This is why I hate people

So… where to start? How about at the beginning, does that seem like a good place? Yeah? No? …Any-hoo!

You see, I’ve been a writer for many’a year now, and I’d like to think that I’m a nice guy, with a humongous shattered mess inside of him, but a nice guy, at the end of it all. Let’s rewind to the end of 2010, you remember those days, when the movie Inception was baffling minor minds, and there was that Ke$ha song – Tik-Tok that would still ring in out eardrums within eight short years.

But back to why I hate people. In the year 2010 I was still an up-and-coming writer, I had just received my song writing contract for a huge label in Nashville, Texas, America. So I had gained a few eyes of people’s scouting my scourge or looking for an easy pay-day/win. This is when I liked people. Now, I’m not a person who seeks/writes for a any type of pay, you guys are pay enough.

But back then, I wrote for quite a few fellow men and women, with Novellas, short stories, poetry, manuscript ideas and screenplays. And I asked for nothing in return, BARRING, a nod, a shout-out, a high-five or simply put… A thank you, if they were ever to make it to the big time.

Let’s just say, I helped create a business woman into a virtuoso-writer and helped co-write (75% or more) a screenplay for literacy’s new rising writing star. My heart went out to her, she deserves it, why wouldn’t I be a nice person, she was double my age and I carved her imagination so she could try at it.

So here’s where the coin flips… You all know what’s coming, don’t laugh or smirk, c’mon. I got in contact with her, no connection anywhere. Finally, she still has her social media – so I pinged her a quick message and you know what I got in return. Pretty much, her telling me “Thanks for everything, see you whenever.” I spent years assisting her and now I’m given the middle finger.

I’m not saying it’s all people, most of the people I have partnered up with on a writing project have kept their promises. I guess… Your best friends can also be your best enemies.

Luckily you’re not someone who’d do that, right.

Stay shiny and good to one-another.

I’ll be back soon.



Medicine Time

The walls are closing in on me, time to expand my mind again; my last defence against the grim pace of life. I have finally put the knife down and picked up a pen and a handful of pills, cracking open my skull and throwing my brains at the paper, so this world can call my writings masterpieces. This master of writing is laid in pieces, broken and sobbing naked in the corners of the living-room, hiding from the knocks of the door, rocking backing forth.

I can be a pain killer,
Now watch me grill-up these chickens,
Wherever I be, weed suspicions be in us,
It’s a lot me similar to David and Goliath proportions,
Saving Private Problems,
Raging rhyming destroyer,
Wait until I get hold of,
All this weight I hold on my shoulders,
My soul dominates these golden-gates,
So…. Game over!
Courage and Knowledge mix with hate is a bonus,
Anticipate for another brain donor,
I should just escape to my other persona,
Cause I do love no one,
The world is sick,
Time to give it its medication,
Red ribbon wrapped with exhilaration,
Reward myself, a pill I page in,
Suppose to look after this commonwealth,
And still I am a patient.

Stick to what you know, so I am glued to this pen and paper and surrounded myself with memory photos of pain. I am not sure if these feverish tablets are making me sweat, or if I am crying; still not sure. Tomorrow I will be less of the same man! I can’t handle the wobble of sanity, my fingertips grip on the verge; I will plummet into insanity with my arms wide open and be engulfed into the darkness. Here we go again!

The Serial Killer – Part Two

I kill and mangle insides without a second thought but… I love my daughter, 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.
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

I am going to show all of the sane-snappers worldwide, my megalomaniacal 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 in the Mid-West. 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.

All About The Crazy Writer – Alexander Kennedy

Three Finished Manuscripts – Several More in the Works. At the moment, I am not represented by an agency.
First-off I would like to thank you for stopping by…

I write because words are all I have; I’ll out-rightly out write you because you write what is rightly right!

My name is Alexander Kennedy, I am 30 years old and live here in Kingston Upon Hull, England with my Fiancé – Cacilia, and my Three Year Old Son Alexander (Jr) A.J. for short. As a young “Mental Challenged” teen I quickly developed a love for rhyming words (Aspirations of becoming a white rapper/ poet.) But I didn’t know it was the love for the shock of words I loved.
But after a few years on the poet scene I found out the words I used were no longer filling that void within me. I needed a challenge while I was attending a mental health hospital for delusions, unable to tell the difference between reality and dreams, walking around and having terrors form right before his eyes, all the while trying to keep my “Normal life” held together. I found a way out in Short stories and Screenplays. I generated myself as a novice pen-man. But as I marched my way through the writing scene, the words I was using did not have the same effect on me, so thus a novel was needed for his void. Taking all of the distorted images of people and events within my life, I create some of the weirdest and dark toned stories.
To keep my void filled I must still tackle all of my writing on a weekly or daily basis to ensure my pen doesn’t get lazy.
“I have been to hell when I was boy, when I arose from the fires I became a man; now, living out my life as an act to fit in to a place I can never truly be part of, so I write worlds I remember to entertain you from the darkness that raised me.” – “Psycho-Speak” Alex Kennedy.
If you would like to send us a private message, YOU CAN! We will receive your message and relay it back to Alex. The link is below. (NOTE: If you could leave us a short comment upon this page stating you have sent us a message, it would be appreciated, as we are not always on the email. Thank you.)
If you would like to talk to me about my writings or possible representation or guest-blog please use the e-mail below.
I am a real life Mental Patient. Now I shall show you a world within the one you live in.” – Alex Kennedy
(…May I just point out some of my earlier stories, from years prior, are from when I was mentally ill and on meds, so there maybe some spelling mistakes and weird twists. No I will not change them! They remind me of a time when I was less than myself now. But as I have grown, so has my work and spell-checking. Thank you.)


Down The Barrel to the Beast

I came here to find a monster and I have. I take my shooter from its holster. My bottom jaw mimics the choked gun, rattling and dangling by my side. The beast is on the hunt and we have caught each other’s scent. I step further in to the deserted darkened woodland, breaking twigs as I prowl, revealing my position. I am ready to plunge my silver life chasers within the clip into the animal’s heart. The full moon is my torch but overgrown trees and clouds are my blindness here, interjecting its beam now and again and showing claw like shadows upon the ground. The raindrops run down my face, slowing my adrenaline and temperature getting any higher. I know he is around, I can feel him, every movement he makes, every time he takes a mouthful or charges for his prey, I know.
He not only touched my soul with his presence, he also tore the fear from my flesh a month prior in Central Park, I thought I killed him then but every cop gets it wrong in thirty-five years of work. As soon as I heard more bodies had been found, I followed the trail to this place, a new hunting ground and soon to be a new graveyard. That is why I am here, sleepless nights and countless nightmares, pills and whiskey shots, a wife that walked out on me with the kids, she said she couldn’t cope and now finally a dedicated job that no longer wants to know, so nothing less to lose. I raise that barrel to the sky, and fire three times towards the moon, I had no bell to call him for dinner. A huge branch takes out half the tree below, landing beside me, disturbing the leaves that were once part of it. I take my eyes skywards, following the trees body. The moonlight shines on top of me, like a spotlight, showing me to my bloodthirsty audience, ready to tear my act to parts.
Why am I here? Just looking at this bright rock in the sky makes me think deep about it… I know why, I am rock-bottom. Am I here to kill the big bad wolf? Or am I here to let the beast finish me off? As my obsession over him has separated everything from me, so why not let him separate my limbs while I am here. I drop my way out along with a tear, my gun was too heavy and my eyes have finally seen enough. Bring forth my fate and let it sink its teeth deep. A howl travels on the wind that passes through the forest floor, the leaves travel on it, scared, escaping the bloody scene this night will end in. I turn slowly to where the howl originated, all I can see is darkness and endless trees, broken twigs snap around me, at the side of me then behind, he is circling me.
Still in the light I fall to my knees, I am not going to fight this, just let it be over for me. I pull my wallet out and open it up, I brush my kid’s pictures with my finger, this will be the last I see of them as their father. That was a great day when this photograph was taken; Glenn threw up all over Molly at the beach. A grunt erupts in front of me; I lift my head to my destiny. The moon lights up the forest floor. Dropping my picture, I see the beast. It is the size of a bear on its hind legs; the coat on it is thick and its tail whips the air, he has me in his sights, about time.
I know it is him, even though he is about one hundred yards in front of me, bobbing his head from behind a tree. Show no fear; I can’t, not in front of my children. I laugh, louder and louder, so his attention isn’t broken by a squirrel or rabbit, I am no longer running but if he thinks I am going down without a fight, he has his meat slab mistaken. If he bites, I bite, when he slashes, I’ll throw a punch, so he will have to work before he gets fed. He puts his front paws to the floor and bows, lining up his back-end like a lion ready to attack. I paste my face with a smile of callous towards his intimidation. He lets out a roar that vibrates the strings on my heart, breath-taking me. He bounds from his creeping position with full force behind his legs, charging against the wind, out matching the sound of it with his roar for food. He tears through bushes at a speed that cannot be matched, blurring by the trees. He starts to slow up rapidly, until his is walking, tilting his head from side to side, he is at arm’s length from me.
I do not take my eyes from him; he stops, staring at me with his nothingness eyes. My heart wants to break free and present itself from my chest until it is at his feet. He comes in closer until we are nose-to-nose, his breath smells like death, my throat blocks up with sick but I manage to keep it down. His teeth are the size of assault rifle bullets and his snout is covered in someone’s blood. He must be at least eight feet tall. He sniffs my face, I make no movement. This must be it, here comes the kill, I close my eyes. A HOWL!!! I throw my hands over my ears, trying to block out the noise. It stops so suddenly, should I open my eyes? Nothing is happening… I open them slightly; his feet are gone from before me. I look up, the wolf is nowhere in sight.
I stand to my feet and use the back of my hand to wipe the sweat from my brow. I stare at the back of my hands, they are covered in hair, I pull on a clump then it begins… a pain like no other. I fall to the floor in agony holding my head. My bones are tearing me inside out. I begin to crawl on my stomach to my car beyond the forest, still on the road, what is happening. With ever breath I take, blood drips from my mouth, washing away my teeth and replacing them with blades. I look up to the moon and know why I was here truly. I can’t move anymore. I let out a scream which turns into a roar. I came here to find a monster and I have.

Thank you for reading. 


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Hell Hath Fury

I have no name, no more reflection, hellbound for millennia, judged by a life I cannot remember except this feeling of once loved, completely alone in the shrouds and crowds of darkness. No time, no air, no hunger, no pain and no her, condemned by condemning the people who took her from my heart, a small price to pay for the loss of mine to the equivalent loss for them. Home is no longer with the faceless woman, blonde or black hair, is she smiling at my memory? …Home, I dream of such a place, walk through the door and smell a cooked meal, laughs of my children and sunlight to brighten my day. They left when I left.

Now home means to hide under a rock that sticks out from a cave wall and covering the hole with another rock, my body sleeps in a coffin but I sleep in a tomb to protect myself from the creatures out there roaming for me. My photographs are insanely carved by bone into the cave walls, so if anything happens to me, my memories will always tattoo this place, why would I want my past life to be remembered here? The time I spent on that planet was amazing, fun, love, smile hugs, this place is everything that I feared in nightmares and more, it is like introducing a serial killer to my family, you would not do it, take the carvings down, rub them out, I don’t want my happy times to be associated with this place.

The skies are always crimson red with black-hearted-clouds, no sun, the days are never shown as days but I still need sleep. A scream, one that tears through the land reaches my ears, it sound like one thousand women feeling the worst possible pain, it is a Smole, a crab like creature with a dragon neck and head and four separate wings, four legs, two pincers and two arms, the size of a house, that soars the skies, yes, there is no hunger but some animals have the hunt built within themselves so they do it because it come natural to them, if it moves, kill it, welcome to the area I live.

…The devil? There has been rumors from people I have run into, usually they get eaten or just move on, thinking it is not safe. Also there have been rumors on how to get out from this Hell-Hole, literally, there is a place here called, Demi-fete, it is a city of the worst of the worst, if you step on a crack on the ground you will become tangled in tentacles of a Wrapper, like a land octopus with two heads and more tentacles, roughly the size of a bus. If you ever see a red dust cloud spiraling towards you, you have to take cover; inside the small tornado is a Squaller, you can see through the dust cloud but the creature spins so fast that it becomes invisible to the eye and these are the ones I know that are there, hundreds more desolate that land. Can you hear that? …More silence that usual, I shuffle and army-crawl to my peep-hole to see outside of my cave, nothing… but just because nothing is seen doesn’t mean anything is there. Still looking out of the spy-hole I reach slowly for my blade, a long rusted sword, it belonged to one of the Knights Templar. He got swallowed by an Air-Trekker.

Loose stones tumble from the top of the caves opening, run. I push on the rock with my legs that has stopped protecting me and become an obstacle, then dragging myself up to a sprint for life. A gigantic roar knocks me flying straight out of the cave to the sandy floor, the cave from the inside begins to open up the mountain until a head pokes out the caves opening, it’s the Smole and it has just set its eyes upon me, I am destined for dinner. Where is my sword, I throw my head from left to right, it is sticking out of the sand, I quickly crawl, spin round and get into the position to fight, if I run I will either be pick up and ate or ran down and ate, better to fight than die. It must have caught my sent and dug its way through the mountain. The Smole breaks free from the prison of stones and rubble and targets me with both its heads. I bend down slightly like a cat before a prowl, throwing the sword from one hand to the other. The Smole stretches out ever limb and screams to what I once looked up to as heaven. I face my destiny down here with every ounce of my strength so I begin to run towards it with everything I have, I dodge the one of the claws but in my movement away from it I am left open for the other one, captured with the look of defeat.

What this Smole does not know is when I died Hell opened its door to one of its worst creatures to walk its sandy horizons, a human named Me, the most destructive and evilest forces to ever be conceived and squeezed out, more diabolical than any fallen angel, more life-taking than any natural disaster or war because down here everything is personal. I raise my sword above my head and begin stabbing repeatedly into the wrist of the Smole, it let’s go and I fall through the pincers, I raise the sword again over my head in free fall and swipe at one of its legs, its screams out, leaning to the right, trying to keep balance as its purple blood spits out of it newly made holes, but it is not giving up. I run underneath it, dragging my blade across its underbelly until I reach its backend and climb on its shell of a body of flapping wings, I run and plunge my sword straight into the left neck of the beast, retract with a spin and take off the Smoles right head, it crashes to the floor with a giving up groan and begins to retreat from this small little man with its extra legs, pushing its way away. Down here this is my domain, down here I am Lucifer – down here I make my own rules. Now my home has been reduced to rubble, I might go and find those rumored ways to get out of here, I am now a warrior among men; I could be useful on my planet. I will go and find my reflection and my name, finally.

This Pen is a Monster, It’s the only one that gets me.

Chain me to this black cloud; I am hiding what I have done to myself behind my shackles. The lure of darkness has my eye and the shadows are staring back; under the rock is where the monsters lie. Pop another, Alex; now swallow. These drugs don’t help me; they work, yes, but make me worse. I am sinking further into this high, losing myself with every capsule.

A dilemma I hold within each hand and tongue, standing in the dark.
If I take each of these pills I will transform into what you are now, sitting behind your computer trying to be something you are not quite yet. I wish to be animal within this society, mirror you. But the downside to every pill, is the shadow to every light, I do not write. I would never regret this addiction but with every forbidden love at one point or another you must either love or leave before the poison from the black rose’s thorns take effect.
This idea of a better life is just too huge to gulp-away. Now a revolution on words! Observe how my pain leaps from this computer screen at you. Your eyes merely glimmer with the hope, but mine shimmer towards the slant of greatness.

I will not give up,
Tie me up in blood soaked ribbon,
A present for the entire world,
Beneath my skin it’s crippling,
With the major difference bestowed upon this simpleton,
My evil symptoms are different,
Time to kick-up a fuss,
Along with the kids with the kids of these kingdoms,
Stand tall beside my pillars are wisdom,
They are for show but should be feared,
One day at a time but it turns into years,
This is all I can wish for,
Now stand up, Alex; and wipe away your tears on your sleeve.

I am sorry I left you, I made the wrong choice, forgive my stupendous stupid ways. I won’t let you down, my prolific talent is fifty all anyone else out there, this time my dream comes first and I shall make sure life comes a close second. This is the begin of something so real to me, I am back revenge upon my pad, even if I have to write in blood; I will get my words to you!

Another Rejection Letter From a Lit-Agent

I received another rejection letter again from a literary agency… Hey, we all go through it as writers, at one point or another.
Their exact (Key) Words they sent were:
1. We are sorry to inform you…
(Always a no-brainer where this is going)

2. Not currently seeking out new clients at this time…
(Erm… Okay)

3. We enjoyed your stories but…
(…no words…)

4. All the best in your future representation…
(Worth a shot…)
We can’t always hit a bull’s-eye on the first shot. I was told by another writer when I first started writing “You will get nowhere in this industry if you don’t have a name people remember.”
I guess he was right; without exposure I will not get anywhere in this writers life.
So I came up with a plan, a plan that would boggle the minds of most… I shall write and lie in wait.
What more can I do?
If I am to write all that overcomes my pretty-little head and share it upon my blog, sooner than later the readers and views will come, which in turn could eventually bring forth the right eyes for my work. (That’s innuendo for an agent.)
So instead of writing and passing out your work to Lit-Agencies who will not cloak you within their name, write all you can and bring the agents to you.
You have waited this long to be a great writer; why not wait a little longer?
Look at my blog;

  • One year ago I was a no one.
  • Today my blogs views have increased almost 400% within 1 month.
  • With the ten new WordPress followers a day, come ten new readers.

We as writers will always find a way to satisfy our urges to scribble.
Find your own and the be comfortable with it and I bet my soul on it, respect, a name and your dreams will soon venture your way.
Keep your pens busy!
I will be posting another post for you all tomorra’
Alexander Kennedy – Creative Writer.

Chaotic Carvings

I will no longer slave my thinking, a war upon sanity. Inflict hate when I elicit my illicit pen on all which are affectionate towards my bad black blood pump. One chance to rule this world, I am loosing myself within the moment of monumental moulded monsters I shall muster. No treatments I hand Earth, only disease ridden written miracles; I am mad for medicines. I refuse to stay sober, reuse my pain into reissuing myself another high. My instincts are primal but my guts are in knots, fight or flee?
Finally, I am taking a stand, staring at an ocean of people, a sea of waving hands greets me; I am looking upon my attackers. I was a sandwich sort of a picnic and lost myself in the woods, this is where I was hunted and haunted by these words and found this pen, just lying there, calling to me; now I unleash this pens inner anger character and release myself back into the wilds of vile.
I am disassociating myself from this plane of existence; it’s not meant for people such as me. Haven’t you ever seen a man floating from a page? Believe your eyes, I am omnipotent.
I have a heavy-duty headache, the voices want me to carve into my skull and wheedle out this worm, which sinks in its teeth into the little reality I grasp, so much so, I think I am going to die during sleepy-time. I’ve had enough; I am out of this world; point at the alien and be on your way. Systematically the darkman which lives within my mainframe flicked my self-destructive switch, so every swish is a wish or every scribble is literal, it’s quite simple, you should look past my dimples.
Kneel before my writing! I am singing to crazy, dancing frantically to the feared heartbeat you all own. Count your money, paint on your smiles; I know you are all scared of life. Panic on the streets, an army of psychopaths by my side, we’re coming for the Iron Throne. We come from the darkness to steal you light, I am my mother’s sun; she managed to raise hell in this house. My only cure now is not to dig my way out of reality but slash my way out from this page.