The Surpassable Everything, my awesome unfinished magnum opus in which sex is had

Crap. Joking. I really liked. You and one other person who will remain nameless are the brains behind the only stories in the Writers' Workshop that I've bothered to read, though I have every intention of reading them all. I like your style dude. I don't know if that's saying much because I also like Dan Brown's style and I'm not big on Hemingway's. Take it how you want to but keep em coming.

Sounds like a slice of your life, Phil.

Her gossip probably wasn't all that great anyway. Not bad. I wanna see more.

[QUOTE=xec8;1033333]I'll keep posting as I write. If more than three people think this is crap, I will declare it a misunderstood masterpiece.[/QUOTE]

needs a little " A la Jerry" to it for my taste, but i need to read more! keep posting! i need to know!!!!! POST YOU SON OF A BITCH!! POST!!!!!

(Dont forget to read the awesome adventures of she-male, in the "come in touch with your dark side" thread)

Groan.

[QUOTE=Vendetta;1033342]Groan.[/QUOTE]
That hurts my feelings.

One down, two to go.

[QUOTE=xec8;1033345]That hurts my feelings.[/QUOTE]

You know what! your being such a pussy with all this, if 3 players dislike my shit i will stop, that i lost interest, they has to be somthing shocking or i while revoke my vote.

Um, it didn't really hurt my feelings. And if three people dislike this, I never said I'd stop writing.

[QUOTE=xec8;1033357]Um, it didn't really hurt my feelings. And if three people dislike this, I never said I'd stop writing.[/QUOTE]

i know it did not and i would never revoke my vote, there has to be a she-male in your story!
even better i should be in it! can you inmagine that oh please put me in your story, it makes me feel like a little school girl

OK. the gayness has been shot dead and buried in the nevada desert, unlike Anna Nicole you will never see it again.

He's got a point. He never said anything about stopping. Why would anyone NOT finish a misunderstood masterpiece?

[QUOTE=bigshrimpn;1033366]He's got a point. He never said anything about stopping. Why would anyone NOT finish a misunderstood masterpiece?[/QUOTE]

ok, i admit that i though like a woman be assuming something like that, but its dead no so...

:spank: Bad Shrimp!

^ End yourself.

Dude. The workshop, dude.

[QUOTE=bigshrimpn;1033337]You and one other person who will remain nameless are the brains behind the only stories in the Writers' Workshop that I've bothered to read, though I have every intention of reading them all.[/QUOTE]

I didn't catch this the first time. Because I scarcely read what you have to say in its entirety. Who's this other dood/doodette?

[QUOTE=Adelheid;1033413]Dude. The workshop, dude.[/QUOTE]
I'm way too cool for that.
By which I mean I don't actually want any reviews.

[QUOTE]But Sören’s wasteland is an elaborate construction. The succubus may not have grasped its complexities. You sit next to him and he smells good; he is famous for his mild dandyism, his sweet fragrances, the smirk he calls a smile. You are a young woman, frustrated perhaps, bored in your relationship, and you meet Sören, the quiet, detached maelstrom of maleness, who does not flatter you, stares at your face with vacant eyes when you talk about… whatever it is you’re talking about, and seems to hold beautiful secrets inside that dreamy shell of a face. He knows what you are thinking, and that you want him to kiss you, and that you think he is the most remarkable man in this goddam town. Who could blame you? Would you prefer Rufus Isherwood, the ugly experimentalist whose fatalistic sarcasm could kill a calf? Or Streat K. Kitching, Palmeida’s most muscular young man, incapable of looking you in the eye? Chad Morgan, the philosophical hippie? Owen Dwight, who cannot fry an egg?
So you enter Sören’s wasteland with big eyes and a sudden spell of inextinguishable lust. Watch him take off his shirt, crawl towards you, feel him pleasure you, let him pour honey from the conspicuous jar he keeps in the drawer next to his bed, close your eyes as he licks and rubs and tickles and kisses, all with a knowing grin on his face, which isn’t all that gorgeous but don’t forget you’ve seen uglier everywhere you’ve been. But don’t fall in love. This is what will happen. He will frown, look you in the eye, play with a lock of your hair and say:
—I’m not sure I feel the same way.
—Really?
—I didn’t want you to, uh, fall in love. I wanted to keep this light.
—But don’t you like me?
—Sure I do. But like’s not love.
—It’s just that you’re really… I dunno, different from the boring saps out there.
—Yeah, but…
—And you give amazing head.
—Yeah, but…
—And God damn it, Sören. I thought we had something.
—We did. Do. We do. But uh, I’m not exactly looking for love.
—Why not.
—I’m too… busy.
—With what.
—Studies. And stuff. My book.
—I guess I wanted to be the girl who you’d let see a bit of your book. Or something.
—It’s too raw.
—That’s your excuse. There’s no way you could love me, then.
—Hey, don’t put it that way. I just, you know, I’m not good with feelings. The only feelings I have are guilt and boredom.
—Why guilt?
—I dunno. I feel guilty a lot, but I have nothing to feel guilty about, so it’s no big deal. Look, I’m sorry.
—I’m sorry too. I’m gonna go. I’m really embarrassed.
—Don’t be embarrassed. I’m happy to, uh, have had such an impact on you.
—Yeah.
—Okay?
—Okay.
—Great.
He does like you, probably. But it isn’t love. You may liken Sören’s wasteland to the Grand Canyon. It may be beautiful, but you don’t want to stay there too long — there is nothing to do. You love the countryside but it does not love you back, and it’s nothing personal. Enjoy the mud, the sunset of foreplay, the rainbow of orgasm… then leave. Nobody wanted to go to Ypres three times.[/QUOTE]

Yay.

This is a better read if you imagine the narration in your head to be with a light Slavic accent.

More on the way I'm hoping?

I very much like it so far.

[QUOTE=xec8;1033345]That hurts my feelings.[/QUOTE]
I was groaning at Jill's Tit (shudder) and his little friend bigshrimpn.

[QUOTE=Vendetta;1033550]I was groaning at Jill's Tit (shudder) and his little friend bigshrimpn.[/QUOTE]

Why were you groaning at me? I understand groaning at Jill's Tit (shudder), but why me?

Dude, you got shuddered.

I see a little of myself in Soren. I'm pretty sure he is loosely based on you Phil. The incapacity to love, or the lack of desire to do so, really hits home. We want more Soren!!!

[QUOTE=bigshrimpn;1033683]Why were you groaning at me? I understand groaning at Jill's Tit (shudder), but why me?[/QUOTE]

Don't worry, little friend, I'm working on getting her social security number.

Fresh out of the oven:
[QUOTE]It is seven in the morning. Staring at the ceiling is little fun. Get dressed. Our hero prepares to push against the daylight, through the streets, past the run-down taco joint where sleepy junkies seek shelter on nights of particular cool, probably stopping by the newsstand to buy The Glorious, that unpaying biweekly which may or very well may not be publishing Sören’s article on the virtue of guilt. He drinks coffee for the first time in weeks, pulls last night’s condom out from the shoe he shouldn’t have left to the side of the bed, makes faces in the mirror while deciding whether to pluck those three pesky white hairs or leave them as an anatomical curios, dresses in green, heads out the door. There is Mrs Habbermann, who today appears, very colourfully, not to be in mourning anymore.
—Good morning, Mrs Habbermann.
—Good morning, Mr Pederson.
—Have a good day, Mrs Habbermann.
—And you, Mr Pederson. Wait, Mr Pederson.
—Yes.
—Please don’t make too much noise at five in the morning.
—I apologise.
—Apology accepted.
—Goodbye, Mrs Habbermann.
—Goodbye, Mr Pederson.
Out the door at last, past the run-down taco joint where the junkies are still lying there in a big stoned bundle, their skinny bodies kept cosy by oversized sweaters and the warmth of adjacent junkies. Narrowly dodging a dewy dog turd on the edge of the curb, he makes his way towards the newsstand. He is singing.

Stopping by an abutment,
It came to me very sudden:
The bridge might collapse,
The bridge might collapse.
This is what I noticed
On my matutinal, my matutinal,
Matutinal constitutional.

—Sören?
He turns. She seems happy to see him.
—Jenna.
—How is life?
—Well… uh.
—You look shocked to see me.
—Well, eh, it’s still early morning for me. Hello.
—Hi. What’ve you been up to?
—Writing. And such.
—Sleeping with thousands of women?
—Not… quite.
—Do you ever…
—Do I ever…
—Think of me?
—Sure I do.
—Really?
—Yes. But uh, you see, I have to get to class.
—Wait. I can walk you there.
—Okay.
Sure he thinks about her. She knows. She learned that night, wrapped in his blankets on the floor, playing with a flashlight with her feet, smelling him, looking at his sad face as he told her all about it. Jars of honey and chocolate and jam sitting around them, the blankets ruined by delicious stains. The window open. She was cold. He stopped talking and closed it for her. She thought it killed the mood a little bit, but maybe that was a good thing. And then he’d said:
—Don’t judge me.
—I don’t. I really don’t.
—It’s nobody’s business. It’s not even your business. So please.
—Sören, I swear, it’s okay.
But he hadn’t believed her. You sometimes get that, when you trust somebody enough to reveal your darkest side and as soon as it’s out, you can’t bear to see them anymore. He stood up, paced around, looked at her.
—I hate myself.
—I love you.
—Fuck you.
Yes, cruel, but necessary. She took it well. She is a smart girl. He misses her, but telling her so on this walk to the Benjamin-Waller would be a fat mistake. There is a pause as he opens The Glorious and tries to find his name in there somewhere. Come on. Give me the last page, I don’t mind. The last damned page. But it ain’t there. He smiles and says:
—So, Jenna.
—So, Sören.
—You got class today?
—I…
—Oh, right.
—Not everyone can afford college.
—Not everyone deserves to.
—Hmm.
—That sounded more elitist than I meant it to.
—You’ve always been elitist.
—Yeah. Sorry.
—It’s sexy.
—Jenna.
—I’m sorry.
—It’s fine.
—I miss you.
—Yeah, I, uh, you know.
—I can tell you miss me too.
—I can’t talk about this… at this very moment.
—You’re busy being Casanova.
—It’s not that.
—Then what is it?
—You…
He stops, holds her back. She is not smiling:
—What is it, Sören?
—You know me too well. It’s scary. I can’t commit. A million other things. We can be friends.
—And all of that shit.
—I’m sorry.
—It’s okay. I’m sure it’s nothing personal.
—Well… it’s too personal. Look, we’ll have a sandwich or something later. All right?
—Will you call me?
—I’ll let you call me. Tomorrow. Or something.
—Okay.
—Goodbye.
—See you.[/QUOTE]

[QUOTE]Bumpbumpdedump.[/QUOTE]
Okay, happy.

For the short analysis: You've kind of switched styles with the latest installment. I can no longer giddily read this in a Slavic accent. Why? Also, the transition is confusing in places.

And the plot thickens. *[I]applause[/I]* What secrets did Soren reveal to Jenna that were so personal that the confession was instantly regretted? Will Sorens writing ever get the credit it deserves? Why the preconceived notion that Soren is such a giggalo (sp?)? What did Soren do with the condom from his shoe? The answers to this and more in the next brilliant installment of.... The Surpassable Everything!! *[I]chessy dramatic music plays[/I]*

[QUOTE=Jill's Tit;1034270]For the short analysis: You've kind of switched styles with the latest installment. I can no longer giddily read this in a Slavic accent. Why? Also, the transition is confusing in places.[/QUOTE]
Here are the first three installments in one block of text, lightly revised, to help you see the transitions. As for the voice changes... they'll converge eventually.

[QUOTE]
He will wake up to find himself transformed into a gigantic human being, not as tall as he’d like perhaps but lean and reasonably attractive, except for that stain on his wrist which eludes explanation and those three white hairs on his right temple; they have come twenty years too soon. It will not be light out. Something will brush against his face and it will smell tired, young, warm enough. Once the dream is good and crushed his eyes will open to a slim-waisted succubus pulling her undergarments back up, a frown clear in the dark, and he will say:
—Where are you going?
—I have to go.
—Where are you going?
—Oh.
—What.
—You’re lying on my bra.
—Why are you leaving?
—Would you please get off my bra.
—Come on.
—No.
He’ll hand it over and the succubus will turn her back to him to cover something he has already known and there will be silence. He may fall asleep again. His hand will feel weightless, and shaking it won’t make it better. Pins and needles. He will wake up now. He is awake. She is really leaving.
—Oh, come on.
—No.
—It’s the middle of the night.
—Wrong.
—What’s wrong.
—It’s five in the morning and I have to go. Thanks for everything.
—What are you, a hooker?
—What?
—Never mind.
—Did you call me a hooker?
—Go away.
He closes his eyes, listens to her getting dressed. What did he do. He did nothing. Go back to sleep. Then:
—Wait, what did I do.
—Look, Sören, she says, and sits on the bed. You’re an amazing lover but a poor friend.
—Okay.
—I needed a lover last night. I need a friend now. You can’t be both.
—Why not.
—Because you have nothing inside you but lust and brains. I need warmth.
—It’s five in the morning, babe. I don’t even have lust and brains.
—I’ll see you around.
—Wait, wait, wait.
—Goodbye.
—Wait.
—I gotta go.
—It’s Sunday morning. Sleep a little.
—It’s Monday morning. Goodbye.
—Monday?
Sounds of a door opening and shutting. Ugh. He looks around, the room in its dark disguise. No posters, no trinkets. Memorabilia is limited to a few cups, a little wooden chest, ticket stubs. Outside, ambulances as usual, rushing through empty streets to save the lives of early-morn construction workers, a baker who’s cut his thumb, a hypochondriac with a real case of the flu, an overworked journalist who ten minutes ago collapsed on his computer at the Palmeida Herald’s headquarters and by some freak accident succeeded in breaking his head on the Escape key. It would be typical to mention distant barking dogs but there are no dogs in this city. Everybody seems to hate them. In the suburbs a firetruck stops in front of an incandescent tree set alight by mischievous youths who still haven’t gone to bed. Or maybe it doesn’t. He is falling asleep.
Outside his apartment, the succubus struggles to tie her laces. She has such a flat stomach — Sören’s main reason for wanting her — but it’s still hard to reach down this early in the morning. She can hear him snoring inside, the bastard who yesterday caused her legs to shake for an hour after the deed and then fell asleep without listening to her story about whatever it is she was talking about, even she can’t remember anymore, which makes her even angrier. She wanted to be used and she was used and now she wants to be loved. Won’t find that here. Come on, fellas, let’s get the heck out of this emotional wasteland.

But Sören’s wasteland is an elaborate construction. The succubus may not have grasped its complexities. You sit next to him and he smells good; he is famous for his mild dandyism, his sweet fragrances, the smirk he calls a smile. You are a young woman, frustrated perhaps, bored in your relationship, and you meet Sören, the quiet, detached maelstrom of maleness, who does not flatter you, stares at your face with vacant eyes when you talk about… whatever it is you’re talking about, and seems to hold beautiful secrets inside that dreamy shell of a face. He knows what you are thinking, and that you want him to kiss you, and that you think he is the most remarkable man in this goddam town. Who could blame you? Would you prefer Rufus Isherwood, the ugly experimentalist whose fatalistic sarcasm could kill a calf? Or Streat K. Kitching, Palmeida’s most muscular young man, incapable of looking you in the eye? Chad Morgan, the philosophical hippie? Owen Dwight, who cannot fry an egg?
So you enter Sören’s wasteland with big eyes and a sudden spell of inextinguishable lust. Watch him take off his shirt, crawl towards you, feel him pleasure you, let him pour honey from the conspicuous jar he keeps in the drawer next to his bed, close your eyes as he licks and rubs and tickles and kisses, all with a knowing grin on his face, which isn’t all that gorgeous but don’t forget you’ve seen uglier everywhere you’ve been. But tell him you love him and he will frown, look you in the eye, play with a lock of your hair and say:
—I’m not sure I feel the same way.
—Really?
—I didn’t want you to, uh, fall in love. I wanted to keep this light.
—But don’t you like me?
—Sure I do. But like’s not love.
—It’s just that you’re really… I dunno, different from the boring saps out there.
—Yeah, but…
—And you give amazing head.
—Yeah, but…
—And God damn it, Sören. I thought we had something.
—We did. Do. We do. But uh, I’m not exactly looking for love.
—Why not.
—I’m too… busy.
—With what.
—Studies. And stuff. My book.
—I guess I wanted to be the girl who you’d let see a bit of your book. Or something.
—It’s too raw.
—That’s your excuse. There’s no way you could love me, then.
—Hey, don’t put it that way. I just, you know, I’m not good with feelings. The only feelings I have are guilt and boredom.
—Why guilt?
—I dunno. I feel guilty a lot, but I have nothing to feel guilty about, so it’s no big deal. Look, I’m sorry.
—I’m sorry too. I’m gonna go. I’m really embarrassed.
—Don’t be embarrassed. I’m happy to, uh, have had such an impact on you.
—Yeah.
—Okay?
—Okay.
—Great.
Liken Sören’s wasteland to the Grand Canyon. It may be beautiful, but you don’t want to stay there too long. You love the countryside but it does not love you back, it’s nothing personal. Enjoy the mud, the sunset of foreplay, the rainbow of orgasm, then leave. Nobody wanted to go to Ypres three times.

It is seven in the morning. Staring at the ceiling is little fun. Get dressed. Our hero prepares to push against the daylight, through the streets, past the run-down taco joint where sleepy junkies seek shelter on nights of particular cool. Probably stop by the newsstand to buy The Glorious, that unpaying biweekly which may or very well may not be publishing Sören’s article on the virtue of guilt. He drinks coffee for the first time in weeks, pulls last night’s condom out from the shoe he shouldn’t have left to the side of the bed, makes faces in the mirror while deciding whether to pluck those three pesky white hairs or leave them as an anatomical curios, dresses in green, heads out the door. There is Mrs Habbermann, who today appears, very colourfully, not to be in mourning anymore.
—Good morning, Mrs Habbermann.
—Good morning, Mr Pederson.
—Have a good day.
—And you, Mr Pederson. Wait, Mr Pederson.
—Yes.
—Please don’t make too much noise at five in the morning.
—I apologise.
—Apology accepted.
—Goodbye, Mrs Habbermann.
—Goodbye, Mr Pederson.
Out the door at last, past the run-down taco joint where the junkies are still lying there in a big stoned bundle, their skinny bodies kept cosy by oversized sweaters and the warmth of adjacent junkies. Narrowly dodging a crisp dog turd on the edge of the curb, he makes his way towards the newsstand. He is singing.

Stopping by an abutment,
It came to me very sudden:
The bridge might collapse,
The bridge might collapse.
This is what I noticed
On my matutinal, my matutinal,
Matutinal constitutional.

—Sören?
Someone taps him on the shoulder as he reaches for The Glorious. He turns. She seems happy to see him. And she looks good. The hair is blonder, longer, and curls away from her neck in patterns too intricate not to be natural. She is holding a bagel in her little smooth hand. Bacon and eggs, looks like. Or maybe that’s cheese. Those dimples are still there, winking concavely as she smiles. Say something.
—Jenna.
—How is life?
—Well… uh.
—You look shocked to see me.
—Well, eh, it’s still early morning for me. Hello.
—Hi. What’ve you been up to?
—Writing. And such.
—Sleeping with thousands of women?
—Not… quite.
—Do you ever…
—Do I ever what.
—Think of me?
—Sure I do.
—Really?
—Yes. But uh, you see, I have to get to class.
—Wait. I can walk you there.
—Okay.
Sure he thinks about her. She knows. She learned that night, wrapped in his blankets on the floor, playing with a flashlight with her feet, smelling him, looking at his sad face as he told her all about it. Jars of honey and chocolate and jam sitting around them, the blankets ruined by delicious stains. The window open…. she was cold. He stopped talking and closed it for her. She thought it killed the mood a little bit, but maybe that was a good thing. And then he’d said:
—Don’t judge me.
—I don’t. I really don’t.
—It’s nobody’s business. It’s not even your business. So please.
—Sören, I swear, it’s okay.
But he hadn’t believed her. You sometimes get that, when you trust somebody enough to reveal your darkest side; but soon as it’s out, you can’t bear to see them anymore. He stood up, paced around, looked at her.
—I hate myself.
—I love you.
—Fuck you.
Yes, cruel, but necessary. She took it well. She is a smart girl. He misses her, but telling her so on this walk to the Benjamin-Waller would be a fat mistake. There is a pause as he opens The Glorious and tries to find his name in there somewhere. Come on. Give me the last page, I don’t mind. The last damned page. But it ain’t there. He smiles and says:
—So, Jenna.
—So, Sören.
—You got class today?
—I…
—Oh, right.
—Not everyone can afford college.
—Not everyone deserves to.
—Hmm.
—That sounded more elitist than I meant it to.
—You’ve always been elitist.
—Yeah. Sorry.
—It’s sexy.
—Jenna.
—I’m sorry.
—It’s fine.
—I miss you.
—Yeah, I, uh, you know.
—I can tell you miss me too.
—I can’t talk about this… at this very moment.
—You’re busy being Casanova.
—It’s not that.
—Then what is it?
—You…
He stops, holds her back. She is not smiling:
—What is it, Sören?
—You know me too well. It’s scary. I can’t commit. A million other things. We can be friends.
—And all of that shit.
—I’m sorry.
—It’s okay. I’m sure it’s nothing personal.
—Well… it’s too personal. Look, we’ll have a sandwich or something later. All right?
—Will you call me?
—I’ll let you call me. Tomorrow. Or something.
—Okay.
—Goodbye.
—See you.[/QUOTE]

The names invoke a lot of questions.

Other than the names, I like your latest installment best. There's more to it. More questions, I like to ask questions. Is this just a man? What is his problem--what are his problems? Make us like him.

So far, nice work, my love.

Well, you see,

[QUOTE]Sören’s wasteland is a tremendous crater formed by tragedy. It is perfectly smooth and totally empty. You could roll into it on your side, down towards its centre, and never catch a pebble in your eye. It is as cold here in the day as it is at night. Nobody here knows where the asteroid came from. Nobody but Jenna. She’s heard the story of Sören’s struggle with gravity… four years ago, standing in the kitchen with Herman in his arms, opening the cupboard to look for powdered milk, smiling goo-goo at the laughing baby… falling… howling, running around in desperation, calling someone to tell them what happened, staring at the little big accident, sulphurous tears spilling out of his eyes and nose into his mouth and down his chin and onto the cruel, gravity-bound floor.
What a great start to the day. What’s-her-name leaves at five in the morning because he’s an incompetent friend when asleep, then Jenna unplugs the well of torment only ten minutes before his lecture starts. He walks quickly but thinks very slowly. There must be a better way to contact The Glorious than by email. A phone number, something like that. He unfolds the paper again and looks at the submission guidelines. Nothing like a number.
[/QUOTE]

The origin of "The Baby is Cold"? I need more!!!!!

moreee.
i think i'm falling in love.

[QUOTE=bigshrimpn;1034271]And the plot thickens. *[I]applause[/I]* What secrets did Soren reveal to Jenna that were so personal that the confession was instantly regretted? Will Sorens writing ever get the credit it deserves? Why the preconceived notion that Soren is such a giggalo (sp?)? What did Soren do with the condom from his shoe? The answers to this and more in the next brilliant installment of.... The Surpassable Everything!! *[I]chessy dramatic music plays[/I]*[/QUOTE]
Gigolo!

Giggalo sounds funner though.

[QUOTE=Vendetta;1036919]Gigolo!

Giggalo sounds funner though.[/QUOTE]

You know, I could not find the correct spelling for that anywhere, like it's a made up word.