I’m In Love With This Pen, I’d Kill For It

A Monster of a Writer Lives Here!! – I Told You Not To Click!!! –

 

I believe in my words, as you do fairy-tales. One day a silver lining shall prevail over all of my darkness. But until then, I shall cut clouds azure veins and make it rain blood-red, twirl underneath something so passionately beautiful, I need you to see what is inside of me; what I am capable of doing, become tantalized by the colours of my soul. This page is writer’s stage; I’m sacrificing myself to the music of horrific words for your entertainment only. I’m leaping from buildings and drowning in an oceans currents, currently at the end of this pen I am immortal; nothing can stop me for achieving this deathly desired gift from life, turn the page and gain a paper-cut from me, even my words feed on your blood.

 

monster-writer

Keep going, Alex. Keep going! Show them all what you can do with words, out write them all, have them think twice about you! “Who Said That!!” Shuddered the writer, his fingertips quake over the space-bar and mouse.

 
Bite those fingernails down to the bone, keep going and swallow your arm, for this one idea you are looking for. They have gangs and hordes armed to the teeth, you laugh through your teeth and bring forth an undead alliance with the real monsters of this unnatural world, watch them cross you now, forever is all you have to get ready for war, luckily we are not men of the cloth.

 
Every word is a brick, so you say; are you building a new home for a new life? In my eyes, Alex, you are only another brick in that wall, the one that is holding up all of your foundations, do you not know that you are supposed to space your life out evenly. Hahaha! Mr. Broken!

 
I’m trying to escape from this haunted house from my bedroom window, the room has started to bring all of my nightmares to life; but as soon as I do I am dangling from my ankles from the windowsill, the evil is keeping me here. The whole neighbourhood has come to have a gander at something more damaged than them. Don’t help, I’m not scared to be dragged under this bed again. The monster under my bed ate the monster in my closet, there is no comfort within home. Come live with us, Alex, you are one of us.

 

the-monster-undre-my-bed

 

I like the idea of becoming a writer; you can’t blame me for believing in it, I’m a dreamer. No colour but so vivid, so close as I hand-slap myself away from grasping it. Maybe it’s not for me? Maybe I’m holding this pen wrong? Even if I have to steal the sun and use it as a bargaining-chip to ensure this dream doesn’t flourish away into the back of my mind as another failure, I will!

 
This pen is my Excalibur, with so much calibre that when I write people board up the doors and windows to make sure the evil I conjure doesn’t come knocking. Nothing grows upon the pages I write upon, death lives here, the birds migrate around me and wind changes direction to ensure it doesn’t come in contact with my shell. Something’s cannot be explained, plus the mystery brings in the readers.

 

I’m in love with this pen, I will kill for it.

 

leave-this-book-alone

 

They have tried to stop me from writing before; the priests came for tea and they tied me to the bed, they asked me cease and I projectile vomited all over them. I’m still chuckling. This is my way of exorcising my demons, do not read; do not think, close this page; they will come get you.

 
I only have one question. When is enough – enough? When will I know I have reached the end dark adventure? If I scream through my words would you be able to see the stream down my face?

 

 

You’ve made it this far down, leave a little LIKE & COMMENT! Thanks…


 

Sick & Tired

I’m sick & tired of being poor,
I’m sick & tired of being beaten-up and shown the floor,
I’m sick & tired of not having enough food,
I’m sick & tired for always asking for more,
I’m sick & tired of all of these doctors’ meds,
I’m sick & tired of these voices in my head,
I’m sick & tired of my job,
I’m sick & tired of living for less in this mess,
I’m sick & tired of my past,
I’m sick & tired of always coming in last,
I’m already sick & tired of my future,
I’m sick & tired of being white trash,
I’m sick & tired of not being a writer,
I’m sick & tired of having to be a fighter,
I’m sick & tired of having no views,
I’m sick & tired of being a live-wire,
I’m sick & tired of my evil deeds,
I’m sick & tired of no one dreaming of me,
I’m sick & tired of being sick & tired,
It’s worse than you know, believe me.

Continue reading

I am Wild Boy

I am Wild Boy – Part 1

My mother’s face was a blurry smudge within my memory; luckily I don’t remember her; Dad spoke in his sleep and what he did to that poor woman… He didn’t leave her with much of one when we fled from her murder scene. I do remember the car trip though; I sat in the back seat swaying side to side while he drank bourbon driving away into a permanent foggy madness. I sat clutching a half eaten cookie in my toddler Parker jacket next to a duffel bag of Pistols, Rifles and enough ammo to put shame on any small war faction.

 

We were on the run from our old life to build a new-one off the grid, way to the backend of vast frozen nothingness which was our destination and where we were to begin our survival training. He told me he built this cabin for me and mom to come to when the world had gotten too much for us. It was tacky and crooked but it kept the rain and snow at bay and held warmth when the cold-rolled in. Dad evolved into a bedraggled ragamuffin, me, I transformed into a wild boy. Our own filth and stench was covered by rotten animal carcasses.

 

There was only so much I could do as a child but he took me hand in hand on hunts, sometimes he even allowed me to deliver the killer-blow to our prey. As the years shredded the photo memories of me and my dad, I grew into a routine machine; he called me his ‘special weapon’. Up before dawn crept upon the valley of forestry shadows, the aim was to kill, train, hydrate, train, eat and rest. I know nothing else.
We agreed to put off the childish treatment, so when hand to hand combat was the training for our afternoon, he laid into face until I bled and swelled. But he was getting on in life so when my muscle formed harder, I made sure I put him on his ass. Knife throwing, dismantling and assembling Guns and Rifles, martial arts, body and mind endurance, hunting, tracking; I became a black-belt in it all. In all honesty, I forgot about the world which scurried along beyond our tree line, when I hit my mid-teens I did think and wonder if there was anything else within my world as I sat on the edge of a mountainside or stood at the top of the trees gazing at the sunset.

 

One winter my father fell down with a bout with what he called pneumonia, he stopped his training, sleeping and eating; his breathing became erratic and body shifted to weakness. He couldn’t do much, so I trained by myself, hunted by myself, ate by myself, he died and then I started talking to myself.
I left his body within his room, I never stepped foot beyond the nail jagged door frame. I was now the King of this vast plant and animal life; the routine was I had and knew, so I pushed on further into the year of kill or be killed by the unknown.

 

Several Years Later

 

If I knew what depression was I would find it happily. Before ever daybreak I would sit in a couch position at the edge of my father’s bedroom door, perhaps he will wake up today. I wait until the sun’s ritual breath edged over the window ledge before I would do my daily bidding until the eyes of the dark skies blinked at me. Fearless to the predators and elements, they must sense something dark within me. The morning was skin nipping from the cold but the idea of victorious kill kept my blood steamy. I head towards the feet of the humongous wet-white hill, the deer huddle and graze within this area. A family a nestled nicely next to small stream which lines through my land. I would never think of harming something scrawny or motherly, I have my sights set on the papa-deer. I clutch my hunter’s blade in my hand; my eyes do not stray, before I move a muscle I think of the kill in every way, good or bad. Small rocks which collect at my feet, I pick one up and I subtly throw it away from the deer, so their attention would be towards the possible predator.

 

At the last few seconds before I sliced into my prey, a thunderous roar echoes throughout my valley. There are no storm clouds wandering above the trees. The deer scamper far into the tree line. A gargantuan wheeled hog type creature hurtles into my view at the other side of the trickling stream. Is this a new animal I have never seen?
Four men heavily armed with shotguns exit the hog. They are each dressed like greenery, perhaps to blend in. I scurry on my belly closer to get a better look. Dad always said people may be after him, could this be them? Could they be here for me? Are have they come to disrupt my kingdom and steal my food? One thing is certain, if they have, no four shotguns will stop be defending what I know.

 

I will recon for now and make a decision when the time is right. Keep your knife to your side Nick, it’s all you have.

How to Out-Writer Other Writers…

Using words only have a certain effect on people, but you are trying to amaze people with words, aren’t you?
Here are a few tips to further your work.
• Study Poetry and Song Writing.
• Hook their eyes.
• Find Better words.
• Figure people out.
• Say, Said, Replied and Shouted
When you become a pro at these writing styles you will open up a form of writing, such as poetic views.

 
1. Instead of writing. “Her hair was red.” You can write. “Burning with fire she spiral spins, each lash of her hair lets off burning embers.” This shows you have giving something mind-numbing a life and that anything can be a character.

 

 

2. CATCH THEIR EYES! “Suicide, Suicide on my mind, all the time, everytime I close my eyes, I always think of suicide, suicide on my mind, all the time, everytime I close my eyes, I always think of suicide.” ~ Chorus from a song I wrote when I was seventeen, but it is powerful not only to hear but also to read, it says alot about what is going on.

 

3. Your language bores me. Spice things up, would you? Your quintessential plethora of pastiche will transform you into a gilderoy beyond anyone else. – But make sure you don’t study the thesaurus and only use the words because you can; there is a time and piece of paper placed for that manner. Don’t just use a educated word because you can.

 

4. Learn the basics of Psychology. Body language is always a good key to write about. “Scratching his head before the light-bulb turns on. He turns on his swivel chair to mirror her.” This will give the reader a truer feel of characters.

 

5. Say, Said, Replied and Shouting. I HATE THESE WORDS! If I can get around not using them, I will. But I know if I cannot, atleast I tried. “Help me!” James Storms over the fists of the ocean. See, it gives a broader picture than James Says, doesn’t it?

 

 

These basic rules will help you drag in new readers to your work, there are more but I will post them at a later date.

 
Keep those pens busy….

 
Alex.

 

Why Mental Illness Can Save Someone’s Life

So I’m crazy. The doctors drilled it into me, mom and dad wept for me, brothers and sisters didn’t pick on me and friends stayed clear of me. Can you blame them? But we’re all a little crazy, the world is one big mental asylum and all the countries are personal padded cells for all nationalities. But in this day and age, broken is the new fixed.
And for me as a warped minded writer, this gives me a certain advantage over other scribblers out there. Yes, they have fancy educations. Yes, they have big bank accounts. Yes, their daddies know the right people and connections. But no, they do not have a genuine gift as I do. Yes, I am poverty ridden, broke to pockets seams. I failed high school, except for English. This is where I triumph.

I do remember heading to school once; my feet sprawled out on the top deck of the double-decker bus. I was having major headache recently, but I hide it well because I had no one to complain too. I was still a geeky teen in high school. My bus stop was coming up and I stood and shaking I walked down the bus aisle. As I reached the stairs blackness hit my eyes and the next thing I knew I was on my back covered in cuts and bruises and a bus full of people laughing at me. I made a hasty retreat from my embarrassment.

That was the first time I blacked out, this was the onset for something dark coming into focus readying itself to consume me. I at never played truant from school, I always did the right thing, which made me a target for the bullies. I never wanted to be this guy 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 pipe-dream for bad English and dark-side of the human anatomy and biology for my evil fiction homework.
But as my good behaviour shifted into a bad attitude, I felt I gain control of myself, finally. No longer was I a robot stricken by routine. And when my imagination hit me between the eyes, I concocted a devilish plan, use what I have and write everything you can.

Now this is easier said than done; especially when you have no money, no help and no readers. First thing was first, I needed a computer. I needed money for a computer, I needed a job. For a job I needed the right grades, which I didn’t have. Shop work it is (I am still working here by the way.) So now I have my computer, a little money, not a lot but hey, we writers have to start somewhere.
But if it wasn’t for my mental illness, I’m sure I would have given up on my life a long time ago. So now I plod on with my damaged baggage dreaming of something I can only imagine.

But I am sure, as long as I jot down all I can and keep reaching out to people, one day my dreams will come true. I am working on my second novel, which will shock the pants off this world, but I know you will enjoy it.
And I am still blogging short stories and creative writing; from time to time waving my poetic pen across the paper for you too.
So keep reading.

And keep your pens busy.

Psycho for life!! Haha!

Alex

The Experiment – Part Two – Emotions Run Deep

The date was unknown. Where to start? Probably my earliest memory; all I can remember is a white room with an enormous blacked out window, the door to the room was camouflaged within the wall. I know I was a child as I do remember throwing my building blocks and my favourite book, the dictionary, at the window once in a tantrum. To this day I still have no idea what was behind that window. Well being in that room, it wasn’t a room; let me rephrase, that cell, I thought that those 12 feet were my world. All that existed within my world was me and the person within the white spacesuit, who came in to give me more medicine, my three meals a day, studies and sleeping injections.

 

The room in which I lay at night was completely white but over the years my own writings and highlighted words from the dictionary became tacked to the wall.
My hands threap the edging of the book, lost within a love I have never read before.
“How are you feeling today, Flynn?” A deep voice puts forth from beyond the window.
I slowly drag my eyes from Shakespeare.
“I am rather contempt and affable today, sir. I would like to finish reading about these two people, if you please.” I voice in an almost susurrus tone, it was probably the drugs.
As I sway from page to page, Shakespeare showed me something that I had never felt; lachrymose was inclined to set in. How can these two fictional characters have a love far greater to that of real people? This pleasant idea turned truculent within me, gnawing at my very soul, I was a puppet to this idea of love which had me dangling from its hands by my heartstrings. In the words of Shakespeare, I was afeared from this affect, my heart had bollen and beteemed as my snuff was sniffed and now inside I ululate.
Still sitting on the edge of my bed, I was about to commit a suicidal emotion dip within my endless routine. In the corners of the rooms are piles on piles of books, ranging from all genres. Will I ever witness such an event of love within myself? The book debacles, it leaps to its death before I do. My eyes widen to reality.
“Flynn, your heart-rate is rising, we are sending someone in to give you some medicine; you need to calm down, please.” A speaker voice; his words seem scripted.
“Calmness! How can you ask such a thing from me? When I have never loved, you would calm such a soul who has never lived within another’s heart. That is the greatest of evils!” I hail at the screening.

 
The door automatically opens, with a flick of my wrist the door wafts shut. I charge at the window, trying to punch a hole into darkness.
“I am the monster and you are my creator. No one could ever love me, not if I am a genetic mistake, created by phony gods. What am I? What am I?”
I stop my attack and collapse to my knees, my open hands squeak as they are dragged down from the window, to the depths with me.
“Why? Why am I on my knees when she is out there, out there without me? She cannot be far, and she would not hide, not from love.”
I will fight for love.
A few second into my hurt.
“Flynn! It is Doctor Watson, if you tell me what is troubling you, I will be able to help.” A female voice erupts from the murmurs of males voices outside.
“What am I, doctor?” I blubber.
Either she will hide me from my reflection she holds in her hands or she will show me something with horns.
“You are a very unique person, an advanced military experiment, one with so much uncontrolled power, we must contain it or the entirety of our planet could be at risk, you understand, don’t you? Flynn.” Her voice is the bible to me.
I slump in my self-loathing ability. The door opens ever so slowly; I do not even make eye contact with it. The doctors head spirals around the frame, the door gradually opens as she enters; there’s is four men behind her, dressed for the occasion, all in black, from their boots to their gloves to their hand guns, they are pointing. The doctor is a middle-aged woman, red furious hair, heavy red lipstick, just by looking at her; you know she had plans of power behind those eyes.
“Am I the prince of the story, which is trapped in the tower by the witch?” I make known above the flashing red lights, outside my room.
She escalates down to my level to her knees, picking up my right hand and stroking it.
“No, no, no. You are much more than that; you are the king of a new world, a new world that has not caught up to your class, yet. Do not think of yourself as a prisoner, Flynn. Bars mean nothing to a king, when he is expecting his thrown.” Her manipulating tongue shackles me for now.
“What if, it was not a kingdom I wanted to rule; what if, I wanted to rule the emotions and thought process of a woman and vice-versa.”
I see belief in her eyes.
“Then in time, you shall. Give us more time to help you. When I was a little girl my mother used to say to me, what is for you will not go by you. And I waited and waited and worked, and then you came into my life. You were what I wanted.” She wipes away one of my tears.
“What is for you will not go by you? – Does that mean, whatever route I take or however long I wait, I will get what I deserve?” I see a shine spark from her words within me.
“Yes, whatever you do, or how you do it, you will find what you are looking for. Okay.” She rises to her king. Her hands rested at her side of her white overalls.
She wants my blessing to her phrase for her frame of mind, but her words are crashing cataclysmically underneath my blood, that now runs cold, until that one warms me up.
“I am so sorry, doctor.” I gently give into fate.

 
I hold up my palm and aim it at all the people. They are all violently thrown backwards and are pinned against the wall in the hallway. They try and struggle their way away from the wall.
A stentorian alarm shudders through the entire building; the red lights invoke a life again.
“So no matter what I do, or how I do it, I will find love. Thank you, doctor; you have really opened my eyes to what I must do.” I confidently say to the paintings.
With my loose hand I point my palm at the door at the end of the corridor, hopefully a way out from this horror show. Multiple doors are swung open to reveal a dark opening at the end.
“Goodbye, forever.”
I scape for a world unknown, but that was fine, as I did not know myself that well either; the idea of finding out three things made my legs move. Outside, myself and her. I reach the end of the red tunnel, out of breath. The echoes of orders and roaring engines take refuge within my ears. Two giant torches from towers are shown upon me. My left hand goes up to cover my eyes as I glimpse through the recesses of my fingers.
An army is presented in front of me, one willing to die from me to stay. I had never seen a helicopter before, only read about them; now from page to reality, one is pointing a turret at my curious nature in the search for love.
“Please! I am just looking for love!” My heart pleads as my words bleed.
Through all of the chaos, I see it, the moon, so big and so bright in the middle of the sky, with a blank expression, watching my life as if it were on a screen. I come off my feet in awe to such beauty.
“Will somebody please shoot him?!” I hear the doctor’s voice.
All of the pellets come whizzing by me. Angry, I close my fist and aim for the moon, no armies there.

 
Soon I am above the facility and the shooting stops being a sound, only the whoosh of air by my ears. I see a darkened cloud and throw myself into it, my arms wide open, trying to blanket myself in it. A line, that must be the end of my world beyond those trees, where the cities roam and towns trudge, I want to go there. I fly towards it so fast, all of the trees beneath me blur in my hurry.
A thunderous roar comes further on, I can just make out the blinking lights of what seem to be from a plane of some sorts, then a flash of light from under the plane is emitted and a slight screeching sound is brought towards me, along with a pipeline of smoke, a missile. Light/Black.
I do remember I was falling from the sky, am I an angel? Angels do not feel this pain, just close your eyes and go to sleep Flynn, soon you will awaken and you will find her. Into the forest I go, into the wild.

A Feral Love

My name is Jamie-Leigh; all through high school it wasn’t the name I wanted, Jamie Leigh, Jamie-Leigh, aim those legs, aim those knees at me, at me. The taunts from the boys really put me on the lunch room map, but I am still thankful for my parents to give me a name, rather names. So thus I am here, standing in line for a train ticket, to go and visit the rents. My big bag of junk by my side, the same bag that jolts into my holey jeans and cuts at my leg, I have no other bag to carry all this junk. Shades on and set to maximum darkness, like a boss, trying to keep my cool to this endless waiting, it’s probably some old dude paying a thirty dollar ticket all in pennies, awesome, I could probably set off now and be there by foot by the end of this waiting.

 
“Next Please.” The weirdo behind the glass flicks his fingers at me; do I look like a dog? Don’t answer that. “What would ya’ like, hun?” He sparks a smile looking for an indication of the possibility of being that guy. No chance.
“One ticket to Maine, please.” I reply shoaling my scrunched-up money forward, my shadow eyes reflect and repel his smile from me; I do still have my straight face on today. He’s not for me, too much manly men in this world, I have dated his type before; I am the one who gets bored after or during the first date, after or during sex.
I sit down in my appointed seat, hulking my back next to me; the window will be my travel show on television and Taylor Swift will be my close friend, who lives in my I-pod, making me feel better about all my problems, she does her job well when I feel crappy. I love to just sit and watch people, not stalkerish, for example, like the woman shouting at her crying child, must be hard to be a mom, or the business man trying to act his way through life and finally the slutty woman trying to gain a watch to her new boobs and thin exterior, she must have recently split-up and is on the prowl, ready to pounce and rebound on some helpless sack; the business man looks like he’s not looking at her, over his paper. People are funny things.

 
I breathe on the window and draw a smiley face with my finger. As the train pulls out I catch a glimpse of myself, did I really come out looking like that? Yes, I am a petite woman, Yes, I have mousey-brown bedraggled hair, awesome, I bet everyone thought I looked like some tramp; no, I don’t wear a lot of make-up, but being 22 that is a good thing, right? To not be something you shouldn’t.

 
Taylor Swift, you legend, I loved that song. We are on our way home, but travelling through all of that laid snow should delay us. The business man and female player have finally found each other, grazing legs and eye screwing, I bet she is telling him about how no man has ever really satisfied her and all she is really looking for is someone who is there for her when she needs and he is eating it all up, thinking he could be that guy and all his words are working so well, while he is trying to hide his wedding band. Naughty – Naughty.

 
I look out of the window, trying to see wolves through the conifer trees as the train begins to slow. I hated this ride when I was a girl. The forest ran for so long and it was all you could see for miles, vast, that was the word my mom used when talking about it. The snow is coming down nice and heavy, Christmas has gone, get on with summer already. I look over at the two strangers, sucking the face off each other, I pretend I don’t notice but I do. It dulls me, shouldn’t I be having fun like everyone else, with someone who loves me for me, even if it makes them crazy. I prop up my face on my hands staring into the red striped fabric on the opposed seats. Taylor, please put me back in a good mood, 22, I love this song.

 
The train gains pace, it must have hit a snow wall or something, would have been funny to see a cow on the track. Trying to look in through the trees is hypnotic and rather tiring to the bored eye. A sigh. The forest swallows souls, so many trekkers have come to an abrupt end just walking through it, but I guess at this angle everything is fine. My eyes are heavy just like the snow. Catch you all at the finish line called home. Black.
I jerk forward. Everything is okay; the metal rail on the table cushioned my blow.
“What the hell!” I shout.
Everyone on the train is looking out of the windows, as the world reels itself past us. Every person on the train looks on in horror. This is one of those moments when my stalkerish spider-sense becomes handy, to know when everyone else around you looks scared, you should be too. The train creeks like floorboards as more speed is shown; trouble must have its hoists on us all. The whole train jumps, sending everyone into the air then off their seats, the cheaters help each other up, I am in the middle aisle; people begin to scream and shout for help, pulling helplessly on the lever of pull to stop, not only is it helpless but useless in the same hand. The whole train tips like a kid has gotten fed up with his toys, a dip in my stomach. Somersaults and tipple tails, it’s all gymnastics in nasty events. Black, again.

 
I manage to tear open my eyes; everything is distorted for a few seconds, wiping the snow from my face with a clean hand and pulling it back into focus, redness stains my fingers.
“I think I’ve cut my head, C’mon Jaim, let’s get up.” Psyching myself up.
I rise up, still in the sitting position, I look around; my surrounds do not look normal or familiar; that scares me more. For a minute I gain bearings.
“Is anyone there?!” I shout into disaster.
I loop my hair behind my hair and slowly pull myself up. The train is resting on its side, snow chucks in from the smashed windows that are now skylights.
“Hello!” There must be someone else here, please.
I climb over debris and lost luggage. My initial plan was to head for light.
“Please help me.” I faint woman’s voice comes from over near the gash in the roof of the train; I can see light but no person.
“I’m coming, just hang on.” I manage to reach the whole hole, the slutty woman is residing on her back, probably her favourite position, her legs in the train her body in the snow. Blood turns the snow, cherry slushy.
“My name is Alice, please, please help me.” Her tears say it all, but it is the tear across her belly raises a question. Now from watching E.R. and Grey Anatomy I know to stop a bleeding wound you must apply pressure, so I cup my hands over that slice of death.
“It’s okay; it’s not as bad as I can see.” Too much blood and it looks really deep. “I don’t know what to do, Alice.” Her bottom lip quivers, I don’t know if it is because of the pain or the freeze.
“We need to get help; do you have your cell on you?” She says gasping every other word.
“It was right beside me before the crash, but now, I don’t know.” I say trying myself not to cry and shiver.
“Okay, I need you to go look through someone else’s stuff and phone for help, can you do that?” Her gasps are really becoming erratic. I nod in agreement; I have no idea what I am doing.
“I will be right back, okay, just don’t try and move or anything.” I say.
I jump over her into the snow, I can see bag planted all over the forest floor; I sprint in big step into the forest.

 

Darkness shrouds everything, nothing grows here, but bad things live here. Push it to the back of your mind, Jamie, you are stronger than this.
I race for a bag suitcase the contents of which have been spread all over the floor. I route around, nothing. My head spins around frantically looking for my next purse, God, I feel like such a kleptomaniac. A pink handbag stands out more than others, so that is my next one. I race on over and turn the whole thing upside down, notebook, tampons, pregnancy test, make-up… A phone.
“Hello, is anyone else alive?!” A man’s voice echoes from the train wreck.
I stand to see if I can see, I let my guard down. A twig snaps behind me. A groaning growl puts the fear of Hell within me. I slowly turn, tree, tree, tree, tree. A Bear stands about twenty-five yards in front of me, his eyes fixed; he roars again, I am taken aback a few steps. He comes down off his hind legs and claws at the air.
I don’t think, I run through that forest like someone set off the fire alarm and this was no drill. I can hear him behind me, I forget to scream; the tears pour from me like they were their last time to show face. I jump over small dying logs and brush. He is getting closer and closer, I can almost feel his breath.
I try to look behind me, as curious as I am and fall, slamming myself into dead plants and dry leafs. I quickly turn onto my back and edge backwards on my balls of my converse shoes. The bear doesn’t relent in his attempt for food.
“HELP ME!” I have finally found my voice. Is this it?
From out of nowhere a gigantic tree comes spiking through the air, ploughing itself into the side of the bear, the scribbles of the branches rest at my feet. I sit there horrified, still scared and awestricken.

 
Questionable, I look in the direction where the tree laid roots. A young man stands there, half-naked staring at me, out of breath, he looks so dirty. I don’t even think he knows its winter as the temperature is well below minus.
“Hi, we need help just over there.” I shout on over to him. He slants his head, almost like he had no idea to what I just said. He looks up into the trees and spots a squirrel jumping from branch to branch, smiling at it.
He takes one more look at me with that smile and takes off running into the darkness and scribbles of drooping plant life. I stand, trying to look for the mystery dude. The bear takes back my attention; I look at the dead beast, laying under that trunk. The tree looks to weigh at least a few tonne. How is that even possible? Who was that guy?

 

Too much to think about, I must get back.
I race back to the train-wreck, phone still in hand. This day cannot get any worse.