FAKKU Writers' Lounge

Imagine a white background, and a faceless stick figure speaking to you. There's a simple dialog box made by Ms Paint down below.

Stickman:

Hello

My name is Forty Five Houses.

Who are you?

Who am I?

What is this place?

Hey look, I am inside a Visual Novel.

Are you inside a Visual Novel too?

I'm just wondering haven't you been answering my questions.

Ah, that's right. You can't do anything but read on, and you certainly have no free will at all since there's no choices. You have no dialogue. Even if you had been given a dialogue, it was merely the thing given by the Author for you to recite.

(Assuming this will be a kinetic novel)

(The stickman guides you into a void shaped like a circle, stacked with letters. Inside of it were nonsensical monologues)

You :

Let us read.

My name is David.

What is David?

I am David.

But at the same time,

I am not David.

So who is David?

If David is David, then I am no longer David.

Hahaha.

(So it goes on and on...)

What are you doing? How are you doing? It was the path that stretches infinite disatances away towards infinite nothingness. Loopholes throughout the lands blew across the valley as the verdant roses bloom so the gillywaters sang together yesterday once more. We tried to make the ends meet, only to end up somewhere along the way to recuperate.

Murmurs of the empty valley echoed as we cried, yet there's no one for us to read, no one for ourselves to purvey. It was one quaint etching, whereas the time dilates, and the circumstancial evidence of this time lies at the broken clock, a broken champagne. Time goes unfolding like staircase, though as far as we know, there was no freedom this time gives. Exasperation cuckhold the open door, the sleigh turning on and on, it was the land where exhilirating noises slumbered so the sleeper began to breathe its neigh.

So the broken staircases goes uphill, on towards a brighter yesterday. Refrain, you might call the middle name by its own foothold. We'd graze and scratch the hillpiece and tabletops resounded near. Tint of scarred weather down the undergallows, porched atop the hill and the scabbard drew near – a part of the valley becomes my heart. Nothing of it much as a love poem gives. Which wasn't obtusely mutual, ominpresent therein. The meanings I'd never know, so the miracles too sleigh to purvey.

What would make sense whatsoever, the hilly terrain goes at the other side of the world? Timed on the uppercut, a quaint relapse. The middle finger rising up, it becomes a ghastly-tinted ghost, further shackled down, frightfully torn to pieces down the undergrowth. We bent down together, our backs solemn like porches of tree, so the branches breathe upon smelly slimy liquid so spooky. Nothing was perched upon the box, was it sordidly clear whatsoever? Nevermind the tinted glass so shallow downer, as the sable champagne sweet and sour, blemish the fountain of fountains nearby the video.

There was love within outer space, the outer sight, the blemishness and blandness of omnipresent future. The warmth of touch notwithstanding, so the void grows within each passing moment. We clasped our hands as we prayed, getting no answers. We grew weary as our foothold overlaps with our passing shadow, progressively moving daytime night-near far-fetched. Righteously barren and encumbered, noised rummaging the dilations of our own shoes. Light chains flickers into violent directions, scorching aglaze the burning desire quaint immolation. Nothing as quaint burned down, leaving no ashes. Only shreds of torn blackened memory, rosely tinted lackadaisical whisper.

Look towards the open window, speak my name, call out to me. I just want you to speak to me. It was within one moment in this empty void, I longed for further isolation. Nearing through as far as I could, becoming further and further away from the nearness far. Feeling the currents of my blood flow boiling, regardless of the time went passing by, I still could not scamper all of this. Throughout the times gone and went by, we've came across a fruitful oath, yet the oath won't supposedly bear any fruit.

We looked outside our own future, finding ourselves lost in time. Well, nothing was quietly decadent, the passing substance, no sustenance which undoubtedly will sustain the discrepancies of the moment. No time limit, no last trump resounds the utter ebb cognac pine cones thawing gash beneath the valley. Something was quietly broken down into pieces of shrewdness puzzle. Rigid scampers rhamsackled thus ransacked in shackles down.