Yeah, if you really want to learn fiction writing, Chuck Palahniuk is who you need to turn to.
Example:
I slowly stand up and look her over. Snap. Crackle. Pop. I tilt my head and look into her steely eyes as the last seconds of life drown out of her like a guppy floating to the top of a fishtank. Snap. Crackle. Pop. This is it. You're fucked. Just like everyone else. Amazing what an M16 can do to a woman's uterus. She groans. I groan. Tractor beam. Snap. Crackle. Pop.
Snap.
Crackle.
Pop.
This is it. My fate. The same as hers. The poor bitch. Her last words can't leave her mangled lips and it's all my fucking fault. I wonder what she'd say. What does she want? Revenge? Untimely death? Fuck if I know. Snap. Crackle. Pop. It dawns on me. The epiphany. The revalatory, ultimately insignificant, epiphany of God's little fucking shrinky dink images of himself. I look at the poor bitch. That's me laying there. Taking the gunshot from myself. The bastard. He shot me. Snap. Crackle. Pop. Motherfucker. Sadistic motherfucking motherfucker. Snap. Crackle. Pop. That's all the meaning our existence carries. Myself. Jesus. Elvis. The president. And the poor bitch laying on my faded carpet. A grain of sand in the Sahara. A flake of cereal in a little fucking kid's breakfast. A figment deep down in the imagination of some busy creator. That's it. All we have to offer. Why are we here? Where do we go? Where am I going to dispose of this dead bitch's carcass? Snap. Crackle. Pop.
Example:
I slowly stand up and look her over. Snap. Crackle. Pop. I tilt my head and look into her steely eyes as the last seconds of life drown out of her like a guppy floating to the top of a fishtank. Snap. Crackle. Pop. This is it. You're fucked. Just like everyone else. Amazing what an M16 can do to a woman's uterus. She groans. I groan. Tractor beam. Snap. Crackle. Pop.
Snap.
Crackle.
Pop.
This is it. My fate. The same as hers. The poor bitch. Her last words can't leave her mangled lips and it's all my fucking fault. I wonder what she'd say. What does she want? Revenge? Untimely death? Fuck if I know. Snap. Crackle. Pop. It dawns on me. The epiphany. The revalatory, ultimately insignificant, epiphany of God's little fucking shrinky dink images of himself. I look at the poor bitch. That's me laying there. Taking the gunshot from myself. The bastard. He shot me. Snap. Crackle. Pop. Motherfucker. Sadistic motherfucking motherfucker. Snap. Crackle. Pop. That's all the meaning our existence carries. Myself. Jesus. Elvis. The president. And the poor bitch laying on my faded carpet. A grain of sand in the Sahara. A flake of cereal in a little fucking kid's breakfast. A figment deep down in the imagination of some busy creator. That's it. All we have to offer. Why are we here? Where do we go? Where am I going to dispose of this dead bitch's carcass? Snap. Crackle. Pop.
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All I need to know I learned from Chucky.
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