Stream of Consciousness

Here's a place to just natter on about... whatever. If you're not familiar with SOC writing, you can look them up here, here, and here. Basically, write the first thing that comes to mind and try to get a few paragraphs done.

That said, since this is a public board, let's establish a few rules.

One, keep it clean - if you find yourself writing something terribly pornographic, please keep it to yourself or go somewhere else.

Two, don't criticize others for what they write - a lot of what's going to be posted here is going to be downright BIZARRE, but that's good.

Three, nothing in here should be considered canon. It's a workshop, not something set in stone.

Now, that said, you are under no obligation to use this board if you don't want to. Writing SOC can be intensely personal, so if you don't feel up to it, or don't feel like sharing something after you've written it up, don't. We just felt this might be a good exercise to help massage those little grey cells when they don't want to respond.

Alright, go ahead and enjoy!

It was ten million years old when they pulled it out of the ground, stinking and festering like an old piece of meat. No one knew how long it had been sitting in that bog, rotting, decaying, mummifying like a rat's corpse left out in the sun after a storm. The damn thing was so far gone it was hard to identify what it'd originally had been - all they knew was that it was huge, bigger than any other lifeform native to that time period. For a dinosaur, it was enormous, so big it nearly bent the crane in half.

"That's a lot of stink," Sagmire said as the damned thing was pulled from the Louisiana bog, still dripping with ferns, weeds, and mud so old it hadn't seen light since the continents were in this position. "Don't know why they didn't decide just to leave it in the ground. Half of the important stuff's just falling off - there's no way we can recover this."

Sagmire was right. The "important stuff" - the flesh and sinew and skin, the muscle and ligaments, the wet organic parts were turning to soup right before our very eyes. Soon as we dragged it out of the mud, it liquified, slowly turning to slop that the assistants scrambled to collect in big blue buckets to identify later. All that was left was the skeleton, a dull grey-brown in the lamplight, half-shattered and half-broken from the eras.

Still, there was something to this beast, under all those layers of tar, mud, slime, and age. I couldn't help but look at it, even as my nose closed and my stomach rebelled. It was massive, a sauropod larger than anything I'd ever seen before. The skull of the beast was nearly the size of a volkswagon; teeth the length of my forearm jutted from rotting lips to shine like ivory in the dying, misty half-light of the camp. But I didn't care about teeth or skulls. It was its eyes that arrested me. Through some trick of nature, some riddle of time, those eyes were perfectly preserved - white sclera, olive-green pupils, and staring endlessly as if they still rolled around inside the braincage of a living thing. They were gorgeous; priceless emeralds from a bygone ecosystem. If the insides were as intact... I could only imagine what that would mean for our science, what it could mean for our understanding of the primitive reptiles that once strode this earth.

I was so overwhelmed with the discovery, in fact, that I think I started seeing things. As I peered forward with my flashlight to look at one of those massive, fist-sized eyes, I could have sworn - I could have sworn - that it twitched and turned to look at me.

"So this is stream of consciousness writing," I wrote in my text editor.

"No, this is childish breaking of the 4th wall," she said, sitting on the desk.

"Well, is it really? I mean we're fictional characters after all."

"Of course, still breaking the 4th wall."

"Well maybe we should get some action going," I smirked.

"Nope, not going to happen, for one I'm not into you and for another didn't you read the rules. No porn."

"But that's like limiting his pallet." I replied with a huff.

"Don't you mean your pallet?" She poked me in the chest, it was meant to be jokingly but she had biting nails that I felt through the Tee I was wearing.

"Nope, his," I pointed at the fourth wall, a dark gray thing, well dark green really, behind it a man sit writing a quick text way too late, trying to get this done before he goes to bed.

"Well there's humor. He can be funny." Now it was she that was huffing.

"Well he could, but he'd end up trying to get all nonsensic-"

She was interrupted by a passing walrus!

-- The End

Pear.

I haven't had a pear in ages. Pear drops, pear cider or perry or whatever it is they call it, but not actual pear. Docotr hates peairs. Not sure why. I'ms spelling like a sity, er, shitty thing. Of shit. My vocabulary's buggered at 2am. Is it 2am/?
Shit, it's 3.
I shuld sleep. Should sleep. What is wrong with my typing today? This is what happens when I'm off work and haven't owt to get up for. Only bad things about working termtime only. That and not getting paid as much as I would if I worked all year.
Still, it's a thing. There are a few advantages wich WGICJ WHICH escape me. Fuck.

Thing said don't go back and fix mistakes boot what why did I write boot I was going for "but" but apparently I go into autopilot when I start writing a word. I'm getting insights into how my minf worxds words WORKS fuck

It's a wonder I can make myself understood at all if this is the hind of shite I come out with when my mind does the thing. What my mind comes out with. Whatever. This is getting needlessly introspective.

I wish that car alarm would shut up. I mean, what's the point of having one if you're just going to sleep through it? I guess some arsebag might not drive off with it still flashing the lights and making the noise. But what if they just want what's inside? Heavy slrrpers would be the best target for that. Did I lokc my car? I don't see wh y I wouldn't, but forgetting is a thing that I do. Did I foorget, or did I forget that I remembered to lock the thing in the first place wait yeah I remember hitting the button and seeing the lights flash. Then doing it again two minutes later because I'd got distracted by the planet in the sky? At least I think it was a planet - I know Orion's out at this time so it could have been Sirius nearby but still I think it was too bright to be that one. Damn light pollution, couldn't actually check the constellations properly.

Given how bright certain planets are and what time it was you can narrow it down to either Jupiter or Saturn. I'd have to check, but it was too late for Venus and too bright for Mars. Also wrong colour. That said I've never actually seen Mars in the sky or at least I've never seen it and known it was Mars. Does it even appear red? Red giants like Betelgeuse (think that's the one) do look read because they're actively emitting more red than anything else but since Mars reflects sunlight is it red enough to absorb that much at those wavelengths? I:'ll have to look it up.

Write whatever comes to your mind I look at the thread and OP and then I read down what others have written. They're different alright. Are they stream of consciousness? I don't know and

block block block block fucking block

the block hits me like a brick wall and stops the flow of the words and it causes me great anger distress annoynace frustration hate and anger when as I mean when the stream interruots and I don't know am I ranting am I writing the right thing who does want ot see this anyway its garbage and bullshit anyway and people will look over it anyway but am I writing this for myself or to others or both or neither

ideas come and ideas are butchered because I dont deem them good for stream of consciousness writing , no I dont want ot write about this and no no one will want ot read it but whats the point Im supposed to write what comes to mind and I aim to write as much without interruptions but they just come just like and just like they do as gnawing suspcision enters again and rips out the words from my head and leaves them die on thekyboard and now my spelling the spelling I value much to stand out or try to tstand out or pride myself in is malingered and stop

typos and

stops

my goal is to write as much without stops here and make up everything on the go that is stream of consciousnbess right no backspace just letters and scape and enter and nothing else and no anxiety or how others perceive me or this text of or anything that stupid shit its 8 am in the morning I have stood up for two hours because people below me cannot take care of their pets and it causes me distress as I am ill and i need sleep but they won't let me sleep and I h am upset with them for this and sawore to call hte janitor and put the dog in a shelter if I can just sleep tonight for fucks sake I need it the sleep

stop


catharsis it feels so good, no more thinking just writing feels relieving

stop

relief catharsis relief need to do more often use this to idealize make ideas create ideas invent ideas this language is restrcited it needs more muggings for spelling and grammar ahaha joke reference ih i despise myself for that good ideas better ideas for roleplay stagnant roleplay escape vavle chore so many people so little people need more fresh blood no one comes frustration no looking at monitor just keyboard just writing must keep true to topic point havent slipped into finn havent slipped inty my own language yet

stop

okay enough

The bus pass expired three hours ago.

3:03 PM.

Stamped in black, running ink on the back. The ends are frayed, it's stained with... something like wet lint, maybe. There was a lot that went on in a pocket, and if Melissa imagined it, a pocket was one place that she would probably prefer to stay out of. There was always spare change, little queens and presidents jangling amid tinier crumbs of stale crackers and scrunched paper, from person to person; one pocket to one pocket over the years. A decade of filth and unwashed hands and dirty money. Disgusting. It's what Melissa was thinking to herself as she turned them out, let little motes of dust float to the pavement in the simplest expression of the words 'flat broke'.

A bus rolls past, sputtering and hissing as it leaves her behind, dripping wet and shivering. The blue ink on her pass is almost illegible now; the edges swollen and soft, soggy cardboard shaking in quivering fingers and rattling winds. The bus driver is some old woman. Reminded her of some bald eagle. An old one, although she wasn't sure if there was a meaningful difference. Maybe that was a little meanspirited, but Melissa was not feeling particularly charitable. For a moment, she wonders if that could be called irony. That is to say, a need for some sudden, inexplicable act of charity flickered in her chest. A private hope for some sort of knight in shining armour with exactly two dollars and twenty five cents rattling in his nickle armour. Then she decides she's unclear on what the definition of irony actually is, having heard it used to describe practically everything she cares to recall right now.

The wind stir again, slapping her in her face. It lingers on flushed cheeks. It reminds her of her last boyfriend.

Her last break-up.

Another bus approaches, cutting through the rain and haze of unpleasant memories. It's been three hours and ten minutes since her bus pass expired. To envision four hours was not especially difficult, four long hours twisting in spiteful, jealous winds and vindictive rains. It was time for action - maybe she was flat broke. And maybe her bus pass was three hours and ten minutes past any good reason to keep it on her person. But maybe she could plead her case. Maybe her driver would see her, flimsy and lonely and maybe they would take pity. Nothing for her to lose, anyways. The worst they could do is say no.

Melissa steps forward. The brakes wheeze and cough as it slows down. The doors slide open, sounding like a wet sneaker on linoleum. Her eyes float up to meet her driver - her savior, bathed in the sterile, all too clean light of the cabin. And she stops. Middle-aged, or maybe the wrong side of fifty. A stern expression dominating stony features, fingers impatiently tapping at the wheel. It's a bit rude, Melissa thinks. This guy isn't going to let her on. He looks mean. He looks old. Was there really a point in asking if she knew the answer? Useless to keep thinking about it. Standing there, jaw halfway agape as her conviction fluttered in the uncertain winds. An arm slumps, and weakly, she says something to the bus driver.

I'm sorry, I have the wrong bus.

The door shuts on her. The bus shudders as it rolls past.

It's three hours and thirty minutes since her bus pass expired.

It shrivels in the pouring rain.

IN THE GRIM DARKNESS OF THE NEAR FUTURE, DRAGONS HAVE RETURNED TO TERRORIZE THE PLANET.

Unlike the dragons of old, however, these have become enamored with technology...and entertainment. Using our own social media and lust for covert data collection against us, they quietly usurped the planet's intelligence agencies, one by one, until they had total control of the planet.

We had always suspected that something was wrong (their glamours were never quite perfect). But our love for sharing information became our downfall. Even as our intelligence agencies became more brazen, first collecting data on our phone calls, then our homes, and even interrupting our smartphone conversations with the occasional dose of heavy breathing, we simply came to accept that it was a part of the Information Age. It was natural for our technology to spy on us, said our increasingly reptilian Presidents, Prime Ministers, Kings and Queens and CEOs. It was to protect us. It was to help us. It helped companies to tailor their products to our tastes.

It wasn't until the public merger with Facebook and the NSA that we realized something was horribly wrong, and even then it took the ritual devouring of Mark Zuckerberg by Earoas the Omniscient to spur us into panic. But by this time, we were no match for our reptilian overlords - and they weren't interested in lording over us like they used to.

We were simply their entertainment.

Life continues on as normal for us, trapped in our crude fascimile of reality. People still love, still hate, still go to the movies and kill one another for the stupidest of reasons of all. But if by some horrible chance of fate you wake up in the morning to see a massive black van parked across the street with mirrored windowpanes, you had best create some conflict for yourself. Fail your test, kill your sister, have illicit relationships with the neighbor's pet dog. Punch your boss, plan a heist.

But NEVER let them know that you know they're there. NEVER break character. For the Dragons are now

THE CONSUMERS

...and they're never shy about consuming.

Once a Lurching Radioactive Parrot, always a Lurching Radioactive Parrot. This at least is what the Holy Orange Radish of Quum revealed to me during my time as his apprentice, as we sucked on lum-lum juice and watched the cows fly overhead. This was in fact one of many things I learnt under the wise old vegetable, with his pinstriped bikini, bow tie and shapely figure. He lives in the land of Goox-boox, under a big banana left to him by his father, and it was here that I found him, after wandering for many a day through the treacherous swamps of Knickerbocker and across the burning deserts of the Sacred Spindle. I had lost my map thanks to those rancid purple yaks, who bounce travellers and spit on their maps, and so I was near exhaustion. Only the flying green cows, those benevolent aerial bovines, saved me from near-certain death, by dropping crates of the blessed lum-lum juice on the path ahead.

Tasting the sweet beverage, I received a sacred vision from none other than Big Mother Batter, the patron goddess of food. “If thee seek wisdom”, she informed me, “thee should travel east by south-west by north by dead-centre and there thee shall find the Holy Orange Radish of Quum”. My awe at receiving this sage advice, or else my lack of basic supplies, convinced me to take the road to find this vegetable, and so off into the sun-sets I headed, little aware that I was being followed.

For it turned out that the Lurching Radioactive Parrot, which claims the desert wastes as its own, was aware of my presence, and soon he appeared, terrible in his attire, sharp in his beak, lurching in his movements and radioactive in his unearthly glow.

“Halt, mortal!” he cried, spreading his cloak wide to reveal the sword of mangoes, which I knew could de-juice me in mere seconds, “halt and prepare to die!” In fear, I prayed to Big Mother Batter, and, as I stood in mortal terror, my prayers were answered. Before my very eyes and hat appeared, like a vengeful yellow anteater, a banana! And who should be standing upon this banana, than the pinstriped bikini wearer, the offerer of wisdom, the Holy Orange Radish of Quum. “Look up, my child!” he boomed, and as I did the cows once more appeared, pelting the parrot with rolled up hedgehogs and hurling anti-psittacine abuse.

With his inferior helmet unable to tolerate such assault, the parrot retreated into the desert, cursing the name of my saviour. In gratitude, I spent the night with my new master the radish, and as we sipped our lum-lum juice and ate weetabix, I got my first taste of his impressive and ancient wisdom. Impressed by his vision of my past and possible future, I agreed when he then made the most important decision of my life, save 5 or 6 others: that I would journey out into the Hills of Spandecularrism and attempt to learn TRUE WISDOM. Only after I had learnt TRUE WISDOM would the radish reveal to me my path in life.

The next day, I took my leave of him, moving away from the banana and into the hills of Spandecularrism. Here there were no yaks or cows, merely purple slugs the size of mountains and a friendly squirrel named Jack. Jack lived nearby with his family, except they were currently in mourning, for his only son had been abducted, probably by spoons. “But why, good squirrel?” I asked the pleasant mammal, “why would they wish to steal away your child?” Jack shrugged sadly, and informed me that the spoons were always abducting people as they passed through on their pilgrimage to a distant land.

It was then that I was consumed, not by a three-legged toad or a lion, but by rage that someone would victimize innocent squirrels. Swearing to return the youngster to his family, I confronted the spoons as they crossed the Mighty River of Might. “Spoons!” I cried in my deepest voice, “hear me now! Thee hath abducted a squirrel for purposes unknown, and now thee shall pay!”

Enraged at my gall, the spoons pulled out the terrible machine guns their kind use, and opened fire upon me.

To be continued!