I am flirting with fire; from normality I had cold-feet. I am a kerfuffle of trouble, there’s no saving me now as I have mushroom-clouds for thought bubbles. They lacerate my world believing they k…
Source: True Evil Holds a Pen
I am flirting with fire; from normality I had cold-feet. I am a kerfuffle of trouble, there’s no saving me now as I have mushroom-clouds for thought bubbles. They lacerate my world believing they k…
Source: True Evil Holds a Pen
I am flirting with fire; from normality I had cold-feet. I am a kerfuffle of trouble, there’s no saving me now as I have mushroom-clouds for thought bubbles. They lacerate my world believing they killed me, I’m letting slip my dogs of war until they know me as a reformed super villain. Challenge Completed, Planet Earth; I’m spinning out-of-control, no fault of my own, I couldn’t keep hold. I’m a libertine shoulder barging my way through the captive creators; I’m writing on black paper in the dark.
No brain freeze or frisson, picking up lightening-bolts and throwing them at the pages of rapture I capture. This is merely reverie I reveal and unravel, I time-travel back and thwart all my enemies plans for me. I am no poltroon, I pollute pages personally I made it personal because I am no longer a person. The rain trickles down and washes away…
View original post 398 more words
Destiny is written within us all, each footstep is a word, each mile is a sentence and each life is a book, the novel shall be finished no matter how the ending.- Creative Writer Alexander Kennedy.
A day in a life of me and how I write, you ask? From Charlotte Earning from Oxford – England.
What weird knowledge to acquire; each to their own. Some people want sex, others money but for people like you, knowledge is your power, and the power you gain will make you answer the dark questions that are scratching from under your skin; because in my world, we’re all insane, we’re all monsters and murderers; sanity is the illness and the world is just another pill ready for you to pop.
Now as I write, I am writing something that has never been written before, a style of writing that has never been attempted because no one has ever tried non-fiction-fiction. In layman’s terms, basically, my reality when fantasy comes knocking at my skull, an awake-daydream if you will. It’s a handful, well, a mindful.
This is where our paths pass on one another, you write in a 2D fashion and I don’t only think outside the box, I live there. I live in a place where the my monsters under the bed actually come out and literally try to drag me into the darkness to gobbled-me-up.
You should write like children see! ….What?
I always think the best way to write is to write like a kid, because the way children view the world is sometimes very eerie, dark and very entertaining.
“I love you so much, unc’-Alex, I want to take you head with me in my bag, so I get to see you every time I want.” Thanks to my niece for being really lovely and sweet but also freaking me. She is only 4 years old.
Their view is not harmful but can be classed as “Kind-of-out-there.” I am not saying write like. “The trees are brown, I was wearing black shoes and there were loads and loads of chocolates that fell from the sky.” But see the world in innocent eyes, WHAT IS IT TO YOU?
If I had lived in the medieval times and I came to the present-day and saw an army tank, how would I describe it?
“It was a metal elephant; undead with its dragged screech from its feet; spitting its exploding rocks, taking clumps of life from every structure. The head of the beast turns completely around and charges in for a formidable battle.”
See it like you have never seen it before; it brings the reader into your eyes.
No one has ever told you this but most writers who give you information on creative writing from websites and blogs are holding back the major amounts of crucial detail you need because YOU ARE THE COMPETITION! They do not want you to succeed because it will mean less for them.
But I like a little anarchy and if you take on all my information on how to write and become a legend in your own right. That’s awesome. Forget the system, forget the rules.
Write what you love! Write what you need to! It cured me of mental illness. It could cure you of your sanity. So become something great today in words and shock the world with yourself.
We are on a rock held road which is the cause for me to be mildly thrown side to side in this fast paced box; I peek out of the curtain of the carriage. The sun is dangling on the mountain’s peak getting ready to plunge from its balance and hide behind the panorama, the stars are faint in the sky as nights sky is fitting into its clothing.
Suddenly, it jitters through me like being struck by a lightning bolts will, my motor functions become unmanned, unpredictable with a slight proportion of paralysis. My hands grab anything that I can constrict. The night has its hold, I snap back to the hell and tedium of this world with the gritting of my teeth, but Beth is still dancing in the back of my mind. The horse’s pants are every two gallops of their hooves.
“Ease up, ease it!” The driver chases at the horses ears.
The door flings open to show a gigantic home, clinging to the buildings skin is dying ivy, murdered by the weather.
I step closer to the building with a disruption of patience, I did not want to be here, I could leave, but I must keep up my appearance to these people. People descend from their carts, like rain drops from the skies. The women wore dresses of many colors, but some stuck to the traditional white, to me they all looked like upside-down flowers, with their honey located in their special of places, passing it out to whomever takes fancy to them, when the nectar of alcohol curses their extremities to sexual desirous acts. The men with them are no better, covering up their homosexuality with marriage and the search for an heir, in the wombs they had no pleasure in delivering life towards.
I stand out-of-place in front of the carriage watching the greedy hearts meet and greet one another, they do not take well to money, they do not suit even the pockets they inhabit, just like the dinner table they are full but still seeking more. I skim through the main window people are gathered, holding up glasses to one another; congratulating their greatness, in the bottom right window they are dancing in synchronize with turns and twirls. At the top, a couple are in the middle of a kissing contest, ravishing each other’s faces with the thought of what they are doing is named as passion. I turn my head only catching a glimpse of the last window in my withdrawal; I face my carriage and put my arm out to leave, with a peculiar notion. I spin around.
“Did I just see her, the girl from the market? I only caught her tone and smile, but it is unquestionable as the notion I feel was her.”
I retrace my backwards steps and walk up the path, to the doors, to the woman. The light from the main door unrolls over the ground, filching my steps and imagination. I pace through the arch way, making myself known to the There he is. I revolve, inspecting everything and one. The house was modern, oak flooring kept warm by ruby carpets that only took up parts of the walking space and ghost like walls with hanging ghosts.
“Special guest presiding – Lord Maze Celestial!” A speaker shouts from the top balcony.
Everyone stops, the music stops and the dancers halting their twirls, waiters and waitresses hold their platters and everyone else just their stares. The new money and quietly rich, get in their standpoint, just to claim a look at the most successful man ever to live, in their minds. I place the back of my hand at the lower of my spine and begin to float through the quietly spoken love and dislike “There he is…” and “How much money do you think he really has…?” and “I wonder what he is like under the sheets?” even “It is unlikely that someone who well-to-do became that prosperous by working inside the rules, he had to have stolen it or killed for it, they say that his father died of unknown circumstances, I am thinking he was probably sleeping and he came into his room with a pillow and held it over his father’s face, that should give you a great bank account number.” But with money comes envy.
I have to acknowledge them, I do with slight bows and smiles this has no longer become a banquet to praise me but to perhaps get a name from the kiss I received earlier.
“Maze, you are finally here, I would like to introduce you to a few well named people over here.” Verntro says while ushering me towards strangers with half a glass of scotch but by this morning climbs back I would have forgotten their faces and names, so they could not have been that well named.
“This is Lord and Lady…” Then I zone out staring through these people with smiles and nods looking for her.
Others adore me with pats on the back as they walk behind me. My patience was finally tested by all of this. Verntro stands on top of a chair.
“And here he is ladies and gentlemen, the man of the year, Lord Maze. I knew this young man’s father and I am not jesting, he has broken from his father’s shadow and forged a new destiny and surpassed his father in every ways of charity within our beautiful flourishing country. And in honor of us on this splendid evening of evenings, we or should I say all of us would like to give you a token of our appreciation.” Verntro says slurring his words; he must have had a few glasses of a vineyard’s finest before I arrived.
A young woman, it is her, walks over to Verntro and hands him a darkened wood box with a glass lid, he takes the box from her and indicates his hands outwards towards my space. My eye shift to the box, in the back of my mind I don’t want this box in my hand just her in my eyes, trying my hardest not to glance up. I take the box and stand in near death to be taking a gift from the lowlife that were made from the money and effort of the true workers of the communities. Inside the box was a medal with a lion crest pressed into the metal.
“Thank you all so much, from the deepest gorge of my heart, I am a little lost for words at the moment but thank you all, I will treasure it always.” I manage to throw out.
A round of applause circulates through the main room, I stand in smoke and mirrors with my smile, I look through the crowds, market girl is pressed against the wall at the back of the room with the largest applaud, she stood out to me as if she truly meant it, hers was the only one I counted.
I had dealt with the escape from Verntro with ease introducing him to someone more intoxicated than him. I diagonally walk through the other drinkers; she has her back to me with a silver platter, carrying booze for the unthankful guests of Verntro’s. She is wearing a grey blouse and long black skirt, down to her feet, in her hair she has a white cloth that keeps her hair back and her face exposed.
I am right behind her, should I tap her on her shoulder? Excuse me, Miss, but do you remember me? I cannot say that, it implies that she should remember me. I could always ask her how the ring fits. That’s awful; it has only been a few hours.
She spins around, at first she does not know my face; there is just a blank stare that she had shown to perhaps one hundred people tonight. She stops her thoughts that she would like to speak.
“Would you like a beverage, sir?” She asks.
“No, but I would like to talk like we did today in the market place, miss.” I say hoping for a positive response.
“We met today sir? I’m working, the only thing I am allowed to do is ask if you would like a drink, Master Maze.”
“Don’t call me that ever, it is just Maze to you, I do not care about your job title or how any person in this building thinks. I just want to talk.” She is deterrent still and walks away with no answer.
“Today in the marketplace, no woman at any time in my life has challenged my word and finished it with a kiss, a friend is all I want, I pledge, you will not get in trouble.” holding my hands together in a praying action. She stands rubbing the frustration from her brow and begins to nod.
“But we have to go upstairs to the balcony, so I don’t get caught. There is fewer people up there.” She says.
“Lead the way.” Holding out my palm to show her the direction to the stairs, she looks around to see if she would be seen. The working woman in her is saying, no, do your job, but the market girl in her tells her, yes, have some fun. I traipse up the stairs and walk behind the woman to the outside balcony.
We both post ourselves at the wall, staring out towards an endless black sky, sharing the stars and seconds of silence together. The wind quiets down.
“I am Bethany Sampson, but people around here just call me Beth.” She tells me.
“I am guessing I don’t need an introduction, but it’s such a great relief I now know your name.” I say, she laughs.
“I did not think for a second you were, Lord Maze, perhaps a banker or solicitor, but nothing close to the richest man ever to walk these lands.”
She has a slight disappointment in her eyes.
“Believe it, but to tell you the truth, I do not want this life, I feel poverty and failure coursing through me, but when you have a lot of money, it’s hard to get rid of it than to attain it.”
“I will have it, if you do not want it” We both laugh at her joke.
“I won’t give away my money, but if you let me I will show you the effects of happiness it can bring, if you let me.”
“What do you mean?” She is confused with a stare.
Embarrassment drips waterfalls over me, Just say it, Maze.
“Have dinner with me, any food your heart desires, any wine your tongue requests, it will be yours.”
She stands stunned, picking up her empty silver platter and walking in a runaway, did I say something wrong? I quickly grab her dangling arm. She tries her hardest not to share eyes.
“No, I can’t, the results could be real bad for me, if it was to go wrong, I… I don’t think I can.” She pleads for mercy from what I want.
The ring, I see it wrapped around her neck on a piece of string. I hold it in-between my fingers.
“It kept on falling off, every time I put on my finger, so I put it around my neck to keep it close to me.” She says.
I remove her head-scarf and comb back her black hair, removing it from her face to see her blossom in my memory. Her thoughts are giving into submission, she lifts her head, her bottom lips tries its hardest not to quiver in a nervous fit, either that or the cold had really gotten to her. I remove one of my gloves and blow warmth into it and place it on the side of her face, her head moves into it with her eyes closed, she tries to hide an exhale, it prolongs from her as it was her first and last. Her hand cases mine keeping me there for as long as possible, we are here forever it feels.
“Oh, my lord, you are chasing after the help, I would never have taking you for loving, dirties, Maze; if you wanted a woman, I could have arranged one that didn’t wear a head-scarf, by the way, where is yours?” Verntro had come looking for me, glass in hand, feathers on his feet and no order in his movement.
Beth stands back from me; her eyes are hooked to the floor. Verntro stares at her and her two smudged sisters.
“I think you better get back to work, my little slave girl.” Verntro sights rest upon Beth’s position in this world.
“Verntro, it is not her fault, she is who she is, just leave her be. I was the one who instigated our meeting, do not blame her.” I implore to him.
Beth takes back her scarf and grabs her empty platter and speeds away downstairs, back to the gathering, she strikes at the tears that slid down her face and hangs on her top lip. Verntro slithers up to me.
“I now know that you are not better than me, because I have something you want and I promise you that I am not willing to part with my possessions, like you, oh, Beth told me about the ring you had given her, extremely charming.”
I throw my face in front of his.
“I am not in the mood for this Verntro, I will be partial to whomever I am attracted too and you and no one else will tell me different.” I say with ferociousness, its evil hold slowly tiptoeing its way back to my imagination. I could pluck out his eyeballs so he could never put his ugly look upon Beth again, I could heave out his tongue so he could not speak wrong words of her again, take his fingers from his hands so the last thing he felt was his own fear. His eyes are blood hounding me but are being led away by the devil whispers of alcohol.
“I will let your words go as you are not of sober mind, Verntro, consider this your warning, do not underestimate me because of my sober actions.” I say to him, bringing myself back to tranquility. Verntro’s head bobs in midair like waste in water, he is not worth my effortless hunt.
I break our eye exchange and pace slowly away with clenched fists I keep by my side, undeterred in each step to lastly let him know that he has unaffected me, trailing his red carpet I reach the edge of the stairway, finally I turn and have a look at my enemy for the night. He sways like a tree in the wind, with a bowed head and angry narrowed eyes that tear strips from me and my intentions, but it is no longer my intentions that I am fretting over, it is shown in the corner of his small smile; he has a plan. I must forget about him.
I trudge down the stairs almost in a stampede; I must get out, not letting this atmosphere on my behalf hold me here any longer than I need to be. I reach the bottom step; Beth is nowhere in sight, just the reality that these people are ugliest of the low, not in beauty but nature. The under-toned women stand behind their spouses against the wall areas, ghost whispering about their bedroom brawls and unsatisfied sexual antics. The women pan the room trapping with sexual desire young adolescent men who have recently been established as wealthy as a passed away relative has left them their inheritance, plus into the bargain the women would always disgrace their marriage when their husbands are working, leaving them with a young man’s body upon their used skin.
The low laughing men gather in groups in the middle of the rooms, strangling their brandy glasses in one hand and attached to their fingers are imported cigars, their stance is power filled and uncaring, badmouthing the world that has giving them everything, but never enough, hiding the fact they have homosexual feelings for one another, I am still farfetched from the root to their attraction to other men but I have come to the conclusion that it is either their own vanity and have fallen in love with the mirrors of themselves or just their penises against another’s penis.
I barge by the crowds; they notice the dwindling tone of my mood and lack of eye contact by my vertically aimed eyebrows. I break out in a burst for freedom to the outdoors, the cold air calms me, the unsightly try to entice me back with supple looks to lure me back to their cave of eternal darkness, no. My heartbeats were galloping and I couldn’t slow the shakes of what I should have said and done. I speed walk towards the carriage, Benjamin flicks away a cigarette.
“Sir, has the banquet finished already?” He says replacing the smoke with fresh air.
“Yes, the company I keep should be better thought out, because you never know what they are truly thinking.” I reply.
“Home?” He says; fasten up the buttons on his overcoat.
“No, not for me, you go, I will get a horse from Verntro; just need some cold air to settle my frame of mind. Have a nice night.”
“Thank you, sir… Come on, lads!” He climbs on to the seat of the carriage and begins to whip the leather harnesses and trots away.
I stare back, I finally realize I do not need this world, this world needs me. Smile blessed and free, a breath living within my lung and saved wealth within my bank, what more could I want… Beth.
I walk in the opposite direction to my detention named, Verntro Manor, towards a wooden fence, the moss on it has grown and evolved in to its own nature. I jump it and walk until I am in the void of the valley that is infested with grass that rises to the waist. Not even the sharpest of eyes could see me from here, I stare back anyway as history has always caught up to the present, time and time again for not being cautious when I feel untouchable. Verntro’s home was a black jewelry box that emanated light to the forests around it. I reach into my overcoat and pull out a pair of black gloves and a large piece of cloth; I kneel and fold and re-fold the cloth on my knee, then wrap it around the bottom part of my face, nose and mouth, tying it behind my head, I slip on the gloves. I spin around and charge for the heavens with both fists, the cold airs pincers latch on to my visible skin, the sky seems endless as I glare into its millions of eyes but beneath me seemed empty to the movers of the world. I slow to a halt; I can see the glow of Kingston lodged in-between two monstrous mountains; the churches steeple gives it away as it is the only building I can place my vision upon. A black sheet of secret kept the ground asleep.
The calmness of the world scares me; it reminds me of my third wife, Amyala, a true beauty.
Brown hair, wide wild brown eyes that pull you towards her, she was like a love poem that you had to read four or five lines before the plot became apparent. It was about three thousand years ago in Greece, the weather for the time of year was especially warm, the country had just gotten over a drought that had taken a few lives, but we were in the midst of a long needed storm that had been like a vengeful God in the sky for three whole days, throwing lightening everywhere and shaking the floor with his genuine voice. The sun had been dragged by ropes beneath the end of the world’s line. I lived on a cliffs edge next to the sea, which was often raged with Poseidon’s wrath.
The home I lived in was only a wooden box, with one obscure hole in the wall for windows, a dining room, bedroom and a cooking area. I was a sheep farmer and was enjoying life. My memory of this time had faded and details of her had just been overtaken by time.
I come bursting through the door, ragged and filthy, with a leaking bucket of water; I waddle to a ceramic bowl and pour the water in.
“Petra, you’re home; I thought you had gotten swept away by the current.” she shows her head from the bedroom.
“Lucky for you, I did not” I say out of breath.
“Yes, lucky for me…” She says in a sarcasm tone.
“Does my love bestow a joke on me?”
Amyala runs over to me throwing her arms around my neck and locks it with a kiss from her warm lips.
“Jokes and kisses… I must have done something right, for a change.”
“No, nothing, just for you being you, plus you need all the love you can get as your wife of twenty-three days may steal it and run with it forever.”
“She would not dare… But as I think about it, she does seem like the sort.” I put on the face of a scary mythical creature that haunts caves and eats virgin girls. She is impervious to the laughable mask.
“Have you brought in the herd? I don’t want them to wander in to Eldorado’s land again.” She asks.
“Done and dusted, do not worry, I have taken care of everything, we shall eat then go to bed, without a worry on our minds.”
She kisses me again and releases her grip, turning and walking into the kitchen, I stare at her perfectly made body, her skin had been breathed on by the sun, her beautiful backend swayed like a butterfly on a gentle wind, I cannot help but stare. I walk over to a cylinder pot and pull out two spoons.
I take hold of my chest, my heart attempts to bash through my chest, I feel the tears rush to my eye line, the animal behind my ribs were thrashing and snapping at all of my other insides. The two spoons fall to their doom and my breath becomes cursed by the evil within my heart, which leads me to the idea of food. I hadn’t eaten in one and a half moons. Amyala was silent in the dark of my secret, the reason was she was an innocent and I longed for normal.
Amyala retreats back to the main room with two bowls of soup, she see me in agony and quickly places the bowls on the old dried-out wooden table.
“What happened?” She says, holding up my head so we were eye to deranged eye. I manage to catch one breath that sets my lungs back into their rightful place.
“I lost my footing.” She wraps her arms around me once again, picking me up to my feet, I cannot blink, the frenzy had taken shape as a thought I had banished to the recesses of me, I did not want to hurt her, but there are forces within my world more powerful than love. Half of me wanted to run but the other needed its taste of love before death.
I bury my head tenderly into her hair until I am nestled in her neck. My body quivers as I unbolt my doors from myself. I place my hands on her shoulders and push her back; she takes a few back steps and is stopped by the wall. I fall back to my knees.
“Do not you come near me, you run, run now!” I shout at her sight, I must hate her.
“I will stay by you, I can help.” She replies.
I look up; she is still beautiful in her worried state. My eyes begin to build up and send tears to their suicide and turning my pupils black with truth.
“Please tell me what to do, Petra?” She asks with tears and a quiet voice. Petra? …Not anymore. I jitter and jerk, trying to hold back myself.
Nothingness is my strength but love has no place within me, she is not love, she is but routine, a face I have placed in my memory enough times to think she is my one. Trickery is her technique, which she shines on a fragile man’s heart. A favor gifted to this world, if you do what is in my nature. I am strong enough to conquer but not to say no, making my nothingness also my weakness.
It stops, moisture hangs on a line from my bottom lip. I raise my right hand up above me and use the table as my support to bring myself back to my feet. She looks on in cower, should she help? Should she get help? Should she heed my words and run? These things troubled her as they dart into one another inside her final judgment.
I collapse in tire; my chin is bowed into my chest, closed eyes, my nose touching a rock dusted floor. My hands are covering my head as my spine jilts me forwards with spasms, every other second. Suddenly it stops; she kneels with watchfulness, a warm hand of hers takes a steep to my level. As if her hands can heal this hurt, I shoot up until her eternal tears reflecting in her eyes mirror the hell within mine. I run through the opened door, I run and run and I ran, through the branches and jagged stones that attack my feet’s bottom. I am brought down and down again by this inhumane famine pain, crashing me into plant life and rocks, that cut, spread blood and open me, I bleed on the elements. The clouds begin to brew in the sky with the dark colors of black, blues and purples; the ocean is the first to lose his temper throwing punches at the cliff side.
I lose ground as I come to an edge; I stare down, blackened razor-sharp fingers stick out from the water. If I end this now, I cannot have her. My world bypasses my eyes; it just sits in distortion, I know it’s still in motion but its gathering dust. My murderer’s breath is shared with the sea air.
“Life or death, neither would survive within me if only I had committed to my true nature.” I stand, giving guilt to the sky.
There is no one in sight, with a world so large and with so many born and walking, why do I live with this feeling of loneliness. My arms and eyelids seem heavy and my legs want to snap with my evil weight. I take a leap with no faith or effort; I fall towards the rocks, hoping for impalement. The clouds shift together and cover up the stars; this fall seems like forever to end.
I hit the rocks, no impalement, just immense pain, ripped and broken, half in the water and half not, unable to move. The water comes in and drags me with its waving hands, pulling me in with its shift then throwing me forward back into the rocks. Black…
I am awakened by screaming birds and a seething light that wheedles its way through an opening in the twig roofing. How did I get back home? It is peculiar, I feel normal as normal would give. I lift up my hands, clothed in dry blood. No, I couldn’t have, could I? Not Amyala. This is not possible; I was dying in the water. There is no way in this world’s hell I could have brought myself back from the brink of Hades. This maybe a dream or perhaps last night was a dream? Then whose blood is this. I thrash my hands all over my body to see if I was wounded, nothing. I sit up from my hay bed that has been bagged in cloth for a sleep. I climb off from the rustles, the floor was damp the house must have gained a leak as the roof wasn’t that able to hold off all the water because of the gaps. I peer around the corner in to the main room. Blood, red, insides, body parts, scarlet drips, Amyala was everywhere, nothing was recognizable. Her blood was in puddles on the floor and smears on the walls. The main wall to the hut had been reduced to rubble, only a demon from Hades could have done this diabolical act, It must have been me, I was that demon… Forgive me Amyala.
I come back to the now. Still airborne from Verntros banquet, still with disgust for Verntro, to this day I ask for forgiveness from Amyala, she just never knew. A gust of wind slams against me, a cold fear was carried on it and it was coming from Kingston. My eyes fix and I shoot like a bolt towards the town, passing clouds and night birds, weaving through them. Once I reach the town, I slow just so I can either see the trouble or hear the screams.
“HELP!” A scream comes from a few narrow streets away. Chimneys are at full burn and make fake clouds; I land on a pubs roof, stepping on the edge, staring down at the street. I hear the hard breath of a woman; I run over to the other side and glance down, am I in time to do my job? A young woman has been cornered like a wild animal by two drunken poachers. They both are taunting her with their hands, trying to grab hold of her dress but she is strong and knows she must put up the fight.
“Get away from me, please, get….!” She fights with her words.
One man manages to get hold of her, he head butts her; she falls to the ground with a crack to the back of the head due to the cobbles, dazed eyes and blooded face. The two men circle and shadow her, staring at both of them, she knows their next move but which one will do the evil first? Both men look at each other with the idea of rape; one speedily kneels, already grunting to the idea of forced sex as holds the young woman’s arms down, while the other wriggles with his belt with one hand and with the other ripping and trying to pull up the woman’s dress.
She screams her hardest.
No more, I leap from the buildings top with opened arms with a somersault roll before I land a few yards from the culprits and the young woman. The man waiting his turn, picks his head up slowly to my direction, mouth opened with no teeth. He is kneeling, watching the war in my eye, the other man is still figuring out how to undo his belt buckle, so I am unnoticed by him. I run in for battle with so much rage in each footstep. The knelt man is shock-stunned to my advance, too bad he had no teeth as I kick him full pelt at the bottom part of his jaw, something’s broken, sending him flying from the ground like a paper ball, through a glass window of the pub. By this time I am seen by the other, he had finally gotten his trousers down to his ankles but after he had seen what I had done to his partner in crime, sex was off the menu for him.
He stands and about turns without lifting his feet, trying to gather his trousers up to his waist. I run after him, grabbing his jumper behind his neck and carrying him off in flight across the street, threw the opposite alleyway into the darkness, now he is the one who is screaming for help, I climb higher and higher and he cries harder. I am about half a mountain side up in the air when I let go, fear must have cut off his tongue as there was no scream going back down from him.
I stare back, is that woman in good health to make it home? I better check… I speed back to the alleyway where she laid and land on the street in front. She is still lying there, shaking. I stare closer as familiarity grips me. I know her, it is the street-walker from a few days ago, the one who propositioned me and I had told her this would happen. I will not gloat to her, she may remember my face and that is the last thing I need.
I pace up to her, she tries to shuffle away with the balls of her feet on the wet ground, through puddles.
“My dear, are you in health to make it back to your home by yourself?” I ask in a deepened voice.
She stops and looks at me queer, she nods, her lips quivers with the gash.
“Yes, I think so, yes… Are you going to kill me, like those men? Please, please don’t.” She says, with tears on her speech.
“You have nothing to fear, my dear, if I wanted you dead, I would have let the scum take you. Are you sure you’re okay?”
Another nod, I bow back, my service is done. I stare back up to the sky and leave the ground, my long coat trails behind me, flickering like a rouge flame and cracking at my feet.
Bethany, if she knew me, the true me, she would not want to know me. I shouldn’t even try, one day she will die and I would be left with the lost gap again. It would save a lot of hassle if I just made sure I never went near her, let her live her life without the pain. She doesn’t need any trouble like that. And what would happen if one month I could not control myself and take her, like I did Amyala? A woman like that is not meant for such a fulfillment. Beth, stay away, you will be far safer…
I fly home, back to my guilt; back with Verntro’s circulating words, back to my world, back in the black…
Sitting at the table, I should eat myself. When will I put this knife down trying to put an end to this endless life? Drunk spits at my mirrors reflections. Pick up your whiskey and toast to death. Congratulations, you are now evil. You can now let your soul fall from your mouth and lock it in a jar with no air, shake it and threaten it with fire. I need a sharper knife. You have opened your armor, dumb wittingly within the moonlight, showing this world a beast, and also your love within the same mouth. Howl at the sun to make sure there is no night. Spiral your fingers around your throat like a suicide snake. Lash another wrist. What came first in my life? Time or death, time or death, can’t have one without the other. I guess they come from the same cut.
A pleasant knock comes from the door.
“Maze, are you here?” Arthur softly asks.
“Yes, for the time being, but not for long.” I chuck my words.
I put my feet on my table and take another mouthful.
“There is a young woman at the door for you. She said her name is Beth. Do you know her?” He comes in closer.
“Tell her I am not up for visitors at this time, too ill with this world to make host today.”
“You have been drinking?” He exclaims as I pour another drink and down it in one.
“Vey observant, it doesn’t stop this pain, but it makes me numb to its jab.”
He walks in closer to with a shame shot from his eyes.
“I am going to tell you this because you know I care, let it go, stop feeling sorry for yourself, it does not become you. You have had more chances than anyone to conquer what is inside. Grow up, sober up. You can tell her that you do not wish to have her in your company yourself, she will be waiting downstairs.”
Arthur storms out the room with a thud of the door. I didn’t even look at him once and I won’t be chasing his shadow, just take another drink and deal with the problem of emotions that is waiting downstairs for you.
I stand at the top of the staircase with intentions of battling love on its own battle field. But I am so drunk I have to hold on to the banister to make sure it does not look that obvious.
“Miss Beth! How is one of my most favorite persons today?” I cheerfully shout.
“I am good, all the better to see you actually, Maze.” She says with her hands cupped at her waist.
I have beaten the mountain of stairs and all I must conquer now is to keep Beth still in my sight.
“Why is it better? Has this day produced something that any other could not? Have all your hopes and dreams come to pass? Or perhaps all of your enemies have been slain and slaughtered by another’s blade.”
“No, I am just doing some shopping for the house.”
“Ah Verntro, he is such a prick, don’t you think? He just lacks that push, you know, a push-off a cliff.” I stumble to the right.
“What is the matter with you?” She asks.
“Nothing is the matter with me; it is this world full of bastards that’s the problem.”
“Of course I am, wouldn’t you be when you live in such a place like this one?”
“Well perhaps I can change your view of this world and carry on our conversation from the other night.”
“No need. I know. I know what has to be done.” I slur more saliva than words and rub my sleeve over my mouth.
“And that would be?”
“Terrific question, see you’re so smart, so so smart. And the answer is… I can’t see you anymore or talk. You see we are two different people living in the same world.”
Her facial expressions change so drastically from happy to what is happening?
“You mean you’re rich and I am poor and you are afraid of what people may think. I knew it was a mistake coming here.”
“No! It is nothing like that; I’m just not allowed to love you. That is all. Just scratch me from your memory, it would be safer.”
“What do you mean you are not allowed to love?” She comes in closer for a feel of my hand.
“They made me so I could not love anyone, not allowed. Eventually it’s taken from me.”
“What? Who are they, Maze? You are the richest and most powerful person to ever step foot on this world; you should not be intimidated by those who are not here now.”
I fall to my knees, this heap suits me good as I try to cry.
“You just don’t understand. You don’t, do you? Please just go. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“For now I will go, and when you have lost your drunkenness I will not be far, you hear me?” She let’s go of my hand and walks to and through the door. Please come back. I didn’t tell you I need you. Even for a wee while. Save me, save me, please. Black.
(The other chapters are below:)
Before you jump right in and read this, I wrote this suicide note when I was going to take my own life. What you have to remember is I was not in the right state of mind and I do regret ever even thinking about doing it every day of my life. So precaution is advised. Some things within this note are very dark. But you sane people keep on sending me messages to know what my mind-set I was in, so here it is. I never went through with it, I became something must worse, I became a creative writer. There was about five pages in total, but some bit were very dark to read and too personal to blog. You want to know me? I will make you cover your eyes!
This is my suicide note, my plight for blood and no one can stop me. I’m going to do it this time, turn my world black with one slight slice, so precise.
I wouldn’t expect you to read this, you were never there. My memories are suicide of the mind and every time I relive them I die a little more inside. Hang me by my heartstrings because I have dismantled this beating curse. My mind is the blood that doesn’t want to stay behind the skin; I haven’t dreamt in so long, all these nightmares turn me child-like because under my bed is where hell lives when it’s not in my head.
I am a black flower about to bloom blood. Big waves from the clouds as I spit down on the ones that have wronged me. Can you ease this pain? This headache is punching its way out from behind this skull, the monster must want loose, and you think you have problems….
Is this a cry for help or a war cry against myself? I guess the pathologist will be the only one who with know the ins and outs of me. I am alone, just like you, only I have now taken my own life into my own hands with my own blade, just for me.
This knife will know me better than anyone else, he will get closer to me than any hug or stern talking too; he will give me my true medicine.
Don’t morn for me; you never did when I was alive so not point starting something that will never help. They say life is hard so death must be easy, let’s find out the hard way.
I guess I really am a freak to you people, that’s fine; I sleep a little better knowing I am not you.
But I would like to tell you, from these ashes of me, an idea will arise, one more deadly than this world has ever buried. Anabiosis.
So this would be my final thoughts. My weather call for extreme conditions, angels will fall and heaven eagerly listens.
Life, Love and death, most certain to happen at one point or another to everyone, you have no choice in these matters, neither do the Gods nor the devils, you may have a slight influence on when they may occur, but you can never cause these forces to react by your own will.
How to be an honest writer? ….Write something real!
I BET MY LIFE WILL SHOCK YOU!
I just read in a book that the best blogs that succeed are the ones that post regularly, stick to what they know and also are honest about not only their words but also their life experiences they write, so a connection is made with the reader/viewer. Well I do the other two pretty well so here goes nothing on the third.
My name is Alexander Kennedy. I am twenty-five years old and when I am not stacking shelves at a store I am writing fiction stories to not stack shelves in a store anymore. I’m originally from Scotland a very small town called Renfrewshire, which I and mother and three siblings moved from when I was seven to come to England.
I was a quiet kid, “a mommas-boy” …but I had a knack for storytelling and making up the best lies to get out of trouble because the detail in which I told was so precise, it was rather hard for anyone not to believe it, I believed them sometimes myself.
When I left school, I started a computer course to possibly get a job as web-designer (I lost my touch at writing.) When I wasn’t studying I was hanging around with the wrong crowd, getting in all sorts of trouble with other gangs and the law.
At the age of sixteen I started getting headaches, ones that made me black-out. So to the doctors I was dragged. They tested me for everything, blood-tests, brain-scans until one sceptical doctor prescribed the words “I may have a brain tumour.” I remember walking home from the doctors in silence, the stroll took forever. I just went back to where I lived by myself and sat in the dark, awake all night thinking I was going to die someday soon. Jokes on them!
A few months later I was cleared of a Brain-Tumour! YEAH!!!! And they said “This could be the onset for schizophrenia. (You can stop cheering now!) Haha!
So I became a mental patient, told to live on pills. Not very nice ones at that. I thought to myself everything was going to be fine…. ….How wrong was I?
It wasn’t soon after until the headaches started causing nose-bleeds. As the quiet one in the group, I steered away from my boys and started my own little hate workshop by myself as a recluse. The paranoia was getting to me. I pushed everyone away and in my eyes the deserved it!
I had friends but they eat my food and stole my money.
Me: “I had a Twenty-Pound-Note on the side….”
Bad-Friend: “Nope, I didn’t see anything. Are you sure it wasn’t all in your head?”
As the bad friend slides the note into his pocket.
Me: “Yeah, probably. Thanks mate.”
It wasn’t long before I was an eighteen year old man and I weighed six-stone. Not a good look for the ladies to be arm-in-arm with.
I have written another article about my life entitled “Eminem saved my life! Now I write everything.” It explains in more detail of my suicide attempt and the reason for me to start writing again.
But the words become a portal for me; a portal from all this anger I had inside. I wrote everything and I still have the five-hundred song verses I wrote in one year in my cupboard in my room.
But I started to become very weak, as in a day I was eating perhaps one sandwich. I was a female celebrity dieter.
My mother has never stepped into our business and told us how to live. But she draws the line at starvation and death. She practically told all my so-called friends to beat it. (Not in those words but within her Scottish accent.) She dragged me back home and made reassured me that I was going to get better. My mental state deteriorated and I was house-bound. My mom stayed-up most nights listening to me ramble they most crazed and warped thoughts every to come out of the mouth of an eighteen year old. While all my friends were going abroad and having unprotected sex with strangers and getting pregnant, I was rocking back and forth in the corner of my bedroom with my hands over my ears trying to block out the voices.
And here I am just over six years down the line. I have been brain clear on and off for around four years, I know I am getting better. Yes, I have put all my weight back on and have got a smoking-hot girl on my arm, well, what can I say I’m a good-lookin’ Mo-Fo! With a killer smile. Boom!
And I will continue to write everything, because everything I have been through is my ammo.
But If I die tomorrow, I would just like to say Thank you and I love you to my Mother. She has had a worse life than me and most of us out there and she still holds a smile on her face and puts other people before herself. She inspires me to become something better.
They say we all have a book within us. Mine would be a good read. I will keep it short though; I wouldn’t want to relive it all again for entertainment purposes or for another view on my blog, I am not that desperate.
I hope this short story about my life has given you a little insight about me.
Stay awesome and…..
Keep those pens busy…..
Here we go…
Okay, I know as a writer that we all want the same thing when writing our blogs; now that blogs have become a prime target for literary agencies looking for new writing talent. We either want thousands of views, advertisement or a “Blook” Blog to book Writing Contract.
But here is the kicker; ninety-five percent of the writing blogs out there are awful. People expect after putting their first few chapters of a novel they have written onto their blog to be notice, but just like J.K Rowling and Stephen Kings readers, they read their work because they know of the writer and they enjoy their stories.
If you want all of the above what you must do is gain an audience and they only way you are going to do that is by working hard…. Wait, triple your workload and through it all onto your blog and make people find you. This in turn will bring all your dreams come true.
And the only way you will be noticed is by writing something that has never been written and even then it is hit-and-miss. Think of your blog as a star in the night sky and you want one important persons view. Now that is a huge sky with much brighter stars, so you will have to shine more than anyone else out there just to get one important view on your blog.
Now I know there is real talent out there on the internet, with no views. It’s like that saying “There is always someone better.” This is true and you should always be aware of the fact when entertaining in any field. You could be living next-door to the next Shakespeare; the person on your bus could be the next Jim Carrey. But they are still living a normal life because no one has seen their star shine yet.
Now I am not promising anything, I am not saying when you have taken all the information I have given you that you will be the best or the tools to become one of them. Because some people just don’t make it.
But I know of a story I heard while I was stacking shelves; it was about a man who wrote a novel when he was around twenty-three years old and he tried his hardest to get it publish for the rest of his life, no literary agent would take on his words to publish as he was unknown, it wasn’t until his granddaughter or actual daughter started her own mission to make sure his book was published after he died. She did it…. And his book was published.
The story scared me; the man tried his whole life to become a writer and no one would take on his work. And then my mind really started to overwork, I started to think, maybe he could have been one of the best writer to ever grace this world but no one gave him the chance as he had no brightness. Still gives me shivers.
I think am I good enough to be a writer?
Is writing the career for me?
Am I writing well?
So on and so forth…. The answer, we will have to wait and see.
I will keep my pen busy….
"So I will allure her; I will lead her into the desert and speak to her heart." (Hosea 2:13)
Bath, body, fashion
“Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.” --- Jack Kerouac
The ramblings of a wannabe writer who likes to procrastinate.
Chocolate soldier. Pineapple lover. Roman Holiday fan.
Gain hope, support, and victory!
Mastering the use of question marks
Where The Angels Meet To Post Messages
Conversations with Street People
I write to teach (learn) self reliance
Living, Laughing, Loving, Loathing.
Finding the Light in the Darkness and the Darkness in the Light
Conversations with Street People
thoughts and adventures of a girl with a song.
The Total Book Experience
Blogger Without a Cause
Overanalyzer, Ninja Squirrel Wrangler, Urban Fantasy Author
Making a connection when everything is connected
Love Is Waiting Where You Least Expect It
a small group of writers
Damyanti Biswas is an author, blogger, animal-lover, spiritualist. Her work is represented by Ed Wilson from the Johnson & Alcock agency. When not pottering about with her plants or her aquariums, you can find her nose deep in a book, or baking up a storm.
Science Fiction & What-If Author
Detailing my battle with depression while trying to inspire others at the same time
The world as I see it
speaks to the masses of people not reading this blog
Writing, Musings, and Inspiration ...
Nerd In The Hood
Share something you learned everyday!
Thoughts on art, creativity, and the writing life.
the bit your brain can't itch, served in a packet of alternative pig shit.
Growing older is inevitable. Growing up is optional.
aspiring writer + creative + digital storyteller
Random ramblings on books, writing, and life.
through the darkness there is light
Art Journey—these works along the way. . . .
Est. 2010 - "Dishonest, diversionary and pompous..."
Keeping tabs on local writers & their events