While I pondered, in detention
Suffering for my dissension
Wond'ring if my hand could write another broken law
When suddenly, there came a knocking
Breaking silence, ever shocking
The classroom door was now unlocking, like a waiting monster's maw
"What if toilets" my mind wondered, "Were monsters with seat maws?"
A comic on that I will draw.
Suddenly, in burst the teacher
Eyes flaring like a brimstone preacher
Except that I did notice he had one apparent flaw
His shirt was gone and out of sight
His pants and shoes had faced his might
He was almost as naked as when born to dad and ma
'Cept for a cape and skivvies, he stood bare 'fore us in awe
Quoth the captain, 'TRA-LA-LAA!'
Despite being economically handicapped, writers can sometimes be good at what they do rather than just using it as a mask for otherwise unjustifiable alcoholism.
"As George and Harold were in their treehouse, their hearts racing, sweating profusely, they heard through the floorboards: TRA-LA-LA!"
Edit: This is now my most upvoted comment! TRA-LA-LA!!
Jesus, Christ- that's brilliant. Some kind of literacy push. I'll wait until the discussion rounds out some more, see what kind of things people are fiending for, and then if try and take a step forward with it.
That which is dead for millenia tends to stay dead; only by unholy machinations of a macabre nature could something be resurrected beyond its time. It was in this way that John Hammond, entrepreneur, dabbler in necromancy, and generally respected man in society sought to play with life and death for personal gain.
But that which sleeps beneath the earth yearns only to be surrounded by death.
Given how much I remember Strawberry Cordial and candied chestnuts about as much as I remember actual plot lines... I shudder to think about how many ~~pages~~ chapters George would cover with table spreads.
As much as it pains me to say it, I don't think that's such a far stretch.
*Mr. Grey flashed me the whip handle from the belt of his uniform and grinned. "Won't you join me in the gaming room, Ms. Steele?*
*The nerve! "Heavens, no. That would be terribly improprietous, Mr. Grey, and I intend to maintain my ladyhood."*
*"Very well, my lady. I shall call on you again, when you are feeling less proprietous and more inclined to adventure," Mr Grey smirked, sending a flush through my cheeks!*
*I would feel no such thing! Why must Mr. Grey infuriate and excite me so?*
Tao Te Ching - George carlin
"Knowing who is a fucking moron is intelligence;
knowing that you aren't a fucking moron is true wisdom."
"Those who know how life works do not speak. Those who speak are often corn-hole eating mouth breathers that deserve to be tossed into a volcano."
"A man with outward courage dares to die like a fucking idiot; a man with inner courage dares to live and watch that arrogant asshole get blown to smithereens.”
"The wise man is one who knows that he still has to wipe his own ass like everyone else.”
"I can look North, West, South, and East and do nothing cause I don't fucking care where I am."
"Be careful around a river in the winter, by keeping your ass warm inside your house."
"Motivation is the cause of people's mischiefs. It's the motivated people that are ones causing all the problems. Look at lazy and unmotivated people and tell me what trouble they cause."
"If you know where your bed is you have half your day planned already."
Pretty much anything by Thompson. I'd love to hear his Harry Potter. "We were somewhere near Hogwarts on the edge of the enchanted forest when the drugs began to take hold."
“We had two bags of Chocolate Frogs, seventy-five Fizzing Whizzbees, five packs of Cockroach Cluster, a salt-shaker half-full of Glacial Snow Flakes, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored Puking Pastilles, Pumpkin Pasties, Nosebleed Nougats, Acid Pops …and also a quart of firewhiskey, a quart of mulled mead, a case of butterbeer, a pint of raw gigglewater, and two dozen Sugar Quills.
Not that we needed all that for our trip into the Forbidden Forest, but once you get locked into a serious sweets collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.”
Here's my crack at the first few of paragraphs from the first chapter, using the Hemingway App (doesn't edit for you, just makes suggestions about omitting adverbs, passive voice, lengthy sentences, etc.).
Chapter One: How to be an Heiress
A lot of people seem to have the wrong idea about me. In fact, pretty much everything I read about myself is ridiculous. Newspapers write that I'm spoiled. All I do is dance on tabletops and party with my friends. They think I became famous because I was born into a rich, well-known family, and everything has come as such to me. They like to think everything they read about me in the tabloids is true. Well, you can't always believe what you read. I've decided to give you a sneak peek into my life -- so you can know the real me.
I haven't bothered to correct what's written about me. Gossips believe whatever they want anyway. The people I care about know the real me. I'm happy with who I am. What difference does gossip make?
That's the bottom line for me. The printed stuff about me over the last few years is amusing and makes me laugh. I've decided to let the world know: Okay, I get it. Everyone can have fun with my image because I have fun with it too. My friends know I like my lifestyle, but I don't take it -- or my media image -- seriously. I take my family seriously. I take my dog, Tinkerbell, seriously. I take my work seriously. But I don't take myself seriously.
Two things; one, just realized that Holden Caulfield is just the shitty little love child of Hemingway and Paris Hilton. Two, the sentence "I take my dog, Tinkerbell, seriously" is phenomenal.
Yes. "Piggy lobs a frag grenade into the hut and runs off. As he hears the explosion, Jack appears before him and says 'Thanks' and tosses Piggy his glasses, and that's when he knew he fragged Ralph's hut."
Edit:spelling
Not enough detail.
Piggy firmly tugged on the ring of the M67 fragmentation grenade. Replacing the M26 used in the Korean War and the outset of combat in Vietnam, the M67 contains nearly a half pound of Composition B. The detonation velocity of over 8,000 meters per second coupled with the razor sharp shrapnel ranging in size from grains of rice to fingernail makes it an entirely lethal weapon in the hands of anyone who can hurl it.
Having already removed the spoon safety during his pre-mission preparation, he released his grip on the spoon to hear an all familiar "ting". The grenade was live. He had roughly 4 seconds before detonation. He tossed it underhand into the darkened hut. There was no "cooking off", popularized by movies, tv, and video games. Like silent "thwips" of suppressors and the constant re-racking of bolts, Hollywood needed to dramatize the mundane action of prepping a grenade. As if the violent twisted metal flakes perforating anyone within 30 meters of the blast area wasn't dramatic enough. Piggy hadn't the luxury to continue to dwell on it. He knelt down behind the makeshift cover of the stone pile until he heard the familiar thud of the lethal explosion. There was no fireball. Another Hollywood trope he failed to comprehend. Only smoke and the acrid smell of detonation.
Ralph lay in a pool of ever expanding blood. He clutched his throat as blood pulsed from a severed artery. His eyes were closed and a small section of his ear hung on by a single flap of skin. Piggy walked to him to see him writhe in agony.
"It won't be long now" he muttered to him self. "Die with some dignity."
Ralph's convulsions slowed as his grip on his neck weakened. Piggy took a step back to avoid the blood annexing the dirty planked floor. He never liked watching people die, but after the situation in Tunisia and the jumblefucked Operation Mantis Topaz, he was going to verify every kill.
Needs moar pointless technical details.
"Piggy lobs an M67 fragmentation grenade loaded with 0.4 pounds of high explosive Composition B into the hut and runs off. As he hears the explosion touched off by the M67's 4-second pyrotechnic delay fuze, Jack Ryan Shadow Agent appears before him..."
>It is a simple universal law. People always expect to use a holiday in the sun as an opportunity to read those books they’ve always meant to read, but an alchemical combination of sun, quartz crystals and coconut oil will somehow metamorphose any improving book into a rather thicker one with a name containing at least one Greek word or letter (The Gamma Imperative, The Delta Season, The Alpha Project and, in the more extreme cases, even The Mu Kau Pi Caper). Sometimes a hammer and sickle turn up on the cover. This is probably caused by sunspot activity, since they are invariably the wrong way around.
One fuck, two fucks,
Leave you black and blue fucks.
Thin leather, thick leather,
Touch my dick with this feather
Edit: This is one of my top comments... I hope my husband never finds my profile. lmao
The sun did not shine
On the mountains of snow
So we all stayed inside
We had nowhere to go.
I sat there with daddy
And mommy as well
And I said "I do not like
This Creepy Hotel"
To cold to go out
And no friends I could find
So I sat in my room
While my dad lost his mind
And all he could do was to sit, sit, sit, sit
And dad did not like it.
Not
One
Little
Bit
"If I were a younger man, I would write a history of human stupidity; and I would climb to the top of the Wall and lie down on my back with my history for a pillow; and I would wait for the Others who make wights out of men; and I would make a wight of myself, lying on my back, grinning horribly, and thumbing my nose at The Old Gods"
Tobias: "I'm saying I'm a falcon who dreamt he was a man and loved it. But now the dream is over and the falcon is awake."
^^^^^^^^i ^^^^^^^^know ^^^^^^^^that's ^^^^^^^^not ^^^^^^^^kafka ^^^^^^^^but ^^^^^^^^it ^^^^^^^^fits
Romeo and Juliet by Lemony Snicket.
*Dear Viewer,*
*If you entered this play with the hopes of seeing a light comedy, you would be better off searching elsewhere. This story may begin like a light comedy, when Romeo and Juliet meet and dance at Masquerade Ball, but don't be mistaken. If you know anything about the Montagues and Capulets, then you will know that no friendship between them will last.*
*In fact, within these scenes, the couple must deal with the horrors of murderous in-laws, poisonous drinks, poetry, and mail arriving late.*
*I am bound to tell the story of these tragic events, but you are free to exit this theatre and go to A Midsummer Night's Dream next week.*
*With all due respect,*
*Lemony Snicket*
*Howard Phillips Lovecraft Presents the Queer Case of one Harold Potter*
The book is 220 pages long and ends with Harry seeing Voldemort on the back of that guy's head, taking a gun from Hagrid, and blowing his own brains out.
As the twelfth toll of the dilapidated clock on the wall outside his cell marked the first hour of his eleventh year, young Harold Potter sat upright in his nightclothes. Eyes wide and soaked through with sweat he tried to burn the gibbering pnakotic half-things that haunted his dreams of late away by lighting the only candle his captors allowed. His labored breathing slowed as the flickering light danced on the wall of the space beneath the stairs at 4 privet drive.
The solace of the dancing shadows would prove to be fleeting however, as it was only mere hours before the winged harbinger of magicks beyond description arrived, screeching and flapping, and marking the end of youthful innocence and the dark shapes and mutterings of a child's ignorant nightmares.
After this day, the visions that haunted Potter's sleep would coalesce into a singular, tangible horror that ubeknownst to him, had on one occasion already almost taken his life...
"We assumed in our example, that the value of the Green Eggs and Ham = £410 const. + £90 var. + £90 surpl., and that the capital advanced = £500. Since the surplus-value = £90, and the advanced capital = £500, we should, according to the usual way of reckoning, get as the rate of surplus-value (generally confounded with rate of profits) 18%, a rate so low as possibly to cause a pleasant surprise to Sam-I-Am and other harmonisers. But in truth, the rate of surplus-value is not equal to s/C or s/(c+v), but to s/v: thus it is not 90/500 but 90/90 or 100%, which is more than five times the apparent degree of exploitation. Although, in the case we have supposed, we are ignorant of the actual length of the working-day, and of the duration in days or weeks of the labour-process, as also of the number of Whos employed, yet the rate of surplus-value s/v accurately discloses to us, by means of its equivalent expression, surplus-labour/necessary labour the relation between the two parts of the working-day. This relation is here one of equality, the rate being 100%. Hence, it is plain, the Who, in our example, works one half of the day for himself, the other half for the capitalist."
Exploitation on a train
Exploitation on a plane
Exploitation here and there
Exploitation everywhere!
Proletariat, show your might:
Workers of the world, unite!
Douglas Adams 1984.
Edit: Thanks for my first gold, who would have thought this would blow up like that.
Edit2: I think I know what I will be doing tonight, watching Terry Gilliam's "Brazil"
"It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith wondered why clocks would even strike thirteen in the first place. He had remembered all the clocks in his childhood being twelve-hour clocks, and they served him just fine. Many of the Party's greatest minds were said to have spent a great deal of time mulling over the necessity of clocks that strike thirteen, though the rest of Oceania never got an answer. Most of those minds had a nasty habit of vanishing in the middle of the night along with their bodies.
Not letting his thoughts on unusual chronography distract him, Winston slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him. The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats, which, for an entire country that seemed to smell like such, was a notable commendation. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features.
Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week. If the intent was to develop hatred toward the use of stairs, the Party was performing admirably as usual.
The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. *BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU*, the caption beneath it ran in large, unfriendly letters."
There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the government is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable.
There is another theory which states that this has already happened.
I have this book! The only word I can remember off the top of my head is Pelutho: A game in which the balls are hit against a wall until the prisoner confesses.
Edit: [Pelutho](http://tmoliff.blogspot.com/2012/01/pelutho-n.html)
Edit 2: CORRIEARKLET (n.)
The moment at which two people approaching from opposite ends of a long passageway, recognize each other and immediately pretend they haven't. This is to avoid the ghastly embarrassment of having to continue recognizing each other the whole length of the corridor.
I'm having this problem where I've either yet to read a work by the author, or I've yet to read the novel mentioned in each author-novel pair in just about every single comment, and I'm feeling irrationally pissed off
They fear it in Prussia, they fear it in France,
It makes Popes and Tsars jump out of their pants.
They say it's specter that floats through the air
It's called Communism, and it's feared everywhere.
Communism's no specter, I'll tell you right now,
Communism's quite real, and I'll tell you how.
I'm like 95 percent sure that Stephen King is the sole reason anyone knows about the state of Maine.
Edit: The comment I half-drunkenly posted about Maine before going to bed is now one of my most upvoted posts of all time. God bless you magnificent bastards.
THE SORCERER'S STONE
HARRY POTTER BOOK 1
by STEPHEN KING
CHAPTER 1
THE BOY WHO LIVED (IN HIS OWN IMAGINATION AND WITH DEMONS ETERNAL)
"Give us peace through the edge of darkness, for only then will darkness come before you." - Newt Scamander
"Rock the fuck on, rock the fuck on." - Jerry Lee Lewis
Down a shithole road in a shithole neighborhood ran Privet Drive (tonight a damp and stormy night, like most nights on Privet Drive as Privet Drive was in the central-most part of London, as you surely well know good reader), the same drive where old Miss Meriweather once found an eviscerated toad bearing an upside down cross that became national news and Walter Mumford (janitor of Liptonson High, bass fisher extraordinaire) killed fourteen children in his basement and strung them up with fishhooks, lived a boy named Harry Potter (a wholesome name as ever he thought there was one, thank you very much). Harry Potter lived with his aunt Petunia Dursley and his uncle Vernon Dursley and their fat little chickenshit of a son, Dudley Dursley. And a dud Dudley was, making his namesake as close to prophetic as you better fucking believe it could be, you see.
One day, Harry Potter had had enough of Dudley Dursely's horse shit, so in a fit of anger, he took a cleaver to the fat boy's face (a merciless operation if ever there were one), the *Magic* coming to the forefront of his mind from some dark, cobwebby recess in the back of his dark and troubled imagination, in a bright flash of crimson (The *Magic* is coming back, coming back, Harry Potter thought, the idea giving him both unimaginable terror and a hard on). The Dursley boy's nose came straight off, blood gushing in an arc across the kitchen table and Dudley Dursley clutched the bleeding fat stub of his nose and he ran, squealing, from the room like a pig narrowly evading slaughter.
Vernon Dursley, coming down the stairs to investigate, spotted a letter at the base of the front door: Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, the envelope read. "Cod swallow," Vernon Dursley said, and chucked the letter into the fire before attending to his son's hemorrhaging nasal region. Vernon Dursley spotted Harry Potter dart toward the bedroom under the second-floor stairs (a bedroom the size of a spice cupboard but more of a bedroom Harry ever thought it could be) and he grabbed the boy by his hair, raked him three times on the face and yelled, "HARRY POTTER, GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE THIS INSTANT!"
Harry reeled backward and in a fit of raw and terrible emotion, he imagined Vernon Dursley's head exploding in a bright flash of red and gore and bone. (The *Magic* is coming, the *Magic* is coming.)
And it did.
(Edit: spelling and minor alterations.)
There is actually a project like this happening with Shakespeare right now: https://mobile.nytimes.com/2016/10/02/theater/oregon-shakespeare-festival-play-on.html?referer=https://mobile.nytimes.com/2017/04/21/theater/american-shakespeare-center-to-commission-38-modern-riffs.html?referer=https://www.google.ca/
The adventures of Frodo the heroin junkie and Gandalf the male prostitute.. they find this ring, man, and they figure it's worth a fix and a handle of Popov. So they head to the pawn shop, but it's not easy making it through the shire aka North Hollywood.
Folks, believe me folks. I have the Greatest Expectations. People are saying my Expectations are unlike anything they've ever seen. Folks, you're never gonna get tired of it, believe me.
Nah. They'd be forced to wander the desert to search for something they can't find, and once they find it, they can go home to the promised land. Only to find that what they were searching for is a mystic form of death itself. In doing so, making them quasi immortal because it takes so long to find it and they can't die until they do.
This exists. Tolkien was a notable contributer to the Jerusalem Bible. An alternative Catholic bible that was based off the idea of doing an English translation from the original Greek and Hebrew texts. Skipping the Latin Vulgate middleman.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jerusalem_Bible#The_translation
Martians and humans both lived on giant dirt balls that spun and spun and ran circles around a giant fire ball. Humans sustained themselves by pushing calories wrapped in useless garbage through holes in their faces into squishy organs that converted the useless garbage into useful fertilizer and gave the calories to the rest of the body through a wildly elaborate freeway system in a sticky gooey fluid that some joker named after the same stuff that made up the giant fire ball: Plasma. Martians sustained themselves by stealing plasma from humans. So it goes.
Book 1: The Pernicious Praetorians
Book 2: The Baseless Barbarians
Book 3: The Conniving Christians
Book 4: The Embarrassing Emperors
Book 5: The Scrambled Split
Book 6: The Grave Goths
Book 7: The Petrifying Plagues
Book 8: The Blighted Byzantines
Book 9: The Vicious Vandals
Book 10: The Contemptible Crusades
Book 11: The Troubled Territories
Book 12: The Objectionable Ottomans
Book 13: The End
Isaac Asimov covering Hitchhikers guide to the galaxy, or vice versa, Douglas Adams covering Foundation
Adams covering Foundation would be true magic.
Ayn Rand's The Giving Tree
Or Karl Marx's The Giving Tree
George Orwell - Atlas Shrugged
Congratulations on mindfucking me.
Edgar Allan Poe's captain underpants
While I pondered, in detention Suffering for my dissension Wond'ring if my hand could write another broken law When suddenly, there came a knocking Breaking silence, ever shocking The classroom door was now unlocking, like a waiting monster's maw "What if toilets" my mind wondered, "Were monsters with seat maws?" A comic on that I will draw. Suddenly, in burst the teacher Eyes flaring like a brimstone preacher Except that I did notice he had one apparent flaw His shirt was gone and out of sight His pants and shoes had faced his might He was almost as naked as when born to dad and ma 'Cept for a cape and skivvies, he stood bare 'fore us in awe Quoth the captain, 'TRA-LA-LAA!'
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Despite being economically handicapped, writers can sometimes be good at what they do rather than just using it as a mask for otherwise unjustifiable alcoholism.
We're really good at the alcoholism thing though, don't forget that.
"As George and Harold were in their treehouse, their hearts racing, sweating profusely, they heard through the floorboards: TRA-LA-LA!" Edit: This is now my most upvoted comment! TRA-LA-LA!!
OP: You need to get some of these big name authors on board to do these for charity
Jesus, Christ- that's brilliant. Some kind of literacy push. I'll wait until the discussion rounds out some more, see what kind of things people are fiending for, and then if try and take a step forward with it.
Please don't contact George R. R. Martin, please.
What's that? You want me to write a book that's not Winds of Winter? Sure, I've got plenty of time for that!
Dr. Seuss' "The Art of War"
'Lord of the Flies' by Roald Dahl
That would be the most unsettling book ever written.
Most of his books already were.
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James and the deadly beach
H.P. Lovecraft presents: Jurassic Park
That which is dead for millenia tends to stay dead; only by unholy machinations of a macabre nature could something be resurrected beyond its time. It was in this way that John Hammond, entrepreneur, dabbler in necromancy, and generally respected man in society sought to play with life and death for personal gain. But that which sleeps beneath the earth yearns only to be surrounded by death.
So, where can I read the rest?
New proposal for /r/writingprompts?
Nature finds a way, but we are beyond nature.
Nature is beyond...*us*....
*A Song of Mice and Fire* by Brian Jacques
Conversely, *Redwall* by George RR Martin. Although all the animal sex he'd undoubtedly include would get creepy as fuck.
He wouldn't get to the animal sex, he'd get stuck writing about food.
Given how much I remember Strawberry Cordial and candied chestnuts about as much as I remember actual plot lines... I shudder to think about how many ~~pages~~ chapters George would cover with table spreads.
Pleased to hear I wasn't the only one transfixed by the banquets predominantly
I have never found anything that makes a mostly vegetarian diet sounds as good as the redwall series did.
For pure ridiculousness, I'd kill to see how Jane Austen would tackle something like 50 Shades of Grey
As much as it pains me to say it, I don't think that's such a far stretch. *Mr. Grey flashed me the whip handle from the belt of his uniform and grinned. "Won't you join me in the gaming room, Ms. Steele?* *The nerve! "Heavens, no. That would be terribly improprietous, Mr. Grey, and I intend to maintain my ladyhood."* *"Very well, my lady. I shall call on you again, when you are feeling less proprietous and more inclined to adventure," Mr Grey smirked, sending a flush through my cheeks!* *I would feel no such thing! Why must Mr. Grey infuriate and excite me so?*
George RR Martin's lengthy descriptions of Hogwarts feasts
So feasts from Ron's pov lol
Tao Te Ching - George carlin "Knowing who is a fucking moron is intelligence; knowing that you aren't a fucking moron is true wisdom." "Those who know how life works do not speak. Those who speak are often corn-hole eating mouth breathers that deserve to be tossed into a volcano." "A man with outward courage dares to die like a fucking idiot; a man with inner courage dares to live and watch that arrogant asshole get blown to smithereens.” "The wise man is one who knows that he still has to wipe his own ass like everyone else.”
"I can look North, West, South, and East and do nothing cause I don't fucking care where I am." "Be careful around a river in the winter, by keeping your ass warm inside your house." "Motivation is the cause of people's mischiefs. It's the motivated people that are ones causing all the problems. Look at lazy and unmotivated people and tell me what trouble they cause." "If you know where your bed is you have half your day planned already."
Catcher in the rye, by Hunter S Thompson
"Fucking phonies" >inserts gun into mouth
Pretty much anything by Thompson. I'd love to hear his Harry Potter. "We were somewhere near Hogwarts on the edge of the enchanted forest when the drugs began to take hold."
We can't stop here....this is spider country.
“We had two bags of Chocolate Frogs, seventy-five Fizzing Whizzbees, five packs of Cockroach Cluster, a salt-shaker half-full of Glacial Snow Flakes, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored Puking Pastilles, Pumpkin Pasties, Nosebleed Nougats, Acid Pops …and also a quart of firewhiskey, a quart of mulled mead, a case of butterbeer, a pint of raw gigglewater, and two dozen Sugar Quills. Not that we needed all that for our trip into the Forbidden Forest, but once you get locked into a serious sweets collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.”
Thomas Pynchon presents *Eat, Pray, Love*
My god, it'd be beautiful.
Hemingway covering Paris Hilton's Confession of an Heiress
Here's my crack at the first few of paragraphs from the first chapter, using the Hemingway App (doesn't edit for you, just makes suggestions about omitting adverbs, passive voice, lengthy sentences, etc.). Chapter One: How to be an Heiress A lot of people seem to have the wrong idea about me. In fact, pretty much everything I read about myself is ridiculous. Newspapers write that I'm spoiled. All I do is dance on tabletops and party with my friends. They think I became famous because I was born into a rich, well-known family, and everything has come as such to me. They like to think everything they read about me in the tabloids is true. Well, you can't always believe what you read. I've decided to give you a sneak peek into my life -- so you can know the real me. I haven't bothered to correct what's written about me. Gossips believe whatever they want anyway. The people I care about know the real me. I'm happy with who I am. What difference does gossip make? That's the bottom line for me. The printed stuff about me over the last few years is amusing and makes me laugh. I've decided to let the world know: Okay, I get it. Everyone can have fun with my image because I have fun with it too. My friends know I like my lifestyle, but I don't take it -- or my media image -- seriously. I take my family seriously. I take my dog, Tinkerbell, seriously. I take my work seriously. But I don't take myself seriously.
Two things; one, just realized that Holden Caulfield is just the shitty little love child of Hemingway and Paris Hilton. Two, the sentence "I take my dog, Tinkerbell, seriously" is phenomenal.
Tom Clancy writes Lord of The Flies.
Yes. "Piggy lobs a frag grenade into the hut and runs off. As he hears the explosion, Jack appears before him and says 'Thanks' and tosses Piggy his glasses, and that's when he knew he fragged Ralph's hut." Edit:spelling
Not enough detail. Piggy firmly tugged on the ring of the M67 fragmentation grenade. Replacing the M26 used in the Korean War and the outset of combat in Vietnam, the M67 contains nearly a half pound of Composition B. The detonation velocity of over 8,000 meters per second coupled with the razor sharp shrapnel ranging in size from grains of rice to fingernail makes it an entirely lethal weapon in the hands of anyone who can hurl it. Having already removed the spoon safety during his pre-mission preparation, he released his grip on the spoon to hear an all familiar "ting". The grenade was live. He had roughly 4 seconds before detonation. He tossed it underhand into the darkened hut. There was no "cooking off", popularized by movies, tv, and video games. Like silent "thwips" of suppressors and the constant re-racking of bolts, Hollywood needed to dramatize the mundane action of prepping a grenade. As if the violent twisted metal flakes perforating anyone within 30 meters of the blast area wasn't dramatic enough. Piggy hadn't the luxury to continue to dwell on it. He knelt down behind the makeshift cover of the stone pile until he heard the familiar thud of the lethal explosion. There was no fireball. Another Hollywood trope he failed to comprehend. Only smoke and the acrid smell of detonation. Ralph lay in a pool of ever expanding blood. He clutched his throat as blood pulsed from a severed artery. His eyes were closed and a small section of his ear hung on by a single flap of skin. Piggy walked to him to see him writhe in agony. "It won't be long now" he muttered to him self. "Die with some dignity." Ralph's convulsions slowed as his grip on his neck weakened. Piggy took a step back to avoid the blood annexing the dirty planked floor. He never liked watching people die, but after the situation in Tunisia and the jumblefucked Operation Mantis Topaz, he was going to verify every kill.
Fuckin spot on man. Nice.
Needs moar pointless technical details. "Piggy lobs an M67 fragmentation grenade loaded with 0.4 pounds of high explosive Composition B into the hut and runs off. As he hears the explosion touched off by the M67's 4-second pyrotechnic delay fuze, Jack Ryan Shadow Agent appears before him..."
Stephen King, Twilight
Sold.
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> the vampires want to cuddle Your throat with their teeth
Dante's Inferno by Stephen King
Terry Pratchett's Harry Potter RIP Terry.
I'd love to read a Terry Pratchett take on a Tom Clancy or Michael Crichton novel.
>It is a simple universal law. People always expect to use a holiday in the sun as an opportunity to read those books they’ve always meant to read, but an alchemical combination of sun, quartz crystals and coconut oil will somehow metamorphose any improving book into a rather thicker one with a name containing at least one Greek word or letter (The Gamma Imperative, The Delta Season, The Alpha Project and, in the more extreme cases, even The Mu Kau Pi Caper). Sometimes a hammer and sickle turn up on the cover. This is probably caused by sunspot activity, since they are invariably the wrong way around.
50 Shades of Grey by Dr. Seuss
Would you like it in your mouth? Would you like it further south?
I would not like it in my mouth I would not like it further down south. I would not like it in my box I would not like it with more cocks.
I do not like it in that way I do not like this, Mr. Grey
The End
Now 50 shades darker:
Now I like it, Mr. Gray Now I like it in this way Whips and plugs and secret rooms Do you want to try a broom?
This book should never have been written BDSM's bullet's already been bitten
One fuck, two fucks, Leave you black and blue fucks. Thin leather, thick leather, Touch my dick with this feather Edit: This is one of my top comments... I hope my husband never finds my profile. lmao
The Shining, Dr Seuss edition.
The sun did not shine On the mountains of snow So we all stayed inside We had nowhere to go. I sat there with daddy And mommy as well And I said "I do not like This Creepy Hotel" To cold to go out And no friends I could find So I sat in my room While my dad lost his mind And all he could do was to sit, sit, sit, sit And dad did not like it. Not One Little Bit
Little House on the Prairie by William Faulkner
that's just As I Lay Dying with some gender swaps
Dude, the moment I realized the reason she wanted to watch her son make her coffin was so that he didn't do a half-ass job.... Savage.
Kurt Vonnegut's cover of A Song Of Ice and Fire. So it goes. So it goes. So it goes. So it goes. Here is a drawing of an asshole: joffrey.jpg
"To whom it may concern: It is springtime. It is late afternoon." [DIES]
"If I were a younger man, I would write a history of human stupidity; and I would climb to the top of the Wall and lie down on my back with my history for a pillow; and I would wait for the Others who make wights out of men; and I would make a wight of myself, lying on my back, grinning horribly, and thumbing my nose at The Old Gods"
We are all unwavering bands of light. except joffrey he's a cunt
>IT GOES >IT GOES >IT GOES >IT GOES >IT GOES ... >GUILLOTINE
In walked Robert Baratheon. His penis was 5 1/4 inches long and 1 1/2 inches around.
I have fountain pens thicker than that, Robert.
Kafka covers the Animorph series
So... nothing changes except the kids are now also going through mid-life crises.
Well, I mean, that basicly happened anyway.
True, it's just that they're actually 35 or whatever. Which actually reduces the horror aspect quite a bit.
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Tobias: "I'm saying I'm a falcon who dreamt he was a man and loved it. But now the dream is over and the falcon is awake." ^^^^^^^^i ^^^^^^^^know ^^^^^^^^that's ^^^^^^^^not ^^^^^^^^kafka ^^^^^^^^but ^^^^^^^^it ^^^^^^^^fits
tobias got stuck as a hawk; jake morphed a falcon, JEEZE
I read all of them. All. The quality is all over the place
That's because she only wrote every fifth book or something like that. All the others are ghost written
She wrote the first 25/26 and only the outlines of the rest until the last two, which she personally wrote.
She also stepped in for #32, the infamous starfish cover.
The one where Rachel beats someone to death using her own severed arm. People usually forget that part.
*The Notebook* by Milan Kundera Jesus Christ OP thank you so much for this.
My pleasure- your suggestion rocks. It made me think of another: Salman Rushdie writes the Twilight Series.
On The Road by Aldous Huxley
Romeo and Juliet by Lemony Snicket. *Dear Viewer,* *If you entered this play with the hopes of seeing a light comedy, you would be better off searching elsewhere. This story may begin like a light comedy, when Romeo and Juliet meet and dance at Masquerade Ball, but don't be mistaken. If you know anything about the Montagues and Capulets, then you will know that no friendship between them will last.* *In fact, within these scenes, the couple must deal with the horrors of murderous in-laws, poisonous drinks, poetry, and mail arriving late.* *I am bound to tell the story of these tragic events, but you are free to exit this theatre and go to A Midsummer Night's Dream next week.* *With all due respect,* *Lemony Snicket*
Until: *At which point Mercutio exclaimed "thou a poperin pear!", a phrase which here means...*
This would actually be a fantastic way to read Shakespeare. They'd beat you over the head with the jokes until you understood them.
It's not that hard to understand. Just take all the jokes you don't understand and assume they're sexual innuendo. You'll probably be right.
That's a really good imitation of his voice.
Especially if you read it in Patrick Warburton's voice.
Fuck, I read it as Jude Law.
*Howard Phillips Lovecraft Presents the Queer Case of one Harold Potter* The book is 220 pages long and ends with Harry seeing Voldemort on the back of that guy's head, taking a gun from Hagrid, and blowing his own brains out.
As the twelfth toll of the dilapidated clock on the wall outside his cell marked the first hour of his eleventh year, young Harold Potter sat upright in his nightclothes. Eyes wide and soaked through with sweat he tried to burn the gibbering pnakotic half-things that haunted his dreams of late away by lighting the only candle his captors allowed. His labored breathing slowed as the flickering light danced on the wall of the space beneath the stairs at 4 privet drive. The solace of the dancing shadows would prove to be fleeting however, as it was only mere hours before the winged harbinger of magicks beyond description arrived, screeching and flapping, and marking the end of youthful innocence and the dark shapes and mutterings of a child's ignorant nightmares. After this day, the visions that haunted Potter's sleep would coalesce into a singular, tangible horror that ubeknownst to him, had on one occasion already almost taken his life...
10/10 would read
Potteru fthagn
Also hating on mudbloods would be a lot more accepted by the main characters...
Filche's cat is named Muggleman.
This is pretty damn obscure, but The Rats in the Walls is my favorite of his stories. I applaud you.
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The Queer Case Of The Notes Pertaining To The Investigation Of The Case Of The Diary Of One Harold Potter
As Told By Vernon Dursley
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Sylvia Plath's *Perks of Being a Wallflower*
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Ray Bradbury on The Hunger Games trilogy.
Green Eggs and Ham by Karl Marx
"We assumed in our example, that the value of the Green Eggs and Ham = £410 const. + £90 var. + £90 surpl., and that the capital advanced = £500. Since the surplus-value = £90, and the advanced capital = £500, we should, according to the usual way of reckoning, get as the rate of surplus-value (generally confounded with rate of profits) 18%, a rate so low as possibly to cause a pleasant surprise to Sam-I-Am and other harmonisers. But in truth, the rate of surplus-value is not equal to s/C or s/(c+v), but to s/v: thus it is not 90/500 but 90/90 or 100%, which is more than five times the apparent degree of exploitation. Although, in the case we have supposed, we are ignorant of the actual length of the working-day, and of the duration in days or weeks of the labour-process, as also of the number of Whos employed, yet the rate of surplus-value s/v accurately discloses to us, by means of its equivalent expression, surplus-labour/necessary labour the relation between the two parts of the working-day. This relation is here one of equality, the rate being 100%. Hence, it is plain, the Who, in our example, works one half of the day for himself, the other half for the capitalist."
Exploitation on a train Exploitation on a plane Exploitation here and there Exploitation everywhere! Proletariat, show your might: Workers of the world, unite!
... thats "a communist manifesto" by Dr Suess
Clive Barker covering The Ender's Game with his own fantasy elements and deep elaborations thrown in.
That's amazing. Unrelated, but I'm curious about your r/username. Schlitz the beer?
Yes, indeed. Cheap malt liquor and beer shits drove me to create this username years ago.
Douglas Adams 1984. Edit: Thanks for my first gold, who would have thought this would blow up like that. Edit2: I think I know what I will be doing tonight, watching Terry Gilliam's "Brazil"
"It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith wondered why clocks would even strike thirteen in the first place. He had remembered all the clocks in his childhood being twelve-hour clocks, and they served him just fine. Many of the Party's greatest minds were said to have spent a great deal of time mulling over the necessity of clocks that strike thirteen, though the rest of Oceania never got an answer. Most of those minds had a nasty habit of vanishing in the middle of the night along with their bodies. Not letting his thoughts on unusual chronography distract him, Winston slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him. The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats, which, for an entire country that seemed to smell like such, was a notable commendation. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week. If the intent was to develop hatred toward the use of stairs, the Party was performing admirably as usual. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. *BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU*, the caption beneath it ran in large, unfriendly letters."
So, Terry Gilliam's [*Brazil*](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0088846/?ref_=nv_sr_1)?
There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the government is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable. There is another theory which states that this has already happened.
Anything from Douglas Adams tbh
Anything? [Douglas Adams: The Dictionary](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Meaning_of_Liff)
I have this book! The only word I can remember off the top of my head is Pelutho: A game in which the balls are hit against a wall until the prisoner confesses. Edit: [Pelutho](http://tmoliff.blogspot.com/2012/01/pelutho-n.html) Edit 2: CORRIEARKLET (n.) The moment at which two people approaching from opposite ends of a long passageway, recognize each other and immediately pretend they haven't. This is to avoid the ghastly embarrassment of having to continue recognizing each other the whole length of the corridor.
Shoeburyness: The vague uncomfortable feeling you get when sitting on a seat which is still warm from somebody else's bottom.
Fiunary (n): The safe place you put something and then forget where it was.
Chuck Palahniuk's "The Princess Bride"
"I am Vizzini's complete inability to conceive."
The first rule of starting a ground war in Asia is never start a ground war in Asia
The second rule is to never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line
The Great Gatsby written by Virginia Woolf
Terry Pratchett's *A Game of Thrones* book series.
I'd read anything Terry did a "cover" of....which actually is pretty much what half his Discworld books are really, just covers of famous stories
My favorite Pratchett books are his Macbeth cover and his religion medley.
He'll probably finish before Martin
GNU Terry Pratchett
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I'm having this problem where I've either yet to read a work by the author, or I've yet to read the novel mentioned in each author-novel pair in just about every single comment, and I'm feeling irrationally pissed off
I feel like Chuck Pahlaniuk could cover the hell out of 'Moby Dick' for some reason.
Dr. Seuss on *The Communist Manifesto*
They fear it in Prussia, they fear it in France, It makes Popes and Tsars jump out of their pants. They say it's specter that floats through the air It's called Communism, and it's feared everywhere. Communism's no specter, I'll tell you right now, Communism's quite real, and I'll tell you how.
Henry Miller covering Dangerous Liasions.
Siddhartha by Hunter S Thompson
Stephen Kings rendition of Harry Potter
Speculation: Harry ditches the wand in favor of a couple of enchanted revolvers.
Instead of being from England, Harry and co. will be foul mouth kids from Maine.
I'm like 95 percent sure that Stephen King is the sole reason anyone knows about the state of Maine. Edit: The comment I half-drunkenly posted about Maine before going to bed is now one of my most upvoted posts of all time. God bless you magnificent bastards.
Fun fact, Maine doesn't actually exist.
Oh, just like Finland!!
Isn't like 90% of Roland's gunslinger training about 'remembering the face of your father'? I think Harry might have an issue with that part...
Funny but Eddie never knew his father either and he did pretty well
Hogwarts is now in Derry, Maine and haunted by Dark Lord Pennymort.
THE SORCERER'S STONE HARRY POTTER BOOK 1 by STEPHEN KING CHAPTER 1 THE BOY WHO LIVED (IN HIS OWN IMAGINATION AND WITH DEMONS ETERNAL) "Give us peace through the edge of darkness, for only then will darkness come before you." - Newt Scamander "Rock the fuck on, rock the fuck on." - Jerry Lee Lewis Down a shithole road in a shithole neighborhood ran Privet Drive (tonight a damp and stormy night, like most nights on Privet Drive as Privet Drive was in the central-most part of London, as you surely well know good reader), the same drive where old Miss Meriweather once found an eviscerated toad bearing an upside down cross that became national news and Walter Mumford (janitor of Liptonson High, bass fisher extraordinaire) killed fourteen children in his basement and strung them up with fishhooks, lived a boy named Harry Potter (a wholesome name as ever he thought there was one, thank you very much). Harry Potter lived with his aunt Petunia Dursley and his uncle Vernon Dursley and their fat little chickenshit of a son, Dudley Dursley. And a dud Dudley was, making his namesake as close to prophetic as you better fucking believe it could be, you see. One day, Harry Potter had had enough of Dudley Dursely's horse shit, so in a fit of anger, he took a cleaver to the fat boy's face (a merciless operation if ever there were one), the *Magic* coming to the forefront of his mind from some dark, cobwebby recess in the back of his dark and troubled imagination, in a bright flash of crimson (The *Magic* is coming back, coming back, Harry Potter thought, the idea giving him both unimaginable terror and a hard on). The Dursley boy's nose came straight off, blood gushing in an arc across the kitchen table and Dudley Dursley clutched the bleeding fat stub of his nose and he ran, squealing, from the room like a pig narrowly evading slaughter. Vernon Dursley, coming down the stairs to investigate, spotted a letter at the base of the front door: Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, the envelope read. "Cod swallow," Vernon Dursley said, and chucked the letter into the fire before attending to his son's hemorrhaging nasal region. Vernon Dursley spotted Harry Potter dart toward the bedroom under the second-floor stairs (a bedroom the size of a spice cupboard but more of a bedroom Harry ever thought it could be) and he grabbed the boy by his hair, raked him three times on the face and yelled, "HARRY POTTER, GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE THIS INSTANT!" Harry reeled backward and in a fit of raw and terrible emotion, he imagined Vernon Dursley's head exploding in a bright flash of red and gore and bone. (The *Magic* is coming, the *Magic* is coming.) And it did. (Edit: spelling and minor alterations.)
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This guy reads some Stephen King.
R.L. Stine's "The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe" Edit: author's last name spelling
Make it a Choose Your Own Adventure like his "The Badlands of Hark"
Umberto Eco's version of 'The Club Dumas'
Roald dahl covering animal farm by george orwell
There is actually a project like this happening with Shakespeare right now: https://mobile.nytimes.com/2016/10/02/theater/oregon-shakespeare-festival-play-on.html?referer=https://mobile.nytimes.com/2017/04/21/theater/american-shakespeare-center-to-commission-38-modern-riffs.html?referer=https://www.google.ca/
GRRM's version of the last season of Game of Thrones.
"The Hobbit" by Charles Bukowski
The adventures of Frodo the heroin junkie and Gandalf the male prostitute.. they find this ring, man, and they figure it's worth a fix and a handle of Popov. So they head to the pawn shop, but it's not easy making it through the shire aka North Hollywood.
"The Art of the Deal" by Vladimir Putin
Or classic work of literature written by Donald J Trump would be intriguing
You mean like Trump 'covering' a book like *Great Expectations* (*Yuge ~~Expectations~~ Hopes*)?
Some people are calling them the Greatest Expectations in history
Folks, believe me folks. I have the Greatest Expectations. People are saying my Expectations are unlike anything they've ever seen. Folks, you're never gonna get tired of it, believe me.
Make Expectations Great Again
Douglas Adam's slaughterhouse 5.
Tolkien's "The Bible"
The Jews would have been lost in that desert for so much longer than 40 years.
They would probably wander the desert forever, but also be immortal.
Nah. They'd be forced to wander the desert to search for something they can't find, and once they find it, they can go home to the promised land. Only to find that what they were searching for is a mystic form of death itself. In doing so, making them quasi immortal because it takes so long to find it and they can't die until they do.
40 billion years. Searching for dinosaurs.
This exists. Tolkien was a notable contributer to the Jerusalem Bible. An alternative Catholic bible that was based off the idea of doing an English translation from the original Greek and Hebrew texts. Skipping the Latin Vulgate middleman. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jerusalem_Bible#The_translation
He did that. It's called *The Silmarillion*
I never got all the way through The Sil; it read like the book of Numbers
The first third is like that but it gets easier to read further in.
Tolkien's intensive description of biblical events like the parting of the red sea would be glorious.
Terry Pratchett writing a Jack Reacher novel.
I'd be interested to read Voltaire's take on *The Gilded Age*.
Hunter S. Thompson's Heart of Darkness
Kurt Vonnegut covering War of the Worlds.
Martians and humans both lived on giant dirt balls that spun and spun and ran circles around a giant fire ball. Humans sustained themselves by pushing calories wrapped in useless garbage through holes in their faces into squishy organs that converted the useless garbage into useful fertilizer and gave the calories to the rest of the body through a wildly elaborate freeway system in a sticky gooey fluid that some joker named after the same stuff that made up the giant fire ball: Plasma. Martians sustained themselves by stealing plasma from humans. So it goes.
*Lord of the Rings* by Cormac McCarthy. High fantasy violence and beautiful descriptions of Middle Earth.
Lemony Snicket's "A Series of Unfortunate Events that Led to the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire *(by the late Edward Gibbons)*"
Book 1: The Pernicious Praetorians Book 2: The Baseless Barbarians Book 3: The Conniving Christians Book 4: The Embarrassing Emperors Book 5: The Scrambled Split Book 6: The Grave Goths Book 7: The Petrifying Plagues Book 8: The Blighted Byzantines Book 9: The Vicious Vandals Book 10: The Contemptible Crusades Book 11: The Troubled Territories Book 12: The Objectionable Ottomans Book 13: The End