"So that's one cheeseburger meal with our Halloween Frightful Fries. And for your dessert?"
"Just an apple, please."
"We're all out of apples."
The words alone made his itch break out. He looked about the counter and rubbed his forearm, chasing the sensation all the way up until he had a finger jammed down the cuff of his work shirt and one fingernail scraping madly at his wrist. His mouth suddenly felt very dry.
"That can't be? When I came in this morning you had a whole shelf of apples. You should have apples."
"We have hot apple pie?"
"That won't do at all."
"Apple juice?"
"From-" his scratching finger dug deep into a fresh seam within his wrist flesh - like the two sides were being pulled apart. He knew his body was starting to fall off the bone. He began to sweat, visibly. "Is it from concentrate?"
The cashier took a carton from the fridge and checked the front, then the reverse of the label. The customer cradled his wrist and pinched the flesh back together whilst she went over the details of the nutritional information panel.
"Yep, afraid so, sir."
"This is, uhh, bad news for me."
"Maybe you can speak to the guy who just bought them all? I think you just missed him. Yeah, look, there he is."
The cashier pointed behind the customer out towards the other side of the front window.

>>24807927
Is that John Bloodborne?

>>24808071
Sorry about that, anon.
I really needed those apples.

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>>24808071
>missed the opportunity to include "how do you like them apples?"

Too abstract. How am i supposed to write anything about anything aith such a prompt?

>>24810089
>Too abstract. How am i supposed to write anything about anything aith such a prompt?
Just make it a dream, or a painting a character passes, make it a vision of hell or a video game. FR FR done with these debbie downers.

>>24807927
What do they win?

>>24810089
Wtf do you expect from the starting image? You want one of those faggoty worlds fully laid out for you like on /wbg/?

YOU are the writer. You are meant to be the creative one. You are the one who should possess a fertile imagination.

You should see the image in OP as a test of your ability. What can you make of it? You should be able to conjure stories out of thin air. Here you've been spoilt with a prompt.

If you don't have the most fundamental attribute of a writer then don't even bother.

>>24810254
kill yourself

>>24810259
Did you come up with that response all by yourself or did you need a prompt?

>>24810137
Bragging rights.
>>24810254
This unironically. The word limit even adds to the fun challenge.

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"Desperado"

Alan needed coin. Lenny wanted coin. The winds had not favored their ill-hatched scheme from the start. The teller tittered at their cloaks and hats, unimpressed by their axes and demands.

"Ain't you just a regular pair of desperadoes."

Lenny's first swing split her necklace and Alan could still hear the wet gurgling suction of beads being inhaled.

"I look desperate to anyone else?" Lenny screamed, purple noose of feathers fluffing in and out.

The hummingbird nearly slipped in the gore, policing terrified customers while Alan ransacked the manager's lock-box. The office hadn't even been guarded and Alan was still wondering why, miles later, when their skinny shared mount catapulted them to the sun-fried dirt.

Fortunately, Alan's arm broke most the impact.

It made dragging Lenny out from beneath the crippled steed difficult. Head bent like a nail, Lenny didn't complain as Alan scavenged what he could from the corpse, tucked the container under his good arm, and marched.

Feathers drenched and talons bleeding, Alan carefully collapsed against an outcropping of rock that protected him from the sun. He only squawked hard enough to taste blood as his crooked limb jostled anyway.

Lenny had said the fence was a town over. Alan didn't know how far away that was or what made one fence different from any back home.

"That's what I like about you Alan. You're too bovine for pesky details to get through your thick skull."

Lenny had laughed when he said it, but somehow it didn't feel like a joke.

"Who's laughing now?" Alan said, swallowing the canteen's last droplets of water.

As the sun set, he used the axe to chop open the coin-case. Inside were piles of dull gold coins.

His heart soared. He was rich! Just like them prospector fellas who'd swoop through towns and next he'd hear they were living in large cages, telling their stories with flocks of beautiful hens digging into their side.

Dopey smile on his beak, he figured that's what made Lenny's fence so special.

It'd make people want to hear his story. Shoot, he could even take them here. Right where he struck it rich. He'd just have to remember where this was. Luckily, Alan was able to scrape on the wall with a piece of gold, greenish black streaks proudly spelling out his name.

Alan shivered to sleep and woke to the sun's yolk spilling across his body.

Burying the axe in the ground as a final marker, he set off again.

He walked and walked and like a dream he stumbled into town.

"Excuse me, ma'am," Alan rasped to a wide-eyed mockingbird. "I'm looking for a fence."

She repeated the words back in a perfect copy of his voice and Alan hoped her laughter wasn't the last thing he heard as he faded away.

The doctor changed songs after Alan promised he could pay with gold, but his arm was beyond saving.

His new lady companion alighted on the other with a firm grip. "So handsome, what's your story?"

Head pillowed against her plumage, Alan felt like he was the luckiest bird alive.

I have never participated in this threads but can I be a judge?

>>24810131
I'm not creative enough. I write stories that are all about 1 specific thing happening with little to no prose, fluff or involvment of themes.

>>24807927
"In all that is holy and bewitched, it seemeth that i'm turning into some sort of an unholy abomination of bone, flesh, and sodomite fashionwear!" Said the soon-to-be skeletonman.

He didn't understand why his flesh had begun to fall apart. Neither did he reach any conclusion as to the decomposition of the apple

Even then, he realized, he hasn't been man-turning-into-skeleton always. There was a life before then.... but why was it so hard to remember? Only glimpses came through, flashes of a crooked man, living a crooked and empty life.

When he was six, he used to throw rocks at cars from an overpass. He lead to the death of a woman and felt concerningly little.

Later on throughout his school, or perhaps, "skull" life, he would commit to many more mischiefs, and never face the music. The details aren't important, but trust me when i tell you this, THE GAY SKELETON was not very good, even back whence he existed as a STRAIGHT man.

He's had a wife he never loved, a job that didn't bring in enough money, and even less in the way of fulfillment, and a son he spoke to rarely. The skeleton man however, had one thing that felt right in the world. The only one part of reality that brought him joy.

The man loved to birdwatch. It all started back in elementary school when he first learned that there was a bird named Great Tit.

It brought the skeleton man great joy to bird-watch the Great Tit, and many others. Birds in their own habitat were among the most beautiful things he's witnessed in his miserable wretched life.

In spite of being an avid watcher, he did not know whether GREAT TITS mated for life. He hoped so.

The skeleton man believed in that more than he believed in God, with much less evidence to prove it. He did however frequent the church. It was instilled in him by the mother of the skeleton man. She would often whip him with cabling whenever he'd skip a sunday sermon in liueu of fucking about, the way kids do.
She also instilled in him a profound fear of God in which he did not believe. He knew it was all fake and gay, but he couldn't help but to fear eternal damnation, hellfire and brimstone should he miss out on his christianly duties again.

One day, at the ripe age of 57, the skeleton man had finally buckled up to reject God. It wasn't because anything particular had happened, but rather becuase of the slow buildup of his age. To finally accept his mortality, he strived to reject God, and the eternal soul.

He walked up on a hill outside of his house, but still on his property and screamed as loud as he could :"YOU COCKSUCKER IF YOU ARE REAL THEN STRIKE ME DOWN RIGHT NOW! I DON'T BELIEVE! I'LL NEVER BELIEVE! AND I'M STRAIGHT DAMMIT!"

He was then struck down by a powerful lighting and transported into the fifth circle of hell wherein he was punished for secret sodomite tendencies and overall lack of interest in life as well as his blasphemy. The end.

>>24807927
A man, or what remains of him. Wrapped in linen and crowned with a horned skull. A mess of decay dressed in clothes of the past. Bewildered by the composition I ask *Why the apple? Is he able to eat? Does he even need to?* I notice the apple's irregular shape and its skin colored bottom. *The apple fused to his hand and ripped off his skin as he threw it?* -- *This is nonsense, there's nothing here!*

I walk into the kitchen, and stare into the nothingness outside the window. The leaky faucet's hypnotic dripping dulls disappointment into calm melancholy. *Another weekend wasted I suppose*. I start to think of her, a habit of mine. Yesterday I was jealous of her other suitors that I had made up in my mind. But who am I to be territorial. There's no competing suitors, real or imaginary. Until I throw my hat into the ring there's no competition

*This is stupid, why do I torture myself?* I go for a walk, hoping for a distraction. The fall breeze blows my worries away as I look upon the sunlit rot of another year. The picture appears in my mind once more. *It's artificial, it's senseless. Decay as a vapid aesthetic and nothing more.* -- *But why the ripped skin around the apple?*

I feel small as I walk beneath the bridge, I ponder the purpose of my writing. Above is the rumbling of cars speeding off to nowhere. I wonder why I even engage with these communities I detest. *There's nowhere else to turn. I am too self aware and scared to go elsewhere.* Realizing that anonymity is my shield to criticism I think of other ways I let fear control me. Red and yellow leaves blow past me, it's just me and the elements as I sink deeper into thought.

I think of her, again. *Why haven't I made my feelings known?* I use excuses to protect myself from the truth, I am afraid. *It would be inapproriate to put a colleague in that situation, she's too young.* None of it matters I realize. *She tears me apart, I refuse to let go, leaving us to rot on the branch*

Returning from my walk I face the distasteful image on my screen. *I can't change it. But I'll make it my own.* Most things are outside of our control. All we can do is the best with what we have. I think of her. Maybe I'll tell her tomorrow, or some other day... Maybe that's enough for now.

>>24811703
>I'm not creative enough. I write stories that are all about 1 specific thing happening with little to no prose, fluff or involvment of themes.
I believe in you anon, do it here and I'll read it.

>>24812990
>>24811799
Did do.

bump

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I had a dream about a being (a demon, Satan, or the Grim reaper, maybe) that dressed in a long hooded cloak, had a cow/horse skull for a head, and carried a large scythe. It spoke with a female voice, and was seeking a human body the "correct size" for the clothes it was already wearing, and could turn into a pair of axes conjoined at the hilt in a V shape with the blades pointed inward, and fly once in that form. In the dream it had mutilated a man before realizing that his feet were too big for its shoes. I also drew a picture of it the day you posted that, which is what makes this strange, although in the dream it never let its hood down and the robes were smaller/tighter and accented with red felt.

>>24807927
The man's primeval missing of the mark,
Where hands attempt'd to reach the verdant tops
From those below, which hands welcomed, divorced.
The taste, so kindling car above emblaz'd
The youth whose waxen wings the heights did tempt,
The ivory and sanguine show'd, before
Unseen, and thus the sight urged him to hide
The nakedness manifest to his side,
Which th' verdant fingers covered from the sight.
The dart, unlike that which the Day direct'd
To wound the heel of his who wars decide,
From the intended path its wings deviat'd,
As son of Day the fiery chariot rode,
Whose ears unopened to parental voice,
Nor to the middle way his reins restrained,
For which the mountains frowned and oceans cried,
Or as the younger son inheritance
From th' living father still demand'd he give,
Whose feet tread far and wide till to the ground
His knees suppliant fell as when he begged
But now the pinkish stained feet he saw.

Christians stay on the calendar for weeks. The old TV where their names were posted mounted high up in the corner of the trailer. Santo stepped in and unbuttoned a warm but old jean jacket, the door was always left open. He stepped over a floor littered with paper cups overflowing from the trash, placed his work boot crusted with cemetery dirt inside and crushed them down before it rose like a mass of decomposing dough yeasted brown. He leaned against the small desk with the orange light of the coffee pot still on and waited. The other grave diggers, men who worked the lot for decades, threw dirt, gambled at the track, drinking tequila in someone’s apartment.
‘Each person, just another 90 in cash that comes with getting out of bed’ he thought. Santo filled a cup with coffee somehow both weak and bitter.
The TV screen refreshes and Santo crushes his cup, and throws it in the can. He would eat. Muhammed Al-Masri: 2:00 PM, he died sometime yesterday and Santo will now throw dirt. Santo ambled down the trailer steps into sunlight spreading across the piles of leaves, and equipment that was the backcorner lot. He opened the toolshed and pulled out a shovel shadowing before him into the great lawn. Santo lived off the Muslims, who were buried within 24 hours, and show up on screen like a wildcard.
‘A fisher of men is what they called Jesus,’ Santo never understood the phrase. Fishermen kill while Jesus saves. He dug the heel into his eye and rubbed deeply before cleaning the grounds.

He stood out of sight, down the hill behind a tree. The Mourners and the muslim preacher,wailed in a high tine, foreign words. No words like that were spoken back in the high mountains of Mexico where his wife and kids lived. He wrapped the jean jacket over his face and fell asleep. When he awoke, it was night and foggy. He ambled up the hill and packed tight the open pit before resting against the newborn grave. They would come soon and he would be ready. After an hour, Fernando and Enrique walked up the hill, they worked the christian burials, Santo knew them by sight. They stopped several yards away, and smirked. Santo held his shovel up, not this one. He owed muslims something, he lived off them after all, and even in death their rings would stay on their fingers. The two groups stared shovels in hands. Enrique was tired of this old man, muslims had some great items. He stepped forward with a firm grip, stopped, the fog cleared behind Santo and he saw for a moment a great figure, wrapped in bandages grinning down from above. Enrique stepped back bumped Fernando and looked again, just a big oak tree. He shook his head and walked away. They buried 5 catholics earlier, old women. They would find what earrings they were wearing.

Santo watched them go and spit in their direction. Something bad would happen to them. He turned around and walked backwards facing the grave. He was hungry. He would take the bus to the beach and buy something to eat.

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Time is up!
Thank-you to all for participating.
My and vampdaddy’s results will be due by Friday.

I'll be offering some feedback throughout the week, as well.

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I dont care about England. If its not US Central I dont obey the rule.

shitty break up poetry inc lmk what u guys think - i dont really read or write


Come here, come here, come hither.
Good girl, come beg, grovel and slither.
Coiled, I waited for you to reach that hand out,
So I could spit bile, bite and hiss doubt.


The river has guided and shaped me yet again,
Flesh begins to split and fork behind my teeth,
The scales grow back and burrow underneath,
Take this as a warning, do not listen HER NAME.

And while you’ve met many of adder,
You still questioned, is he no different than the ladder?
Perhaps a viper with poisoned diction,
Or more likely a great boa with his constriction…

FOR I AM THE LEVIATHAN, who looked to eat you whole.
To swallow you away from snakes and love you full…

>>24816566
man im a faggot and this is already gay
feel like i should write, wait 3 days and change the obvious retarded shit

>>24816566
Don't ever show this to anyone again

>>24816657
cant a nigga make shitty break up poetry anon

>>24816361
>I dont care about England. If its not US Central I dont obey the rule.

Sorry Giga Friend, American power runs on two centers, SF, PT and NY, EST, parts of Milwaukee are very nice and all but it demands no respect be paid.

>>24815925
I'm sorry you had a lousy turnout. I know I was looking forward to niggas flexing their chops but either way these are loads better than the /wg/ excerpts and inane questions. The truckstop one was real fun to read through while watching time tick down

>>24816807
never been to /IC/ but that truckstop image was so good, feel like anons went hard to match the quality.

>>24816566
>Im just that nigger guy

So who won? Was it me?

>>24818562
Which one was yours? tell me and I'll critique

>>24807927


Sliding, 10-22-25

Into the acid night
As friction drives the keyboard towards my abdomen
My right hand fingers massage the bones of my forebrow
In habit. In peace. In tic.
A friend has given me a rock of Hitlers nest, on my desk.
And its insensitivity yells nothing. It is bland. And rugged.
Silence would be better than this now, yes. Silence. More than tune.
But the music plays. Of human condition and so forth. Whatever.
When the water flows, the levee breaks. Those who have nothing
will bubble to surface, their skin will peel like a boiled chickens.
And white flesh will be revealed beneath. Despite white or black.
And still, I promise you, the hookers will dance, on their shiny poles.
And their asses will gleam like starlight on crimson,
like fading memory in the fog.
Their eyes will be closed seven feet up. Their mouths agape.
Feeling the tenderness of metal. Clinging to it.
Waiting for the slide down, without looking around. Life's dance.
The hooker pole. The soft melting. There is nothing but this.
Men climb into their BMWs and travel for years to see it. For what reason,
they don’t know. They cannot admit it.
They are too on the pole.
Just as delicate.
Just as sliding.

Bump