My Evil Pen Told Me To Write This… 2

I am setting these pages alight, sending all my pieces of work into ashy memory, my own personal fire-shrine. I am the truest word of a writer so no further need for my tongue, cut it and kill it. I will take you on a voyage beyond the word hell – My diary. I am damaged; light-years from repair and still my severed limbs are crawling and scraping towards this dream. Sitting envious of the moguls flashing their achievements under my nose; how can I conquer my life if I cannot triumph over my own minds functions? I will one day.

They can make it shower hope for the hopeless and money for the poor, all I can ball-up is my ability to draw forth red clouds and make it rain blood upon us all, my bad. My demons swim within my eyeballs; once they surface they surf upon every teardrop. Writing is my way out of all of this; this pen is a leech upon my hand, sucking all my secrets out.

“He’s a mental patient, why hasn’t he begun killing yet?” I’m not sure, maybe I was hatched wrong.

I truly hope this isn’t the last time I lie down, evanescently in my nightmares. I am shredding up these pages with my ballpoint pen whilst having a word tantrum, I cannot stop – I have gone loco.

“If he is not evil, why does sin rhyme with him?” There are so many questions to answer.

I can’t stop these words escaping from the vortex of this pen!

This is coming off my chest,

Because I’m flying off the walls,

All these emotions inside can’t be stalled,

It’s time to let loose, it’s time to break free,

Alex has blew a fuse,

Here comes another side of me!

Dark clouds form prompt above my head, pissing on this world for my misfortunes and I am standing here filling my pockets. It is rather satirical to watch. Lightning strikes drag their fingers of obscurity across the ground with energized iron, rubbing out all that is wrong with land. The ground up-heaves and overlaps upon itself within a ripple effect to become almost a water imitation. The whole world stops watching and hears my pain, the Earth comes to life. The echoing screams from the people whom have sought shelter from this pen drip to a dull murmur as the ground opens a chipped-corner to Hell. Open your mouth! I do not blink as if I were to do so, a tear would fall; I do not breath from my mouth as if I were to do so, a whimper would wince; I do not care as if I were to do so I would forget this world forgot about me when they said they cared. Let this whole world shudder with my cold shoulder.

I drag my index finger under my right-eye where a tear has clung onto; I look at it sitting on my finger. This is the last of me! I flick the water in your direction. This is what you are after, it’s yours now.

You’re not the antagonist of this story, I am. I could let anyone of you destroy this world but this conflict you waltzed into the middle of has been in the making since my first cut.

You have no idea what this world can do to one man,

If you stay here long enough, you will understand my words.

Help me!




I have been dreaming of something better since I picked up this pen.

On this world you need your eyes to be closed to dream. Alex, give me the go-ahead and I shall make it a permanent fixture upon your face.

The Serial Killer pt. 2 – Hollywood in Flames

I kill and mangle insides without a second thought but I love Grace more than life itself. I do wonder sometimes while she is within my arms if she will ever amount to being a monster like her mother.

“Mommy’s going to work, come give her a kiss.” I urge from the hallway.

Little Grace toddles over to me, gripping the dolls hair as it’s dragged along the floor. Blonde curls and rose cheeks and a smile to ease the demon.

“What time you gon’ be back?” Gracey pouts.

I lower myself to her level; taking one of her hands and re-raising her sad face that has found refuge at her feet in a sulk.

“Well past your bedtime. Mommy has to go talk to a bad movie man who has done some really awful things. But I tell you what, when I get back home I will come and tuck you in and kiss you goodnight. Okay?” I hint with a wink.

Her eyes brighten up with a quick show of her gums. She scampers off, bare foot across the laminate flooring to her cartoons playing in the other room.

The way I look at parenthood, to protect the one thing I love more on this floating toilet I must kill like a African wildcat to ensure my pup has a safer chance of survival within this dangling rock.

I grab hold of my handbag full of torture techniques and weapons, disguises and phony I.D’s. What more could a suburban female killer need?

--

I enter my car and turn on the radio to Eminem, this guys lyrics hit just the right note for the symphony I will be playing with someone’s lungs tonight. My target, Jack Foreman, Hollywood actor from such action movies like, Enter the bullet, Beats of the bad and my personal favourite, Tainted. But tonight Hollywood and I will be making our debut in a new slasher-horror movie, I will write as I go with the flow called; you like to take the purity from little kids and that really pisses me off to the point where you have to die, asshole! ...Good title, huh? I’m sure it will be a blockbuster hit worldwide.

I know I’m a small-time T.V. reporter for channel 43, every other week when the regular guy is sick, but hey, I’m working within a global recession. I can’t stand with all the reporting saners and still get in.

He will be locked away in his hotel room, a scared king in his castle, with over fifty networks from around the globe circling his moat, nibbling at his door handle for the chance to ask just one question or get one quote from his people. So a diversion is needed for us to be all alone, so I can take his soul he has taken from the innocent. This is a once in a lifetime, one on one converse, where all doors are open as well as his windpipe.

I pull up across the street of the Tyrann Hotel, which stretches to the clouds and camouflages into the night the further you look up. Flashes from photographers and limelight’s for the news anchors enlighten the feet of the skyscraper. I am a superwoman; they call me the woman of steel. What is a skyscraper? Probable rubble; but I always get my man and will go through hell fires to ensure this death.

My disguise on and my fury on fire; I exit the car with the master plan of extinguishing a star. All eyes of the surrounding area are focused on the media, flash riots and speculations. So I slip blindly passed the by-passers and cameras in my dock martins.

I enter the underground structure of the skyscraper, dynamite would be a great idea if I had any, drag the star down to the ground, I don’t, but this is my justice I must see through. A plan of how to enter the building still baffles me, everything is security locked and swiped.

Just before the nervousness of failure snuggled into me like a bad idea; when a stroke of luck in the sound of clonks from over within the darkness echoes through the doubt, within the shape of heels across the oil spills and tire burns on the floor. A middle aged woman; grasping her bag that rests on her waist; her wide eyes show so much hope to the light that rest behind the door to the car park.

“Excuse me, do you have the time.” I query. At first she seems startled to my presence; a sigh of relief is puffed when she realized I am a normal girl, just like her, sort of...

“Oh God, you’re one of those reporters aren’t you?” She begins to walk fast towards the door, I slink behind. “The answer is no, I’m not letting you in, so you and your blood sucking vulture friends can fuck off. We’re not allowed to let any of you in or say a word or we could lose our jobs.” She asserts.

“I’m sorry, I have offended you.” She stops in her tracks and turns with sorrow. “But bitch, you need to learn some manners; what mommy and daddy weren’t strict? You’re lucky I don’t kill you where you stand; and I am no vulture, I kill my own prey.” With that I pummel her face until she falls over, knocked-out. A small price for her to pay to make this world a little safer from bad guys, now I know what you’re thinking but my evil is necessary.

I thought she may have been a receptionist or a cook but I have just hit the jackpot, a cleaner, with access to everyone’s room and lives.

--

Standing in the elevator watching the light jump from number to number, I look upon my thoughts and back track my overreaction to my addiction of murder, victim to victim. Why should the people in power take what they want? I am the result, the aftermath, the monster my dad and his friends made on that day.  School was a nightmare and my dad had heavy feet, not only on my ribs but also when he walked on the floorboards of our broken home. Mom left us both for another man with another family; I guess it was her loss.

I’m stuck in a world that doesn’t understand me, I just don’t fit in anywhere; I think deep down I like it this way, alone.

“Sally, get your ass up already!” He rumbles the windows when he shouts.

I could slash out my eyes to not witness anymore hurt; I do hear that if you lose one sense that your others heighten. I creep down the stairs, tiptoeing in my sneakers upon the edge of each step.

“I’m up; I will pick something to eat on the way to school.” I report quietly.

He sits on his faded patterned, raggedy chair; an opened paper obscures his entire nefariousness to me.

“Good; make sure you get there on time, I don’t send those school cheques for you to sleep in and be tardy. You hear me, bitch.” The paper comes down. His bilious stare helps tense up my bruised stomach. Bar brawling scars echo on his nose and cheeks. His exterior is that of a builder and that is because he lost his job building after he started drinking when mom left, she has a lot to answer for. He glocks a full mug of coffee in front of me; waiting for me to step out of line somehow.

“Get out of here, and remember what I said. Oh and I am having some friends over tonight, for some beers.” The paper rises again.

I do a kind of weak curtsy to him before I make a hasty retreat to his eructs.

{High School}

I have a secret. To tell you the truth, I was a girly nerd, a nerd who wanted to be more. But how can you be more when you’re in high school? Ritualistically bullied because of my body’s small build and my adventurous nature I take when I escape into learning.  

I walk down the busy hallway, eye shy within the traffic jams of people, honks of nicknames and insults along with clips of closed lockers. I huddle into my homework with both arms; I stare at the floor, a meter in front of me the whole way to my class, English lit. 

“Hey skank, you’re walking in my way, your bad.” I get shouldered by a Lacy Burns, the make-up queen. My life is hell here.

I wasn’t in any click or associated with any group, I couldn’t even blend in evenly. I did try to dress accordingly, a blue shirt with a black dragon logo on the back, fitted jeans and my sneakers; still wasn’t enough for the pop-kids.

I never wanted to be this girl but this is the result of my history that shifted my geography, since then my mathematical problems doubled, tripled and quadrupled and within my science all I am left with is the P.E. I learned that made me run away with a pipedream for bad English and dark-side of the human anatomy and biology.

{Hell-House}

I dragged the tips of my feet through the front door, unravelling my arms from my backpack. I glance into the living room. A football game, a few packs of beer and extreme whiff of weed, smoke fills the room as angry faces indented in the atmosphere.

“I’m home dad.” I chimed in over the horde of grunts and belly laughs of drunken men.

Not even a look of care. I slinked off up the stairs, counting ever step to my mortifying loneliness.

An hour had breezed by, when an unnerving thought sprinkles over my skin to give me goosebumps. Silence has moved in downstairs. I waft down my Superman comic; the creeks of floorboards outside my room were deathly deafening. The stairs lead straight to my door, I don’t have a lock on it anymore; he kept on breaking it down. The door flings open to the reason of my addiction. I won’t go on and put my mental thought process over what four fully grown men and my dad did to me; you have an imagination almost as sick as mine, use it, but please keep it there.

I will tell you later on that night, I remember brushing my hair in stupor, one stroke at a time, prolonged and emotionless. I place my brush next to my make-up bag, not breaking eye contact with myself in the mirror. Red marks and slight scratches show off in the mirror as highlighted sex brandings.

I wipe clear everything on my countertop.

“AAAARRRHHHHHHHH! You fucking bastard; fucking evil sadistic fucker! You want a piece of me, huh?! Get you fucking ass up here and fight me like the cunt you are, Dad!” I dared him as my monster surfaced from the grave I had kept it in. I don’t break contact with both sides of myself in the mirror, looking for a familiar side of me to creep behind the shimmer.

The sound of beer can’s being trampled on and kicked to a side echo from downstairs. He is coming, the oaf. No more backing down Sal, these people have made your life hell and expected you to live in it, so why not show them the hell they so easily send you in everyday.

As he stomps I march for battle, fist clenched and teeth bared. From within my bedroom I see his head bob and weave to aside, still shitfaced. I shan’t even let him get that far, I take off running for him and by the time I know it, I am hurtling myself through the air, open palms in his direction. I collide with him and we both tumble down the stairwell.

I remember waking up sometime later; this was the last time I was ever in his arms and also the last time he was on top of me.

And ever since I have always found and detested men or women who take advantage of their position within this world, whatever the power.

--

The remembrance of murder will have to wait, the ding from the top floor is about to go. I will rethink about past murders later.

I need a plan for this guy; think Sally, think... Ding*

I exit warily, peaking around the bends with my peepers. Two bodyguards are yakking to one another outside of room 126. Now I must make those cretins skedaddle for about five minutes without Jacky boy.  Sally, you’re an evil genius.

I reach into my bag and retrieve a fake news reporter I.D. card and a powerful camera but the necessity must be able to carry it within my pocket. I exit the elevator, walking in the completely opposite direction; I can feel their eyes on me. My time here must be terse, so let’s get to work.

I turn the corner, my back up against a wall near to the stairwell. I have one finally look around. I pull the fire alarm lever. A shrill pulse chants through every hallway, the elevator doors close along with my back of tricks lying on the floor, I will get it later. I can just about eavesdrop on the bodyguards trying to figure out what is happening and what to do, over the shriek. 

I head through the stairway door and head to the reclusive shadows of the last flight of stairs, I sit and wait. One of the bodyguards chops through the door, walkie-talkie in hand shouting orders at the security downstairs.

Round about now, an assemblage of paparazzi are edging their eagerness through the security officers and entering the building. Jack Foreman has been left all alone within his room to ensure his own safety until they figure out if there is a blaze somewhere in the building or if someone has a deadly prank to play. I strut down the stairs; the ringing of the siren imbues a ring within the ear. I trudge while the sound of screams cannot be heard.

The corridor horror-show is empty, a time to strike. I love fire alarms, when you have a system like this one, where you have to swipe electronically to get into a room, in the result of a fire alarm all room doors open automatically to certify safety is carried out.

I walk straight in through the door; from under my blouse I retrieve the black-lace with knife in it, pushing the material in my back pocket. He stands at the window wall; the skyline of the entire city is pictured perfectly from this angle. A brandy in hand, his thoughts blank out the alarm and hustle downstairs, he swigs another dreg.

I wrap my gloved hands over his forehead and press the blade against his neck, his glass drops to the floor.

“People like you shouldn’t be allowed to live!” I snarl over the racket.

Within one flash I stripe him across his Adam’s-apple, the blood sprays over the window, bloodstained glass. I look at his peripheral vision, his eyes glued to the horizon line as he has reached his own. I let him go, he shucks to the ground lifeless. A star has been extinguished.

Now here comes the tricky part, I wrap my weapon back in its lace-case and put him to bed under my waistband. I fix up my disguise and retrieve the phony I.D. and camera and begin to take pictures of him lying in a slump. The blood flood edges my way.

At that moment the Fire-alarm stops screaming. I hear a multitude of footsteps stampeding in my direction. The door bursts open.

“Oh my God is he dead? He’s been fricken’ murdered.” A male voice says.

I stand in stun. Is this security or a bodyguard or is it who I am hoping it to be? A man stands at my side, scruffy looking with long bedraggled hair, big thick glasses and a camera in hand.

“Hey, I’m Dave, channel 9, central news. Did you find the body?” Dave ponders as he winds up his camera. The party gets bigger as another several men join the carnage of the murder scene. Each taking pictures from all different angles.

Security bursts in from the door, tackling Dave and another couple of men. I stand in the corner as tussles and scraps break out between the paparazzi and the security.

“We need more security up here now; Jack Foreman has been murdered in his suit!” One security officer barks down the walkie-talkie.

And while the room turns less violent with thrown punches and name-calling, I make my retreat out of the room. The doors to the elevator open as soon as I reach them, I walk in faced down to avoid the cameras; I pick up my bag and hoop it over my shoulder. I press the G1 button on the panel, halfway home.

--

The lobby of the hotel has become overrun with reporters and police officers and without an effort I exit the building to freedom and scurry over a couple of roads to my parked car, away from this madness.

A sigh of relief I exhale. I turn the key in the ignition and begin my journey back home to my little Gracie, need to tuck her in and kiss her goodnight.




--

I stand in front of the camera, microphone in hand. I feel comely to the eye of every man surrounding me.

“3, 2, 1 and... Action.” Chris my cameraman points in my direction.

I put the microphone just below my chest.

“Good-evening, Mark. All we know at this time is the actor, Jack Foreman, has been murdered within his hotel room at some point last night. This is the man Hollywood dubbed the next Paul Newman of our time. But recent weeks of the actor’s life have been sent into turmoil after allegations of sex acts had surfaced, that is the reason behind him being held up within the hotel, behind me. His people and the police have not released any other details of the case or the why, but all we can do is keep watchful eye on what the investigators and pathologist say when they have done their reports. We know there is a strange female reporter and a few men found at the scene that the police are interested in talking to. It is a sad day for fans worldwide. All of our thoughts go out to his friends and family from channel 43 news. This is Sally Rose, here at Tyrann Hotel. Back to you in the studio.”

The Serial Killer Story – Part 1 – Fiction

I am going to show all of the saners worldwide, my world.

I guess introductions are necessary at this point, my name is Sally. This is my fifth Vic; I would like to believe I am doing a public service when killing. There are not large job openings in either sides of my curriculum vital, on one side, my normal job title of TV reporter, advanced literacy conqueror, mother to my little girl, Grace; wife to my beloved Alan, a police officer for six years, seven months and fourteen days. Upon the other side of my page, written in invisible blood, I am a psychopathic murderer.

He lies hogtied in his stripy boxers on the motel bed, wriggling, baby-like; unable to shuffle his little toes just yet. Not yet found his big-boy voice to cry for his mommy, the pervert’s mouth is duct taped; I drew a smile over it in black felt-tip. How dare he anyway think I was streetwalking bimbo; who just came here to fuck the dark memories away, how wrong was he? My dark memories are about to fuck him.

I stick him in his podgy belly with a box-cutter; he groans under his voice in pain, his eyes shut trying to remember a few minutes prior to the cut.

“Stupid little man, I ain’t no prostitute and I certainly ain’t no business venture you can finger fuck over with your board of directors, overtake a small company and leave hundreds of people not only fighting for their jobs, but also money and food to keep their families from harm. This is your judgement Terry Wilkinson, CEO of the Formed Electrics Empire. You make billions off business investments and liquidizing smaller projects assets. And here we are a corrupt billionaire, a motel room and a killer.” I theorize.

I fix up my disguise in the finger-printed mirror, black gloves on, contact lenses and wig. From my jacket I reveal an item wrapped in a black cloth, I place it ever-so gently upon the dresser. And duel my reflection once more.

“Imagine, Terry, a plethora of teeth chattering, heart cupped, fear gulping saner’s, saners are people, which would inevitably be someone like you. Now this mob is being chased, about to be mort by a maladroit soul who is swinging an axe; he is chopping down people who are slow on the foot. This type of psychopath is what I like to call Fire-holders; these fire-holders have always had a problem with society, thinking they have been wronged in some fashion and have to take their angst out on innocent people.  Their mental health problems have always been known by everyone within their path of life. Now an ice-holder like me is the person who befriended you years prior to this act of an attack with axing; came round for beers and dinner, basically loved you. But hold your thoughts right there. Within this evil event, I am the person who would suggest hiding within this room where the lock is on the inside, I turn the key and put it within my pocket and reveal my own axe. You see, where the fire-holder only gets a handful of victims, I will get a roomful. I am smarter. I am.”

He begins to shake his head, I believe he wants to get something off from his chest; hopefully it’s his heart; if I remove the gag he will scream as if he was a teenage girl losing her virginity.

“Why are you shaking your head, Terry? Is your head going to fall off? Don’t worry, you will not be forgotten within this world, I want the whole world to know you were killed here in this poggy room, and still you are shaking your head. Here, let me give your head a head-start.”

I pick up the item wrapped in a black cloth and unfold it. An old knife rustic knife lays silently on the material, it has been over used and sharpened so many times, the wonder is, why hasn’t it been trashed by now?

Wrapping each one of my fingers around the handle, I march for a war of wrath against Terry, taking the knife and dragging the life from his throat.

Silence is the scream within the night that screams back around.

Nothingness has his grasp around my trembling hands and vacant eyes. The blood treacle’s from his void, spraying the sheets and carpet red. I wrap my weapon back in its cover, putting him to bed. I made sure I touched nothing and maintain on doing so. I retreat from the chalk-scene and blood-spatters into the danky bathroom, pubic hair toilet rims and used condoms in the bathtub.

I open the bathroom window and making sure no scuff marks are left, I exit cat-like. I do not close the window, the less I touch the less I am likely to be caught. I have no ties to this man; it will look on the news as a sex scandal gone wrong.

Over the brush I travel, not looking out of place, hood up and on a one way mission towards my car which is a thirty minute walk away. I take my high heels off and plonk them in a homeless man barrel fire, no shoe prints. I make no face contact with the homeless man; he was drunk anyway so his testimony is invalid.

I get into my beamer, sitting in my seat, putting my head back while I listen to Otis Redding – Dock on the bay.

I am a killer; I never thought as a child I would amount to anything, now all I do is scare the streets to staying in at night, an old west scenario, when you rolled into town and they closed their doors and shutter windows. I didn’t want any of this to happen but once I started it was for the greater good for my own benefit and now it’s a solution to stop people to find out who I am and what I’ve done. I feel so crippled with this anger of shadows within me.

I know now, I am here from this world’s amusement and disobedience; I am a walking, talking Frankenstein monster, they made me and now they can’t control me. I am worse than any terrorist, thug or nuclear weapon because I know who and truly why I am killing, I put the effort in to know how these people will die in a precise way and I follow no one’s plans. You can call me evil, scum or inhumane but my mother branded me as Sally.

I’m twenty-seven years old and I’ve lost count on how many people have crossed my path and lost their future in some diabolical way. Someday I will take my own life, but before I do I would like to tell you my story, but with every story there is a beginning and an end. So let me take you back to the warm summer in Clayford, a small suburban community. It was nineteen ninety-seven, I was thirteen years old when my soul was taken from me, my father had a rough time at work and I was the one to blame, I was the one who helped his anger process really get loose, the office banter must have been my fault too. That’s when he and his friends came.

I laid belly flat on that ground, burning ants with my magnifying glass. I was a really goofy looking kid and that wavy brown hair was nothing to be proud of. She rolled by on her pink bike with entourage, Lauren Burns, Her dad owed Burns hardware store in Town. She will always live within my memory as perfection. She will always be my first love and first victim.

I’m getting a little too far ahead from head. I think I will leave my coldblooded thoughts to rest in peace for tonight, I do not wish to tell you all my tales, straight away, you’re a stranger. Perhaps another night we can continue.

But for tonight I am going home to spend time with my little Gracey before her bedtime; I like knowing the world has one less corruptor within in. I will sleep well after Alan time. Goodnight and I will be seeing you soon.

There Must Be An Angel – Part 1

I’m going to jump; throw myself from this bridge into its ripple grim grave. I am done with it all, school life, family life; overall life in general. I have no one to fall back on and that is the biggest of killers to me. This is no cry for help because there will be none, no opened hand because I have never been given one. I know if I do this now my stance as unknown will stay the same on this planet, nothingness nobody because no one is there.

Standing on the concrete guard of the bridge looking down, I came to Harper Leap, not only because of the name but also because no cars use this road, now that the new freeway around our town has diverted traffic. The rain hazes the atmosphere with a hush-hand to cover whatever noise I make when I finally figure out this is a bad idea. Only one street lamp above the bridge will be my spotlight to the fame of the obituary column.

“What are you doing?” A voice from the side of me sasses.

I jerk my neck in fright to the right.

“I’m going to jump. Don’t stop me!” I snarl at the young man’s direction as he holds up his hands in interference.

“Just trying to do my job before it is too late, that’s all.” He protests to the waters wall.

I take another glance at him; he is a young guy, around eighteen-nineteen, black t-shirt and jeans and black dock martin boots; really raggedy brown hair that curls over his face. He is rather beautiful, even with the huge tribal tattoo down his right arm.

“Who are you? …What do you want?” Instantly he shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I am Jack.” He jumps up on the wall, walks over with his hand out to shake; I back away, he may want to drags me away from the edge.

“Jack? Jack who?” I insist.

He wipes the drizzle from his clothes, lifts up his head and with a smile.

“Jack. Your guardian angel, Jack.” He introduces himself with a subtle bow.

“Haha! My guardian angel?  There is nothing you can say that will take me from this plummet.” I look again at my grave.

“Your name is Natalie Wallace; seventeen years, four months and six days old. Everytime your mom or dad left you when you were a child you would cry, until you gained self-worth and stopped the tears. Your first crush was on a boy Adam Summers in the third grade but he was interested in your friend Grace Atkins, they are expecting their first child out of wed-lock, neither has finance to look after themselves let alone a newborn; your thoughts not mine. When you watched Jurassic Park you wanted to become a palaeontologist like Sam Neil but when you found out there was little or no money involved you backed away from the idea.”

“Wait… How do you….” He jumps my words. “There is plenty more I can tell you about yourself, I am practically your walking talking invisible diary that only you can see. Neat, huh? Where was I?”

“Enough…“ I finish in shock.

Jack takes one step on to thin air, a few steps out he turns and glides back to me, until we are face to face, land and air.

“Give me a week. One week to show you that suicide is not the answer, one week to show you the real reasons for living.” He picks up one of my tears on his finger that flee down my face; he flicks it from his finger into the sky to make a new star, our star. “There are things that you will want to live for, all you have to do is take my hand and agree to it all.”

I am reluctant, but his eyes melt every inch of sin.

“Am I going crazy?” I puzzle everything with my eyes and hands.

“You would ask that when something supernatural happens and now I am in the position to try and convince you of your own sanity and if I don’t have a good enough answer you will kill yourself and then I have to go back up top and tell them that you thought you were crazy because of everything you’ve seen. And I will be really pissed off because I tried…” He stresses his face in his palms. “How about you trust me even if that means trusting you instincts once? I know you don’t do it often but I know, you know, you should do it more. How about that for a speech? I am awesome and pretty to look at, what’s the worst thing that happens? You get eye strain from staring at me too long and you will become amazed by amazement, sweetie.” He cockily puts it with a smirk.

“Okay, one week. I agree to everything.” With the ending of my words the world pushes a furious wind all around. Jack stands with his arms out wide until he is only a silhouette within the huge moon.

I can only make out. “Your first task is to take a risk and have faith in something more than yourself. I want you to …..”

My hair gets swept into my eyes, leafs newspapers and birds spiral around this tornado speeded wind. “What!” I shoot out.

“Jump to me! I will catch you, Natalie.” He fires back.

“Are you out your friggin’ mind?” I fear over to him. He tipple tails backwards with laughter. “Do you really want to go back ten minutes in our conversation?” I grip on to the concrete guard with my fingers. “It looks like you’re going to need some incentive, ain’t-cha’! Just jump!” He point up into the sky, from the dark pit if the grey clouds a trailer is sent downwards.

“You better jump, missy!” He chuckles.

I lunge for him in fear but also in hope, as if I needed him. His arms open wide along with my mouth in a scream. It all turns black.

My eyes open gradually to this farfetched feeling of dreams and reality and how they betrayal me every single time I wake. I fling the blanket over my head.

“So you talk and snore whilst you sleep, that’s a weird trick to have.” A familiar voice peals through.

I chuck the blanket away from me. Jack is perched on his boots tiptoes on the end of my bed frame, arms folded.

“You’re real?” I chide him.

“Naturally I am, well, unnaturally. It’s a school day today isn’t it? I’m coming with.”

I am about to get out when something doesn’t feel right. I reach my hand under my covers and feel around.

“Why am I naked, Jack?” I grumble. “I couldn’t find any clean pyjamas, Natalie.” He grumbles back as he floats around my room, touching everything from photos to panties. So embarrassing. I quickly wrap and ball up my covers around me and rush into my bedroom bathroom, I shut and lock the door and turn to my bathtub. AAAHHHHHHH! “What are you doing here? Get out!” Jack is sitting on the sink with his nose in my diary. “Nothing I haven’t seen before and besides I am reading, go about your business, don’t mind me, pretend I am not even here.”

“Please get out, I would like to have a shower in peace, wait in my room.” Within an eye-blink he has disappeared from the bathroom. “I’ll just wait right out here!” Jack yelps from my room.

“Okay, don’t go anywhere, I won’t be long.” I tug on the shower cord and jump in and place a hand over my heart, it has never burst with so much excitement ever, for anything.

“I have got you some breakfast and something you can wear for school today.” He reports in his deep accent.

My I-pod-radio begins playing. Two princes – Spin doctors.

“I love this track; it’s been a long time.” What is he doing now? I leap back out the shower and envelop myself within two towels. I open the door and from out of nowhere I am dried and fully dressed in a red dress, a new luxurious hair style, make-up and shoes.

“What’s this?” I retort.

“I thought it would be nice for you to wear this today. Before you say anything, I know you don’t wear these types of clothes but you subconsciously and universally agreed, remember. We can always go back in time so you can relive that moment.”

My bed is full of food from the furthest reaches of the world. Snails, lobster, croissants, berries, squid, rare fruits and slabs of steak.

“Wasn’t really sure what you wanted to eat, so I just grabbed a shopping bag from everywhere and brought it back. If you don’t eat the gooey stuff I would recommend on throwing it away before it kicks up a pong.” He chuckles.

“I have a guardian angel. Why you?” Before I even finished my words he responds. “Punishment, I beat up an archangel cause he was talking smack about someone I care about, so I head-butted him and been doing this ever since. It has its up and downs. You meet some really cool people.”

“Well how long have you been doing this?” I enquire as I sit on my beds edge and nibble on some cake.

“About ten thousand years ago, I was Michelangelo’s guardian angel, as soon as I was finished with him he painted the Popes ceiling. But you can’t save everyone; Kurt Cobain, so close, dude.”

“Why me?” I wonder. “Jack floats over on his belly and pokes me on the nose. “In time all will be revealed, I promise. Hurry up and eat, we’re going to be late for you brand new day at school.”

In the space of ten hours my life has gone from tediously painful at time to the exciting wonder from my mischievous guardian angel. Today at school is going to full of surprises. Here goes nothing.

 

How Do You Write?

Writing is my religion, paper is my temple; now kneel before my God, pen! Your words are senseless, copy – copy – copy – copy. The rules of this writing game, is to take what others have done and rewrite it; what idea is your own though?

Now I am one of those writers, afraid to approach a Publishing House or a Literary Agency because I am fearful of what others will think about my work. I have thoughts pressing against my brow most days, so this blog is a lifeline to the writing world for me. I don’t consider my writing to be good, great or phenomenal, but how I see it is my words do their job, there are thousands of writers out there, with fancy educations and warped minds better than mine who deserve it more than me, so I don’t mind waiting a couple of decades.

I have read so much and in doing so have character built myself; I know who I am now. Yes, I am a little fuzzy on the details and road journey, but I am here with a pen or keyboard, whatever writing tool is available. But I know one thing, I have my own mind!! I do not see Vampires falling in love with humans and thinking, I can have a better take on this story; I MUST WRITE IT AND IT SHALL BE BETTER!! That’s a Stephanie Myers thing, she made that bigger than most orgy stories and it has gone down in history. A clever lady she is, tapping into a market and going for gold. Well done, little Miss!

See for me, I like The Minds Narrative, for example…

“Should I write now? Not too sure Alex, I mean you haven’t slept in thirty six hours, dawg. Get some shut eye and blast back on that page, dude. I care about you man, don’t want to see you wander off away back onto the darkland. Write it and they shall come!! You’re a good guy; show them later what’s really inside of your heart. Now get to bed, you ugly fool.”

Yes, I talk to myself in my head and it is very therapeutic to know I am on my own wave length. But I am getting off topic. Let’s get back to the writing aspect.

If you want to be taken serious, you are going to have to amaze the world. Show them something different. But it has to RELATE to people’s lives.

Whether it is dark and emo = Twilight

Sassy and sexy = Any Jackie Collins novel

And so on and so forth. You need your niche! Find it and utilize it to the fullest extent of you.

See mine is dark humour wrapped in a cocoon of pain with a silver lining showing it face every once in a while. My niche.

But I am not saying everyone who types or write is a terrible writer; know where your writing wants to go. If you want the big writing contract (Like most of us do.) Write for it. If you just want to write for general purpose, to ease stress or bare a little piece of your soul, then show it. But know where you want to go.

PUT IN THE WORK NOW AND LIFE WILL BE LESS LIKE WORK!!!

Write the Evil Out

They’re coming to take me away to the funny-farm; I’m up-in-arms, hooray! The dark clouds are forming above; Hells-mouth is foaming for a taste of me beneath, especially when I drive my evil pen through these skinned sheets. They call me bad names, they call me ugly, that’s cool, because so are you! How I sleep well with my disfigurement? I dream of killing you! I’m prising open hell; you’re all men of God, have faith in me when I say, I’m a man of my words. Now the world of words should have begged my momma to boil this baby at birth.

I’m the writer the good book looked-upon and shook fear from their every praying nook. I see words differently; they could be definitively disastrous definitely, defacing dimensions infinity infamously from the dragon inside me, diminishing dabblers dripping ink trying to deign diamonds. (That rhymes…. Fools.) YOU’RE IN MY WORKSHOP!!! I cycle down the path of a serial killing psychopath; reading recycled crap, redial that, RECYCLED CRAP!

I’m done being the nice guy, time to write or time to die, lost my fights and ran for my life. This is the return of Alexander Kennedy, the evil pen strikes back. Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream, make it the most gruesome that these people have ever seen.  What am I thinking? What am I writing? Alex, there is method to your madness, can’t you see? I’m starting a war against humanity, sanity is the culprit and it must be smudged clean from this spirally-flushed floating toilet.

Bring you picket signs, pitchforks and lit torch, gather round, gather round the monster writer of the century. Sane people fear what they don’t understand and cannot control; I don’t play well with others, why do you think since I grow teeth they kept me caged up? I can out-write you all with my left arm tied behind my back. I cannot rub out these words, like when the world tried to rub out this mistake. I auto-corrected myself and picked up a dictionary for meaning for the word, Pain.

I learned a few more bad words along my way; I don’t need swear words to curse at you. I write you into my world and let the ground swallow you whole. An emptied soul and a mind full of poetic words help formulate a plan beyond insane proportions. I peal my skin and try and fit in, but sooner or later they find new ways to get to me, further under my skin. So I put my faith and collective insanity and create a fictional world, where human rules do not apply, only the evilness that seeps from me.  So I will slog my way through the slutty, semi-silent but slithering away siren ridden streets for some sort of success. I will figure out a way to pull your eyeballs out to my blog; and once I am in your minds, I will manipulate my way to the top of the food chain and then start to munch my way down the pyramid.

So you can blame Eminem for giving me a second chance at life; Or you can blame my mother for giving birth to me. But it is society in a whole that failed me, pushed and pulled me to my own extinction, this is not an attitude problem, this is manmade evil. I’m your Frankenstein monster, you do not wish to confront. But just know I will take everything from you. This is all I know. This is my design.

Walk on Water

I’m coming for it all, one last stand on every piece of paper, crumple it up and use them as bombs or make myself paper aeroplanes. Extremists, Haha! Please… I’m an extreme extremist; I eat terrorists as if they were bubble-gum, see what I did there? I just blew-up another one. Pop! I’ll be waiting here forever on these pages; a pen as my gravestone, a bunch of blunt pencils as flowers and a papier-mâché coffin.  I’m throwing sucker-punches at this page but this isn’t the bible, less holy! My life stinks, I can’t even afford to pay my water bill; I’m the stinky-kid. Help me, I’m a writer! What have I gotten myself involved in? I’m sick of this life; this must be the withdrawal from sanity. What can I do with this life except become a writer; there a light-bulb has just switched on, turn it off! This headache is getting worse. My words jump straight off the page, don’t they? Beware they could blind you.

This whole big bad world has nothing on me, why do you think I peeled off my own skin? I wanted to become appealing to everyone. You cannot do what I do; you can only do what I cannot do, which is stop and fail. I’m now stabbing my eyes with my pen, so I can really see what I am writing for you. Can you see passed my words and see the light? Here, let me put this computer over your head. This is what I’m meant for; to me it’s as if I’m carving my name in cement. It’s that easy!

So throw all your pens up in the air, blacken out my sun, no matter; I write in the darkness. Human emotion is my only kryptonite; it radiates through and clouds my vision, I just have to remember I’m not human. I live in this pen, I live in these words, now you have read me; I’m on your mind – my job is done. Don’t blame my mother; she did her best to raise Hell! From every litter you have to have the runt. I’m Mr. Brightside though; I must have rolled on my side on this hellfire. I could always count my blessings in life but I’m a writer, I don’t deal in numbers.

I sleep with this pen every night; I think I have contracted ink-poisoning, it’s life-threatening with every word I scribble. Fame is in a frame on my mantle, I’m in love with her but she is too busy satisfying other people but I will be the love of her life, until we’re both dead! I bucking-bronco off all of my mental baggage, I’m sick of carrying all of the dirty laundry; they call me a pig-headed ass!

Why are you asking me to leave? I don’t even live on this world. These aren’t words, they are only spasms I suffer with, so what exactly are you reading? That’s right, nothingness. Why are you here? You could be writing screenplays, you could be living your perfect life, you could be making money; don’t do what I’m doing, I’m doomed!

On a scale of one to five, in women’s eyes, I’m usually number 4. Why do you think I never step forward in this line up? I don’t want to be underrated. But I did it! It’s like a murder he wrote.

I burst into laughter everytime I read my journal, my life is such a sick-joke it’s actually funny. I can’t talk to some people, I get more sense from talking to brick-walls, so I did that and they tried locking me up for that too.

A problem shared is a problem doubled, my words can be infectious. Does Alex live here? Sorry, his upstairs is vacant. This pen is a monster; it’s the only one that gets me. We’re all prisoners behind this mortar; I’m reaching through the brickwork to show you I’m still alive.