The Sharpesvale Chronicles: A Romance of Death and Cynicism

Welcome to the Sharpesvale Chronicles, your #1 source for serial killers, mad scientists, and zombies!

This hugely detailed generational story is narrated by a foul-tempered, sarcastic, bleeding-heart narrator who writes better than you can and constantly gets into postmodern arguments with his own characters.

Expect black humour, random apocalypses, and about a hundred jokes per chapter. Unsafe at any work!

NOTE: This blog has been migrated from its original home at LiveJournal. Don’t click that link. LiveJournal is garbage. Please let me know if you notice anything out of place here, where everything is wonderful and smells nice!

Check after this post for recent chapters, pick one below, or start at the beginning! Otherwise, try this sample chapter.

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The Sharpesvale Chronicles, Chapter 463

In which dude looks like a lady and a dude.

I who fuck what? Andrew thought, just enough of his superego simultaneously grinding back online that the phrasing embarrassed him. On the topic of embarassment, his ego informed him, he was lying naked on the cold steel floor, his pasty white ass scraping against the rivets as he breathed, fully obscured from the world by the rest of his pasty white bulk. His pasty white penis, inexplicably erect, waved cheerfully to the world but made no apologies on behalf of him, his ass, or its trembling self.

“I,” said Andrew, and he tried to think of something better to say than “who fuck what,” but it’s what he said anyway.

“That was lovely,” Beatriz crooned, tenting her fingers and gazing ceilingward, dreamily. “You’re almost as talented a poet as you are a lover.” She was bathed in white light as the accidentally-activated cloning lab systems slowly, slowly wound down, banishing all shadows from her curvilinear form and, conveniently enough for my purposes, from the illustrations as well.

Andrew looked up at her, and his id explained to him why his penis was still erect.

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