Give us your best prose

Laying under the covers, with your shoes on. Your feet feel clunky and unnatural this way, but you enjoy the anamorphic feeling you get from it. Another few seconds tick by. You know where you left your keys, they are right on the countertop where you always throw them after you come home. You aren't supposed to leave for another 5 minutes or so. The fan by your bed blows unassumingly onto the comforter draped over your head. You can hear it but you cannot feel its soft breeze. The pillow calls to you, and you rub your face roughly into what you have pretended to be the bosom of some imaginary woman many times before. Yes, your head really smells like that.

>present tense
>second person
jesus christ dude

>Laying under the covers, with your shoes on
>Laying

Hehee, what is going on right now, muchachos? I am on a subway, and this white girl with pink hair, thick PAWG-esque thighs and pink hair, semi-slim waist and an anachronistic black bowler hat is sitting, moving her lips along to whatever music she is listening to, presumably, or just talking to herself with earphones inside the orifices of her ears. And her hair is pink. Light pink. Florescent? Is she a lesbian. Her shorts are black and tiny, very short indeed, but slacks beneath cover her flesh, which is a tragedy because I'm almost certain that her meaty glutes, which are moving a bit because of her rhythmic foot-tapping, reverberate at a light tap, creating a ripple effect all over her geometrically precise buttocks. So sup? I'm not on the subway but inside a train. I was in a train parked briefly at a subway platform. It's moving again. The hat really adds to her personality, and I know she isn't anything but very basic. I am not basic. The train jerks during its run, and I would like to offer my seat to the frail, old, and pregnant, but such unforseen black swan jerks that disrupt my inertia and bring great dishonor upon me as an individual who cannot even keep his footing inside a train. The pink girl, as I imagine her holiest of holies to be, got down there stations ago. I get down too. I begin walking towards the stairs at the end of the platform and stand outside the station waiting for my bus. I feel different. Precise. My head remains bowed as I walk, avoiding eye contact. The bus arrives and I hold my metro card out, and step into it. The bus staggers quickly, stop to stop. I reach home tired, work out from being human all day, it's daunting, and I break into tears before I even reach my kitchen. At least I made it inside. I switch the TV on to distract me, but then I remember that I pay for Netflix too, and I must watch it. I put Bojack Horseman on, slip into bed and watch until my eyelids can bear being open no more.

Time crawls to a slow. Tick. Tock. The clock fragments reality into equal-measured slices, that stretch on for eons; I stare into her sky-blue eyes and she looks placidly into mine.
She blinks. Languidly, confidently.
I see the realization of something conscious, mockery and playful wit, crystallizing behind those deep-blue irises, mirrors of the sea.

"Well, user? Aren't you going to say anything?"

Into the horizon bled the dark highway. Beneath her feet, it stretched itself thin. No signs. The sun inched towards the west, hovering over her head. No respite. Greens on either side as far as she could see. Not a soul in sight. Her walk resembled an amble from a distance, a stagger upon closer look, a trudge from the distance of a few fathoms. It was a struggle. To stand.

There are 26 grammar and syntax errors in this sentence. Amazing.

I knew cuck was something powerful when we started using it. It sends ripples through society everytime it's even typed. For some people it's like Alucard being told his name backwards, they fall to the ground and start convulsing violently, foaming at the mouth upon hearing the word. They awake and more antagonistic than ever as if by existing we are intruding in their omnipresent territory. I believe the word cuck can be traced back to ancient Sumerian language which was essentially the word of their god Enki before he dispersed the language and centralization of power because he saw that humans weren't progressing by repeating his word. Sumerian language was much different from ours, holding actual power that they could use to shout down their enemies. I'm fairly certain that "cuck" is one of those words.

Which matters not one whit.
The point is to write in a unique way and convey the message you want.
If McCarthy cared about grammar or syntax, Blood Meridian would've been mediocre.

check this out:
>batteries in belt packs with LED charge displays wired to your wrist
>mirrored shatter-proof sunglasses/goggles with shit like pic related strapped on and preferably jailbroken to show whatever the fuck you want
>earbuds that are audio-enhancing, noise-cancelling above a certain decibel, and hooked to your phone and central PC
>NVDs, obviously, if you can afford them
>range finders in forward-facing shoulder/forearm pouches so you can point at something and know how far away it is
>every piece of tech able to be deconstructed/miniaturized done so, and attached through various means to various articles of clothing
>wires preferred over Bluetooth, but do what you want
>directional mics on your lapels
>fiberoptic eyelashes if you're a chick or enjoy looking feminine I guess
>penlights everywhere wired to a central panel with varied intensity and strobe options
>quality gas content monitor on your chest and a HEPA-rated gas mask (cartridges sealed and in pockets/bag) hanging around your neck
>throat-mic for windy days, hooked to a complex, self-designed voice command system only you know how to work
>heavy-gauge keychain with bluetooth-activated radio pulse and GPS in case that shit gets pinched by cyborg eses or junkies or something, all inside a lockable double-lined RFID case on your waist, abdomen or chest
>keychain contains: minimized keys, access cards, lighter, glue tube, tritium dongle (radioactive life), USB with vital info, library card
>small digitizer sketchpads on your thigh and inner forearm so you can jot silent observations on people's habits, chart microchip transport routes, or doodle some technical specs for your next self-modification

>kill switch and code phrase that hard-wipes all the data on you
>meticulously designed face-paint that defies facial recognition software—a new pattern every application so they can't fucking track you, dude
>satphone on a sling
>multiple external SDDs in padded pouches all along the inside of your jacket
>like 5 fucking watches or something sewn/stapled/bolted/expoxied at different points to a wrist-mount: one automatic diving watch, one quartz, three digital with every function from calculator to altimeter, just no GPS because shit man they can track you like that (last three can be replaced by system with holo read-out if you want, but both would be better)
>plexiglass bulbs on jacket sleeve so you can see your watch faces and random read-outs
>biofeedback monitors in your fire-proof, full-body long johns, baby
>worn sponsor patches/silk-screens everywhere because Jesus where are you going to get the money for all this
>custom-programmed CB radio on belt with whip antenna running up back
>step-counters and pressure sensors wired to your soles (which hopefully have traction enough for an oil slick, or are springblades because those look nuts and I guess help you jump, probably)
>nomex flight gloves custom patched with Kevlar along wear-points, silver thread sewn through fingertips to allow touchscreen usage, and an electric lighter with nodes between your middle and pointer fingers so you can give somebody the forks as you light a clove or menthol or whatever your poison
>speakers, wherever you want
>positionable tube running up a neck gaiter, either to your mouth from a vaporizer strapped to your chest, or your nose from a can of pure O2 on your lower back
>hot-plate on your aerogel-padded inner calf so when you sit in full lotus on the top of the mid-construction skyscraper you just scaled you can brew tea you had to import from Myanmar because some guy on a forum you frequent told you it was the shit
digging your flow btw
riding the subway too

You are a fucking pathetic hack if you believe that.

"Wing wing wing Lang Lang" the sound of the hot snow against my car windows reverberated around my head like a fart in an empty cave. I was hung over. no. I am hung over. More importantly I am hung over driving to my ex-girlfriends house in an attempt to be on the receiving end of pity sex. Or just sex as I prefer to call it. She lives about a half hour away and I've been driving for twenty maybe fifteen minutes down country roads that are both currently tighter and wetter than the pity pussy I am hoping greets me at the other end. This wouldn't be the first time I've done this. Drove over and cried at her until she blew me. But no matter how many times she sends me back I'm always, secretly, hoping that she'll take me back. I was happy with her. Before the depression, before the alcohol, back when degrading sex didn't mean sobbing in your ex-girlfriends lap while she watches netflix. Every time I see her I get a piece of that happiness back, even if only for a couple of hours. I wish it was easy to move on. I wish I could be like her and just go out and find some stranger to fuck and forget. But I can't. I need her, and the worst feeling in the world is knowing that she doesn't need me. So this is how I live, I have vodka to make me forget, and pity sex to make me remember. "Wing wing wing Lang Lang"

Learn how to use commas, dude.

My orange jumpsuit was puffed like a golf ball. The high collar almost covered my eyes. My breath billowed out like a chimney. I'd been told it's what the real Mountaineers wear. A dozen straps crossed my chest, each one dangling with a useful tool. A compass, a whistle, spare buttons, a light, some flint, some glue, some ropes and a string, loops for hooks and lures, a pouch for snacks, and a bladder strap. The morning haze receded up the mountain like an upside-down tide. I sat on my hands, breathing a cloud. Above and below the hills were dressed with greens and blues, laced with an ice that snapped at the touch.

Hey that's a Mucha painting, I recognise the style.

Muscha

...

It does matter when your writing is absolutely atrocious. Nobody wants to read that shit. You only forego grammar rules when you're genuinely a master at writing. You're just a beginner, so please do not try it and think that you're some god for doing so. Ignoring conventional grammar rules also does not mean that you can just shit on the English language. I can hear your words screaming, calling out to me for help. They just want to die, user, and you did this to them.

You have four sentences in a row that are the same length. It's very jarring and creates horrible flow.

>anamorphic
How is this word even meant to be interpreted? Apparently it means distortion under a specific kind of lens (an anamorphic one)? How are we supposed to relate that to a feeling?
>fan blows unassumingly
How would a fan ever blow "assumingly?" Nonetheless "unassumingly?"

The time has come, what do you to?

1) Stand up and take the keys.
2) Just a couple of ticks more.
3) Imagine the hand of imaginary woman crawling down under covers.

3)