Filth (RATED M FOR MANLY.)

[JonnyJerny]

DAY ONE, "Stay Here":
"Last night I retired to my comfy bed. Today, I awake in a dark room with a dirt floor. I could be wrong, but the room feels very big, and mostly empty. But in the corner, there was a man eating a pneumatic drill, and in the opposite corner, a man eating a bag of mulch. The sound of a million teeth gritting at once was the most erotic sensation I've felt, and the gargling of oil tickled my perverted eardrums. I wasn't tied down, shackled, of anything of that sort. I was just sitting there on the dirt floor, in an angry trance. I felt the odd urge to prove myself to the puny Gods. Fascinating."

DAY TWO, "Big Strong Boss":
"A man with grotesque teeth and eyes like a python tied to a bigger python walked ominously out of his own hate fog, and put his hand under my chin and pushed my head up, my eyes aligned with what should be his eyes. I wanted to recoil, but I could tell that he could and would spit razorblades at me. So I simply sat there, smiled nervously and waited. He did indeed proceed to spit at me. But what he spit was not sharp or blade like in any manner. It wasn't quite sludge, but close. He made odd sounds and proceeded to lick the left side of my face. He gathered the room into a clatter, or something. Exciting."

DAY THREE, "Blackout":
"Crack, crick. Crick, crack. His neck said these words in that order. This man was full of false dreams and immoral aura. And mange. I could smell that. He proceeded to rip off his white tank top, to reveal an off-white tank top, and donned a cowboy hat of undetermined origin. He then, with his boar-like moan, coughed up something resembling two-thirds of someone else's lung. Was this a tool shed? Hmm. The nasty sizzle of genitals was potent in my senses. This was an uprising, I said. Whoops. The man turned his throbbing neck, pointed his bony finger at me and said "Don't talk until you're spoken to!" My erection was hushed in a witch's instant."

DAY FOUR, "Power for Power"
"I saw the rise of a black curtain in the blacker mist. Crunch-a-munch-a-zunga-bunga. That was my current mood. The nothing exploded into a greater nothing. Am I being swallowed by something beyond words? Seems it. The leader (I'm going to call him Cowboy Hat from here on out) sweat so profusely, he was becoming the tool shed. The corners were almost in the center of the room at this point, the way those slaves kneaded their gray/grey dough of hate. Like clockwork. Metal arms couldn't tear away this choke hold. I gulped down my thoughts and made sure my 500-yard stare never broke focus of Cowboy Hat. He lead the mush into mash and made the industry of natives turn sour at the tip of a hat. A Cowboy Hat. So that's why they call him that. And then, it happened."

DAY FIVE, "Freak"
"Cowboy Hat swung his head clockwise ("always clockwise", he pretended to mutter) at such a viciously fast rate that he pulled the entire room apart. Rust turned to dust, and vice versa. "You're going to murder somebody", he said, lashing his tongue in directions that no one has ever heard of. "Violence, rape, and abuse". What a chant. Sleazy and defiant. Like a trashcan full of desires. I rose from the dirt floor and nodded my head, making sure each drop of blood in my head flowed exactly right. Cowboy Hat could sense these things."

DAY SIX, "Right Wrong"
"If the little drummer boy went Parum pa pum pum, then the big drummer boy swung his erection at bystanders and moaned. This I was sure. Cowboy Hat stomped on the ground and whispered a silence so fierce it became a noise. He pushed roughly into the dirt, almost swirling it into a ground dough. The slaughter seemed eternal. A Rube Goldberg machine of extreme energy and concentrated flesh. At the end, a massive opening. Or a miniscule closing. These happenings are rarely so black and white. And as I peered into the abyss, I saw a lack of nothing. A wave of nothing, if you will. Cowboy Hat began to tear away his off-white tank top, revealing an entire, drab brown suit. He then put his grimy submissive lady-skin boots the back of my neck, and gave me a push into the hole. He and the rest of the clatter followed. I don't know if the clatter had names."

DAY SEVEN, "Thank You":
"Chug chug chug away went Cowboy Hat. Clumps of cannibal incantations arose in the air like mid-level emotional relapse. I think this is what people call an alternate plane. I began to move my lips, to talk and everything, when Cowboy Hat covered my mouth (not just one finger, entire palm, with fingers gripping lips, like some sort of kinky clamp). I turned back around. I saw melting memories and intensely vivid pieces of vague ideas. Forgive me for the lack of specificity. I was still very fatigued. The end (or new beginning?) was near. I closed my eyes, uncertain."

DAY EIGHT, "Weakling":
"We circled our mental drain with furious insecurity, regressing into various flavored nonsense. The exit of all that was and will be (or was be) is over. Now it is what it is, and I am terrified to my very last bone and organ. Cowboy Hat shreds his torso with a gardening tool. Just because. We approach an empty and deserted house, and Cowboy Hat jumps in, rushing me and the clatter inside. The journey deepens, as the blackest of sparrows circles the theater in our minds."

DAY NINE, "Gang":
"In my past, I was a nobody rambling the shifty confines of my garbled mental cage. I needed a salvation. Cowboy Hat was that salvation. I needed not love and desire. I needed rational understanding. I needed picturesque detailed reality. I needed a wholistic perspective of genuine life. I needed filth."

[JonnyJerny]

[Rumple C]

Clever writing, but seriously strange, bro.

[Regas]

William Burrows meets Clive Barker. Nice writing sample for that genre, whatever that would be- therapy not included .

[Ithildur]

*encouraging teacher voice* ahem, uh... kind of clever and ... original?

Well, a little bit of the former, at least. You can do better, though, seriously man.



And by better I don't mean 'stranger'.

[JonnyJerny]

Sorry

[Zelknolf]

*encouraging teacher voice* ahem, uh... kind of clever and ... original?

Well, a little bit of the former, at least. You can do better, though, seriously man.

Pretty passable for the themes it takes from; strangeness is deconstruction of the subject matter, which is largely a product of the times. Probably the sort of things that they teach in the fancy book-learnin' place he's going to.

So in unironic teacher voice, "Good job, but wrong audience. Role-playing communities usually derive their style and preferences from genre fiction, and members have limited exposure to the goals and techniques you're employing (and you seem to take as assumed that your audience knows what you're up to)."

[thinkpig]

Fuck the audience. Audiences are for people who are doing it for the money.

Write whatever you want.

[JonnyJerny]

Testing...One...Two...Three...

Well...Heh. Well... Well fuck, haha. I just don't know what to say. Very glad to be with you tonight! Now... I'm going to talk to you about some things. Some things I'm an expert on. I know a great deal about these.

Everyone knows that you are fucked up.

Everyone knows that I am fucked up.

But did you know... That you are more fucked up than me?

Well, I know that.

And you know that.

Does everyone know that? Because that is our purpose.

Take for instance, the time you went to the bathroom to take a shower.

You had soap.

You had a towel.

Shampoo.

A washed cloth.

A brush.

Everything was set.

But you had to call me in, so I could tell you how to turn the water on. You didn't know how. That is one instance of how fucked up you are.

A second instance.

You were going to cook some breakfast.

Now, you went in there... Put some toast in the toaster. Put the skillet on the stove. Get some eggs, get some bacon, put some grease on the skillet. Pour some orange juice, get some jelly, fried eggs, salt, pepper. Everything was fine.

Except you had to call me in, to tell you how to use a fork.

Now a third instance on why you're fucked up.

You got dressed, ready to go to work, everything was fine. You got outside, put your key in the ignition. Except for one thing. You had to call me over so I could drive you to work.

I am the prisoner in your skull.

You are the helpless child.

Act like one.

Don't be my fool.

Hide yourself deep inside your crimson pool.

Let me out.

Let me out.

Let me out.

Let me out.

Let me out.

Let me out.

Let me out.

Let me out.

Let me out.

Let me out.

Let me out.

Let me out.

Let me out.

Let me out.

Let me out.
Let me out.

Let me out.

Let me out.

Let me out.

Let me out.

Let me out.

Let me out.

Let me out.

Let me out.

[Ithildur]

Genre... mm hm. That's it.

Again, clever, some good stuff, but anything but original.

Sadly, those fancy book learnin' places will teach you a lot of the wrong things if you're not careful. In my experience college writing classes often 'encourage' students to go for the 'different', 'original', 'experimental', etc. without teaching the importance of fundamentals, skills, the 'boring stuff'; the end results are usually anything but really creative or original.

In most art forms, trying too hard to be 'different', making that the focus, I find doesn't come across very convincingly 9 times out of 10. And in the end it's just doing what someone else is doing... trying to be sloppily original ironically results in the exact opposite oftentimes.

I do think Jern is a good writer, or has the potential to be, which is why I say... you can do better!

[Rumple C]

I'm not sure you wrote "Let me out" enough times.

[Veilan]

I find doesn't come across very convincingly 9 times out of 10.

1 out of 10 would be a devastatingly, no, catastrophically high rate of success.

[kid]

Get a job.

[Veilan]

Get a job.

Now I've seen it all!

[Heero]

Guys, whats with all the critiques? Everyone's a critic, I guess, but I dont really see anyone critiquing your lameass stories about lesbian elfs and whatever the heck else yall are writing about.