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…


 

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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

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.

Birth Of A Superhero

The dinning-hall at St Peters High School, reminds me of feeding time for the animals in Africa. The pop-jock-kids are the lions, they devour whatever is placed upon their plates; malevolently scoping out their next gazelle to pounce as they digest and bask in the sun of the football field, after they rip apart their burgers and hotdogs. We shall leave these beasts alone.

 

The beautiful make-up-girls, they would be the leopards, majestic to look at but they will eat your very soul in front of everyone if you get too close, sometimes just for kicks; unfeeling and unflinching to every other animal that roams these hallways. They eat their healthy pasta and salads but do divulge in the fatty luxuries we have come to know as the first basic food group, chocolate. Their attack choice on other animals, manipulate, bitch and backstab; their beauty is just a smokescreen, under it they have their taste for virgin blood and paranoid friendships between each other.

 
And then there’s me and mine, the chimps, day-dreamers and star-gazers. Popularity food for the pop-kids, we are meant for one purpose and one purpose only, to make others look good. Mediocre looks means a mediocre school-life, we do not stand out in any crowd except the classroom. This is where we come alive and also write our social-subconscious-suicide notes because in the teacher’s eyes we are looked upon as the hopeful but in the cross-eyes of our teenage equals we are deemed hopeless.
And as a chimp we certainly can never have a love with a beautiful girl, one like Alison Stook. If I were a chimp she would still be a Goddess. Here is the kicker of my stance in this place. I am a geek; I look and keep up the act like one as well. A thin exterior and shabby hair, what will I have to offer her, except from love.
“You’re doing that thing again, Chris. Hello, earth to Chris!” Mark snaps his fingers.
I drive my head into my chilidog and chow down.
“Sorry guys, it’s just so hard not to stare at something so… beautiful and perfect and everything I want and need to be with… I’m in trouble, ain’t I?” I tear myself from the dream which could lead to an ass-whoopin’ by friends.
“I mean this seriously mate, just go over and talk to her, she is just a lass at the end of the day.” Danson interjects as he slams down his dinner-tray and taking a seat.
“Well mate, you have no idea what it is like to daydream about the girl of your dreams and would except every detail about her, it’s not that you can’t dream, it’s because you’re English.” I copy his British accent.
Mark and Danson start blowing kisses at one another; I grab my carton of milk and stand.
“Screw you guys, I’m going to the library to do some research on my next project.” I stomp away from their jeering.
“Bye Bye lover boy!” Mark has one last poke of embarrassment to throw.

 

 
I sit there looking at a webpage on how electricity’s metamorphosis on a magnetic field will either dissipate it or make it increase.
“Hi there, it’s Chris, isn’t it? Your friends said you’d probably be here.” A quiet voice takes my attention.
“Hi… Alison…” She is standing in front of me, keep calm; keep calm. “Just working out; I mean I’m doing some working out.” I stunningly stammer.
She sits down with the huge green eager eyes, giggle-some.
“Have you heard of the charity skydiving drive we are holding at the weekend?” She leans closer inwards, I can smell her perfume.
“Vaguely; why?” I keep my answers small to not trip-up my cool composure, not that I had any before.
“Well we are filming it live and we need it to be streamed over the internet to watchers who are funding it but couldn’t be there and also to raise more money online. So I was wondering…”
I jump into her words. “No – No. I can’t jump; I’d be too scared of messing up in the sky.”
She squint’s her eyes and puts on a side smile, brushing her red hair behind her ear. “No, I was wondering if you would come up in the plane with us and take care of the video feeds from all of our cameras and make sure they broadcast properly. “ She brood’s her bottom lip and places her hands in a praying action. All I can do is gawk at her mouth which is outlined with incarnadine lipstick; she is a kaleidoscope to me, all the pretty colours I wish to surround myself with.
“So there’s no jumping for me?” I relieve. A shake of her head and a bite of her lip say it all. Stop staring – stop staring – stop staring. “Sure thing, I’d happily do it for you.” Finally I acquiesce.
“Great!” With a clap of her hands she leans over to me and kisses me on the cheek. “People always said that you were weird, I don’t really see it.” She ended.
There I sit; the vile view of society has rested upon me, all my nightmares shown to me by the girl of my dreams.

 

 
I manage to open the door to Granddad Wilsons house. He is a hoarder of the old world; the interior to the huge house is the colours of browns and greys, it’s as if I walked into a noir film and I am trapped in rainbow shading clothing.
“Granddad – Granddad, I’m here for my weekly visit.” I lower my tone. “To be bored out of my mind for the next two hours.”
Slipper scuffles shift from the kitchen. I turn and in toddles the oldest guy I know. An aged frown is directed at the floor, through his fickle-rimmed glasses that hang on for life at the end of his nose. A bold moustache he keeps as a statement and high-rising pants that lip his belly.
“I told your mom she did not have to keep sending you every week to look after me, I’m fine. I tell you, if your Grandmother was still alive she’d make sure you never came back around, with her tricks and antics.” He barks as he rests in peace in his chair with a huff of chest infection.
The room is filled with books of ancient history, myths and legends and superhumans; the top book on the pile upon the coffee table is a book about Sumerian tribe links with aliens.
“Yeah, well I’m here now. What’s with all the books?”
He fixes up his glasses. “It’s only taken you almost two decades to ask me. It’s been a hobby of mine since I was about your age. Mostly about people being more than they are. Powers that not even a God could muster-up only within you.”
“Like superheroes?” I advise, readjusting myself in this cardboard chair.
“You kids and your damn superheroes; I will tell you something, being a superhuman doesn’t come from outer-space or radioactive ants or whatnots. It all comes from within you.” He grumbles as he taps his finger on my chest plate.
“What do you mean, Grandpa?” I confusingly beam.
“Think of yourself as a battery operated machine, son; your emotions produce enough energy to muscle your power of choice; if you feel love or anger to an extreme, your level will rise, a lot like a pulse, whoosh – whoosh – whoosh. Back before man was recorded I believe we had the knowledge of our potential and we used it to shape the world we live in today, but like everything, we got lazy and forgot. We are all superhuman; all we need to know is how to channel ourselves through the obstacles that keep us grounded.” He slurps his syrup styled motioned coffee.
“That’s a nice theory, Granddad. I know I don’t listen to you a lot, but it’s not every day you hear a hypothesis about being super and it actually making sense.” Ponderingly I scope-out a new day-dream in the cobwebbed crevices of the ceiling.
“I mean it has never found me, but you should focus on your feelings in front of mirror to see if anything happens.” He hints as he picks-up the TV guide.

 

 
So here I am, my bedroom door barricaded with my straight-bar weight. My shameful body is shown as my T-shirt is thrown on the floor.
“Okay, focus on my feelings and becoming a superhuman.” I psych myself up as I try and look buff in the mirror, lacking the muscle mass.
What could she ever see within me?
I think about why no one had ever crossed their own path before in this instance. If they gained strength, they would probably rob banks or take on the army for fun. If they gained speed, the Olympics could be their golden run to glory. It would probably be best for everyone if they didn’t cross that path.
The want for better overruns all that had been done-wrong upon this place, someone with only pure of heart, someone who believed in right before themselves, could harness this power.
I close my eyes and I can only think of her and soon realise that thinking of such magic could never exist within our world.
As I lay myself down to sleep for the night, I feel let down by my own being; my belief for a better me to have all I want, it’s never that simple. A total apocalypse of the heart.

 

 
I get off the bus to a fresh sky of azure. A slight nudge towards the airport hanger by the wind and the alacrity of my fellow student jumpers knocks my thoughts out of sync.
“Sup’ dude! Can you believe this? Finally here, I am shitting my pants but weirdly in a good-way.” Derek chortles.
“So glad I am not jumping.” I shuffle into myself.
“Yeah, we all know why you are doing this and let’s just say we all know that it’s not to do the right thing, unless the right thing has red hair and has a nice rack.” He jeers as we both look over at Alison who is surrounded by her female followers.
From a joined office at the side of the hanger a middle aged but grey haired man enters. This must be the skydiving teacher, Clark; the female faculty have a thing for.
“Okay, gather round, guys. This is what you have been training for, the time is finally here. Now for those who are jumping today you have to remember the temperature up there is going to be gelid, so precaution is advised at all times. You know what is needed and expected of you all up there; each other’s wellbeing at all times.” He claps his hands. “Let’s do this!”
She and I create a succinct eye contact, smiles attached; I don’t know what to make of it. Does she fancy me the way I fancy her or is she being polite the way she usually is? Who knows?

Sitting in my corner of the plane, scared out of my wits, I do not know what to make of all the turbulence and jilts. I have a laptop screen, secured down; on screen there are windows of live-feeds from the cameras located on the helmets of each jumper. It is my job to monitor and link up.
Derek scoots over to my side.
“Wear this.” He hands me a bandana to cover the bottom part of my face. “When those doors open it is going to get really cold in here, dude.”
“Thanks, man.” I flick through the screens.
“A little woman advice for you, you have to take a risk if you want to know anything, take a leap of faith for your own good.” He punches my upper arm and shifts back over to his position.
Clark comes through from the cockpit, putting on his helmet.
“Two minutes! Check and recheck your pulls and restraints help the person next to you if they need. A horde of twelve people wobble from side-to-side, tugging and pulling on straps, at this angle they remind me of fawns on an icy lake. I make a beeline for her, taking my words and forming them into lascivious manner.
“Hi Chris, thanks for doing this again; will you fasten up my chin strap.” I fiddle around with it. “With this helmet and all the wind, my hair is gonna’ frizz like a bitch.” Alison whinges.
“Perhaps, but I do guarantee, you will still be beautiful within my eyes, Alison.” Her eyes drift down to mine; flutters, this must be the energy my granddad was talking about.
“Okay, everyone in to position!” Clark Crows.
I back up and find my seat and belt, strapping myself in. A line of leapers form to face a formidable monster, Mother Nature. Alison is behind Derek, second to last. She looks down her body, going over all of her straps one more time in her head. She arches her head back up and turns to look at me, a look of love for erstwhile. Rather ironic, I have falling in love; she shows love before she falls.
The door is automatically opened; one by one they hurtle themselves from the aircraft. They fall as cascading teardrops which reflect magnified within deaths eyes. For a brief second I do not believe she will do it, confusing burns a fuse of feeling in her heart. I wrap and tie the bandana around my face.
They jump!
The rush of wind is conducted through the speakers; I focus in with a click on her camera-feed. Aerodynamically the divers chase away birds.
Camera 11 has some interference, the white noisy lines stretch across the screen. I check the list, the camera is Derek’s; I watch closely on the screen. The camera is pulled from Derek’s helmet by the winds evil fingertips, it’s is catapulted into Alison’s direction, she collides with it and is sent unconsciously into a furious freefalling spiral. My heart within my chest is on the edge of its seat. In the clouds my worst fears come to me in the shape of a frisson.
I cannot just sit here and watch love fall away from me, shall I cry into my hands and give death the satisfaction or shall I take charge of my feelings? A warm rush of blood tsunami’s through my veins, when it has hit a curved end it backtracks. Is this it? Chris, undo your straps!
I vease my feet forward into the openness of a sky-shot without a parachute. The wind causes brouhaha to the ear, my eyes squint and my heart shudders behind my ribcage. I only make out the jumpers as they have formed a handheld circle within their fall. Two flyers have broken away from the pack, one must be Derek and the other is definitely Alison. Remember what Granddad said. I close my eyes to regain courage.
“Think of yourself as a battery operated machine, son; your emotions produce enough energy to muscle your power of choice; if you feel love or anger to an extreme, your level will rise; a lot like a pulse, whoosh – whoosh – whoosh. ~ We are all superhuman; all we need to know is how to channel ourselves through the obstacles that keep us grounded.”

 

Alison…

 
I plunge myself into an arrow position and let gravity do the rest. I soar straight through the handheld-sky diver’s circle, with the speed I have now attained; they all disburse away from one another and pull their shoots. Derek is still trying to reach Alison, nowhere near and thinks of his own life and gives his parachute a lease of life.
She is within my sights and we are within deaths. She is falling back first, her arms and legs wafting around as if she was trying to break-dance.

 
I chrysalis around her, my right hand becomes a search party for her shoot-strap, it is wrapped around her jackets zip; I yank and yank…. I can’t get it free.
I drill my face into her neck; I do not wish to watch either. Only in death can we be together, rather ironic. Our first and last hug; No… It cannot end like this.
“I love you, Alison!” I scream over the wind.
“Love you, too.” A sleeping beauty replies.
I lock my eyes and focus on the feeling of love, 100 meters to go. Love is my key.
We are both shot through some weedy-twigs and brush, eventually landing in a marshland area.
“What the… I am alive?”
Alison, sleeps on a heap in the mud, we have caused a path of destruction for our landing, but how?
I stand slowly and peel the mud from my hair and face.
What is this new found power? And why do I have it? I guess we will find out…