Category Archives: Fairy Tales

What Type of Writer?


"Writing", 22 November 2008

“Writing”, 22 November 2008 (Photo credit: ed_needs_a_bicycle)

For my Writing Friends

I stand now; I stand a man with no future as of yet, twiddled by his past and troubled by his condition but still I stand toe to toe – nose to nose with this epic-fail named my life. Yes it may have a detrimental state on my being but in life’s chess game I can hold all of its weight because they call me Alexander the Great Writer.

I am different writer from all of you, which inevitably makes me stand away from the pack, I’m a lone wolf, you hunt your prey, I am more of a devilish creature; I wait for my food to come to me. Decipher that how you will. But I have watched and seen so many of a’writer creep up to a literary agent with a piece of work or a manuscript, shaking with so much possibility for a publication or perhaps a good phrase. But —

“Excuse me; this is my manuscript, its call Dead on The Water. It’s a psych-thriller novel. Everyone who reads it says it is awesome. Could you give it a read, please?” The writer stammers as he shudders in his boots.

“Sure thing, it will be the first thing I will do right after I do this other thing I have to do.” The clips of the high-heels simmer away through the double doors of the agency.

And what a shock! Nothing comes to pass.

But I devised a plan. One that will be more treacherous and longwinded than your way, I will write a blog! Write everything I can, whenever I can. Gain views upon my work through the blog and social networks. And in time the RIGHT-EYES will stumble upon my words. – The idea doesn’t seem that great when I write it down like that, but if I do my own thing I should get to where I am going through gaining attention. Oh yeah, for all you wannabe writers. A blog can be used as a portfolio for your work, so anyone wanting to know what you write like before contacting you, can view it, so write your best pieces. It’s a lot like putting on your party-dress and attending a ball, you want to be the best piece of polished writing-skirt at that place, so you get lucky and go home for the best damn night of your life. I think I got carried away with that part, I’m back now.

Now my talent or skill; to me it resembles a ship on the ocean, it could be calm and controlled on the water but like the weather, within an instant it can turn harsh, deadly and challenging and then there’s days of waves of poetry; but you have to look out for them.

These words I give birth to can conquer all forever, whatever the weather whether I wither or whether I turn killer and send this world into global terror, I shall. Whether I use poetic stories or general stories to get my emotion pen across, I will, by any means necessary. I may be a female pin-up centrefold and my words may be censored gold, but the reality is my reality is something I can never truly hold, my job sucks and my bed is never cold, fact.

But I write everything and when I say everything, I write everything on my mind at the time I am thinking about writing. But in a way that is educational for other writers due to my ability to play with the words. Also in diary fashion so people just wanting to pop in and check out if other people are having bad days just like them. And then you have my dark side that gravitationally yanks people in to show my mental illness and how I write about it, along with the why strapped to it and the ferocious way I chuck words around that they could never even muster to think about using.

Take away this hurt, please. It feels as if my brains will flower-blossom from beneath my skull, splitting my life into death. I am crumpled on the floor taking this beating from myself because I must; squish my eyes shut so no tears are spilt.

These med-kits have no instant direct-hit on these chugging headaches.

You see I write everything I see. I could be watching TV and everything the characters on-screen are acting I am writing EVERYTHING that I see. –

Davis stretches through the doorway, gun handle strangled, index finger at the ready to twitch. His eyes mean business with his bad acting; but the bad guy is going down. The shadow of a silhouette passes the kitchen door; Davis barely caught it in his peripheral vision.

So on and so forth. Hey, you can always watch what I was writing.

But it is a great way to further your talent. Watch something and rhyme off quickly and efficiently, so when it comes to tackling you work, it’s not only a great piece of writing it’s also a piece of pi$$ to do it.

Stay shiny!

Keep those pens busy!

Alex – The great writer, it’s got a cool ring to it.

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My Evil Pen Told Me To Write This


Pen-is-Mightier-than-the-sword_4535599

Crumple up the skies and erase out the white clouds, a slight breeze will press against my skin, watch how it bubbles with the burn of righteousness. Stomp on their homes and the photo family portraits; keep their blissful memories beneath your feet, Alex.

I was born to cause havoc between the bars of these pages, does that make me a prison baby? Time to turn this pen around within my fingers, shoot for the stars in my eyes and jab because I have seen the horror of their entertainment they rub upon me. Alex, squish your dreams, blood tears will fathom under the fathoms forever, so you can shake that idea out of your pretty little head.

I am about to destroy whole civilizations with thunder and lightning with one of my brain storms; on my hands and knees I am repeatedly stabbing the ground with my pen and watching it seep ink. The pen is mightier than the sword, but its okay, I was born with two hands to carry both; Insert my evil guffaw laugh here!

joker-laughs

I have come along way from being a hobbledehoy but like every black caterpillar I transformed in a beautiful poisonous-psychotic-writer-fly. I am no longer aberrant because this is my bailiwick. I will bereave for my lost soul which rests in pieces, twitching with semi-life haunted by the decay of heebie-jeebies. My pens duty now is to immolate all that is wonderful and tranquil, where would this world be without a little anarchy?

You are no writer because you do not write for yourselves; you think of the small minded and only catch the small eyes, one day when I die, my legend will live on within my works, to slink out from the basket when the flute of darkness is played. Serpent? Yes I am.

If you would like to clash swords, I was forged in the fires of family and cuddled by the cold wind of the rough sleep of the street, pelted with pills by doctors as I sit naked in the corner holding on to dear life to the bad memories. So tell me, how would I not fit into fame? They will call me eccentric but we will hold on to the truth.

This is my quest, my journey to love hate. My curse, my job, my destiny and no one not even the almighty himself can prise me away from this. You may know words, but I see words in all, this is where the line is drawn and if you ever think to cross the line, I will take my pen from its holster and create a masterpiece that could inevitably murder your career.

I love wordplay; the play on words is my job title, I may not be entitled to make money from my writing but I know one day I will receive that knock upon my door. My eyes will darken and my soul will tweak with excitement, all alone staring at the sun, I will get closer to it than Icarus. Through any kind of darkness comes some sort of light. Bring forth my pen, Alex, it’s time to keep your pen busy.

stop-writingRemember this!

The Guardian also wrote an amazing article about creative writing, I suggest you take a look and get an insight if you are interested. http://www.theguardian.com/books/2014/mar/14/creative-writing-courses-advice-students

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My Life! The Honest Writer Chronicles


its-my-life-15323

How to be an honest writer? ….Write something real!

I BET MY LIFE WILL SHOCK YOU!

I just read in a book that the best blogs that succeed are the ones that post regularly, stick to what they know and also are honest about not only their words but also their life experiences they write, so a connection is made with the reader/viewer. Well I do the other two pretty well so here goes nothing on the third.

My name is Alexander Kennedy. I am twenty-five years old and when I am not stacking shelves at a store I am writing fiction stories to not stack shelves in a store anymore. I’m originally from Scotland a very small town called Renfrewshire, which I and mother and three siblings moved from when I was seven to come to England.

I was a quiet kid, “a mommas-boy” …but I had a knack for storytelling and making up the best lies to get out of trouble because the detail in which I told was so precise, it was rather hard for anyone not to believe it, I believed them sometimes myself.

When I left school, I started a computer course to possibly get a job as web-designer (I lost my touch at writing.) When I wasn’t studying I was hanging around with the wrong crowd, getting in all sorts of trouble with other gangs and the law.

At the age of sixteen I started getting headaches, ones that made me black-out. So to the doctors I was dragged. They tested me for everything, blood-tests, brain-scans until one sceptical doctor prescribed the words “I may have a brain tumour.” I remember walking home from the doctors in silence, the stroll took forever. I just went back to where I lived by myself and sat in the dark, awake all night thinking I was going to die someday soon. Jokes on them!

A few months later I was cleared of a Brain-Tumour! YEAH!!!! And they said “This could be the onset for schizophrenia. (You can stop cheering now!) Haha!

So I became a mental patient, told to live on pills. Not very nice ones at that. I thought to myself everything was going to be fine…. ….How wrong was I?

It wasn’t soon after until the headaches started causing nose-bleeds. As the quiet one in the group, I steered away from my boys and started my own little hate workshop by myself as a recluse. The paranoia was getting to me. I pushed everyone away and in my eyes the deserved it!

I had friends but they eat my food and stole my money.

Me: “I had a Twenty-Pound-Note on the side….”

Bad-Friend: “Nope, I didn’t see anything. Are you sure it wasn’t all in your head?”

As the bad friend slides the note into his pocket.

Me: “Yeah, probably. Thanks mate.”

It wasn’t long before I was an eighteen year old man and I weighed six-stone. Not a good look for the ladies to be arm-in-arm with.

I have written another article about my life entitled “Eminem saved my life! Now I write everything.” It explains in more detail of my suicide attempt and the reason for me to start writing again.

But the words become a portal for me; a portal from all this anger I had inside. I wrote everything and I still have the five-hundred song verses I wrote in one year in my cupboard in my room.

But I started to become very weak, as in a day I was eating perhaps one sandwich. I was a female celebrity dieter.

My mother has never stepped into our business and told us how to live. But she draws the line at starvation and death. She practically told all my so-called friends to beat it. (Not in those words but within her Scottish accent.) She dragged me back home and made reassured me that I was going to get better. My mental state deteriorated and I was house-bound. My mom stayed-up most nights listening to me ramble they most crazed and warped thoughts every to come out of the mouth of an eighteen year old. While all my friends were going abroad and having unprotected sex with strangers and getting pregnant, I was rocking back and forth in the corner of my bedroom with my hands over my ears trying to block out the voices.

And here I am just over six years down the line. I have been brain clear on and off for around four years, I know I am getting better. Yes, I have put all my weight back on and have got a smoking-hot girl on my arm, well, what can I say I’m a good-lookin’ Mo-Fo! With a killer smile. Boom!

And I will continue to write everything, because everything I have been through is my ammo.

But If I die tomorrow, I would just like to say Thank you and I love you to my Mother. She has had a worse life than me and most of us out there and she still holds a smile on her face and puts other people before herself. She inspires me to become something better.

They say we all have a book within us. Mine would be a good read. I will keep it short though; I wouldn’t want to relive it all again for entertainment purposes or for another view on my blog, I am not that desperate.

I hope this short story about my life has given you a little insight about me.

Stay awesome and…..

Keep those pens busy…..

Alex.

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How to be a Writer?


Be a writerHow to be a writer?

Here we go…

Okay, I know as a writer that we all want the same thing when writing our blogs; now that blogs have become a prime target for literary agencies looking for new writing talent. We either want thousands of views, advertisement or a “Blook” Blog to book Writing Contract.

But here is the kicker; ninety-five percent of the writing blogs out there are awful. People expect after putting their first few chapters of a novel they have written onto their blog to be notice, but just like J.K Rowling and Stephen Kings readers, they read their work because they know of the writer and they enjoy their stories.

If you want all of the above what you must do is gain an audience and they only way you are going to do that is by working hard…. Wait, triple your workload and through it all onto your blog and make people find you. This in turn will bring all your dreams come true.

And the only way you will be noticed is by writing something that has never been written and even then it is hit-and-miss. Think of your blog as a star in the night sky and you want one important persons view. Now that is a huge sky with much brighter stars, so you will have to shine more than anyone else out there just to get one important view on your blog.

Now I know there is real talent out there on the internet, with no views. It’s like that saying “There is always someone better.” This is true and you should always be aware of the fact when entertaining in any field. You could be living next-door to the next Shakespeare; the person on your bus could be the next Jim Carrey. But they are still living a normal life because no one has seen their star shine yet.

Now I am not promising anything, I am not saying when you have taken all the information I have given you that you will be the best or the tools to become one of them. Because some people just don’t make it.

But I know of a story I heard while I was stacking shelves; it was about a man who wrote a novel when he was around twenty-three years old and he tried his hardest to get it publish for the rest of his life, no literary agent would take on his words to publish as he was unknown, it wasn’t until his granddaughter or actual daughter started her own mission to make sure his book was published after he died. She did it…. And his book was published.

The story scared me; the man tried his whole life to become a writer and no one would take on his work. And then my mind really started to overwork, I started to think, maybe he could have been one of the best writer to ever grace this world but no one gave him the chance as he had no brightness. Still gives me shivers.

I think am I good enough to be a writer?

Is writing the career for me?

Am I writing well?

So on and so forth…. The answer, we will have to wait and see.

I will keep my pen busy….

Alex.

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Saved By An Angel – Fiction Story – Part 1


I’m going to jump; throw myself from this bridge into its ripple grim grave. I am done with it all, school life, family life; overall life in general. I haven’t got anyone to fall back on and that is the biggest of killers to me. This is no cry for help because there will be none, no opened hand because I have  never been given one. I know if I do this now my stance as unknown will stay the same on this planet, nothingness nobody because no one is there.

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

Angel

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

I jerk my neck in fright to the right.

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

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

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

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

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

“Jack? Jack who?” I insist.

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

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

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

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

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

“Enough…“ I finish in shock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You better jump, missy!” He chuckles.

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

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

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

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

“You’re real?” I chide him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s this?” I retort.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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