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post bits of your novels here |
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Nov 2, 2015 00:50
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| # ? Apr 26, 2024 06:57 |
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Oh no!
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Nov 2, 2015 00:52
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my novel is just going to consist of whatever is posted in byob this month |
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Nov 2, 2015 00:52
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;
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Nov 2, 2015 00:52
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it's not much but I think it conveys the tone of the work and builds anticipation without giving too much away
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Nov 2, 2015 00:52
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so yall better be funny so i can make a lot of money off it |
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Nov 2, 2015 00:52
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here's another teaser: ," she frowned.
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Nov 2, 2015 00:54
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“Why, God, why?” Gary the Rhinoceros bellowed, as he saw the bloody carcass of his brother, Todd the Rhinoceros. “I’m sorry, sir,” said Chief Gordon the Rhinoceros of the Rhinoceros police, “but you’ll have to step away from the crime scene until we’re done investigating. We have really huge nostrils which I hear are even bigger than our brains, so we can probably sniff a lot of things.” “Isn’t it clear that elephants did this?” Gary countered, the tears streaming from his small, largely ineffectual eyes. “You would think so, but I’m not sure that elephants live in whatever country it is that we live in,” said Gordon. If Gordon was a man, he could have used wikipedia to answer this question, but since he was a rhinoceros, he would have to be more careful and sniff around a bit to see if it smelled like elephants. Now, you may think an elephant would smell nasty, but that’s only to humans. To rhinoceroses, who use dung as a means of communication, and whose dinner-plate sized nostrils support an infinitely richer olfactory experience than ours, elephants smell kind of like shopping carts. If you don’t know what I mean, the next time you’re in a supermarket, smell the handle of your shopping cart. That’s what elephants smell like to rhinoceroses, except, of course, they’ve never smelled any shopping carts so they can’t make the connection. Plus, if a rhinoceros did smell a shopping cart, it would smell quite different to the rhinoceros than it would to a human. It would be an interesting corollary if a shopping cart smelled to a rhinoceros just like an elephant smells to a human, but, Mr. Smart Guy or Gal, if you’ve been paying attention you would have noticed that I already said that no rhinoceroses have ever smelled a shopping cart, so, for a moment let’s assume we can even talk to rhinoceroses. Even if we could, we still couldn’t ask them what a shopping cart smells like because they’ve never smelled one. And let me tell you, having tried on at least one occasion to bring a shopping cart to the middle of the Serengeti, or wherever it is that rhinoceroses live, I can tell you from personal experience, it’s not worth it if all you have to go on in the mad, beautiful hope that rhinoceros olfactory experience is reciprocal to human olfactory experience. “Well,” said Chief Gordon the Rhinoceros, “it certainly smells like a shopping cart.” “Those loving elephants,” thought Gary the rhinoceros, but he didn’t say anything, because he understood the wheels of institutional justice turn slowly, and that if he said anything, Gordon the rhinoceros might order him into custody to give him some time to cool off, which he didn’t want, because he had a bloodthirsty streak. A little back-story is probably in order to establish why Gary the rhinoceros knew the wheels of institutional justice turn slowly, and how it was that he came to be so bloodthirsty. Gary had been an orphan was the answer to the first part, and had been adopted early in life by a wealthy rhinoceros family with an immense rhinoceros palace filled with big furniture and other stuff that rhinoceroses like. The best part was that you could poop in the mailbox of the rhinoceros palace, because that’s how rhinoceroses communicate with one another. They smell each other’s poop, and on the basis of its digested bouquet, they can determine what they have been eating and how they are feeling. Mostly they just do it in a big dung pile, but the rhinoceros palace had a mailbox, which is much classier to defecate in. It was a big brass mailbox with a small brass statue of a rhinoceros on it. The rhinoceros had jade eyes and a haughty expression which regarded all comers as if to say “You don’t live here, do you?” Of course, if Gary was an orphan, than so was Todd. An interesting explanation for Gary’s hatred of slow institutional justice could be that he was separated from Todd when the Drummonds (the wealthy family) adopted him, and that they promised that Todd would follow shortly after. But instead, after more than a year, Todd still languished in the orphanage, creating a fracture in Gary and Todd’s relationship that would never heal. And it just so happens that this explanation is not only interesting, but also true. The Drummonds had always told Gary that the reason Todd could not come home with them was a paperwork issue at the orphanage, but in later years Gary would come to believe that it was the Drummonds themselves who had forestalled Todd and Gary’s reunion. Gary believed that this was because he had been a problem child and the Drummonds had been unwilling to take on more “damaged goods,” although, in point of fact, Todd was in every way the opposite of Gary as a child – placid, self-confident, and thoughtful. In the end, when a year had passed, Gary had bid a fond mental farewell to his life of wealth and luxury – the swimming pools, the tennis courts, the slim little birds that kept you clean at all times – and returned to the orphanage to be with Todd. And the Drummonds had let him, with hardly a second thought, because Gary had been every bit as difficult as he had suspected, and the thrill of a child ownership had worn off. The big thing now, among their wealthy rhinoceros peers, was stocks. Stocks and yachts without any children on them, where you could have key parties and talk about your stocks and not have to worry about children. Tragically, the Drummonds were on a yacht that sunk after a particularly energetic orgy, about which no more needs to be said other than to reiterate the basic concept of Rhinoceros Orgy. Your imagination can do the rest. And while they had left everything to Gary in penance, perhaps, for their poor treatment of him and his brother, but more likely as a tax write-off, it turned out that all their money was in stocks, and the stocks in question were high risk technology stocks, which had not done well, and Gary had ended up with nothing more than a small monthly stipend, which had barely served to provide him and Todd with whatever it is that rhinoceroses eat and wear for clothing. And so Gary and Todd had passed the remainder of their childhood years as wards of the state, or principality, or canton, or whatever system of government it is that rhinoceroses have. That was why he, Gary the rhinoceros, was wary of institutional justice. As to why he was so bloodthirsty, it was because he was a vampire. |
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Nov 2, 2015 00:54
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nanowrimo
dumb crambo fucked around with this message at 02:04 on Nov 2, 2015 |
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Nov 2, 2015 01:29
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I lost it somewhere between my head and the page. My cornucopus, nouveau oeuvre, monolithic thought. Collided headlong with something equally tragic. Rendered lifeless, anxious — a panic attack. Stuck in the center of another November. When you’ve spent your entire life in a place, you start to see personalities in the months. November - dry, still, incessant time - inescapable. Chilly serene desolation, a parade of identical moments. I made my way outside and not even the bugs were busy. Naught but thirsty weed reaching for open sky, sprung from rock, escaping a subterranean prison, dreaming of freedom — I could sympathize. Years churned in the fog of the mind. November around here is a headache on an otherwise-nice day. I had stopped wishing well for my years ahead. No dreams, no nightmares, six missed calls, and hell knows what else. Dormant palms and psalms on doormats. This was no place for me, I hated how the ground slept in the winter. Synthetic kinesics — plastic miniatures, all of them. I dreamed often of a small maritime town. Buildings painted ivory, mien striking sharply from a sky otherwise shook with stormcloud. The smell of salt and seaweed. Gulls comfortable on rooftops, sacked-out town drunk snoozing in a brick-paved alley. The sea never sleeps. Locked the door and bloomed a match. I made a show of lightning a cigarette — It would be my last. No water here. It was late — well past sundown — though the sky still burned brilliant neon in the city’s afterglow. Our greatest achievement was painting the sky black. I remembered chasing fireflies at grandma’s house, when summers ran long and the sun stayed ‘til near 10PM. The Childhood Dimension: still woven in magic and mystery. Sullen streets still seared in the sun’s stead. I could never leave the desert, the warmth of the nighttime concrete in the summer, father time himself hibernating for the other season. An onward march, forward lurch. I was ready to bind my sorrows in blocks of ice and drown them in a tall glass. I’d always picture myself an outlaw as I shoved dust from saloon doors. These days, I’d even get the hushed stares and nervous respect like they do in the movies. Wishing for hat’s brim to hide myself, I settled instead for a headpiece more befitting a modern outlaw — hoodie’s hood — and reached the bar invisibly. A drink was soon made mine and through laden eyes I consigned to a booth both blatant and blithe. Strewn beneath the one working light in the place, ghoulish in grave emptiness. I couldn’t avoid the spotlight. The seat’s gray-by-design, faux-leather upholstery was cracked and peeled pathetically, revealing inner padding. Sitting on sponges. The table was worse for wear; waking with a worrisome WHOMP, wobbly wooden footing warped with warm weather. This sort of destitution I thrived in. Again my mind fell upon the seaside village. I could smell the seaweed and hear the gulls. I would sit on stone quay, feet dipped in the ocean - oh, what a place to write! Open wooden shutters and breathe deep the salted air. I craved wet sand mushed between my toes. It wasn’t long though before the brine began to dry, I never lasted long in this place. She called me back to actuality. “Hey-o!” — or was it ‘Hey, O’? Not what I expected to read tonight, she was a difficult book. “Imagine running in to you here! How are you?” She stole a seat, still speaking. I responded in kind with an “Okay,” or perhaps an ‘Oh, K’. “I’m fine, yourself?” I postured properly and faced her. “Oh, I’m great. How go the songs?” “Ah — save your breath, Kelsey. I’m done with it all. The well’s run dry.” “Again already?” “It’s for good this time.” “For the good of the whole weekend, or maybe just tonight.” I sighed again, defeated, “You’re probably right.” “You’re always threatening suicide, Olly.” Threatening suicide — what a way to put it! Still, suppose she was right. Everything from the writing to the smoking: always threatening to kill it off. It’s a shame I’d never got the guts to get my grip on the gristle and tear. “Listen, I was just on my way out. We should get together sometime, it’s been a while!” “It’s been too long, Kels. Give me a shout.” She was up and off with a nod, out the door and sailing down the street before I kissed glass. Left again to myself. Solitude wasn’t what I wanted, but neither was the opposite. Like most of my desires, this one was a blank; in serendipity, I found myself equipped to fill in the blanks. Taking the glass with me, I made for the door to shake hands with tobacco — though it must be my last. The patio beyond the doors was quiet as the night grew old; peppered sparse with entwined couples and those lonely few, both drunk to opposite extremes. Dark in a smeared city — miles wide and barely twenty feet high — was a ghastly spectacle. Streetlights thrust pools through tenebrous veil, scintillating spheres each drinking bright from the realm outside. Impossible to see a thing beyond them. Each stood still in time and separate from the others, pocket universes shrink-wrapped and scattered on a sheet-black plane. I watched one flicker; the dimming of a dynasty. One streetlight over: an addict scratched his neck, broke the skin and bled regret. Two: a couple bickered; but better than battered. Between: dark enough to lose myself in. I’d find the right light, one day, next to the ocean, and I’d quite like to find it before I kill it off. Cigarettes live such short lives. Few remained inside, a sea of scrambled eyes and lips. Where were the familiar faces? Not a regular in sight. Not regular tonight. No worth to be found, I’d down my drink. It was time to put an end to the eve and return to my apartment in the sky. Consider a violent dive, right down to the bricks and the pavement, nightgown splitting, ripped and flailing. I reminded myself that it was all in my head, and let the crashing waves sing me home. * * * |
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Nov 2, 2015 01:52
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I don't think this thread is serious. . . |
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Nov 2, 2015 01:54
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Hick Magnet posted:I don't think this thread is serious. . . This thread is deadly serious... like the grave ^^^^^metaphor I've been work shopping for my novel |
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Nov 2, 2015 03:16
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I'm liking these novel excerps, thank you for sharing |
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Nov 2, 2015 03:18
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Gary was always different from the other playmobils but he tried to get by. As an orphan he found it difficult to connect with his friends but one thing he always loved was the annual hungry games
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Nov 2, 2015 03:22
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dogcrash truther posted:“Why, God, why?” Gary the Rhinoceros bellowed, as he saw the bloody carcass of his brother, Todd the Rhinoceros. Read this much and it was funny 
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Nov 2, 2015 03:24
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Gary pulled close to Gita, he could feel the plastic growing between them, their two playmobil souls growing ever closer to becoming one. In the distance a omniosaur roared, calling down the rising if the three moons over playmobilia.
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Nov 2, 2015 03:25
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It was a dark and stormy night. I must have had like five of them. |
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Nov 2, 2015 03:58
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many years later as he faced the firing squad, colonel aureliano buendia would remember that distant afternoon where his father took him to discover ice. --- let me know if u think it needs work |
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Nov 2, 2015 07:10
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"Star Wars," said Star War.
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Nov 2, 2015 07:38
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I'm illiterate |
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Nov 2, 2015 07:52
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Star War knew that things were rough in the Star Wars, but he knew he had to enlist. If not for himself... for his father.
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Nov 2, 2015 08:05
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| # ? Apr 26, 2024 06:57 |
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riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs. Sir Tristram, violer d'amores, fr'over the short sea, had passen- core rearrived from North Armorica on this side the scraggy isthmus of Europe Minor to wielderfight his penisolate war: nor had topsawyer's rocks by the stream Oconee exaggerated themselse to Laurens County's gorgios while they went doublin their mumper all the time: nor avoice from afire bellowsed mishe mishe to tauftauf thuartpeatrick: not yet, though venissoon after, had a kidscad buttended a bland old isaac: not yet, though all's fair in vanessy, were sosie sesthers wroth with twone nathandjoe. Rot a peck of pa's malt had Jhem or Shen brewed by arclight and rory end to the regginbrow was to be seen ringsome on the aquaface. The fall (bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonner- ronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthur- nuk!) of a once wallstrait oldparr is retaled early in bed and later on life down through all christian minstrelsy. The great fall of the offwall entailed at such short notice the pftjschute of Finnegan, erse solid man, that the humptyhillhead of humself prumptly sends an unquiring one well to the west in quest of his tumptytumtoes: and their upturnpikepointandplace is at the knock out in the park where oranges have been laid to rust upon the green since devlinsfirst loved livvy. |
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Nov 2, 2015 13:31
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