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Post by Ninety on Sept 26, 2009 23:57:58 GMT -5
It was late afternoon with a sky full of menace, tar-black cotton running closer and closer on legs electric, each footfall a cannon blast in a battle that would eventually involve him. He still had time. He let the engine twiddle its thumbs so the air conditioner could keep the Texas heat outside where it pulled sweat from man and beast alike. He angled the rearview to double-check his load then allowed it to look at the house behind him. He grabbed a brown paper sack from the seat beside him and pulled out a strip of peppered jerky. He tore off a hunk with his back teeth and chewed it slowly while he stared at what was behind him.
It was a small house, ill-kept, with a yard that was little more than wilderness. The nearest neighbors, a young woman and her brother, lived four miles to the east and there was no one else for at least ten more after that.
The smoke was now forcing its way out of every split, crack, and hole in the wizened building. The thin wisps that had lingered above the roof were now unwavering fingers pointing at God as if He was to blame.
_____ could now see the flames through the grime on the windows, reaching up to the rafters, devouring all and still wanting more. He swallowed. He took a coke out of the sack and opened it slowly, careful not to let it bubble over. He took a drink and put the F-150 in gear. A surprised cry came from the bed of the truck. Shut up, we ain't goin' far.
He nosed the ’78 onto the road, the caliche crunching beneath the deep treads, and turned east. He watched a turkey vulture circling in a thermal, flying high in search of a free meal. It dipped below the tree line and back up again, then settled next to a strand of tala trees up the road. He nearly retched when he saw the scavenger's leathery red head and hooked bill. The eyes of the vulture dug into his mind, braving the pain within to search for a sign, a will.
He slammed his foot to the floor, rock and dirt showering behind him as he hurled the truck towards his offender. The bird took flight without urgency and made its way east. _____ let off the gas and watched it go, breathing deep and slow. Fine. Lead the way you ugly sumbitch. He leaned over and reset the odomoter. Four miles. Another moan came from the back. Shut up. Taint that hot.
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Post by Beelzebibble on Sept 27, 2009 9:53:11 GMT -5
Damn, you sold me on that first sentence. I mean, I thought the rest of it was awesome too. But that first sentence reeled me right in. Are you aware of Josef K.? This piece kind of reminded me of him.
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Post by Ninety on Sept 27, 2009 12:35:56 GMT -5
I am not aware of this Josef fellow. To google!
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Post by Beelzebibble on Sept 27, 2009 12:45:58 GMT -5
Maybe if you weren't using Minimalism Dark you would have been able to tell that I already gave you a couple of links to his website in my post.
Yeah, Choobs. Keep that in mind when you make your next redundant black and white skin.
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Post by ch00beh on Sept 27, 2009 20:20:56 GMT -5
It's minimalistic, not unreadable. Obviously.
/bad reasoning
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Post by Beelzebibble on Sept 27, 2009 20:35:12 GMT -5
Yeah but you can't tell when links happen because they're in the same color as the normal text. Come on man, that's pretty dick.
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Post by ch00beh on Sept 27, 2009 20:42:03 GMT -5
We just need a script that puts underlines under links.
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Post by Tout-Perd on Sept 27, 2009 21:43:42 GMT -5
Why not just put the links in some kind of shade of grey, y'know?
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Post by ch00beh on Sept 27, 2009 22:17:49 GMT -5
They are a shade of gray. It's just a minimal shade.
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Post by Ninety on Sept 28, 2009 10:30:36 GMT -5
Shut up, Choob.
D.
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Exorcet
Citizen of the Archipelago
Posts: 27
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Post by Exorcet on Nov 8, 2009 21:57:38 GMT -5
If you're going to post something like this and not tell me about it, at least post it on a site I go to. Unless you did and me being me didn't bother to look.
Oh well, now I'm sad that the only thing I can offer is my next chapter in my outdated fanfic. BUT I MAKE BRAKES BETTER THAN YOU.
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Post by Ninety on Nov 13, 2009 1:47:08 GMT -5
I MAKE CLEVERBOT MY SLAVE.
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Post by Ninety on Nov 22, 2009 18:19:23 GMT -5
Progress has been made! -~-
It was late afternoon with a sky full of menace, tar-black cotton running closer and closer on legs electric, each footfall a cannon blast in a battle that would eventually involve him. He still had time. He let the engine twiddle its thumbs so the air conditioner could keep the Texas heat outside where it pulled sweat by the bucket from man and beast alike. He angled the rearview to double-check his load then allowed it to look at the house behind him. He grabbed a brown paper sack from the seat and drew out a strip of peppered jerky. He tore off a hunk with his back teeth and chewed it slowly while he stared at what was behind him.
It was a small house, ill-kept, with a yard that was just shy of wilderness. The nearest neighbors, a young woman and her brother, lived four miles to the east and there was no one else for at least ten more after that. The grasses were high enough to hide a man stooped and kept the beasts that took up residence on the property safe from prying eyes and half-hearted searches to root them out. The road crawled close to the house but not close enough for its few travelers to discern whether it was habited or not. Keen eyes could spot the trails in the grass going from the shack to a well close by that offered up the foulest smelling water a man could bring himself to drink and another path to a squalid outhouse that no critter dared infest. Eyes were not inclined to wander over the property though, as on the other side of the road lay a pond that reflected whatever light that struck it back to the beholder twofold. It was seldom vacant and one could sit and see anything with stings, legs, or scales come to drink at the sparkling edge, provided one was patient. He tried their water once but it was bitter and forced him to make hurried trips to the latrine out back for a week and days after.
The smoke was now forcing its way out of every split, crack, and hole in the wizened building. The thin wisps that had lingered above the roof were now unwavering fingers pointing at God as if He was to blame.
Clint could now see the flames through the grime on the windows, reaching up to the rafters, devouring all and still wanting more. He swallowed. He took a coke out of the sack and opened it slowly, careful not to let it bubble over. He took a drink and put the F-150 in gear. A surprised cry came from the bed of the truck. Shut up, we ain't goin' far. He nosed the ’78 onto the road, the caliche crunching beneath the deep treads, and turned east. He watched a turkey vulture circling in a thermal, flying high in search of a free meal. It dipped below the tree line and back up again, then settled next to a strand of tala trees up the road. He nearly retched when he saw the scavenger's leathery red head and hooked bill. The eyes of the vulture dug into his mind, braving the pain within to search for a sign, a will.
He slammed his foot to the floor, rock and dirt showering behind him as he hurled the truck towards his offender. The bird took flight without urgency and made its way east. Clint let off the gas and watched it go, breathing deep and slow. Fine. Lead the way you ugly sumbitch. He leaned over and reset the odomoter. Four miles. Another moan came from the back. Shut up. Taint that hot. He took his foot all the way off the pedal and allowed the truck to pull itself along at its own unhurried pace. He flipped on the headlights as what was left of the sun disappeared behind clouds impenetrable. He thought for a moment and turned on the roof lamps as well, peeling back the protective darkness.
He let his big toe push the pedal down just enough to make the guttural puttering coming from the dual exhausts elevate to a backwoods snarl. He took his foot off again.
He thought about the house that was now just so much tinder and bit his lip. The history in that house could fill a notebook past the margins. The past can shake a man firm. He pounded on the back windshield with his open palm and the duffel bag in the bed of the truck twitched an indeterminable answer. Lazy two-bit drunk.
-~-
Floyd! Go and shut all the winduhs ‘fore this rain gets here and we end up in a mess of a situation! Alright, sis, damn. Ya don’t have ta be such a bitch about the damn thing. Floyd, you come upstairs and call me a bitch to my face and see if I don’t beat you so hard that you see sideways for a week! Jenni-Lee, the day I let a hundred and nuthin’ pound **** like you whup my ass is the day I relinquish the use of my testicles to someone who deserves them more. Can it, Floyd, jes go do what I told ya!
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Post by Hamuu on Dec 10, 2009 13:20:22 GMT -5
I really do like this, especially getting to see the work fill out.
Do you plan on making this a short story or a novel length? Cause with the amount of detail you already have in what looks like a pages worth of material I see this becoming a well rounded short story or a nice epic novel.
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Post by Ninety on Dec 13, 2009 19:05:35 GMT -5
Short story, definitely. While I'm not opposed to writing a novel, I feel like short stories can convey just as much in a more concentrated form for the reader. Since I write a lot of poetry, I tend to look at other types of writing in the same way where everything has a purpose. You should be able to point at any sentence/phrase/etc. and say exactly what the point of it is. If you can't find one, it's filler, unnecessary, and should be omitted.
One of my biggest influences is Cormac McCarthy's works (No Country for Old Men, The Road, All the Pretty Horses, et al). His imagery is probably some of the best I've ever seen.
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Post by ch00beh on Dec 13, 2009 22:52:13 GMT -5
The smoke was now forcing its way out of every split, crack, and hole in the wizened building. The thin wisps that had lingered above the roof were now unwavering fingers pointing at God as if He was to blame. I like that line.
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Post by asmo on Dec 14, 2009 17:37:29 GMT -5
I can kind of see the influence of poetry on your writing. Stuff like
and are just charged with assonance and alliteration. It really gives your story the energy and tempo to match the setting and intensity of the plot that we've seen so far. I'd just keep that in mind if you go back to edit this piece; you can really control the flow of your story through the stylistic choices you make.
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Post by Hamuu on Dec 15, 2009 19:05:29 GMT -5
I crave more!
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Post by Ninety on Dec 17, 2009 0:06:47 GMT -5
Ask, and ye shall receive.
Eventually. With the upcoming break I'll have a lot more time to work on it so expect more frequent updates.
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Post by Hamuu on Dec 19, 2009 11:45:01 GMT -5
Woot!
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Jan 3, 2010 22:55:29 GMT -5
You know, I gotta say - it's different reading this in a forum after reading it out of your moleskine. There's a tension that's lost in translation. Something about reading it in scratchy black ink on whisper-thin paper lends a visceral, raw feeling to it. Not that it isn't visceral and raw enough already. MOAR MOAR.
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Post by ch00beh on Jan 3, 2010 23:02:09 GMT -5
I should get a moleskin.
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Post by Ninety on Jan 3, 2010 23:19:58 GMT -5
Give me your address; I'll send you one. I have dozens.
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Post by Hamuu on Jan 9, 2010 0:20:07 GMT -5
DAMN YOU AND MAKING ME THINK YOU HAD POSTED MORE STORY!!!!!
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Post by ch00beh on Jan 9, 2010 0:56:35 GMT -5
I just bought a pack of moleskins and a micron. So you won't be getting my address.
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Post by Ninety on Jan 9, 2010 17:26:34 GMT -5
Not that way, anyways.
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