mother: Aye, my boy, but 'was not I,
Nor the serving girls that crash,
Thou shouldst knowst tis never good news
To be woken by yonder crashing.

Enter First Murderer

It is

—Crash! Crash, you young scoundrel! The morning is upon us and there is a day to carry!
—Has mother prepared hotcakes?
—Of course not!
—Has father brought a pup from the farm?
—Heavens, no!
—This can't be good.

>It was black. There was a loud noise. Then my room was there. I started making noise. Something creaked and then mother was there. She held something in her hands. A plate. Had something warm and soft life my slipper. She gave it to me and I stopped making noise. A dog barked, and then it was there. It was soft, and bright. It smelled like trees.

Faulkner

>When one wakes up, when one emerges, from their sleep, it is almost, let us say, a death in itself, for to be cruelly snatched from the dream world into the obscene world of our own reality is not a blessing but a curse. Even the seemingly innocent act of making pancakes, for example, becomes obscene, and something to be hated, because there is a Freudian duality to the act of having a woman cook for you. It is both maternal but also sexual. For as the wife cooks dutifully for the husband, so too does the mother cook lovingly, for the son. Likewise, too, let us imagine a newly adopted Golden Retriever. Again, this is something to be feared, as here the Golden Retriever acts, to a child, as a sort of father figure, a guardian, though, inevitably, he is castrated, much as the child feels castrated by the existence of his own father.
>*sniffs*

fuckig kek

When waking as of from some bountious death, to a crash most sickening and ripe rising, the smell of pancakes and golden retrievers reminds you that the world is nothing but a cruel, cruel, horrible and terrible nightmare, and who can save us from this gibbering death?

When I think back on that time, it is that moment I recall first; to remember more, I must work forward or backward from that. In memory it seems to me I awoke with a start, in gray shirt and ragged trousers, with a contemptuous crash ringing in my ears. While I raised myself from my slumber, I considered the numerous eventualities such a tumult could indicate; images of toasted morning cakes and flaxen canines raced through my mind. I must still have been dreaming, for the portentous sound, it is clear to me now, boded no such happiness.

>I'm sitting and simmering in the silence of a stale room after dawn when I hear a loud crash, or something like it. When you're on the junk, sounds don't come through right, the silence feels so heavy that every sound comes through like a body breaking the surface of a pool of thick mud, the scrape of glass on glass, a mob tearing each other limb from limb. I almost convince myself it's the drag queen downstairs who likes being called Mom making pancakes and getting fucked against the stove by some queer-bashing john with a briefcase and a suit, while a big and slavering beast of a golden retriever the color of rancid jissom gnaws at its cage. But the sickness makes you smart, at least smart about getting junk and not getting nabbed, and I know it's nothing good coming. I hit the window just in case, and the fire escape down into the river of old condoms and broken needles and wet trash that the cops are too good to wade through over a single broke junky holding barely enough for one.

>Romero lived alone in a 3rd story apartment, with neither wife nor child nor dog. Sometimes he would lay in bed with his eyes closed, listening through the paper-thin walls and imagine the neighboring family was his. Maria Dolores would shout "despiertate mijo! te hice panques!" and the ratty old retriever would bark. Smiling, Romero would open his eyes, and from the dusty window receive the crashing light of morning.

the sniff makes me think DFW, but stylistically the passage is nothing like him.

Are you actually dumb

Every flapjack was darker than the one before, and smelled delicious. By the time the sun came up they were a beautiful golden brown. The more she flipped the more evenly they bronzed, but the more evenly they bronzed the more she was compelled to flip. They piled endlessly higher, golden like golden retrievers. Unknown to the pancakes but known to us, a young man began to stir in the adjacent room, his fat pink mast filling with morning-blood.

>Sing o muse
>Of the young one
> Awoken by a crash

I suck at this

Echoing throughout the room, a loud noise, resembling the "Crash" onomatopoeia resounded deep within my head and flapped my eyes open.

This gave me leukemia

>I wanted so badly to lie down next to those flapjacks on the couch, to wrap my arms around my pancakes and eat. Not chow down, like in those movies. Not even munch. Just eat them in the most delicious sense of the phrase. But I lacked the courage and they had syrup and I was sleepy and they were delicious and I was hopelessly awoken by a crash and they were endlessly buttery. So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if pancakes were loud awakening crashes, I was a whimper and they were a gunshot.

NOOOO BRUH LOLLL

Is your favourite writer a GOD DAMN IDIOT?

K E K

Tfw not really copying anyone, just shitposting whatever.

I'm just assuming this is Irvine Welsh

maybe Diaz?

kekles

CRASH! Light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Crah-ah-ash: the pursed kiss and tongue swish, the wide open gape as the jet of breath propels itself forward, and shatters against the teeth. CRASH! It was CRASH!, plain CRASH! in the morning, loud enough to wake me up. It was CRASH! when Mom made pancakes. It was CRASH! when we adopted a Golden Retriever. But when something good is happening, it was always CRASH!

>Now what you have to understand, is that in last decades, pancakes had become America's n°1 breakfast. They were selling the stuff everywhere, grocerystores, malls, you name it. Even I, had fallen for their sweetness. But the thing is, they're not known to make loud crash. So when I was awake, bare naked, half-drunk from last night, by the most loudest crash you can imagine, I knew right away it wasn't my then-fiancée making pancakes, nor her annoying Golden Retrievier puppy. Who (or/and what) could it be ? Cops ? Angels ? Sure wasn't going to be any pleasant surprise.

Is this a new meme? I really hope so.

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.

H O L Y S H I T

Rarely waking up to a crash means something good is happening.
Our protagonist reflected on this.
It never crashes to signify syrupy, fluffy pancakes that would melt in your mouth with buttery flavor and a flagon of sweet and smooth strawberry cordial to wash it all down at breakfast time.
Nor does it ever crash to warn of an approaching golden retriever.

...

...

Delete this board

Waking up to a loud crash has seldom been accompanied, a few groggy, red-eyed seconds later, by the realization that something good is happening. It takes a crash of a particularly virile magnitude to be able to rouse oneself from a Temazepan[1]-cajoled sleep, and, contrary to the idyll of Lotus-eating children in the television advertisements, the smell of Mom busily making Betty Crocker pancakes[2] is unlikely to chemically alter the concentration of gamma-aminobutyric acid at the GABAA receptor, the cause of your unsteady slumber.

[1]Temazepam (brand names Restoril and Normison, among others) is an intermediate-acting 3-hydroxy hypnotic of the benzodiazepine class of psychoactive drugs. It is the 3-hydroxy analogue of diazepam, and one of diazepam's primary active metabolites. Temazepam is approved for the short-term treatment of insomnia. In addition, temazepam has anxiolytic (antianxiety), anticonvulsant, and skeletal muscle relaxant properties.

[2]Heat the pan over a moderate heat, then wipe it with oiled kitchen paper. Ladle some batter into the pan, tilting the pan to move the mixture around for a thin and even layer. Quickly pour any excess batter into a jug, return the pan to the heat, then leave to cook, undisturbed, for about 30 secs.

Pure gold

In the approach to the limitation of the impossibility of ownership and only in the imminence of the proverbially disruptive CRASH can one having sensed attainment embrace his own wakening in the charter and reconstruction of his now fowl daydream overlooking the tedium of "a Golden Retriever", "pancakes", his morning rarely happening at all.

Veeky Forums baby who is this?

when
i woke to that sound
i knew nothing good
would happen, not
pancakes
nor
adopted golden retrievers
like you adopted
the gold
in my heart

letters to Nora

this is actually making me supremely uncomfortable

CRASH, noise of my life, fire of my stove. My dog, my cakes. CR-A-SH: the sound of bad forebodings taking a trip of three steps down the stairs to tap, at three, on the stove. Cr. A. Sh. She was Cr, plain Cr, in the morning, standing at 4 pancakes in one stack. She was Cra in syrup. She was Pancakes at school. She was a golden retriever on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always CRASH. Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no CRASH at all had I not had, one summer, an initial pancake stack. In a diner by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before CRASH was made as my age was that summer. You can always count on a mom for a fancy CRASH. Ladies and gentlemen of the dog shelter, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of pancakes.

Waking up to a crash is never good.

This morning: loud crash; never good.

...

Brilliant.

Good imitation and no of crashes

Highly underrated
Still underrated holy fuck

>ctrl+f -/-/-/-/-/
>0 results
|:

Flipping and flipping on the sizzling fire
The dream no longer hears the hot batter
Sleep falls apart, the slumber cannot hold,
No swimming pup is loosed upon the house
No gold-furred dog is loosed but everywhere
The hopes of morn by din are drowned.
The Holy lacks a second foe, while the first
Is filled with increasing desire.

Fuckin kek

This made me cum

The crash forced itself into audible spaces. Loud sounds, there as usual, under the veil of deceitful tranquility. He doesn't know what that means. He knows what it doesn't mean. Pancakes or the presence of some yet unnamed Golden retriever were obviously out of the possible options due to the nearly nil probability of that sound being the herald of something good happening. He wakes up and tries to find his way into knowledge. He wakes and here he comes because he doesn't know.

Normally, people who don't find a post remarkable won't reply to that post. But I hereby reply to inform you I don't find your post to be very funny or clever.

Proust?

> big turgid ones, flat cakey ones, round fluffy ones and a lot of tiny little hotcakes
You have to admit that's funny

>zizek
>not mentioning that in a specific Eastern German vernacular the golden retriever was called tin retriever because people jokingly said that everyone who mentioned the word "gold" was put into prison by the stasi for possible capitalist endeavours

A wake up-crash spells anything good is rare. You never wake up to the crash of your mother making pancakes[1] and you never wake up to the crash of your parents' latest purchase of a golden retriever [2].

[1] a thin, flat, spongy cake made from flour, eggs and milk, usually served stacked and with syrup or sugared powder and eaten as breakfast.

[2]Canis lupus familiaris

>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.

The splash of water in the morning, the lurching of the Mediterranean reaching up against the golden light of dawn, has rarely been a good omen. It's never SPLASH! Icarus leaps out of the sea. Nor SPLASH! Zeus, son of Cronus, in the form of a majestic white bull, pulls Europa from shore for consensual sex. Nor SPLASH! Aegeus throws himself from a cliff to go for a swim and clean himself off before he greats his son.

Being aroused by a loud crash is a most unusual and singular neurosis, one of which I must admit I can not understand. No child should ever have cause to associate the sound of a crash with, say, the titillating memories of his mother bent over a stove making pankcakes, or of his walks along the Ringstraße with his first pet, a dog named Amalia, nor of the unspeakable experimentations with this Golden Retriever later that night, but I digress....

...

___.... _ ____ ____....

This has been the first thread I've been glad I've read for days and yours is the best post in it.

Waking up to pancakes. CRASH. Golden retriever spat and they rode on

The tortilla man? Never read him.

Some time ago in the peculiar little corner of the world which we dwelt, before the new chateaux were constructed with their steep gables and their gaudy windows, I found myself awoken not by the whistle of the tea-kettle but by the rude sound of an automobile piercing my dormitory, penetrating unto the utmost interiority. Rarely could such an unseemly sound be said to carry with it beneficial portents - one would not often associate such cacophony with, say, the adoption of a newly bitch'd hunting-dog, or the sweet fragrances of griddle-cakes as only a mother might griddle.

Nabokov?
Borroughs? Never read him.
Kant? Never read him.
Nice Yeast for that batter.
Beckett? Never read him.
I wish I knew what these were.

Is this Hemmmmmmmmmming way

>"My goodness man what is that awful crashing!?" He yelled in an acid filled frenzy. "Knock it off before you scare the dog and get us arrested in this God forsaken land!" Causing his attorney to play fetch with the now knocked over lamp post.

>Ch 1. Morning

>Waking up to a loud crash is never good.

>Ch 2. My fucking head hurts and I'm oretty sure it's your fault

>It's never a neat surprise or something pleasant. Like, you hear a crash and found out it's because your mom made pancakes

>3. If I get out of bed I might kill someone

>Or, like "CRASH! We got a Golden Retriever

>Ch 4. I'd name it Spot

>I fucking hate dogs

I'll be honest here. I just rewrote it with no one in mind. Maybe a little Steinbeck.

>Waking up to a loud crash rarely means something good is happening. It’s never “CRASH! Mom made pancakes!” or “CRASH! We decided to adopt a Golden Retriever! Once he was awake, Harry decided to stretch his legs.

-You wake up this morning?
-I did. There was a crash.
-A crash?
-Ye.
-Was the crash real? The crash?
-It was.
-Where was it? What was it?
-Inside me. It always was there.
-Was it the pancakes you ate?
-No. The crash is there and it is not so that it never was or shan't be. It is there, like a wild Golden Retriever's bark. Like a fire burning. I keep it burning. I burn it small and hidden, savvy?
-Ye.

They spat.

The noise crashed, having no alternative, not for pancakes or a golden dog.

No pancakes. No dogs.

-
Crash.

Crashing. Croshing. Crishing. Crosh. I don't know what that noise was, me. But I hear it well and shake with dread, for I know by now that Mother hasn't made pancakes, for she rarely does, nor that she's brought home some mangy rich person's dog, which once she did but Father put an end to.

. .

CRASH!

Nothing good.

Becket ?

Not the poster but it's clearly McCarthy

underrated

>A crashing came across the sky