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Prose Challenge of the Month #2: Write a story where you wake up as the most intelligent person on Earth. Fifteen entries will be featured in a 500-coin Prose Original Book, whereby each winner will take 5% lifetime royalties. You must purchase the book to discover its authors, who will be determined by objective data (reads, likes, reposts, comments) and by team vote to ensure reader satisfaction. When sharing to social media, please use the hashtags “itslit,” “getlit,” and “ProseChallenge.”
Written by writerjess in portal Fiction

The Curse of Intelligence

You'd think it would be fun, wouldn't you? Waking up one day and realizing that not a single person in the whole world is as smart as you are. But it's not. It's not fun because it's not for the day, or the week, it's forever. And forever I will have to live with this power, this burden that I never wanted. That I never asked for. 

And I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that I'm selfish, that how could I ever possibly see this blessing as a curse. And trust me, I would've thought the same thing if it had been just ten hours ago. But this isn't ten hours ago, this is now. And now I've been faced with something I would have never expected. 

I've been faced with a power. And I don't deserve it.

Someone else should have woken up today and discovered that they were the smartest person in the world because I don't deserve it. A person who knows, not everything, but more than any other human in the world has a duty, a power, a voice. And with this voice, this person should be changing the world. Finding cures, eradicating crises, making outer-space discoveries, and educating others to create a better future generation. I know this, and yet I can't do it. 

Just because I'm smart now, doesn't mean I'm good. Just because I'm smart now doesn't mean I have the answers to the questions that actually matter. Just because I'm smart now doesn't mean I want to do anything. 

If this gift was miraculously given to me out of all the seven billion, four hundred and eighty-six million, five hundred and thirty-four thousand, nine hundred and ninety and counting people in the world then please, please it needs to go to someone else. I didn't even search up that number, it just came to my brain when I needed it to and that should not be happening.

I don't want to save the world. I don't want to look at the people around me and see every little detail in their personal life. I don't want to be overwhelmed with the endless information every time I look anywhere or at anything. I do it and I can't breathe because I can't shut it down, the numbers and facts, they just keep coming and coming and it's making my head hurt and my brain hurt and I know this is a run-on sentence and now it's bugging me and I don't want it to bug me and yesterday it would have been so useful to know on my essay but I didn't know it yesterday, I know it today and I hate it I hate it I hate it. 

And school, I can't go back to school where I know everything I could possibly be taught and I notice every mistake a teacher makes. I won't be able to talk to my friends anymore because I'll just always be, not one, but one hundred steps ahead. I'll hate them for the ignorance that isn't their fault, and they'll hate me for the knowledge that isn't mine. 

I never understood the saying "ignorance is bliss" but now I can't stop thinking about it. Oh, what I would give to live in complete ignorance, in complete bliss, never realizing my thoughts weren't my own and my perceptions were all twisted. I want to watch useless TV shows until it fries my brain, I want to live young and have no worries, I want to be reckless and laugh about it the next day, I want to feel the satisfaction of solving a problem I had wracked my brain on. 

Life is meaningless if there is not more opportunity to be challenged.

In a world that is a chess game, my only path is the path to victory, but I don't want the game to end.

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Prose Challenge of the Month #2: Write a story where you wake up as the most intelligent person on Earth. Fifteen entries will be featured in a 500-coin Prose Original Book, whereby each winner will take 5% lifetime royalties. You must purchase the book to discover its authors, who will be determined by objective data (reads, likes, reposts, comments) and by team vote to ensure reader satisfaction. When sharing to social media, please use the hashtags “itslit,” “getlit,” and “ProseChallenge.”
Written by writerjess in portal Fiction
The Curse of Intelligence
You'd think it would be fun, wouldn't you? Waking up one day and realizing that not a single person in the whole world is as smart as you are. But it's not. It's not fun because it's not for the day, or the week, it's forever. And forever I will have to live with this power, this burden that I never wanted. That I never asked for. 

And I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that I'm selfish, that how could I ever possibly see this blessing as a curse. And trust me, I would've thought the same thing if it had been just ten hours ago. But this isn't ten hours ago, this is now. And now I've been faced with something I would have never expected. 

I've been faced with a power. And I don't deserve it.

Someone else should have woken up today and discovered that they were the smartest person in the world because I don't deserve it. A person who knows, not everything, but more than any other human in the world has a duty, a power, a voice. And with this voice, this person should be changing the world. Finding cures, eradicating crises, making outer-space discoveries, and educating others to create a better future generation. I know this, and yet I can't do it. 

Just because I'm smart now, doesn't mean I'm good. Just because I'm smart now doesn't mean I have the answers to the questions that actually matter. Just because I'm smart now doesn't mean I want to do anything. 

If this gift was miraculously given to me out of all the seven billion, four hundred and eighty-six million, five hundred and thirty-four thousand, nine hundred and ninety and counting people in the world then please, please it needs to go to someone else. I didn't even search up that number, it just came to my brain when I needed it to and that should not be happening.

I don't want to save the world. I don't want to look at the people around me and see every little detail in their personal life. I don't want to be overwhelmed with the endless information every time I look anywhere or at anything. I do it and I can't breathe because I can't shut it down, the numbers and facts, they just keep coming and coming and it's making my head hurt and my brain hurt and I know this is a run-on sentence and now it's bugging me and I don't want it to bug me and yesterday it would have been so useful to know on my essay but I didn't know it yesterday, I know it today and I hate it I hate it I hate it. 

And school, I can't go back to school where I know everything I could possibly be taught and I notice every mistake a teacher makes. I won't be able to talk to my friends anymore because I'll just always be, not one, but one hundred steps ahead. I'll hate them for the ignorance that isn't their fault, and they'll hate me for the knowledge that isn't mine. 

I never understood the saying "ignorance is bliss" but now I can't stop thinking about it. Oh, what I would give to live in complete ignorance, in complete bliss, never realizing my thoughts weren't my own and my perceptions were all twisted. I want to watch useless TV shows until it fries my brain, I want to live young and have no worries, I want to be reckless and laugh about it the next day, I want to feel the satisfaction of solving a problem I had wracked my brain on. 

Life is meaningless if there is not more opportunity to be challenged.

In a world that is a chess game, my only path is the path to victory, but I don't want the game to end.
#fiction  #philosophy  #prosechallenge  #Itslit  #getlit 
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Written by StephanieMarie in portal Fiction

My Time Underneath

The worst thing was the earth.

It was suffocating. The heavy smell of clay and soil mixed with floral hints was too thick to breath.

I tried to filter each breath through my mouth, but the dirt left a grit on my teeth. With the pain burning between my legs and the earth, each inhale was agonizing. If I wasn't already dying the ground sure would do the trick.

I could put myself in a place where the pain didn't exist.

But I still had to breath.

I had no idea when it was day or night.

The earth took care of that too.

So I started to imagine that the roots blooming across the makeshift ceiling were star formations. I took an astronomy course once, and I always loved the way the stars formed something but nothing at all. The roots did the same thing.

The way they twisted and twined through each other. They were like beautiful dancers, but they weren't.

Dancing is probably what got me down there in the first place. That and the man I had danced with. The moment you realize that you've made a mistake is odd. It's like time slows down just enough to show you where it went wrong, but not slow enough for you to do anything about it.

But I guess what's important is I got out.

Usually what's been given to the ground stays in the ground, but I wasn't really anyone's to give.

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Written by StephanieMarie in portal Fiction
My Time Underneath
The worst thing was the earth.
It was suffocating. The heavy smell of clay and soil mixed with floral hints was too thick to breath.
I tried to filter each breath through my mouth, but the dirt left a grit on my teeth. With the pain burning between my legs and the earth, each inhale was agonizing. If I wasn't already dying the ground sure would do the trick.
I could put myself in a place where the pain didn't exist.
But I still had to breath.
I had no idea when it was day or night.
The earth took care of that too.
So I started to imagine that the roots blooming across the makeshift ceiling were star formations. I took an astronomy course once, and I always loved the way the stars formed something but nothing at all. The roots did the same thing.
The way they twisted and twined through each other. They were like beautiful dancers, but they weren't.
Dancing is probably what got me down there in the first place. That and the man I had danced with. The moment you realize that you've made a mistake is odd. It's like time slows down just enough to show you where it went wrong, but not slow enough for you to do anything about it.
But I guess what's important is I got out.
Usually what's been given to the ground stays in the ground, but I wasn't really anyone's to give.
#fiction  #horror  #freestyle 
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Written by AnmokuNoKotoba in portal Fiction

Furiously her hand moved across the page, leading her pen in a dance of quick pace. It spilled out the words she was afraid to say and joined them together brick by brick. On these pages she was everyone, a queen, a lover, a simple maiden. If she could write it she would be it, an escape from realities cruel grasp.

Back and forth the pen flew across the ink filled page as she ignored the ticking clock and movement of fellow students rushing to class. None of it mattered not while her focus remained on the book resting carefully upon her pale legs.

This was who she was. The girl who loved to write away her sorrows. The girl that created dreams on a blank page. Magic in the form of words flowed through her veins, quickly she learned to control it, embrace it. Free from fears that once consumed her.

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Written by AnmokuNoKotoba in portal Fiction
Furiously her hand moved across the page, leading her pen in a dance of quick pace. It spilled out the words she was afraid to say and joined them together brick by brick. On these pages she was everyone, a queen, a lover, a simple maiden. If she could write it she would be it, an escape from realities cruel grasp.
Back and forth the pen flew across the ink filled page as she ignored the ticking clock and movement of fellow students rushing to class. None of it mattered not while her focus remained on the book resting carefully upon her pale legs.
This was who she was. The girl who loved to write away her sorrows. The girl that created dreams on a blank page. Magic in the form of words flowed through her veins, quickly she learned to control it, embrace it. Free from fears that once consumed her.
#escape 
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Written by Harry_Situation in portal Fiction

God's Little Princess Part 4

A couple of days have passed by since Gabriel, the archangel and older sister of Lucifer, made herself comfortable at the Gravely residence and inside the town of Brimstone. She partook in much of the family's usual activities such as shopping with the girls, wrestling with her unwilling brother, and even joined them during karaoke night at the local bar Dante's Inferno. She found herself enjoying the company of her new human family and the company of her fallen brother. Lu didn't want to admit it but he too was starting to warm up to his sister's presence after a long millennia of not seeing or speaking to each other. To him is was nice to have a sister in his life, despite her having a little too much fun with some alcoholic beverages. 

What Gabi really enjoyed the most on earth was spending time with her new nieces. She could see why her other brother Mike liked them so much. They each reminded her of herself when she was young once. Together they hung out at the local arcade, explored the small shops in the mall, and even checked out a movie. Now the three of them are roaming the clean sidewalks and are off to their next destination. Both Rosemary and Regan asked plenty of questions for their wild aunt, to which Aunt Gabriel was more than happy to answer.

"What was your girlfriend like?" Asked Regan, only to be nudged by her older sister as a warning.

"Hey no worries. It's cool to ask." Gabi assured her new nieces. "She was pretty great. She was into meditation and anime. Heck, her and I spent the best few hundred years together. Actually I'm kinda surprised that you two haven't asked why I like girls to begin with."

"Why? It's nothing new to us or anything." Rosemary said. "Our mom's coworker is married to a man, and their daughter is a friend of mine."

"And our mommy told us to be kind and respectful to how everybody lives their lives." Regan added. 

"Kind and respectful? I like that policy." Gabi beamed with a grin. "And besides, I figured that there's more crazy, religious zealots burning in the lake of fire than there are gay people."

"Our mom said that too." Rosemary chuckled. "Okay, I got a question for you. So if Mike is the captain of the guard, what do you do?"

"I'm kinda like a private investigator. Weird, cosmic stuff happens and the Council sends me to check it out. Sometimes I get to beat up bad guys and rescue the damsel-in-distress too. Keep them coming. I like answering your questions."

"How come you don't like demons?" Regan asked.

"More personnel stuff, huh? Alright, think of angels and demons like the Jedi and Sith from Star Wars. One represents the light, the other the dark. Angels are meant to protect the innocent while demons are meant to corrupt them. Demons are also violent, selfish, and live off sin. I mean seriously, is there such thing as a nice demon?"

"Lilith is nice." Regan spoke up.

"Yeah, and so's our friend Dominic." Rosie also added.

"Scrugs is nice too. Legion is a little scary but he's nice too."

"Some of Lu's workers are actually pretty nice once you get to know them. Balthazar, Ghuul, and Moloch are cool. Even Lu can be nice. Do you think he's anything like the demons you described?"

Gabi fell silent with her smile fading from her face. She remembered how well she and her brother got along, before his eventual fall. His fall from grace, his betrayal hurt their family severely, especially her and Michael.

"Are you okay, Gabi?" Rosie asked.

"Yeah. Yeah I'm fine." The archangel assured them, snapping out of her moment of depression and back into her upbeat attitude. "Hey, I got a question for everyone. Anyone hungry?"

Both Rosemary and Regan nodded and followed their aunt into a building that was all to familiar to them. Gabi held open the door and the girls walked inside the popular tavern Dante's Inferno.

"So why were you and your girlfriend fighting?"

"I don't know. She mentioned something about a drinking problem. Can you believe that?"

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Written by Harry_Situation in portal Fiction
God's Little Princess Part 4
A couple of days have passed by since Gabriel, the archangel and older sister of Lucifer, made herself comfortable at the Gravely residence and inside the town of Brimstone. She partook in much of the family's usual activities such as shopping with the girls, wrestling with her unwilling brother, and even joined them during karaoke night at the local bar Dante's Inferno. She found herself enjoying the company of her new human family and the company of her fallen brother. Lu didn't want to admit it but he too was starting to warm up to his sister's presence after a long millennia of not seeing or speaking to each other. To him is was nice to have a sister in his life, despite her having a little too much fun with some alcoholic beverages. 

What Gabi really enjoyed the most on earth was spending time with her new nieces. She could see why her other brother Mike liked them so much. They each reminded her of herself when she was young once. Together they hung out at the local arcade, explored the small shops in the mall, and even checked out a movie. Now the three of them are roaming the clean sidewalks and are off to their next destination. Both Rosemary and Regan asked plenty of questions for their wild aunt, to which Aunt Gabriel was more than happy to answer.

"What was your girlfriend like?" Asked Regan, only to be nudged by her older sister as a warning.

"Hey no worries. It's cool to ask." Gabi assured her new nieces. "She was pretty great. She was into meditation and anime. Heck, her and I spent the best few hundred years together. Actually I'm kinda surprised that you two haven't asked why I like girls to begin with."

"Why? It's nothing new to us or anything." Rosemary said. "Our mom's coworker is married to a man, and their daughter is a friend of mine."

"And our mommy told us to be kind and respectful to how everybody lives their lives." Regan added. 

"Kind and respectful? I like that policy." Gabi beamed with a grin. "And besides, I figured that there's more crazy, religious zealots burning in the lake of fire than there are gay people."

"Our mom said that too." Rosemary chuckled. "Okay, I got a question for you. So if Mike is the captain of the guard, what do you do?"

"I'm kinda like a private investigator. Weird, cosmic stuff happens and the Council sends me to check it out. Sometimes I get to beat up bad guys and rescue the damsel-in-distress too. Keep them coming. I like answering your questions."

"How come you don't like demons?" Regan asked.

"More personnel stuff, huh? Alright, think of angels and demons like the Jedi and Sith from Star Wars. One represents the light, the other the dark. Angels are meant to protect the innocent while demons are meant to corrupt them. Demons are also violent, selfish, and live off sin. I mean seriously, is there such thing as a nice demon?"

"Lilith is nice." Regan spoke up.

"Yeah, and so's our friend Dominic." Rosie also added.

"Scrugs is nice too. Legion is a little scary but he's nice too."

"Some of Lu's workers are actually pretty nice once you get to know them. Balthazar, Ghuul, and Moloch are cool. Even Lu can be nice. Do you think he's anything like the demons you described?"

Gabi fell silent with her smile fading from her face. She remembered how well she and her brother got along, before his eventual fall. His fall from grace, his betrayal hurt their family severely, especially her and Michael.

"Are you okay, Gabi?" Rosie asked.

"Yeah. Yeah I'm fine." The archangel assured them, snapping out of her moment of depression and back into her upbeat attitude. "Hey, I got a question for everyone. Anyone hungry?"

Both Rosemary and Regan nodded and followed their aunt into a building that was all to familiar to them. Gabi held open the door and the girls walked inside the popular tavern Dante's Inferno.

"So why were you and your girlfriend fighting?"

"I don't know. She mentioned something about a drinking problem. Can you believe that?"
#fantasy  #fiction  #horror  #comedy  #sinsofthefather 
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Prose Challenge of the Month #2: Write a story where you wake up as the most intelligent person on Earth. Fifteen entries will be featured in a 500-coin Prose Original Book, whereby each winner will take 5% lifetime royalties. You must purchase the book to discover its authors, who will be determined by objective data (reads, likes, reposts, comments) and by team vote to ensure reader satisfaction. When sharing to social media, please use the hashtags “itslit,” “getlit,” and “ProseChallenge.”
Written by kayseemarie in portal Fiction

This pulsing inside my head. Why wont it go away? I feel like I never sleep. How could I sleep when my brain refuses to shut off? You could be the smartest person on earth but there is always more to learn. My dreams they are vivid. My dreams they are substantial. But my dreams make me feel like I never sleep. I feel like 100% of my brain is being used and it just never quits. I can tell you the whole English line of session. I can tell you any line of session in history. Anything you find in a book I probably know the answer. But what happens when you die? Knowing everything just frightens you even more. As human sapiens we thirst for knowledge. But what happens when you are knowledge? It's like Adam and Eve when they took a bite of the forbidden fruit. It was like a drug the way life appeared. It was magical, beautiful but deadly. How can I make friends when I will always know more than them? Will I become a lab rat? What else can I learn? I feel like I'm on a roller coaster my mind is going too fast to keep up. My diaphragm contracts and moves downward. My lungs expand. Knowing how exactly you breathe and how exactly your heart pumps blood almost makes you want to control it. Ever heard about the fact that if you think about something to much it can take away from it naturally happening. I feel like my breathing is constricting. What if I forget to inhale? What if the right side of my cardiac muscle forgets to pumps blood to the lungs to pick up oxygen. My brain can not possibly do all these things at once. I know the answer to world peace. I could tell everyone but history proves that someone out there will ruin it. It is human nature to be selfish. Knowledge can not defy human emotions. Knowledge can not overcome sin just as it can not overcome love. "Sæpe ingenia calamitate intercidunt". When did I read the book The Phædrus by Plato? How do I even know who that is? When did I learn Latin? What should I do today? Should I reveal the cure for cancer? 8.8 million people died from cancer alone in 2015. But 15 million people die from heart disease and strokes annually. How do I chose? What if no one believes me? What if the government tries to stop me? Curing diseases is not good for medical care revenue. Oh I can not handle this. 

I just want to sleep.

I just want to sleep.

Maybe I will just write everything down. Everything down on paper but I do not have paper, but i have walls! My body can not physically handle this stress. It wont be able to withstand this stress much longer. My brain is probably too fast to communicate in an understandable way anyways. I will just write, write until I die. Maybe it will keep me sane. Maybe it will stop me from thinking about the inevitable aneurysm that is going to happen with in the walls of my skull. The sad thing is if I knew the exact moment my brain would bleed out I would be able to tell someone how to save me. But do I really want to live with overwhelming knowledge? Do I really want to think anymore. 

No no no 

I will just let it happen. I will just write till it happens. 

Just write Just write

It may be chaotic hopefully the world doesn't assume it was written by a mental patient and throw away all the knowledge I am gifting them with...

My hands are shaking. I can feel the germs and diseases lurking around the room.

I know all about the radiation that is sent through our air. I must throw out all electronics before I write. 

No no no

Stay on track stay on track

Why does my my brain have to go so fast?

I just want this to end

I just want this to end

Write Write Write 

Write it all down

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Prose Challenge of the Month #2: Write a story where you wake up as the most intelligent person on Earth. Fifteen entries will be featured in a 500-coin Prose Original Book, whereby each winner will take 5% lifetime royalties. You must purchase the book to discover its authors, who will be determined by objective data (reads, likes, reposts, comments) and by team vote to ensure reader satisfaction. When sharing to social media, please use the hashtags “itslit,” “getlit,” and “ProseChallenge.”
Written by kayseemarie in portal Fiction
This pulsing inside my head. Why wont it go away? I feel like I never sleep. How could I sleep when my brain refuses to shut off? You could be the smartest person on earth but there is always more to learn. My dreams they are vivid. My dreams they are substantial. But my dreams make me feel like I never sleep. I feel like 100% of my brain is being used and it just never quits. I can tell you the whole English line of session. I can tell you any line of session in history. Anything you find in a book I probably know the answer. But what happens when you die? Knowing everything just frightens you even more. As human sapiens we thirst for knowledge. But what happens when you are knowledge? It's like Adam and Eve when they took a bite of the forbidden fruit. It was like a drug the way life appeared. It was magical, beautiful but deadly. How can I make friends when I will always know more than them? Will I become a lab rat? What else can I learn? I feel like I'm on a roller coaster my mind is going too fast to keep up. My diaphragm contracts and moves downward. My lungs expand. Knowing how exactly you breathe and how exactly your heart pumps blood almost makes you want to control it. Ever heard about the fact that if you think about something to much it can take away from it naturally happening. I feel like my breathing is constricting. What if I forget to inhale? What if the right side of my cardiac muscle forgets to pumps blood to the lungs to pick up oxygen. My brain can not possibly do all these things at once. I know the answer to world peace. I could tell everyone but history proves that someone out there will ruin it. It is human nature to be selfish. Knowledge can not defy human emotions. Knowledge can not overcome sin just as it can not overcome love. "Sæpe ingenia calamitate intercidunt". When did I read the book The Phædrus by Plato? How do I even know who that is? When did I learn Latin? What should I do today? Should I reveal the cure for cancer? 8.8 million people died from cancer alone in 2015. But 15 million people die from heart disease and strokes annually. How do I chose? What if no one believes me? What if the government tries to stop me? Curing diseases is not good for medical care revenue. Oh I can not handle this. 
I just want to sleep.
I just want to sleep.
Maybe I will just write everything down. Everything down on paper but I do not have paper, but i have walls! My body can not physically handle this stress. It wont be able to withstand this stress much longer. My brain is probably too fast to communicate in an understandable way anyways. I will just write, write until I die. Maybe it will keep me sane. Maybe it will stop me from thinking about the inevitable aneurysm that is going to happen with in the walls of my skull. The sad thing is if I knew the exact moment my brain would bleed out I would be able to tell someone how to save me. But do I really want to live with overwhelming knowledge? Do I really want to think anymore. 
No no no 
I will just let it happen. I will just write till it happens. 
Just write Just write
It may be chaotic hopefully the world doesn't assume it was written by a mental patient and throw away all the knowledge I am gifting them with...
My hands are shaking. I can feel the germs and diseases lurking around the room.
I know all about the radiation that is sent through our air. I must throw out all electronics before I write. 
No no no
Stay on track stay on track
Why does my my brain have to go so fast?
I just want this to end
I just want this to end
Write Write Write 
Write it all down
#prosechallenge  #Itslit  #getlit 
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Written by desmondwrite in portal Fiction

The Most Prolific Writer

Tanner Harby is the most substantial writer of the 21st century, although since the Century has only recently started, that might be presumptuous. But I am already this far in my report of his craft, and if it emerges that there is anyone who has written as extensively and with such detail, I will kill myself. I will put a gun to my temple and blast away, because my life will have become a purposeless ooze.

What makes Harby interesting (abstractly, not in actuality) is his lifelong attempt to document his entire life experience – all of it. Every minute, every moment, every fart, as it occurs in real-time.

Obviously, this project has had its pratfalls. Harby cannot record everything. In fact, his novel (shared with me, and only me, through Google Docs) is abridged. His babyhood, his childhood, are fleeting. The true conceit begins in his dwindling teen years, specifically when he learned how to write at 16, and will end at his death. Most of it is typed, but some parts are scanned napkins, toilet paper scrolls, whatever's available. And there are many deviations. Some of the book is pondering exposition that pulls free from the linearity of time and enters beautiful memories, yet too much attention is given to the author's room, computer, and viewings of pornography. When Harby reads a book, he types it in its entirety (this is rare; Harby hates reading). There are also instances in which Harby was forcibly removed from his Mission, especially by his parents to go to the doctor's, dentist's, or church. However, I'd argue that these tangents and omissions don't detract, but enhance his Poetic Vision – silence becoming the pedestal of noise. Otherwise, there is a saying I will revive for Tanner Harby and Tanner Harby only; he doesn't leave much to the imagination.

Some (my parents, friends, and Oxford University Press) call him a freak, a man-child, or a moron. Others (my counselor, that girl I dated in college, and you?) a victim of mental illness and the cult of the memoir. A few see his work for the enduring experiment that it is. Even fewer have imitated, but to no success. The physical acumen, the diligence, the focus, is unprecedented.

Now, to logistics. Tanner dedicates nearly ten of his waking hours to writing. It takes him about a minute to finish one page of 250 words, and each page encompasses approximately one minute of his life. This means that in one day, he produces up to 150,000 words, or 600 pages, which comes to 200,000 pages a year (with a rich increase in 2013 when his mother died). As of this dedication, he has written about 6 million pages. Of course, I make discoveries every day of more writing he did in bathroom stalls, the backs of chairs, receipts, and the arms and legs of lovers.

As Tanner Harby's eminent scholar, I have undertaken the task of reading the entirety of his opus so as to critique and glorify his works and their contribution to Western Canon. Here are just two of my discoveries. The first, which might surprise you, is that Tanner is most certainly an idiot. His project has led to the abandonment of academia and self-improvement, and his commentaries involve racial and sexual metaphors far too archaic and Confederate to be ironic. Even his style shows little improvement over these past thirty years, partially because his schedule hasn't allowed many books and partially because he doesn't consider reading to be a worthwhile endeavor.

Second, I have discovered that I too am an idiot, not by my association, but by my decision to read this opus in its entirety without considering the consequences. It takes about one minute to read 300 words (I'd consume faster but you must consider the unedited content that is my diet), which means I complete 1.2 pages per minute, or 72 pages an hour. I carry on with 12-hour reading periods, 11 devoted to Harby and the rest fractured into short breaks. This means I complete a considerable 792 pages per day, or about 280,000 a year. I started at 19, am now 40, and have known few other pleasures. Nor am I so sure of my future celebrity – I am nearly done, and yet, I have no theory, no system, no methodology, and no idea on how I will present Harby to academia. Is he minimalism glorified? Menippean? Or is he a curiosity, as momentary and useless as the Voynich Manuscript?

But there's no time to think of the future. I must sit here at this hot computer, plummeting into some dim cave-world, knowing that far, far below he type, type, types, and if any misfortune befalls the author, well...

I won't know for years.

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The Most Prolific Writer
Tanner Harby is the most substantial writer of the 21st century, although since the Century has only recently started, that might be presumptuous. But I am already this far in my report of his craft, and if it emerges that there is anyone who has written as extensively and with such detail, I will kill myself. I will put a gun to my temple and blast away, because my life will have become a purposeless ooze.

What makes Harby interesting (abstractly, not in actuality) is his lifelong attempt to document his entire life experience – all of it. Every minute, every moment, every fart, as it occurs in real-time.

Obviously, this project has had its pratfalls. Harby cannot record everything. In fact, his novel (shared with me, and only me, through Google Docs) is abridged. His babyhood, his childhood, are fleeting. The true conceit begins in his dwindling teen years, specifically when he learned how to write at 16, and will end at his death. Most of it is typed, but some parts are scanned napkins, toilet paper scrolls, whatever's available. And there are many deviations. Some of the book is pondering exposition that pulls free from the linearity of time and enters beautiful memories, yet too much attention is given to the author's room, computer, and viewings of pornography. When Harby reads a book, he types it in its entirety (this is rare; Harby hates reading). There are also instances in which Harby was forcibly removed from his Mission, especially by his parents to go to the doctor's, dentist's, or church. However, I'd argue that these tangents and omissions don't detract, but enhance his Poetic Vision – silence becoming the pedestal of noise. Otherwise, there is a saying I will revive for Tanner Harby and Tanner Harby only; he doesn't leave much to the imagination.

Some (my parents, friends, and Oxford University Press) call him a freak, a man-child, or a moron. Others (my counselor, that girl I dated in college, and you?) a victim of mental illness and the cult of the memoir. A few see his work for the enduring experiment that it is. Even fewer have imitated, but to no success. The physical acumen, the diligence, the focus, is unprecedented.

Now, to logistics. Tanner dedicates nearly ten of his waking hours to writing. It takes him about a minute to finish one page of 250 words, and each page encompasses approximately one minute of his life. This means that in one day, he produces up to 150,000 words, or 600 pages, which comes to 200,000 pages a year (with a rich increase in 2013 when his mother died). As of this dedication, he has written about 6 million pages. Of course, I make discoveries every day of more writing he did in bathroom stalls, the backs of chairs, receipts, and the arms and legs of lovers.

As Tanner Harby's eminent scholar, I have undertaken the task of reading the entirety of his opus so as to critique and glorify his works and their contribution to Western Canon. Here are just two of my discoveries. The first, which might surprise you, is that Tanner is most certainly an idiot. His project has led to the abandonment of academia and self-improvement, and his commentaries involve racial and sexual metaphors far too archaic and Confederate to be ironic. Even his style shows little improvement over these past thirty years, partially because his schedule hasn't allowed many books and partially because he doesn't consider reading to be a worthwhile endeavor.

Second, I have discovered that I too am an idiot, not by my association, but by my decision to read this opus in its entirety without considering the consequences. It takes about one minute to read 300 words (I'd consume faster but you must consider the unedited content that is my diet), which means I complete 1.2 pages per minute, or 72 pages an hour. I carry on with 12-hour reading periods, 11 devoted to Harby and the rest fractured into short breaks. This means I complete a considerable 792 pages per day, or about 280,000 a year. I started at 19, am now 40, and have known few other pleasures. Nor am I so sure of my future celebrity – I am nearly done, and yet, I have no theory, no system, no methodology, and no idea on how I will present Harby to academia. Is he minimalism glorified? Menippean? Or is he a curiosity, as momentary and useless as the Voynich Manuscript?

But there's no time to think of the future. I must sit here at this hot computer, plummeting into some dim cave-world, knowing that far, far below he type, type, types, and if any misfortune befalls the author, well...

I won't know for years.
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Write ten different first lines - to the same story
Written by Tylasmith in portal Fiction

looking at myself in the mirror

pulling apart myself 

tearing at my confidence 

fucked up by reality 

drowning in my sorrow 

broken down and loaded with unwanted thoughts of living 

walls of the past caving in 

hollow shallow heart 

knives sharping daggers 

body in fetal position

nails  piercing my conscience

ghost apart of my shadows 

hands arthritic and bent up 

constant plans screwed up hope 

faith mythical in believing in god will save me from going under 

two fingers down the throat puking up the truth 

spewing cutlets of facts 

no pretty words to cover up these opinions 

only the truth matters 

I am empty inside 

I don´t feel alive 

no I am picking myself apart 

and trying to pick up my heart 

my past breaks me 

my present revives me 

no matter how I began this story it ends the same 

I am broken and loaded with pain

 

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Write ten different first lines - to the same story
Written by Tylasmith in portal Fiction
looking at myself in the mirror
pulling apart myself 
tearing at my confidence 
fucked up by reality 
drowning in my sorrow 
broken down and loaded with unwanted thoughts of living 
walls of the past caving in 
hollow shallow heart 
knives sharping daggers 
body in fetal position
nails  piercing my conscience
ghost apart of my shadows 
hands arthritic and bent up 
constant plans screwed up hope 
faith mythical in believing in god will save me from going under 
two fingers down the throat puking up the truth 
spewing cutlets of facts 
no pretty words to cover up these opinions 
only the truth matters 
I am empty inside 
I don´t feel alive 
no I am picking myself apart 
and trying to pick up my heart 
my past breaks me 
my present revives me 

no matter how I began this story it ends the same 
I am broken and loaded with pain



 

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Written by Elisabeth in portal Fiction

SHADOW FIGHTING

It was a day in September and the light was scarce when she sat down on the cold floor, shivering. She reached for the matches, needing a candle's warmth, but as she took the last one out of the package and tried to lit it, it cracked into two pieces. So there was nothing else to do than to sit before an unlit candle, freezing, but closing her eyes as if the cold was imaginary. 

The silence here is stunning. She imagines this must be like the silence of outer space, where all events unroll muted, like the first movies presented in dark theaters. Some days, her own breathing is the only sound she hears. But that day, there was a light wind blowing around the house, almost musically, rising and falling. 

And she followed the steps of the meditation as she had learned before, executing each step as a skilfull dancer who knows that only exercise can allow her to approach perfection. While the wind continued howling around the walls, leaking through the windows and she followed breath after breath, she realized she could actually see her mind. She could see it as a small house standing on a hill, battered by the seasons, neglected by humanity. Its fundations were decaying, leading it to edge over, ready to topple off the hill in a final collapse. But still, as she looked closer, she realized that this was the strangest of houses, but not necessarily in a bad way. That intensity with which it clung to the earth as a weed that opposes removal by any manner, the proud refusal to be beaten down by the ceaseless rains that poured down on it, that patience with which it held up those battered walls while no one tended to it. It was not a pretty house, not a house radiating warmth, maybe not a welcoming house either; but it was one that could withstand centuries of hardship. It was a house to wage a war in, a scaled-down fort, and a house to build warriors in. 

There it was: her cue to open her eyes, to get up from the cold that had numbed her skin. There were very few possessions to pack, very few things she needed to take back with her. Her coat she simply put on, and the woolen hat, and the lined gloves, and the backpack she hauled on her back. Then the only thing she still had to do was to open the door that she had locked after herself weeks before and to return to the world, where her battle had been waiting for her to step back in.

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Written by Elisabeth in portal Fiction
SHADOW FIGHTING
It was a day in September and the light was scarce when she sat down on the cold floor, shivering. She reached for the matches, needing a candle's warmth, but as she took the last one out of the package and tried to lit it, it cracked into two pieces. So there was nothing else to do than to sit before an unlit candle, freezing, but closing her eyes as if the cold was imaginary. 
The silence here is stunning. She imagines this must be like the silence of outer space, where all events unroll muted, like the first movies presented in dark theaters. Some days, her own breathing is the only sound she hears. But that day, there was a light wind blowing around the house, almost musically, rising and falling. 
And she followed the steps of the meditation as she had learned before, executing each step as a skilfull dancer who knows that only exercise can allow her to approach perfection. While the wind continued howling around the walls, leaking through the windows and she followed breath after breath, she realized she could actually see her mind. She could see it as a small house standing on a hill, battered by the seasons, neglected by humanity. Its fundations were decaying, leading it to edge over, ready to topple off the hill in a final collapse. But still, as she looked closer, she realized that this was the strangest of houses, but not necessarily in a bad way. That intensity with which it clung to the earth as a weed that opposes removal by any manner, the proud refusal to be beaten down by the ceaseless rains that poured down on it, that patience with which it held up those battered walls while no one tended to it. It was not a pretty house, not a house radiating warmth, maybe not a welcoming house either; but it was one that could withstand centuries of hardship. It was a house to wage a war in, a scaled-down fort, and a house to build warriors in. 
There it was: her cue to open her eyes, to get up from the cold that had numbed her skin. There were very few possessions to pack, very few things she needed to take back with her. Her coat she simply put on, and the woolen hat, and the lined gloves, and the backpack she hauled on her back. Then the only thing she still had to do was to open the door that she had locked after herself weeks before and to return to the world, where her battle had been waiting for her to step back in.
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Written by chimericalmark in portal Fiction

The Final Message [One-Shot] Sneak Peak

WARNING: THIS IS A FANFICTION, IF YOU HAVE NOT SEEN SHERLOCK OR WANT TO, I SUGGEST YOU DO NOT READ THIS BECAUSE IT DOES CONTAIN SPOILERS. IF YOU DON'T CARE, THEN READ AWAY.

"Dad, can you tell Sherlock to please calm down?"

"He's not going to listen, instead he'll become an even bigger thorn in my ass."

"I'm not worried" Sherlock announced as he walked into John's living room. "I just want things to go right."

Rosie rolled her eyes and took another sip of soda from her Coke can. John crossed his arms and watched as Sherlock skimmed the house, probably doing calculations on how high each banner and balloon should be. Ironically enough, that was exactly what Sherlock was doing. Measurements and numbers zoomed across his mind and what part of the decorations he was looking at. There was one banner that particularly irritated Sherlock, and that was the banner hung on the staircase that was close to the front door.

It was centered poorly, and there were two deductions he couldn't shake off. If the banner was placed higher, the strong breeze of people opening and closing the front door would off center it even more. If it was placed lower, the people coming in would skim it or trip over it causing it to tear.

"Rosie!" Sherlock shouted.

"I'm right behind you, there's no need to shout" she answered, already feeling irritated.

"Can't we move this somewhere else? If we keep it here and move it up-"

"Sherlock," Rosie sighed. "Please just leave it there. I know that it's crooked and it's driving you mad, but I'm not moving it."

He turned around with a perplexed look on his face. She just gave him a “please-just-stop” look and took another sip of her soda. Sherlock had never grown used to Rosie's impertinence, it was too much like Mary's. In fact, Rosie herself looked too much like Mary. The same round head and sharp jaw, as well as soft blonde hair. Her bright smile and eyes could make any head turn and give her their full attention.

There were small differences though, it’s something that actually fascinated Sherlock. Rosie’s eyes were both green and blue, she had been born with heterochromia. On top of that, she preferred to keep her hair longer, a little below her breasts. During that day, Rosie threw it up into a messy bun and walked around in an old t-shirt and sweatpants. That also bothered Sherlock.

“Why aren’t you dressed? Guests will be showing up in two hours!” He said.

Rosie smiled. “I’ll get dressed soon, don’t worry.”

Sherlock started to become more and more impatient. There he stood in his nice button up purple shirt that hugged his skinny and fit chest a little too tight and black trousers, ready for this party. Then there was Rosie, who looked like she was about to go to sleep. “If you’re waiting for Andrea to come round, she’s going to be late. She lives on the other side town and it’s Saturday which means traffic is particularly bad today. You’re waiting for her to arrive at two, but she won’t be here until two thirty. The party starts at three and you don’t want to be late so I suggest you start getting ready now.”

Rosie stopped sipping her Cola and blinked once. “Alright then, thank you for that break down.”

As she made her way toward the stairs, Sherlock was waiting for the perfect time to move the banner elsewhere. By the time she reached the top, he already began taking it down.

“Leave the banner where it is, Sherlock!” Rosie shouted from upstairs.

He groaned and stopped trying to take it down. His name was called from the kitchen, it was John. Upon entering, chips, fruit, and all sorts of snacks as well as different drinks were set up on the marble kitchen counter. Cups, paper plates, napkins were placed everywhere for everyone to pick up. John had just finished setting them up and was already dressed in his blue jeans and a nice button up shirt which Sherlock noticed were ironed particularly well. He was trying to make a better impression on Rosie’s friends, but God knows how she’ll react to it. To Sherlock, it was quite clear John had called him in to talk about something, most likely give him a lecture.

“If you're going do nothing but give me a headache, then please just stop now” Sherlock said.

“No,” John retorted while pointing his index finger at his best friend. “Please listen to Rosie and I. You're worrying too much and causing too much of a fuss. You know that she wants this to be a bit more casual because she’ll be going out tonight to dinner with her fr-”

“Yes,” Sherlock rudely interrupted. “And there two boys will try to win her over which will make her slightly uncomfortable and want the night to end. One boy she’s torn between just friendship or kicking his arse out the door, and the other she had already developed feelings for. Andrea will sit next to her rooting for the two of them while the other boy stabs into his food angrily. Doesn't sound like a great birthday to me, which is why I want to make this perfect.”

John balled his hands into a fist and groaned. “Sherlock, promise me you won't tell her that. Just let her have this day.”

Sherlock rose an eyebrow. He was actually confused at what John had said. “Why wouldn't I tell her? This is her big party after all.”

“Just please don't, alright?” John asked. Sherlock nodded and turned around to leave the room.

“One more thing,” John called after him.

Sherlock felt that he was on the verge of tearing his messy, curly hair out of its roots. “Yes, I know, don't be a massive cock to her friends.”

[Author's Note]

Criticism is appreciated on this, I'd love to hear some thoughts on it. Also, if you guys liked it and want me to post the entire one-shot, please to comment and tell me. Thank you all for all of the support, you're all amazing. x

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Written by chimericalmark in portal Fiction
The Final Message [One-Shot] Sneak Peak
WARNING: THIS IS A FANFICTION, IF YOU HAVE NOT SEEN SHERLOCK OR WANT TO, I SUGGEST YOU DO NOT READ THIS BECAUSE IT DOES CONTAIN SPOILERS. IF YOU DON'T CARE, THEN READ AWAY.



"Dad, can you tell Sherlock to please calm down?"
"He's not going to listen, instead he'll become an even bigger thorn in my ass."
"I'm not worried" Sherlock announced as he walked into John's living room. "I just want things to go right."
Rosie rolled her eyes and took another sip of soda from her Coke can. John crossed his arms and watched as Sherlock skimmed the house, probably doing calculations on how high each banner and balloon should be. Ironically enough, that was exactly what Sherlock was doing. Measurements and numbers zoomed across his mind and what part of the decorations he was looking at. There was one banner that particularly irritated Sherlock, and that was the banner hung on the staircase that was close to the front door.
It was centered poorly, and there were two deductions he couldn't shake off. If the banner was placed higher, the strong breeze of people opening and closing the front door would off center it even more. If it was placed lower, the people coming in would skim it or trip over it causing it to tear.
"Rosie!" Sherlock shouted.
"I'm right behind you, there's no need to shout" she answered, already feeling irritated.
"Can't we move this somewhere else? If we keep it here and move it up-"
"Sherlock," Rosie sighed. "Please just leave it there. I know that it's crooked and it's driving you mad, but I'm not moving it."
He turned around with a perplexed look on his face. She just gave him a “please-just-stop” look and took another sip of her soda. Sherlock had never grown used to Rosie's impertinence, it was too much like Mary's. In fact, Rosie herself looked too much like Mary. The same round head and sharp jaw, as well as soft blonde hair. Her bright smile and eyes could make any head turn and give her their full attention.
There were small differences though, it’s something that actually fascinated Sherlock. Rosie’s eyes were both green and blue, she had been born with heterochromia. On top of that, she preferred to keep her hair longer, a little below her breasts. During that day, Rosie threw it up into a messy bun and walked around in an old t-shirt and sweatpants. That also bothered Sherlock.
“Why aren’t you dressed? Guests will be showing up in two hours!” He said.
Rosie smiled. “I’ll get dressed soon, don’t worry.”
Sherlock started to become more and more impatient. There he stood in his nice button up purple shirt that hugged his skinny and fit chest a little too tight and black trousers, ready for this party. Then there was Rosie, who looked like she was about to go to sleep. “If you’re waiting for Andrea to come round, she’s going to be late. She lives on the other side town and it’s Saturday which means traffic is particularly bad today. You’re waiting for her to arrive at two, but she won’t be here until two thirty. The party starts at three and you don’t want to be late so I suggest you start getting ready now.”
Rosie stopped sipping her Cola and blinked once. “Alright then, thank you for that break down.”
As she made her way toward the stairs, Sherlock was waiting for the perfect time to move the banner elsewhere. By the time she reached the top, he already began taking it down.
“Leave the banner where it is, Sherlock!” Rosie shouted from upstairs.
He groaned and stopped trying to take it down. His name was called from the kitchen, it was John. Upon entering, chips, fruit, and all sorts of snacks as well as different drinks were set up on the marble kitchen counter. Cups, paper plates, napkins were placed everywhere for everyone to pick up. John had just finished setting them up and was already dressed in his blue jeans and a nice button up shirt which Sherlock noticed were ironed particularly well. He was trying to make a better impression on Rosie’s friends, but God knows how she’ll react to it. To Sherlock, it was quite clear John had called him in to talk about something, most likely give him a lecture.
“If you're going do nothing but give me a headache, then please just stop now” Sherlock said.
“No,” John retorted while pointing his index finger at his best friend. “Please listen to Rosie and I. You're worrying too much and causing too much of a fuss. You know that she wants this to be a bit more casual because she’ll be going out tonight to dinner with her fr-”
“Yes,” Sherlock rudely interrupted. “And there two boys will try to win her over which will make her slightly uncomfortable and want the night to end. One boy she’s torn between just friendship or kicking his arse out the door, and the other she had already developed feelings for. Andrea will sit next to her rooting for the two of them while the other boy stabs into his food angrily. Doesn't sound like a great birthday to me, which is why I want to make this perfect.”
John balled his hands into a fist and groaned. “Sherlock, promise me you won't tell her that. Just let her have this day.”
Sherlock rose an eyebrow. He was actually confused at what John had said. “Why wouldn't I tell her? This is her big party after all.”
“Just please don't, alright?” John asked. Sherlock nodded and turned around to leave the room.
“One more thing,” John called after him.
Sherlock felt that he was on the verge of tearing his messy, curly hair out of its roots. “Yes, I know, don't be a massive cock to her friends.”




[Author's Note]
Criticism is appreciated on this, I'd love to hear some thoughts on it. Also, if you guys liked it and want me to post the entire one-shot, please to comment and tell me. Thank you all for all of the support, you're all amazing. x
#mystery  #crime  #fanfiction  #feedback  #YA  #johnwatson  #sherlockholmes 
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Written by brieannekt in portal Fiction

Ghetto Hood Fox

A fox roams in the woodlands, looking for prey.

He'll know exactly what to say,

When she walks his way.

Little does she know, he's a playa and been all over the map.

The trusting girl loves him anyway.

Grandma told her to stay away from wolves, who knew she'd fall for this stray?

Sly foxes are never sly until they've worked over their game (victim).

She was Just something to eat for the night.

Damn though she thought, he was her "knight." She never put up a fight.

His silky sheer sheath and Opulent dark eyes.

He popped all of her balloons with his bare teeth.

A snarky ploy, he finally showed her his fangs.

Forever gone, into the dark night, he's out of sight.

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Written by brieannekt in portal Fiction
Ghetto Hood Fox
A fox roams in the woodlands, looking for prey.
He'll know exactly what to say,
When she walks his way.
Little does she know, he's a playa and been all over the map.
The trusting girl loves him anyway.
Grandma told her to stay away from wolves, who knew she'd fall for this stray?
Sly foxes are never sly until they've worked over their game (victim).
She was Just something to eat for the night.
Damn though she thought, he was her "knight." She never put up a fight.
His silky sheer sheath and Opulent dark eyes.
He popped all of her balloons with his bare teeth.
A snarky ploy, he finally showed her his fangs.
Forever gone, into the dark night, he's out of sight.

#fiction  #romance  #adventure  #culture 
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