Post an Excerpt

  1. Art Vandelay
    I am not sure if there is to much activity in this group but I just found it and think its a great idea to get a bunch of leftist writers in one place. I thought it would be cool if we could get people posting excerpts of their work on here. Maybe a chapter or a couple paragraphs, I am not sure about anyone else but I love reading as well as writing and would easily help anyone out or critique, not saying I am any good though. I will start with a short chapter from my unfinished novel. It is about a heroin addict and came from a time in my life when I was fairly depressed. I think part of the reason it is unfinished is cause although I am not claiming this book is autobiographical its not completely fiction either and I am in a completely different place in my life now.

    Sometimes I feel like I'm drawn in sand on a beach, and with every hit, every rush, everytime I stick a needle in my arm and hit the plunger, comes a new wave crashing on the shore washing me away. Taking away everything good and unique about me and replacing it with cool smooth unifrom sand.

    Once you shoot heroin you never forget it, never forget the smell of it burning down in a spoon or the taste you get in the back of your mouth that only junkies can understand, you never forget the prick of the needle on your arm and the pressure above your elbow; it sticks with you forever like the time you caught your parents fucking or the day your grandmother croaked. You become as addicted to the little things as you do the drug itself, the preperation, cooking it, every junkie has their own routine. You fall into the lifestyle, become another junkie on the streets at night chasing down hits, addicted to cuts, doped out, dirty and depressed.

    I stand silhouetted on the corner at night, waiting. Waiting for someone to beg, rob, or fuck, for money. I'm not gay but I've been with guys, I don't want to but I have to. I'd fuck chicks but there aren't that many of them roaming the streets looking to pay for sex. We find a bathroom, pick a stall, they kiss my face and I cringe, let them suck my dick, ten bucks, 1 hit, delay the sickness. Repeat.

    Is this life? Am I living? Am I truly alive or am I dead inside? Is there something more out there for me? Or am I destined to be a dirty junkie my entire life, chasing down dope till I'm an old man. I won't live that long. I don't want it but I do, I hate it but I love it. I have no one to love in my life, no parents or girl to love me unconditionaly, my unconditional love is heroin.
    The hardest part about quiting isn't the withdrawal, its not the vomiting and the nauseau, or the pain and the aches and the cramps, its not the constant diarrhea or the chills and the sweats, its not even the depression and anxiety and being willing to sell everything you own and your body for a hit: its knowing you'll never feel as good ever again in your life. Its the feeling of having nothing to look forward to except boring sober existance. Its the feeling of wanting to stay clean yet having the need to feel that rush one more time, and it eats you up inside. Life off junk isn't life, its existance, its survival. I don't want to survive or struggle by, denying myself the one thing constantly on my mind, I want to live. They say once a junkie always a junkie, so fuck it I choose junk.
  2. TheGodlessUtopian
    TheGodlessUtopian
    A excerpt from my story Shadow Momentum...

    The smell was of death, death and despair.


    Something was in the air; it had a tinge of sour and a great chunk of sweat, much like the stench one caught if you entered a room which was filed with dirty socks. This stench, however, wasn’t content to wallow by itself for it seemed to have a companion. Alongside its dastardly aroma was the second odor of cooked meat, combined these hybrid smell nearly caused Jean to puke as he slowly awoke.


    Coughing hard and his head hurting like a ***** Jean slowly oriented himself into his new environment; a dank dungeon cell carved directly into the bedrock of the school, stalagmites wearily hanging above as though a domineering mother. To his far right was a crude door made of steel, no windows, only its cold façade of strength. As he got up he tried to walk but slipped. Hitting the ground with his ass he noticed what he slipped on was, in fact, blood. His own blood or someone else’s he was unsure, but either way it was an unwelcome omen.


    Suddenly the door slammed open and through its tiny frame lumbered a grotesque hog. Fat, chubby arms and legs with a fatty face, the demonic specimen was flanked by two members of the White Guard. Not wasting any time the beast reached down and grabbed Jean nearly throwing him towards the solitary desk and chair which resided mysteriously in the middle of the room. Jean knew better than to try and resist. In one motion, ignoring the agonizing pain in his legs, he hauled himself to sit in the wooden chair.
  3. ÑóẊîöʼn
    ÑóẊîöʼn
    Here's a draft of something I'm working on for my speculative fiction project: Viewpoints of the 21st century.
  4. Sky Hedgehogian Maestro
    Here's somethin', although I warn that the second post is graphic.
    http://www.revleft.com/vb/mother-mek...450/index.html
  5. Tenka
    Tenka
    We need a spoiler tag in here!
    I started this earlier after a little conversation with Noxion stimulated me to get off my arse (or on it, rather) and write something. It is only 505 words, but it has a working title! Too bad I'm probably not going to work on it further.

    The Princess on the Other Side of the World
    “The world is larger than you can fathom, dear Princess; you’re no fit ruler for a kingdom, so begone!”
    Sandra had no time to react. She had been walking back from her parents’ conjoined funeral, feeling the weight of ascension on her shoulders, and indeed smelling conspiracy in the air, but the conspirators had been ready for her. All it took was a gentle tap of the gem on her nose—that purple gem held at the top of a court sorcerer’s stave—and she had woken in a puddle of mud on an unfamiliar street surrounded by strange dark people who did not recognise her as a Princess, let alone as the rightful heir to any throne. The sun was out now, though it had been near midnight when the sorcerer met her in the hall.
    It could have been worse, she thought; it could have been death. But she knew that, standing out as she did, death would be close at hand. Speaking not to anyone, she lifted her great muddied skirts and ran into a dark, lonely alley. Children were watching her with amazed expressions; satisfied that no credible body was around, she took the clips from her charcoal-coloured hair, letting it hang loose like a commoner’s, and handed the clips to the children; a bribe.
    “You can keep those,” she tried; “understand?”
    They did not understand. Appearing frightened by her foreign tongue, they ran off with the hairclips. They would bring adults, she was sure; common adults whom she’d better blend in with somehow, even if she could not match their complexion. She lifted the back of her skirt and undid the drawstrings of the massive underskirts, one at a time, letting the fluffy things collect dirt among rubbish as she stepped out of them. Now the skirt of her dress hung lankly about her wide hips; thinking it uncommonly long, she rolled it up above her hips, so that the hem hung about her knees.
    Then she waited. She noticed as she did that her shoes, crystal sandals with thick, two-inch heels, were not the least convincing of a low class, but she absolutely refused to walk the cobbles with feet unshod, even if they were wrapped in white silken stockings—also unfortunate. She felt certain she’d be brutalised and robbed if the wrong person was next to see her.
    A child’s footsteps drew near to the alley. After a moment, she saw two familiar children, one male and one female, the male holding an adult’s hand. They brought one adult to the alley, clad in a long leathern coat with a head of untamed salt-and-pepper hair. An old-timer, gaunt and paler than the children; studious-looking. We must have at least one language in common, Sandra thought hopefully, though she knew only her mother-tongue fluently, having the faintest grasp of three other languages.
    Faint recognition showed on the old man’s face as he gazed upon her. “AAA, are you?” He spoke her language without the tiniest hint of an accent.
    505 words looks a lot smaller here than in my word processor. That may be hard to read since I didn't space out the paragraphs (though I indent them, one cannot see that here), but perhaps that's for the better. The basic idea was "someone transported by the magick of some mean stinking wizard to the other side of the world", and as you can see it is a nebulous high-fantasy setting. And yes, I use AAA as a placeholder. Don't laugh.

    EDIT:
    cont.
    “Yes,” she answered enthusiastically. “Where am I?”
    “You don’t know? You are in BBB. Have you... escaped one of the slaver ships?”
    She felt ambivalent toward the possibility of being mistaken for an escaped slave. “No. It’s difficult to put into words, but I was transported here by magical means. I want to get back to my homeland. Is it very far away?”
    “It is very very far away,” said the man; “and I believe your story, since the slavers do not collect in waters near AAA, which, according to the last news from there, are heavily patrolled. I will help you in whatever way I can. To start, you should probably come back with me and my niece and nephew; you’ll encounter only misfortune walking around here too long in such expensive-looking footwear.”
    “I know...” Her fears of the outside world felt quite confirmed by the old man’s words; but at least, he proved, it was not altogether devoid of good.
    “Hurry!”
    #
    Worry not, for that's all I'll share here! Will Princess Sandra ever return to her home country of AAA to thwart the unnamed magical usurper? I dunno.
  6. Tenka
    Tenka
    Story officially abandoned at 5,211 words. I could have borne the crappiness, but then I realised I had no interest in any of the characters or the stupid unformed world in which they pretended to live. This kind of thing happens a lot.