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The Mere Tide

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Old 01-15-2018, 04:33 PM
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fleamailman (Online)
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("...no not even an audiobook, a text reader..." replied the goblin adding "...you know how often you come across a youtube stream and it's a machine reading the text there, they're quite good in fact, but because the text is not designed for the app, many glitches abound still, whereas if the author had the app in mind there would be none I imagine, and then hundreds more people would be wanting to be read to using it...", somehow it just seemed like the future of reading is this busy age)

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Old 01-15-2018, 07:48 PM
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I gave a listen to a few and I really dont like them. I think the computerized monotone does a real disservice to the style and would do so to anything but a technical manual so I cant see myself using them. Maybe Ill try and find another way to reach a broader audience. Thanks for the suggestion though.

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Old 01-15-2018, 07:52 PM
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I use VoiceDream to listen to my text spoken. It’s good for catching typos. Otherwise, like Blue says, it’s flat and boring

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Old 01-15-2018, 08:09 PM
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*hack* came back have some bee vomit, it was disgusting --

She eats the belles. Has eaten the last of the girl and sucked dry the marrowbones. Other girls shuffle in their summer dresses to sermons that learn none dread more than this haunter of the outer dark. (This is where I’d plug in the details of the structure of worship. Nihilistic gothics love dilapidated architectural detail) After mass a plaited girleen strays from the parish and forthwith she is nake slaughtered in the shack and coupled to at the loins. She eats the bread from her belly. Imbibes the wine. (Does she pocket teeth? This is something I think would happen. Sicko. I mean,. I have my wisdom teeth on a key chain. So. Haha, I aint gonna put ‘em in no ravens.. although I’ve seen a raven fall to it’s death, break its neck on the sidewalk. Ooomen,)
Hark (! ) then alarms resound up the face of the mountains. These seeking voices. They tramp the switchbacks a few days and go back.
On the outskirts of the villages now are wards to which she knows no excantations (ex-cantations.. Never heard of this. I know incantations, ex? Also, with WC “now are wards” this is very much tell and not show. Woodville’d ding your tells out the wazoo, I know, I know, you ain’t done yet). She slingshots a raven and gorges it on human teeth by means of gavage and wraps it in human skins slaked with blood and she wears this on her back with the bird squawking like a demented herald. (teehee, it's still alive after all that?) She finds tracks in the mud. (yes on these shorties)
They are hexens. They hold convent in a riddance of trees and masturbate round a living skewered hog chanting through their gestalt orgasm. Their convulsions precede (preceding) the ecstasy. They put the thing (thing?)to fire and tongue the cum (..hmm.. I gift you: churned liquids/fluids/) from their fingertips and sucted the heated semen from the hog's hooked pizzle. Among these zoophiliacs is a witch whose pockets jangle and she stalks her a hütte in a marsh and waits upon a knoll. (This prose could be spilt and expanded. I’d start: “Pockets a jangle, the witch stalks among the zoophiliacs ….” Or whatever order. Waiting on the knoll can she still see the circle jerkers? This could be a fun detail to describe from afar … mandalas of ..ew.. Lemonzest?) The witch chants through the night and in the morning when she attempts to parley she shoots her. (her? The hexen? This could be reiterated and describe what the victim looks like before she dies. I don’t care to hear her speak, but maybe just some natural feature/s) Her brains splatter across the crude board jamb. She goes down, the marksman, and stands over the hexen. And (period) She (who?) is not gimpen, not undesirable. (Yeah. I’d expand and explain what is desirable. Why did the hexen die? I’d imagine to harvest parts? No reason? Reader says: What’s going on dude?)
In the hütte a fremd stock of poultices and hydria. Newt eyes and grimalkin tails. Babe bones ground to meal. Batwings. She stirs the ash of brogans.In a churner has been mashed an obese infant. An eye peering out of the buttered gore. Turns bloody pages of old manuals in no tongues long forgotten. A drowned landsman's map, the recorded prayer of a girl drowned in a cistern. Soviet amulets among them, medals and commemorations and secreted pictures of the dead erased centuries ago by committee decree these photos alone evidence of their ever having existed, as if their veins of causality were to be annulled. (Fantastic short sentences through entire paragraph. Great detail and the reader is brought back after wondering what the parley was about and why the female hexen had to die besides the possible obvious of a shitty world.)
What they in their absolute potency can conjure as as nothing to the industrialized butchery to come, so many years prepared. They have plied their arts but lo the tower is in the spread and what comes cannot be called back. Is already here. (Last sentence a tad awkward, but okay, would suggest ‘and’ instead of separation)

(added spacer. Not sure why.. seems like a drastic scene change here or something, not sure.)
Under saurian bones is a newspaper. The frontispiece is of a soldier frozen in midfall. (Love these two sentences) She touches him and the bullet that has felled him rips out his heart and he rights himself. Bright red flowers withdraw into the muzzles of guns and buildings erect out the recess of explosions of dust and smoke seeps into cities and bombs rise out of the earth into the bays of planes and children spring up to a platform where men unhood them (them? The children or themselves? This is where you could establish the color of cloaks and who’s wearing what including the halters.. and I’m thinking about horse dressage on these children, is this what you mean?) and remove their halters (children wearing chains/halters? Slaves? Simple detail with more show will satisfy imagery). A voice speaks. You can stop the future. Enlist today. It can be done. (Scene reminds me of that illuminatus book I never finished. This is all very etheric and could be dialed. We start with a newspaper and soldier in midfall. When “she touches him” in the beginning, is she touching the image of the newspaper? This could also be established. )
Now a revanchist she goes. Nominal harbinger of a theogony derived out the narcomaniacal yearnings of privation and a thousand miles of conifers. A meandering locus of auditory nihilism what could not fathom the nemoral birdsongs and so attributed the very symphony of life to the claustral earth.
Off the mountain. In followance of a tributary leading to the bluff wherein stairs are carved. A steel door at the landing. She hammers upon it with the stock of her rifle but there is no answer. She pulls at the hatch. It creaks like anciency. The light that fell inside seemed the first in a long while and slow in its filling of the confines as if the dark within had been caught sleeping. (si gusto transition to action, birdsongs. Except ‘nemoral’ or numeral? I’d like to see that dictionary of yours. Sometimes I let it slide..but sometimes these words you use, I don’t know.. maybe your archaically dyslexicack –sdsdf ctr-alt-del)
She moves through the maze out into a vaulted portico. She checks the rooms. The filthy kitchen, the empty larder. In the mess hall is an antique arcade game whose play is a pixelated B17 bombing a bird's eye caricature of the western front. (Excellent shorts. Very much appreciate rooms. And now… there is electricity in this apocalypse? I will accept this was explained in the first book. Solar? Wind?) She dusts the stool before it and takes the quarter out the coin slot and deposits it again. The game starts in sixteenbit music and mock bomber effects. She bombs panzers, trenches, AA nests. Guns down Messersmichts and Fock-wulfs. The Cries of the gray shapes of infantry distorted in the speakers. A V2 rocket falls her plane and she reads the only word she knows as it spins broadwise up to fill the screen. (Dahhahah)
She goes on down the hall to the squadbays. Bunks line them like unfinished cages. She hears him breathing at the read of the bay somehow on a top bunk. A sickly nigger, infirm by age. His legs slathered in a flesh colored pus dripping through the springs. She climbs atop the bunk next his. He doesnt notice. (greats! <^>) His shirt is unbuttoned and sweat beads on his chest, his brow. She nudges his shoulder with a toe. Eyes like saucers in that sable face. Squinting in the dim light falling from the ceiling he poorly could discern his visitor and he props himself up painfully on an elbow.
Git out. Git out.
These whispered commands seemed to tax him to the brink and he holds his throat as if he he (typo) had thrown up the words by force. In his breast pocket she could see a bight of maroon. Beads or some other jewelry.
I sayed I doan knowned yuh but if Ida known yuh was the devil's own Ida said. Ida mohved dese legs. Is do it now.
He gripped the springs and hauled himself up and reached for her and she rolled sideways off the bunk. He fell back down. (fantastic)
She looked about the spartan confines. Pocks in the qualmish bulkhead. Dust motes. She reached into her pocket and took out a sachet of blackberries and stood a tip toe and placed them at the foot of his bunk. (Why she feeding him? Sure is nice of her after showing she’s a cannibal… she is this yes? .. You could at the beginning of the story have Dachni picking blackberries so that we know that she has them, then this action would be a double meaning of .. nothing but character)
I bout kill yo daddy I heard what he done but Is wished he done it sooner. Fo you was old nuff to crawl back out. (See here, he said he didn’t know who she was, but then says she knew her father. I always catch me a liar. But this is where I was confused, yet it doesn’t matter, he can be a liar and you’re allowed to confuse the reader, I’ll always point out the inconsistencies and you can just ignore the chunks. However, next transition works well; Gold star tranny --)
Even that very noon she dredged the surrogate from the garden. It had been interred almost a year and it came apart in her hands. She hauled it up arm by skull by spine. A soil stuffed brisket woven to corset by dropwort. (One day this line will click, for now i’z smore fuzzled than a pizzle this dropwort woven corset soiled brisket is a head full of dizzy) She compiled the bones in the fireplace with those of her matriarch but anger alone cannot compel a fire to start. Her hands smelled of cosmoline. She had mended her rancid costumes with shot patches and bloodstained linens and spools of stitchwire salvaged out the mutilations of her own person and she seemed some aposematic refugee scaped from who knew what carnival disaster. She had a crude leather satchel fabricated badly out of the flensed hides of children and she girded her waist with four belts fashioned from the same with the scalp hair swinging strawberry or blond tailed pony or pig. She watched the stars from her perch and she watched come down an omen the color of envy and set out.


--nice. This could be the end of a chapter, omens. This last line would make me turn the empty page and read on. By god, I have to get back to my own little private hell.
i didnt do it
except --

Last edited by Beesauce; 01-15-2018 at 08:11 PM..
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