#Bad prose

[cultofpickles]

"November"

The month of my loves, my almost kept promises, the never-ending fantasies, and the dreary thoughts of tomorrow.

[daughterofzeus-the-novel]

I know some of classicsblr dislikes the way Madeline Miller modernized the Illiad for Song of Achilles but I loved Circe and I'm really liking this one so far

[e-6000]

What I want to say is that it's personal, and I know that it is.

Because if she is so openly hostile toward people she doesn't even know, what will she think silently of her own child, her own daughter?

We are the same sort of thing. Should-have-beens. Never-will-bes.

And I want to say, Let's go away together, you and I. Let's lay our old selves in their graves, so that my parents can have their daughter, and yours can have their son, and we can go on and become the people we need to be.

But I don't say that.

[cherrie-crush]

TSE on Originality

I am an Original in the sense that everything I am is a mismatched thrown together patchwork of others.

My Quilt is not mine to claim.

Even my thoughts and feelings stem from others -- my ideals, my values, my friends -- they were all someone else's before they were given to me. Whether I have adopted something -- or it was thrust upon me by uncertain circumstances, they were something before they were me.

I take knowledge and study and learn in hopes of finally being able to make something and call it my own. With every tear that falls, I. Push. On. I am selfish. I want things, and people. I take and I take and it's never enough. And then I give until there is nothing left but my broken, stolen thoughts.

I fill myself once more.

My woven basket of thoughts and identity slip from my cold hands.

I hope I have said something new, something meaningful, something memorable.

I fear being forgotten, but not in the conventional sense. I fear not being enough to be remembered. I don't care if no one wants to, I want to remember myself. If I grow old and my memory fails me, I want to be sure of who I am. Even if I cannot put words to it, I want to be ME. I want to be an individual. Self-assured, confident in who I am.

I can only hope I'll learn. Because now, with this patch-work, Mod Podge coated, woven tapestry of me, I don't know. But maybe that is me.

Something so stupidly un-original yet utterly defining of me.

[senor-plume]

Shovel (a short story)

  He called his wife on the phone. There was nothing else to do.  He had masturbated two times already that day. Not a thing on the television and besides it was raining out. Nothing inside, nothing outside.   She picked up and said hello. The second he heard her voice he regretted calling. He could have gone out and stood naked in the freezing rain. He could have swallowed a fist full of sleeping pills and unplugged the phone. He could have tried to get it up one more time and go for three strikes on hid belly. But he didn't. He called his wife and now it was too late to turn back. "How are you doing Marie?" A loud and long sigh came from the other end. He heard her suck in her breath and he braced himself. "Well, you know the guy downstairs is supposed to shovel the walkway. The motherfucker pays less rent than I do because he's supposed to help around this shithole apartment. I got home from work to find that not only was the sidewalk not done but the son of a bitch never got around to the driveway. I had to park on the street with all the other assholes who live on this godforsaken road. So I went to his apartment to find out why nothing had been done. You know me, Vince, you don't want to piss me off! So I go and bang on his damn door. Blam blam blam blam! His wife answers stinking of booze. That lady is fucked up. Do you remember the time she came up to my place when you were over fixing the sink? She started screaming at me to keep the banging down and I was like "listen lady, my fucking husband is over here fixing my sink and if you don't like the fucking sounds you can kiss my big fat clogged up sink of an ass!" Holy shit that was a riot! Anyway, she opens the door and I ask her why her fucking husband has not shoveled the sidewalk and all. I mean he had 24 hours to get the damned job done. Of course, I didn't say that! I just said: "hey, is Frank around? He was supposed to shovel and all." And then, you know what she said to me? You are not going to believe this. She said that Frank cut his fingers while slicing a fucking ham and got 66 stitches on his left hand! I almost shit myself! So, of course, I asked her how he was doing. Just to be human, you know? She said he was in the tub relaxing with a drink. And you know what this means? Don't you? This means that no one is going to shovel the fucking snow! I'm going to be parking on that street for weeks! Jesus Christ. Why me? Of all the places I could be living, I live in this stink-hole place with a sloppy meat cutter as the handyman idiot." "Why don't you call the landlord and let him know the walkway is not being cleared. I'm sure he would want to know."

"What do you think I am? An idiot or something! I called him. Of course, I called him. Jesus! I called him the second I got my boots off. He said that as long as Frank is laid up...that's what he said! Laid up! What a moron! As long as Frank is laid up that maybe I could shovel for a while. He said he would knock off 30 bucks from the rent. The fucking gall of that fat bastard! Who the fuck does he think I am? Some lesbian butch? I told him to cram it. I said he could stick that rickety old shovel up his over used asshole. That's what I said Vince. So help me, that's what I said. He couldn't believe it! He went silent. Then I said, "No way, Jose" and slammed the phone down. I nearly busted the fucking thing! Haha! So, hell, I don't know what to do. Hey, hold on for a sec."

He heard her put the phone down on the table. He knew that table well. He bought it about 5 summers ago at the local Kmart. He carried the damned thing stuck in some cheap box up two flights of stairs in a horrible heat. Dragged it into the kitchen and put it together by himself. Alone. A very big accomplishment for a man who needs instructions for a hammer. This was supposed to be a surprise for Marie. She had been bitching about the old table ever since she had moved in. She came home that night. Put her keys on the table and without even looking at Vince who was sitting in one of the chairs said: "Jesus, Vincent, where the hell did you dig this nightmare up? Kmart?"

But still, to this day the table sat there. In his old apartment. A testament to his failures. He lit a cigarette and as he placed the match in the tray he heard her cough into his ear. Then curse and then, much to his dismay began to speak again.

"My God. I finally got out of my dress. I don't know why the hell I still, wear this ugly old thing you got me. I do know this though, I have to shave my legs. They are getting mighty hairy. Hey, you still like my legs, Vince? You used to go on and on about how much you adored my legs. Back in the early days. Before it all went to shit. Ain't that right Vince? So, you still like them? Do you think about them when you try to fall asleep on that bed of yours? Do you?" "Yeah, I guess I do. I don't know. Sometimes, I guess." "You guess? You guess? What kind of answer is that? Jesus, Vince. You are and always will be a real twit. You know that don't you?"

"Yeah, twit with a capital T."

  An hour later they hung up, or actually, she hung up on him. Pissed off about something or other. He stripped out of his sweat soaked shirt and decided to have a beer or two. Topless at the kitchen table, Vince sat with the bottle of Miller and stared out the window. The rain had turned to a very light snow. The street lights were just coming on and soon he would have to get ready for work.

�� What the fuck happened to me Vince thought. How the hell did I become a third shift jackoff with an insane soon to be ex-wife and a car in danger of being taken away by the bank? It was too much for him apparently as he stood up and with the bottle in his hand, went to the bedroom where he fingered through a stack of books on the floor. In fact, the room was surrounded by books. Like ropes in a boxing ring. All four walls tattooed three feet high with books of every color and size. In no particular order, one could see. He grabbed Albert Camus's 'The Stranger' and flipped through the pages. He put it down and turned around. He put the bottle on the nightstand and walked over to the corner by the window. He kneeled down and searched. After a while, he picked the book he wanted. Terry Anderson's memoir 'Den Of Lions'. He opened the book and found the bent corner and read:

"Prayers in the night hurled fiercely at an absent God; plea's, promises, bargains offered, but no answers."

He picked up a shirt laying on the bed and put it on.

  Eating a bologna sandwich alone at work, Vince sat reading the paper. More bad news. Unemployment up. Riots in Germany. Bombs in the Mideast. The president is still a moron and worst of all the paper yanked Doonesbury from the funny pages after a controversial strip. Garfield is not funny, it's downright depressing he thought to himself. What is this world coming to? He gathered up his empty paper plate and coffee mug. Walked over to the garbage can and threw them in. Shit was rumbling. His stomach felt ill, so he headed off towards the men's room.

On his way, he ran into Marcella. She just lifted herself up from the water fountain and spotted him charging down the hall like a moose. "Vince! Hey hey, you, Moose? How are you?" He slowed down. Stopped actually and greeted her in return. "Marcella. Fine. I am fine. Did you hear about Doonesbury? The paper axed it, man." "I know. I read about it this afternoon when I woke up. It's an outrage! It was always the first thing I'd read when I got the dumb old paper. Hey, you in a hurry? Got time to grab a smoke outside? I'm dying for a cigarette."

His bowels churned. Bologna and depression do not mix. His belly was bursting, screaming for relief. And yet, he said: "For you, my friend, of course. I could use a dose of Turkish gold myself. I just ate."

Marcella smiled and pulled at his arm. "Ok then, Mr. Moose, let's go smoke."

 Outside they stood on the truck delivery station. Pallets laid around them in the snow among the discarded cigarette butts. Just a sliver of moon hiding behind the clouds made it a dark evening. Or morning.  It was around 3 AM and it had stopped snowing. They stood there silently smoking. Vince looked up at the sky. He wanted to see stars but it was impossible. It was too cloudy. "I wish we could see the stars but it's too cloudy." Marcella exhaled a puff of smoke and laughed "What is it with you and the stars? Every time we come out here you always talk about the stars. Just why is that Vinnie?"

Vince flicked his camel into the air. It landed with a suicide grace. He watched it as it slowly went out in the snow. "I don't know. I think I just like things that are far away."

"Interesting Mr. Mooseman. What about me? I'm right next to you. I bet you don't like me, eh?" She smiled and poked her elbow into his side. She laughed. "Well, out with the answer Moosey!"

He stood there silent. He reached into his pocket for another smoke. Lunch break was almost over but there was time for at least one more. He would have to wait two more hours before he could use the bathroom though.

"Marcella, may I ask you a question?" "Sure...why not! It's Friday and I'm in a good mood! But you're not ducking my question are you?" "I'm glad you're in a good mood, Marcella."

He lit the cigarette and put away his lighter. His fingers were getting cold and he wished he had brought his gloves from the car. His head tilted up as his lips opened. "Marcella, do you shovel your own driveway?" She laughed. "No, no. My son does. He's good at it too. Every time it snows, he's on the job! What a silly question, Mr. Moose. Why do you ask?"

He took a drag from his smoke and flicked the half done thing onto the ground. He turned away and began walking back to the building. No reason, he said. Just simply curious.

He opened the door and felt the heat hit him hard. He had a minute left to punch back in. He walked quickly to the time clock. There really was no time to do anything else. --------------------------------

[gayseball]

I’ve been chasing the same thing for months. Something I never really had in the first place, even though I could’ve sworn that my flesh was solid. But what does it mean to be solid? What does it mean to be real? I keep asking myself the same questions, hoping that God will come down and whisper the answer in my ear all tender-like. Like the way a cat can silently sneak up and rub its head against your leg. And when I had your love, or what I thought was love, there was the same kind of easy silence. All I crave is another evening where I can lower my fists and expect nothing more than a nothingness that turns water into honey.

[britlikeslimes]

on a hot summer day, In a city of millions  I sat in the center on a lowly park bench under a shade giving tree rereading a tattered old novel that was older than myself. Beads of perspiration began to slide down my décolletage as I turned the familiar pages. Whole passages highlighted for their "meaning"

Intermittent sips of strawberry lemonade and nibbles of pistachio macarons 

And there I was in the center of the city of millions sitting in my secret public spot disconnected from the world waiting to be caught

[strivingforsanity00]

In black and white I strove to live

In greys I do reside

Every fucking day i give what I have to give(must give)(am compelled to)

My anthill, I told you when you described your brickwork

And how easily others brought it tumbling,

how effluent, like the tide

I countered you with this:

my anthill, much like those built by them

Was always futile from the start

Brought down with enemies, you say?

What of my enemies, whom I only aimed(aim) to love?

To decimate one's brickwork, ones long-labored sandhill?

I misspeak; the things I speak of do not sow my destruction on purpose

Rather, you allow it to never be built on stable ground

On a dune, I build, I sweat(I swear), I slog

And on uncertain marsh I stack, I stack, I stack.

[lucidloving]

Ruth Madievsky, All-Night Pharmacy // Suzanne Scanlon, Promising Young Women // Robin Roe, A List of Cages // Hayao Miyazaki, Kiki's Delivery Service // Susan Sontag, As Consciousness is Harnessed to Flesh: Journals and Notebooks, 1964-1980 // D. H. Lawrence, The Plumbed Serpent // Jennifer S. Cheng, "So We Must Meet Apart" // Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart // Alice Oseman, Radio Silence // Franz Kafka, Letters to Felice

[visualbrainrot]

My mind is a ruler

Striking my knuckles before I can pick up a pen 

My heart is a dagger

Shredding the words right in my head

My hands are just hands 

Failing to articulate broken sentiments of being

[d-e-w-p]

Please read the tags

I'm so fucking tired. 8 am trying my best at it isn't enough. I feel like a shed carapace. I don't even know if I'm seen as a living being at this point. I may as well be dead. I'm not wanted around unless I'm on an Upper. Unless I'm happy and bouncy and "lovely lively".

The minute. The second I show a hint of Bad Vibe Time. Suddenly its all silence and locked doors and I just. Am 8 asking too much here? Is it too much to ask for a shoulder to lean on, an open ear? Or am I a trap? Am 8 just an inconvenient evil to be put upon and burdened with?

I do not wish for people to become therapists, to carry me as deadweight freight. I do not wish to force myself a friend upon those who do not wish it. I do not wish ill nor disturbs upon anyone.

It iis the silence and turned heads and lack of proof I exist in the eyes of The Many that does it. It is a proof of sorts. A badge a marker a signal that I am Not Worth. That I am for all intents and purposes Dead and should be treated as such.

It is the belief of many that people deserve to feel loved and cared for. Deserve happiness. Yet. Yet then there must be a fundamental flaw about me that makes this statement Untrue. For the unseeing eyes and ears and mouhts. The flaw must be deep enough to cast Doubt on this belief.

Elstwise I Am Not People.

Perhaps that is it.

8 am not people. I am Simply Other. And I shall never belong, try as 8 tiredly might.

I am tired. I wish to Stop Now.

[cultofpickles]

"Wintertime is Here" 

It shouldn't be that much of a surprise that I shiver quietly until I fall asleep.

In sleep, I am comforted by the company of my fantasies.

In consciousness, I am abandoned by the familiarity of my joys.

[perfectquote]

Sometimes it feels better not to talk. At all. About anything. To anyone.

Breaking Bad

[resqectable]

Sometimes it feels better not to talk. At all. About anything. To anyone.

Breaking Bad

[katiefrog217]

AziraCrow | Book Reading

(Scroll down for mini story vvvv) + (Companion Piece)

Aziraphale liked books, especially the old ones. They were the main reason for owning his bookshop, after all.

He loved reading them, too. Sitting quietly in the back of his bookshop with a good book and the occasional accompaniment of an old record made for quite the delightful evening, in his opinion. Despite his being handless (and therefore, fingerless), Aziraphale was perfectly capable of turning pages on his own. Not with his talons of course; Heaven only knew the trouble that would come from attempting to turn the aging and potentially fragile paper with such unreliable instruments. It would be a simple enough fix if a page did happen to tear, but the memory would haunt him forever. Instead, all it took was a flick of his wing and woosh, the pages would turn themselves. Sometimes he just had to ask nicely. However, there were times that he didn't need to expend the effort.

Those times just so happened to coincide with a particularly serpentine visitor.

Crowley's visits were irregular and not always predictable. Most of the time he would pop in to complain about Who-Knows-What and disappear off to Who-Knows-Where. Sometimes he would stay longer, and they would share a glass of wine or some other alcohol, chatting a lot about nothing and reminiscing about times long passed until the shadows grew long. On rare occasions they would sit in comfortable silence, doing nothing more than enjoying each other's company. Aziraphale would then pick a book to read and Crowley would slither over to join him.

Of course, Crowley didn't like reading - or at least claimed he didn't. 'Not worth his time,' he'd say dismissively. Still, he (bored expression and all) would come, make himself comfortable by coiling around both the book stand and Aziraphale, and just watch. Just about anyone on Earth would likely be uncomfortable being stared down by such an intense gaze, but not Aziraphale. Over the many millennia, he has grown used to being observed by those golden eyes. Dare he say, he even found it comforting in a way, but that was besides the point.

He wasn't sure how it started; perhaps Crowley found himself overly bored that day, but he began turning the book pages whenever Aziraphale raised his wing to compel them instead. It had started him at first, and he had looked to Crowley with much confusion, though the demon had nothing to say in return. He merely shrugged (or at least it could be considered the serpentine equivalent of a shrug) and turned away. A few more pages in, and he'd turn them again. This happened over and over until Aziraphale heaved a sigh gave in, allowing the serpent to do as he wanted. At first, it was quite awkward to give verbal cues, and there were times when he became so engrossed in his reading that he forgot entirely, but eventually they settled into a comfortable rhythm. Nowadays he didn't even bother. It had become almost automatic: Aziraphale would finish the page and it would turn, no questions asked.

Aziraphale suspected it would baffle the minds of many to see a demon treat anything so gently, yet Crowley turned the pages in such a way that they were never bent nor crumpled. In fact, it seemed to him that the older the book was, the gentler Crowley'd be. He seemed... 'content' was the wrong word to describe his attitude towards the activity, but he never said a word otherwise. At least, not to Aziraphale.

He never pointed this out, of course. Crowley would stop doing it if he did, and he didn't WANT him to stop. He enjoyed it too much.

Once in a blue moon, Crowley would make a comment about whatever Aziraphale was reading at the time. It was often snide, mocking, not always audible. Hisses of exasperation or an exaggerated eye roll were not uncommon either. Then he would turn away, bored despondence washing over his face, shutting down any attempts to further the conversation. Not that he would respond if Aziraphale did, though that hadn't stopped him from trying. On one occasion Aziraphale had tried to push the topic, only for Crowley to deflect, insisting that he had only glanced the passage at random. He stopped turning the pages then. Aziraphale never tried again and settled with only giving him sidelong glances when he said something particularly egregious.

And so they would read, the silence broken only by the ticking of an old clock and the occasionally rustle of a page.

...

Aziraphale liked his books.

He liked reading them alone in his bookshop.

But he liked them best when Crowley was there to turn the pages for him.

[stay-close]

Sometimes it feels better not to talk. At all. About anything. To anyone.

Breaking Bad