WRITE 30 WORDS NOW FUCKER

A lonely man sits in his bed, needing to go to sleep. "Just one more post." he tells himself, before getting distracted, and masturbating to close up webcam grool porn.

Story of my right now.

"What are you doing?" She asked, noting my frustration.
"It's hard enough, it'll be just fine" she calmly whispered.
"No" I curtly responded, "it's flopping all over the place. I know there are some merits to being polite but I'd rather you attempt to refrain from being an absolute idiot and help me out with this thing instead of standing idly by while I embarrass myself!"

>>/pol/

>waah racism hurts my feelings!
you can't even link the board properly, kys

Sunset found her squatting in the grass, defecating.
“Twilight, what are you doing?” Sunset said, baffled at the purple puckering pudenda as turd after turd was laid in the grass.

"Ey man das racis" said the nigger, "Give me the watermelon bruv unga bunga ngt bloo bloo das mang wooga booga int bla blo blo blo"

>But there could never be a universal garden. Different types of plants required different types of environment, so that any attempt to have them all live together would result in the death of all.

Guess what this is about.

I cringed hard, good job.

In the wrinkles of a warm green sea live an island family free of lies. They have a story – “It is only a story,” clicks the mother – of an infinity ago, when the great father left his land on elephant back fleeing a plague to put his bag down here – atop the rock they name Ju – not to own it – “because you can’t own what comes before” – but because he was tired, after having run for so long, from The First Lie and the Second, and the Third and the Fourth and the Hundred. But the mother’s story always ends with the bag, and not the running man, clutching a sick heart and knowing he was done. In the center of an island, etched in a trunk of palm, is his story for the babies in his bag:

In this little place, one can only speak in truth.
-----------

I know it's more than thirty words, but it gave me a good idea for a short story.

I'd read more of this.

I aint got time
Nigger aint got time for a nigger like me
Hey yo, pump the bass up yo
Here we go, we goin in hard nigger

If I had to write thirty words about any given subject, then I would write about writing thirty words about any given subject, specifically about writing thirty words, with thirty words.

And so he sat, like every evening, surfing this site and routinely cringing at his fellow procrastinators’ literary efforts, never once challenging himself to be better than they are. “Poor, deluded losers,” he thought to himself.

The thought of hurling the stone at the window crossed his mind without warning. It stayed there long enough for his pupils to dilate before he continued walking, sighing quietly as he withdrew the train ticket from his pocket. How disappointing it was that such a thought could cross his mind.

I like this one.

Today the mess hall had three-bean soup. Skeeter Hawk was hoping for a bean, but only got broth. He looked over and saw Nissan giving him the finger. That lucky jackass had two.

kek

>31 words

Or how about read 5 pages instead. wgaf about talentless hacks on Veeky Forums

My office is in a shithole. The building is ancient. It’s filled with ineffective professionals. Expensively educated people with no ambition. Here I sit waiting and thinking: What a waste I am.

I’ve been ill for several days. First, bed-ridden at my friend’s apartment, and now, bed-ridden at my parents'. Reality TV is blaring from the living room around-the-clock. I have not written anything.

I think a lot about writing, but I’m a sack of garbage so I’ll never actually write anything of worth. hey at least I have my health, well for now.

God she was so tight. In my head, at least. No she was definitely tight. You could tell by the way she sat, her legs. Oh shit she saw me

To minimize clutter, Dr. Gloucester limited himself to one book. The book was called Manual of the Vascular Flora of the Carolinas, and he always knew exactly where it was.

That pencil is blunt

"Who are you quoting?" I demanded, viciousness soaring from my tongue.
"I asked, who the fuck are you quoting motherfucker!?" I kept shouting at a imageboard post with misused lesser than sign.

I should write 30 words, thought the man, after reading the words of a kind stranger, I need the motivation. But the twinge of anxiety of a year's long procrastination got him excited, but the excitement went to his dick. He wondered for the thousandth time if a pokey bum wank was gay or not. Before he knew it, he was already over 30 words and had blown his load to traps.

bad
meh
bad
bad meme
bad
good
keep trying
comma is better
porn is good but not the best
bad
bad meme.me
sad
>an infinity ago
otherwise not bad
not bad
>better than they are
otherwise not terrible
meh
not terrible
keep trying
untrue, fine
poverino
meh
meh
>lesser than
bad

This is literally the only good thing in the thread. The rest of you will never make it.

>untrue, fine
Explain

I hope my grandfather remains with his wits until his dying days, what depresses me most is that he may forget that I am his grandson, he has taught me much and I cannot say that I have made him proud. If only I could start again and be a great man as he was, as he is, even if he is a shadow of his past self. I love my Pop, he will always be in my heart.

He passed the homeless man every day on his walk to work. Everyday he looked at the homeless man, while the homeless man looked down at the sidewalk. Today for a change the homeless man was the one looking at the man walking, while the man walking was the one looking down at the sidewalk. "Someday's you just aren't yourself," they thought.

It's actually 56 words, but fuck it.

He pedaled faster, but it was no use; he was on a bike and he was chasing her and she was in a car. What was he doing? He felt suddenly extremely foolish, sitting there, a clown in his ridiculous bike helmet and bright spandex. What, indeed, was he? Just a putz, a walking, biking joke.

Rain dropped on the dock. The contents of the Cartel’s sloop was composed of passengers. One of these passengers was carrying a written proposal for the sultan.

Get busy being born or getting busy dying he once had held in his thoughts. But heart failure wasn’t dignified, none it had been all that.

untrue because you wrote something then, fine because it was fine

30 words now fucker

I see, and you are indeed correct. Now to just keep up with that (which is hard, considering the environment).

all plebs all the time i muttered as i slipped my clammy claws between the sheets to fondle my sticky giblets, i bet they havent even read sartre, the goblins. they think they know lit? i'll show them what a true societal paladin is really like! i'll...

Freddy knew as soon the new teacher walked in, and all the children, usually rowdy and full of endless noise and chatter, quieted down and picked up their books immediately, that he was looking at something completely and purely evil.

The worry of living is second only to the worry of dying. It's the reason we live, but most of all it's the reason I live-- or, it was.
31 but fuck you
>edgy
I could've gone a lot edgier, and this hits close to home for me

The worst part about this is that I deserve this. Well, no, actually. The worst part is probably the pain in my left temple where brick hit me.

been there

I am, as of right now, drunk, as I often am.
I am late to bed and I am a shameful man.
I am terrified of academic duties that formally would have been simple discussions.
I am confused to what has caused me to be such a broken contributor.
I suspect that there is no immediate remedy.

Tfw you like to read but can't write for Shit also I want to die

Underdressed pneumonia berries massive hydro disposal might move here yesterday.
Scottish rubber uniform will never get floaty with kids.
Saying my skilled shyness finds a noisy military and a just end.

Might have miscounted.

I should be sleeping. It's that or maybe the days should be longer. Either way, someone, somewhere, has made a terrible mistake. As always, I seriously hope it's not me.

"Oh, haven't you noticed?" She grinned, leaning forward, over the table, and whispered, so no one in the café could hear: "They're here. In the room with us. Watching us."

That's not bad

That's pretty Shit. But I think most alarmist sci-fi or whatever is Shit

The confrontation itself wasn't particularly charged. The room just happened to go silent at the moment it began. All the anxiety of stage fright suddenly filled our guts, swishing about with the beer and the vitriol like so much acid hitting water.

Holy....

Jack once thought he was quietly hiding his brilliance, waiting for the day to finally reveal his cleverness and wit, until he visited Veeky Forums and realized he has been embarrassing himself for years.

I would not read this.

The juniper tree. The prickly pear. The fire ring. I hear silence. Then a faint caw. A distant silhouette makes its procession across the sky to intercept the rising sun.

I gamble, smoke and drink away all my money because my life has lost all meaning. Waking up every morning is an unbearable struggle. I think about suicide most days.

Write what you think. Write what you feel. Right as though an elusive eel. To the right is a seal, right under the heel of death.
Mourn the seal with lips sealed.
Unreal.

"If it wasn't for me I would be sitting here all day."
"Cheeky" She replied.
"Breeki" I smiled, remaining a virgin for another 25 years.

Self-effacing shut-ins. Cyber picaresques. Retail resentment. Day-job escapists. Momentary crawlers. Cheap meta moaners. Porn heads, provocateurs, and pedants. Unhappy kids, on their favourite board, wishing they had learned to write sooner.

No

Oh God, can we be "regressive" for a second and all just try to write something MEANINGFUL?

"These are the memoirs of a retail employee. I hope you find them as soul-crushing as I did. It turns out, when you face another human being who believes you to be a robot of some advanced kind, you really only face yourself."

Sorry, just spitballing anything that isn't outright, lazy self-hatred.

not bad, but Pop for grandfather?
not good, not bad, not fine
not good, not bad, not fine
keep trying. read it aloud
bad
bad of course
>rowdy and full of endless noise and chatter
>completely and purely
keep trying
not bad nor good
keep trying
bad, improvable
a little less than fine, maybe
>whispered, so no one in the café could hear
not bad
>he has been
keep trying
keep trying
not bad, not good
keep trying
not bad
keep trying

Satan and I had a beer. We stumbled around and he let me dance with him. I knew he'd leave me in the morning, so I made it last.

"May be," John racked his brain, "i'll write something so amazing they'll claim it was a masterpiece."
He opened a word document on his laptop and started writing, but nothing came in his mind - well, nothing of the potential of being anywhere near masterpiece quality.
"But," he had had a sudden realization, "i doesn't have to be anything at all."
And he started just typing out random things on the keyboard.
He wrote how his 8 year old laptop was just about to give up and he'd never have enough money to buy a new one. But then his eyes fell on his tattered clothes and he realized may be clothing himself properly should've been his first priority.
This made him sad and he clicked on the little red cross on the word document he had been typing on, clicked on the 'don't save' button when the dialog box came up, stood up and hoisted himself out of the 13th story window of his studio apartment.
The splatch on the ground a second later was a masterpiece though. John had succeeded!

The depressed man fell into the nightly drug-induced coma. My father, I watched him from the doorway. Every night was the same. He had even given up his once-important creativity.

These are baby shoes that are for sale. They have never been worn because the baby died in infancy like so many of them do, here in the 19th century.

She pushed him away with a harsh shove that sent him to the ground. He skidded on his palms and stayed where he landed, hurt and no longer feeling playful.

this sucks

As the car drove away I saw her full green eyes staring back at me. What a dashing and handsome man, she must have thought. Not just attractive but obviously very intelligent too. In this moment, I knew it was undeniable, regardless of what Murray would later intimate. Fuck him and his stupid dogs.

I made sure nobody saw me slip out the door, and ran with my eyes set only on my car door. The party hat fell, and a balloon escaped the hospital.

You know, this seems like a nifty idea to get me back in the habit of writing.

Thank you for the inspiration.

>remembered an old crush; wrote this

I was 9, and it was the first day of the school that I saw her.
Now, she wasn't the cutest, but she didn't look like a log either. All in all, in 9-year-old me's opinion she was definitely up there.
But her above average looks didn't get my pre-teen heart racing. It was a combination of several cute little eccentrics of her that finally broke the camel's back.
And before anyone tells me otherwise, let me just say that yes, kids as young as 9 can feel an uncontrollable urge to keep on staring at that cute girl. Or may be it was just me. May be I was different, may be I always have been.
But I digress.
Her face was what made my every morning. No student likes school, but i did, and it was because i would get to look at her.
No, I did not discuss her, or any of the other girls for that matter, with any of my friends - i mean, with whom would I anyway? 9 year old boys didn't know what the term "cute girls" meant. Even I had no idea why I liked to stare at her furrowed brows so much when she was doing math like her life depended on it. I kept on looking at her nonetheless.
This continued on. She was just so cute; I was hooked.
By the time Christmas came, i had found out that she was intelligent as well. Even my 9 year old self knew what amazing coincidence it was for a girl to have beauty and brains together. I was obsessed with her in no time.
The year ended. She topped the class. I came in 3rd.
My staring at her at an all time high. I sometimes wonder if she knew i was looking at her at all - she had never looked up from her work though. Oh, how i longed for her eyes to meet mine.

>if i get at least one "good" for this i'll post more. may be.

>After writing this I realized this is just my diary desu

My father was diagnosed two Julys ago. I came home from college, he told me it was okay, he’d had a good life, protecting me. He’s still kicking now, albeit slowly. The only thing that really chokes me up when I think hard about it is the unlikelihood that he’ll ever live to see grandchildren.

"There's nothing wrong with using mind control to make the world a better place, girl. The fuck is wrong with you?" beseeched the politician to Rey. "You have the power to command people to do anything you want. You don't have to pay for anything, nobody will ever try to kill you. You can live rent free anywhere, have any food, any game, sleep as long as you want. Why are you so scared of taking advantage of your great power?" he screamed at her.

Rey shrugged, pointing towards the office's large windows, at the spanning mass of people walking by and living their lives. "I have no right to make this world my own, to pretend to be a God."

"But you are a God you stupid bitch. You have mind control. You want somebody? You command them to love you."

"But it won't be authentic love. All of this praise and obedience will be a lie. Sure, I can make people fall in love with me, and that's all it will take, to turn me into you. A power-hungry no lifer who will never enjoy what he gets, and will always want more. Sometimes its the difficult path towards what you desire, that makes it so valuable in the end."

And in that last sentence, Rey felt a bullet pass through her body.

I wonder if anyone in threads like these would ever want to read what they write. Like, if you could write a sentence and then have a magical computer generate a 250-page novel in your style, would you ever want to read it? Would anyone?

The orange grove was ours with its fruits a pluck away. It made lousy cover against the potato rockets, but that's hardly a problem once you hear the rhythm of their reloads.

you ever give more

Stop talking to me I told her.
She's such an annoying bitch.
I need to leave.
I wish I had told her.
Let's get coffee she said.
Fuck, now I have to get up.

lul

>"Call two, raise six."
You can't do that

I don't think I've seen someone in a wheelchair for quite some time. I supposed this means science and medicine are doing some really great things or they are just staying in doors, tired of being gawked at.

I c ant seem to write anything specific.
This is how it always looks when i start "writing":
The man against the system.
The new man as a creator, as random and spontaneous, guided by the momentary and implements immidately.
is not limited by anything.
the mature man is a technician, a robot implementing the will and imagination.
the implementing system sorts the individuals and imprisons them.
the past blocks the absolute implementation of the imagination and resticts the indivdual in what he can implemeted from what he imagines.
The new man is a stream of momentary, chaning consiousness. he is not bound by his experience of the past or by the experiece of him by others.
he imagines and creates without being restricted by his past actions.

Someone kill me.

The weather girl was in the middle of the week when the whites of her eyes rolled up and she leaned back in the air like someone was there to catch her.

bad
not good
>My father, i watched him from the doorway
bad
>skidded on his palms and stayed where he landed
not good
not good
>eccentrics of her that finally broke the camel's back
>may be
>knew what amazing coincidence it was
>My staring at her at an all time high
keep trying
fine, sorry about your feels
>bad
ok
bad
>I supposed
>in doors

what?

Innumerable shrieks rang out. Black, sooty cartridges sank soft, sound-speed incisors sped, aloft, desecrating flesh. The world took notice. The room now a forlorn afterthought. It'll never be the same.

Dio... Quiero más

The closest he had come to resolving the bidding war he had created was to dump his stock on the side of the road one morning and drive away, leaving them shivering and afraid and already dead

tattoo maculated skin depicting non-relative references, characters and symbols professed the continued dabbling in her expressionism, and of those new some ostensibly motivational scrawl wound its way up her wrist

And the second last of my enemies lay in a blood puddle before me, and then there was only one person left to kill, well, two if you counted god

The presence disappeared as quickly as it’d shown up, leaving Elizabeth alone and seething. It could ravage her thoughts draw her desires when she wasn’t consciously thinking of them, pillage the depths in her soul as armies did small villages on their way to conquest. It had her.

Her tight white pussy was soaking wet and almost split in half as I rammed my throbbing virile 12" kongolese cock into her uterus and filled it with my semen