Falling Into Love

I have finally fell in love and it is about to destroy me on this skyscrapers rooftop. “Please, get back from the edge!” I shout at her unlistening ears. She has her arms open wide, ready to be caught by deaths grip and be auctioned off to the night at half price for her half life. She is standing in her spotlight from the night’s sky with the idea of stepping down from her stage to end her final act. The moon is laughing at our light. “Just look at me; just look at me… please.” The tears freefall from my face. The wind pushes against her, whispering warnings of what is to come as it makes her hair whip and dance. Gravity is the middle man within our triangle but bargaining with his power on his edge, results in death. She must remember me as she is still wearing the white dress I had bought her, if she only she took my arm and we take off to pursue life together again, hand in hand before death do us part. Her heart is cheating beats which is slowly killing her, this is the reasoning behind us being here.
“What will I do if you do this?” I ask her. “You will go on without me.” She replies calmly. This is a nightmare. “But the best dreams happen in real life; don’t you want to be part of that?” She turns her head to the misty rain that has begun to lie upon the horizon making everything distort, life is bleaker than the weather. “If you do this, food will taste like it has been poisoned, water will seem dry and time will have no hands to save you.” She adds to the rain with her tears. “Life is like a strand of hair, it can be as long as you want or as short as you need it, isn’t that my decision?” She says quietly to the wind. “In sickness or in Health… I said those words to you and you alone; I never backed away from what I pledged!” I plead to her emotions. So why is this happening? I look at my phone thinking about dialing for help but it is already too late. Love is the killer to the heart, not the sword or arrow but used as a weapon against itself. “We can get the help, the doctor said there was still time.” I say almost giving up. Whoso findeth a wife, findeth a good thing, but bad things soon follow. I throw my sight to the floor, collapsed eyelids and all. “Come with me.” She asks. I don’t make eye contact, searching for a new answer to our old problem. Thunder murmurs from behind the black clouds which are passing over head. Weather calls for extreme conditions; angels will fall as the world sits by and listens. I nod slowly, holding back the right thing to say. She holds out the hand I have always held, I walk over and take hold, bringing myself up to her new level of living. I look down, the streets seem like mazes for mice and the people are going about their business, unknowingly. “We shall take on death together.” I say to her, brushing her hair behind her ear. She wraps her arms around me and presses her head against my chest. “I love you so much. Whither thou goest I will go. That is my purpose.” She says. The destruction of my world is true love I gift upon you, dismantling my heart and sharing the pieces equally between us, who could want more? “I love you too.” I say. We tilt to the side within a deep breath of one another. We fall, still gazing into the eyes we wake up to each morning. It still puts a smile on my face. The roar and scorn of the wind rages passed our ear. “Any regrets?!” I shout. “Not loving you longer.” She replies. Kissing me as the ground creeps closer. This is how you fall into love.

“That is not how you mount a horse, the horse is supposed to hold your weight, not me.” I laugh.
I tilt to my side to let her back to her feet.

“Shall we try again?” I ask. She nods trying to defeat the embarrassment.
We both mount our horses and begin on our journey. The rays of sunshine slices through the clouds like a swords blade from the heavens. The leaves are over confident and spiral across the slight wind on the air. The horses trot beside one another as we sit on our thrones of freedom towards the world. The grass and trees bow to us.

 

 

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Exorcising The Evil Out Onto The Page

Yes, that’s me in the picture… Let me begin.

Live a moment in my unmovable momentous monument, it might merit your millennia, like it did mine. Seeing sycophants, building psycho fans with their slippery rants, they’ll all need to switch their pants when they get the chance, because the King has returned, skinned burned, skinny and malnourished. I pay penance with a petrified pen, play writer in the eyes of the Earth, praying liar flailing around in the fires of my moral wire or mortal-coil, my sport is horrible, spurting spectacular humble spots forward onto smashed mirrors, what hurts the most is what has been cast within us, the foreword has hatch the final villain, he’s me, bad-ass and brilliant, lavished in the ink-blood on millions of killed innocents.
As a matter of fact, it’s a matter of pride and it hangs high… Like my rope choking around my necktie. I produce each body of work until my body is hurt, emerged from this body of dark water to show you my curse. Should I have said sorry first?? This folly is my curse to curse on the cursed. I feek and wamble through forbidden parts of my flaccid foamy thoughts, welcome to my shilpit stuck shtick of a shipwrecked existence. I threap the idea of my deep pipe-dream and chisel into my bones, I will form my face on a platform of predictive pandemonium. Keep writing, keep writing; leave life within the leap of your lies, the skies are dull, a spotlight, I’m hit by cheap lightning, so I cheat at the chessboard fights and confess wrongs rights, righteously.
Rampid scarlet nights, wrap rapid around the pad of writers might, until I’m knee riding, let’s set this carpet alight, realign my alien mind, I put a space between ship, relation or friend… Why???
Life, Love and death, most certain to happen at one point or another to everyone, you have no choice in these matters, neither do the Gods nor the devils, you may have a slight influence on when they may occur, but you can never cause these forces to react by your own will.
Dig deeper to find my heart, I will hold yours over you, with a xiphoid object, time stops to observe, I’m from projects, time to write more the world conserved.

As a Writer, What We All Expect…

As a writer just like you, I do hope for a literary agent one day. I guess we all have that dream to be up to the same stance as Stephen King, J.K. Rowling, Edgar Allen Poe or even Jackie Collins… So on and so forth. But While I wait here at Rock-Bottom or at the Bottom of the Ladder I am able to perfect my skill and gain an audience.
Now I know when writing a blog every page always hits a Dead-Point when no one is coming in especially when your dream is at stake. But DON’T STOP! I don’t mind if I get 20 views one day and the next day 200 views on my blog because I have faith not only in my writing but also myself and time will form my future.
Now I know we all have dreams, we all just drift away and think of a life unlike the ones we are living now and a writing career where you are at the top of your game and no one can stand to you.

If you want greatness, no one else will pick up that pen.

But I have seen writers do the minimum amount of work and expect the world to fall at their feet and call what they do as art. ~ Hang your heads in shame. ~ But I have also seen writers like this gain a writing-contract and deliver everything that no one wants. Awesome!
But I have also seen people do the maximum amount of writing and still heading nowhere.

Show your feathers and you will fly.

Be something more than yourself; be like The Dark Knight and become an idea, an idea that is unbreakable, unmoveable; do not show your scars – create your own. And from this an audience will form and follow your shadow. This is when you become great.
Think of yourself as a superhero creating your persona; each time you type you save a soul and the more you save the more your name flies around the globe. Until the time a literary agent comes forth from a spaceship and presents you to the world of Fame and fortune and hands you a costume and forever you will never be able to be defeated.
Yes, I do realise that is a little far out there but it make sense to me. Haha! So be Clark Kent for a time, grow into your powers and soon you will become Superman. (Yes, I have seen Man of Steel, found it to be Awesome!)

 
But do not write for Fame or Fortune because all you will get is broke-pockets and fewer friends than when you started.
We all start somewhere but being at the bottom isn’t all that bad because it just shows us where we want to arrive.
So, do your work, take your time and don’t reach for greatness sooner than you’re ready. In time everything will come.

 
Keep those pens busy….
Alex.

The Broken One

I’m the type of kid who doesn’t belong here; I stick out like a sore thumb. They tried to fix me, didn’t work; now they are biting nails around me waiting to see how much I can stamp on these pages before I snap off for good. How much is enough to call enough-is-enough? I couldn’t control my past but observe how I sculpt my future. Fire-red is the new Blackness, these pages with go up in smoke. These pages are my playground, push me and I’ll swing.

This world didn’t break me, I was already broken. And the brick that was threw through my window and did it, I am holding onto as if it was my dream, because when the time is right, I will make this world swallow what people have done to me. Looks like The Evilness has raised its ugly face again, it’s all only bravado, I just caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.  My sane-self is trapped on the other side, he sees all; tonight I will be your host and he will be my hostage. Welcome to the Alexander Kennedy Show!

He’s going cuckoo again! Doctors stop the treatment, it’s the wrong diagnosis; I merely write better when I have my head in the clouds. Well, it does give new meaning to higher functioning!

My brain is an intricate web; make sure you don’t get tangled in the words I weave. I’m the type of writer who pretends he’s a spider, for one purpose; to spin the peace symbol around before I chomp down on a fly girl. As a writer you must know I can kill with only finger and a thumb. They say one man’s delusions are another man’s faith. Do not worry; I have faith within my delusions.

I have to beat life because I can’t cheat this death,

I say I feel fine but my heart has raised secrets,

I may be in deep rhyme as I’m sitting at my desk,

As every night I die because my mind can regress.

I’m morphing into a monster,

Everybody stand back!

This horror-show I’m applaud in,

Know I have the quickest-hand on this pad,

Stand back!!

Writers Of The World Should Raise Hell

They’re coming to take me away to the funny-farm; I’m up-in-arms, hooray! The dark clouds are forming above; Hells-mouth is foaming for a taste of me beneath, especially when I drive my evil pen through these skinned sheets. They call me bad names, they call me ugly, that’s cool, because so are you! How I sleep well with my disfigurement? I dream of killing you! I’m prising open hell; you’re all men of God, have faith in me when I say, I’m a man of my words. Now the world of words should have begged my momma to boil this baby at birth.
I’m the writer the good book looked-upon and shook fear from their every praying nook. I see words differently; they could be definitively disastrous definitely, defacing dimensions infinity infamously from the dragon inside me, diminishing dabblers dripping ink trying to deign diamonds. (That rhymes…. Fools.) YOU’RE IN MY WORKSHOP!!! I cycle down the path of a serial killing psychopath; reading recycled crap, redial that, RECYCLED CRAP!
I’m done being the nice guy, time to write or time to die, lost my fights and ran for my life. This is the return of Alexander Kennedy, the evil pen strikes back. Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream, make it the most gruesome that these people have ever seen. What am I thinking? What am I writing? Alex, there is method to your madness, can’t you see? I’m starting a war against humanity, sanity is the culprit and it must be smudged clean from this spirally-flushed floating toilet.
Bring you picket signs, pitchforks and lit torch, gather round, gather round the monster writer of the century. Sane people fear what they don’t understand and cannot control; I don’t play well with others, why do you think since I grow teeth they kept me caged up? I can out-write you all with my left arm tied behind my back. I cannot rub out these words, like when the world tried to rub out this mistake. I auto-corrected myself and picked up a dictionary for meaning for the word, Pain.
I learned a few more bad words along my way; I don’t need swear words to curse at you. I write you into my world and let the ground swallow you whole. An emptied soul and a mind full of poetic words help formulate a plan beyond insane proportions. I peal my skin and try and fit in, but sooner or later they find new ways to get to me, further under my skin. So I put my faith and collective insanity and create a fictional world, where human rules do not apply, only the evilness that seeps from me. So I will slog my way through the slutty, semi-silent but slithering away siren ridden streets for some
So you can blame Eminem for giving me a second chance at life; Or you can blame my mother for giving birth to me. But it is society in a whole that failed me, pushed and pulled me to my own extinction, this is not an attitude problem, this is manmade evil. I’m your Frankenstein monster, you do sort of success. I will figure out a way to pull your eyeballs out to my blog; and once I am in your minds, I will manipulate my way to the top of the food chain and then start to munch my way down the pyramid. not wish to confront. But just know I will take everything from you. This is all I know. This is my design.

The Experiment – Story

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 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 feeling 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.

How To Write Successful Fiction

Where to start? Where to start? …If you cannot pull fantasy from reality, click on a clothes website or some porn now because I will be wasting my time…. I’ll wait until your granny porn page has loaded……. Okay, now those losers have skedaddled, what I am going to tell you will help you come up with some amazing ideas and can also sometimes beat writersblock, as it always works for me.
I go outside!!! I know; I know we’re writers and some of our best ideas happen inside – On the crapper – after sex or masturbation over all of our granny porn (Jokes!) But to be possessed by an idea that will fester as an incurable disease within you, you will have to live. And within my experience all of the monsters live out in the big bad-ass world; so I make myself bad-ass to fit in and fill my mind.
Pick something that you have done in within your life or something you do. An idea could be running away from home (I swear this is how I usually start my ideas; not with a craptastic idea like running away, bear with me, I will make scene. A slim line between genius and madness remember…. Jeez!)
So where can we go with that? Well perhaps you begin on running away or you ran away time ago and it’s time to return…. RETURN FOR REVENGE! THEY TOOK WHAT YOU LOVE; A MILLION GUNS, FIVE MILLION DEAD BODIES, ONLY ONE MAN AND ONE PURPOSE! ….Sorry…. I really mean that; my mind wanders most of the time. Okay, back on track.
Well you can have unfinished business or have someone you love or something you need.
What we have so far is…. “You ran away; it’s time to go back home for _____?” This is what I like to call general fiction, it’s not real and never happened but you want to write it.
Now I know it makes sense but here is the tricky part; YOU DON’T WANT TO WRITE GENERAL FICTION, DO YOU? YOU WANT DRAGONS OR VAMPIRES AND FAIRIES IN YOUR TALES.
But you have a small outline of what is going to happen within the story. If you are female within your story; you can possibly be a princess who ran away because of your abusive father the king, he helped drive your mother into a grave and some other bad-ass shizz’.
So from that I can see. A young girl running through a dark wooded area, her dress is being ripped by the twigs like witches elongated fingers. She is bawling her eyes out. She needs to out run the image of the castle in the background because it is only a reminder what her father has done. SWEET! (You need a good imagination to be a writer. Some have it, others don’t, sorry, that’s the way the world turns… If you can’t write Fiction, I am sure you can get a job writing granny porn…. Haha!)

– If you are a writer you must think as yourself as a God, not thee God, but a God who is willing to make and take life. – Alexander Kennedy. –

Now as a writer I am putting faith in you that you know about character building and building tension and other things. Well as our character has had a bad spurt within her life, it is now time for her to leave the weak ways of princess-hood and become a warrior woman. And the only way that will happen is if you break her thought processes within the story. (No, I am not going to fill in all the gaps for writing a good story… Jeepers! The idea alone is pretty good, a bad-ass version of Snow White. Booya!)
But you can end it with her, I don’t know; riding on a huge dragon that she met on her travels of womanhood and they are best friends. She attacks from the sky while her love interest is on horseback with an army from a rival country to destroy the castle and her evil father.
In reality that story could be a teenage girl runs away from home because her father’s a dick, so she meets some friends and with their help she and her gang go back home to retrieve her clothes, or something boring like that. Yes, reality does depress me slightly, that’s why I live in a far away world.
So there you have it. Use your own life to write any genre of fiction. ALWAYS! ALWAYS! MAKE SURE THAT PEOPLE CAN RELATE TO YOUR WORK WITHIN THEIR LIFES. Great works come from others experiences because people can see themselves as the characters, remember that.
I actually use this method for all of my work.
Try it out or if you are having trouble. Email me or something and we can talk and will help you develop your own idea. (Don’t worry I don’t steal, it’s tacky, stupid and shows you have no talent.) But I am here to help.
Oh…. And the simplest ideas are always the best, writers’ nowadays over think and complicate their stories and that’s why when people read their work all they get is “Well, it was okay, one time is enough for that story…” Pfft…. Write your heart and fingers silly people; lit agents – certain doors and greatness await you.
This has been a psychotic announcement from Alex Kennedy.
Keep those pens busy….