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I felt that we needed a thread for the writers of the group. So, post your stories, short or otherwise, poetry, basic ideas, and of course, epitaphs. Future bestseller hype.

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Here is a poem I wrote. It's modern art, so please no bully.



If I pulled my pants down

and squatted and pulled

my inner ass cheeks

as hard open as I could

there is this spot

that is in the absolute direct center of my asshole

that is no longer asshole

it is a combination of

ass crack sweat, rectal mucus

and left over fecal particles from my last good shit.

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I'm not sure if that's plagiarism or if you're just paying homage to a fallen "warrior".

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I used to write quite a bit, not so much anymore. I'll see if I can dig up some of my old stuff and post it here. Just a fair warning though, if I do post anything, it's likely going to be bad.

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Love to write, but I'm always hesitant to share :<


I wrote a 300 page fantasy novel when I was 16. I read it ~15 years later and I seriously thought I'd die of embarrassment when I remembered that I handed out copies of the manuscript to a small group of friends back then.


Last year I did a challenge to myself to write a short book in no more than 30 days. Turned out to be ~45k words at the 30 day mark. Sort of a fantasy/sci-fi hybrid about a group of friends that get sucked into a different reality and get swept up in the unrest that's occurring there. It started out as sort of a light-hearted adventure/humor thing but ended up pretty dramatic in the end and I dunno if I'm okay with the shift. I'm kind of scared to even re-read it at this point since it was written in such a frenzy.


My major influences in writing are Terry Pratchett, Patricia C. Wrede and to a lesser extent, Weis and Hickman.

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I'm working on a few different stories. I can't seem to focus on one but here is the plot for my most current.

After a man realizes that he has become a monster in a moral sense, having killed multiple people for reasons he can no longer justify, he kills himself and awakens in a limbo state with no memory and is forced by a guy/creature/asshole named Shrowd to relive his actions as a "morally pure" soul. Basically how I would envision hell.

I do not have many influences honestly, but I really enjoy Darren Shan's writing. Diane Duane is also a favorite and a few people have to told me that the way I write is similar to Dean Koontz but I am unfamiliar with him.

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I just realized that I left all of my old writings on my old laptop. :( Maybe I'll post some stuff in a few weeks if I remember. My best pieces were two separate short stories, one about a wronged politician and another about a coup de'tat. I ended up stopping writing after I realized I couldn't afford the time sink in college. Now I mostly just work on campaigns in D&D.

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No fucking way, but thank you.  I write when my emotions are up, it helps quell the inner demon.  My son knows when I kick the bucket there is a file to just delete without reading.  At rock bottom, I certainly don't need anyone thinking even less of me.  It is some seriously dark shit.  Putting it to paper, so to speak, helps me get through.

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Not written by me, but rather by someone on a RuneScape forum which I used to frequent in 2007.



Barking Dog

by SlashingUK


They say you see your whole life again just before you die. Mine had better hurry up, I have about half a second left. I wonder which part of me does the thinking and remembering. Soon my body will be shattered into a million pieces, brain disintegrated, heart vaporised, bits of bone careening through the air, muscle and sinew twisting, soft fleshy parts splashing and splattering. How did it come to this? How did I get here? I am a good man. This is the end; or is this the beginning?

My hand is inside my jacket; I press the button. Time stops. There is no sensation. About forty people are nearby. Half of them will die. Half of the rest will be crippled. Half of the rest will be injured for life. The remainder will thank their god or destiny or mere chance for sparing them.

It begins.

Young childhood: with my brothers and sisters playing happily in the narrow city streets. Carefree, unafraid. The time a bigger boy shoved me into a wall and I hurt my arm. My father leaving. A classroom with a teacher. A ride in a truck. The mountains. The clear sky at night, shooting stars. A pack of dogs, barking. Waking up, the house shaking, running outside, afraid: earthquake.

Time hasn’t stopped, just slowed. The charge moves from the battery pack through the trigger, into the chain of metallic tubes filled with white gel and metal balls wrapped around my abdomen. A flash begins at the head of each cylinder, the gel begins to boil and swell, the cylinders to rip open, the metal balls accelerate.

My oldest brother leaving to join my father. Jet planes flying over the city. Soldiers hiding in our house. Father returning for a visit – he’s changed, hurt, scared, ruined. Strange bags and packages stored in our house. A call to prayers. The enemy: foreign soldiers, dirty and godless. Fear. Gun shots in the distance. Bodies in the street. Hatred. An explosion in the city, the ground shakes, a dust cloud rises into the sky in a flashing column.

The gel vaporises and the flash grows. My middle is completely engulfed in flame, the fastest of the tiny metal balls are travelling through my torso and legs, others race outward in all directions. 

Adolescence: Noon prayers at the Mosque, the Mulla speaking, “You blame your times when you should blame yourselves! A Muslim’s heart is his guide.” Picking up spent shells. Scrambling over the smouldering carcass of an armoured car. Running errands for our warriors. Arrested, but let go. Meeting the girl who will be my wife. Love, caring, but little hope.

My body is tearing apart. Still no feeling. The balls rip streams of blood out of my body. The bright flash surrounds me. The little eruptions where the balls slam into the stone floor. Chips of bone burst within my legs and chest. I recall a voice, but not the speaker, “He who sees the calamity of other people finds his own calamity light.” I move to smile, but my body is too slow. Time is too slow. No one nearby is reacting yet. The nearest person is hit by the first metal pellet.

Arrested again, questioned, released. No longer a boy. Running supplies: chemicals, guns, bullets. Arrested again, released again. A friend killed, a funeral. Foreign soldiers looking at our women disrespectfully; smashing down the doors of our homes; dirtying our holy places, insulting our customs. I spit on them as they pass in the street below. I throw stones at their tanks and kick their cars and sneak in at night to piss on their kitbags, spit in their food, defecate on their clothes.

Fire and light fill me up. My legs are gone, my hands are gone, my body is shattering. People are hit, their flesh tearing, their bones smashing, organs erupting. Dust is flying up from the ground, holes are boring into the walls, trails of fire and smoke tear through the air. Objects turn to shrapnel: coins, bones and teeth.

My cousin’s wedding. I will also marry soon. Happiness, celebration, elated gun-shots into the sky. Passing helicopters and airplanes bristling with machine guns, turn back on the wedding, shooting and circling, shooting and circling, crack-crack-crack. Running for cover. Crying, shrieking, bullets and blood, dying. Fear. Helping the injured, fleeing for cover. Shooting and circling. Pain and tears. Shooting and circling, crack-crack-crack-crack. Explosions and fire. My ears hurt. My chest hurts. Screaming and dying. Blood on my hands. My sister is shot, I pull her into a small shelter and lay her head on my legs. Blood on her body, fear in her eyes, outrage in my heart. She dies. I cry. I shout. I hit the wall. I hit the ground. I hit her. I don’t know what to do. I am sick. How did it come to this? How did this happen? How did I get here? I am a good man.

I am torn apart, I am nothing. It is over. What have I done? I was a good man.

The dogs may bark but the caravan moves on.

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That last post though, damn. Very well thought out and i really like the idea of his last thoughts. I just get bored with normal writing anymore but that person knew what they were doing.

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