L.C. Schäfer
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Book babies on Kindle Unlimited:
Summer Leaves (grab it while it's gorgeous)
Never so naked as I am on a page
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I'm not a writer! I've just had too much coffee!
Sometimes writes under S.E.Holz
Achievements (13)
Stories (925)
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horny kamikaze nuns howling on the football pitch
where do you stop these things anyway? starting is getting easier but now I'm nervous, slightly like I'm putting skates on and haven't learned how to brake yet (break hope I don't break I might) I know I'll stop eventually, one way or another it's that trust we all have things have a way of working out and that pesky little voice that says do they though? do they really? nobody ever started a thing and then did it for the rest of their lives without stopping I mean eventually I'd have to go to sleep I think could do this on the bus or the toilet, but not in the shower case in point, I'm on the toilet right now imagine! a book you could never stop reading literally the warnings stamped on the front ignored - UNPUTDOWNABLE! when you got to the end you'd have to flip to the beginning again. ...or you'd find yourself there like magic. ... ... or the book just wouldn't end, more pages appearing faster than you could read them ... ... ... or how about this, [story idea] a story you can't stop writing a cursed typewriter might be a little old hat, so let's give our frazzled writer an evil pen now is it a compulsion or will the penbury [story idea, set in a village called Penbury] -bury itself in his throat if he stops (sit at your desk and bleed) I always did think those fountain pens looked wicked-sharp we had to use them in primary school it's surprising we didn't stab each other more often really [story idea gang of eleven year old thugs armed with fountain pens] hang on I left the tap running... ... ... What a waste. that was terrible of me. maybe I should do nine nail marys or something. or is that a catholic thing? or a football thing? Last ditch attempt, Kamikaze effort? [story idea: football team of kamikaze nuns] ...wait! that should be HAIL MARYS. oh dear, now the nuns have moved on from playing football. (That's football, we don't call it soccer.) why does my brain always do this? if I was going to do penance (pennants, snapping in a strong breeze, colours and trumpets) then mentally defiling a pack of nuns would be what I'd need to do it for. (running through the forest howling, hunting down... filing cabinets? welcome newcomer what's your name? Susan? Mind if we call you Mary? We're all called Mary here...) I don't own a hair shirt maybe I should do extra recycling? but we already recycle everything we can. hmmm. I'd have to create more waste on purpose (waist on a porpoise) and that's no good I even threw out that nice jar (throughout)... It was a REALLY nice jar. Squat and round with a red and white checkered lid. (I must buy more cherry jam.) Always makes me think of picnics. Genius marketing really. But then the wind usually blows your in your face right when you're about to take a bite of your egg and cress sandwich and there's nowhere comfy to sit and you think, a tiny miserable killjoy bit of yourself says "this would be so much better if I was at home. Indoors." Anyway, I threw that nice jar out so I'd say I'm probably about even for all that water. better not tell anyone about the nuns. and there that's a good place to stop isn't it please stop please my head feels wrung out like a wet flannel and I don't know what those nuns might do next.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Poets
this is my brain. this is my brain undressed. any questions?
Right, think I I shall do another stream of consciousness But it's harrrrd it's not just the empty page and all that crap that's a problem for noobs It's the act of observing changing the thing being observed Like, Did I really think "think l" or did I catch the "I think" nice and quick and add a bit of pretension to make myself seem interesting? I don't think I did but m aybe it happened in a blink It's supposed to be unfiltered, am I managing to catch it raw and wriggling and stick it to the page in its unadulterated state? Like a toddler doing crafts It's hard to be a toddler And yet toddlers are so good at it wild really when you think how little experience they've had I'm failing already because I'm thinking about thinking but I wont keep thinking about failing because that's the trap isn't it to give room to the I'm not good enough voice inside your head failing failing failing my thats a word that echoes shut up! failing because I can't write fast enough and l think some of the little blighters are getting away. Little silvery thought fishes. Toddler catching them and sticking them to a page, lots of gloopy glue to peel off hands after Beautiful flashes escaping chubby fingers Are they spawning There's loads of them can't possibly get all of them (I did it again I know I did, I thought "catch them all" but I changed it because of pokemon) failing but no it's ok because I admitted it (absolved but not penitent) so you still get the stream, it just has a rock in it look see bump whoops and away we go moving on fishing for slithery shiny thoughts not compliments no never (please read it, like it, leave a comment, please... oh look the little fishes become bait, how neat) The common lesser spotted freshwater blighter. Wait. Do I have salty thoughts? Wait. is lesser spotted for birds? Fits. (flits.) Even harder to catch. Common-or-garden, two a penny. Not slippery though. Need to be slippery and nude. oh boy I say never so naked as I am on a page, but this stream of consciousness is even nakeder knowing someone will read it, oh my The only way to do it then is to peel off my clothes layer by layer. I know you're watching and I don't mind. I am bold. But it can't be like a striptease, oh no. Nothing so on purpose. deliberate. choreographed. And not just because I can't dance. tear my togs off then. defiant even, roaring maybe. RAHHHH See: I'm naked and I don't care this is NOT for your gaze well it is and it isn't bit of both really arg need to stop thinking about thinking and just do the thinking but if the thinking about thinking follows naturally then it's okay right? it's part of the natural stream. glad to have cleared that up but maybe I shouldn't have because I'll get stuck down that rabbit hole. pit of despair, or pit of something less sad. a dead end. cul de sac of thoughts. thought de sac. Uh oh. am I allowed to do a u-turn? I'm doing it. Reverse. Rev engine. Wheels spin. Getting out of here. I don't like this neighbourhood. Too shady. Reboot. Rollback. (water cant flowwww backwards shut up I'm going where the fishes are) Rewind urrrrr eeeeeeeeEEEE Clothes. That's it. Clothes off. Rip them off. But not in a sexy hurry. more like plaster off quick. Shed my threads. shred my threads. Can't put them back on if they're shredded. can't put this gooey soft little shrimp back in its shell. Here, have this vulnerable little bit of my brain. Freshly shelled. Brain prawn, brain pawn, brain porn. Very naked, a little bit vulgar, don't read this to your granny, expose what's normally hidden, all angles, ghastly close up. (I did it again, I deleted "spread the brain hole". That's a lie, it was my not the. This isn't winning any (fucking) challenges.) Got to milk that teat, exploit those bared udders. make some cash, get seen, kerchinggg uhh uhh uhh, pretend you like it, ha very apt, still not sexy definitely not sexy, poor little shellfish. shelled, unshelled. poke poke... this is worse. if we write long enough, does it always end with sex or death? should have stayed in that comfortable little thought de sac. neat. respectable. safe. probably. could have bought a house there. What's the real estate like? cheap probably thoughts are cheap. often rude. even "sac" sounds rude. (ha trick question. if you write long enough it would definitely end in death.)
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Poets
der nachtzug
Unfiltered you say Unhinged say others Unwound says Dana Unsound, I think Aaaand here we go Quick this is a live one Catch its tricksy quicksy tale I mean tail Before it vanishes with a flash and a slither What was it? Oh yes. Unsound. Quick bring it back reel it in (tap the domino, watch them tumble, scribble scribble) Of unsound mind and unsound body That's me Heading that way anyway Choo Choo All aboard the the train of thought Not to be confused with the gravy train The midnight train to Georgia The midnight express The orient express Is that a scream from one of the cabins? Shall I investigate, set my rattled- (train rattling along the tracks, all along the tracks) -mind at ease that there is no killer On the prowl? On the stalk Leaf. Trembling. Too risky to set foot out there Where there's killers afoot, bogeymen and all sorts Lock the door Place my head under the blankets Funny isn't it When you want to kill your snoring spouse you put their head under a pillow When you want to kill a Monster you put your head under the blanket A deadly weapon is a bed, when you think about it Bedly Badly Is this going badly? Or baldly. Unsure. My hair could fall out from stress. Or baldly could mean: nakedly, plainly, out and proud, balls out. Ugh. Balls. Is it possible for a stream of consciousness to go badly or go well? I am probably not supposed to be analysing it. But they will. It just is what it is. Not good not bad just there. Very very there. With that in mind- (if there's room with all those trains and all that killing-- really we're a sick violent lot, don't look at my search history-- and all those beds squashy dangerous comfy beds) ... Then how are they going to judge it? Anyway. Time for me to board the sleeper. Der Nachtzug. Guten Nacht.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Poets
The Hunt
The dragon swoops this way and that, a ghastly searchlight backdropped by the bright stars. Rock dig and scrapes at me from all angles in this cramped hiding place, but even so, I'm struck by the beauty and majesty of the terrible beast. It's astonishing that a creature so enormous can make the sky.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Hello, Doggie. Nice Doggie.
I breathed hard, the dead man at my feet. It took a moment, and the feel of the cool night air on my skin, to remember I was naked. How odd: I hadn't felt remorse when I bashed his head in, but my conscience pecked at me now, as I tugged his joggers off him and put them on, hopping about on the dewy grass.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
