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Breaking Bad Love

Breaking Bad 'ABS' edition

Breaking Bad ‘ABS’ edition (Photo credit: crises_crs)


Breaking Bad Love

You may believe this is a story of another broken-heart, but you’d be wrong. This is a story about overcoming Drug Addiction. I hope this helps you…

These Breaking bad thoughts shimmer to the surface, living in a fantasy world where I shiver in the darkness within a false high. Doped up to the eyeballs, this is where I fall from the sky; this is where I’ve lost my mind, right on. Black rainbows of love whilst living in the dark, I’m not supposed to grow in the shadows of a drug. I can’t sleep at night; I love you too much to close my eyes, to close this chapter of our lives we share together. They tell me “One day at a time” but days are no longer my problem, it’s the seconds I circle around when I think of your last kiss. One more hit and I’m done with this. I say I am done with you, but I know deep down I live under you, amazed by the clouds you show me. I loved you and I believed in you so much, if I knew your plans I would have never taken your hand and runaway. You feel so good it should be illegal.

These love drugs are teasing me, they do not love me the way I love them. You leave me speechless and breathless; this is our dirty little secret which keeps me restless, I will never speak of this. Reality, she means nothing to me now, I’m in love with the voice and the feel of you. You’re the real eye-candy, I want to show you off but at the same time keep you to myself, you make me nail-bitingly selfish. It’s always the last time, but with every kiss feels like our first. I’m cheating on my basic motor-functions with you. This is my love letter to you, after this we will be done.

I can no longer tell what is real and what is not, this was your doing. This broken heart and endless turns within these covers will be my punishment for leading you down my path. Crying with a glass of water held by a shaking hand, you bring me no joy in doing this. Time to love what is good for me, not love what I want. A fresh breeze runs over my pale skin. I will no longer listen to the voices or even pick up that phone, I want my life back! I want pain, I want my talent back, I want my family and most of all I want my girlfriend; you stole this from me.

I know I will open up books in the future and see your devastating face as you destroy someone else’s existence. But they will have to pull through your chill by their selves, I cannot help. I must dump you now down the toilet of forever. I can hear you shouting “How will you survive without me?!” Do you really want to know how I will survive? …Like this, by myself. I’m going to get myself rich, buy myself a time-machine and throw you out before you got here, only so you know. Just like you, you won’t see me coming.

I’m clawing my way back to the light from your tantalizing siren love song, now I’m pissed off, no one can control this mental patient, I am ultimate; I will be forever. Life is my drug now and you mean nothing to me, it’s over now… leave.


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How We All Write

I am taking that you have clicked on my blog link or you have stumbled upon here by complete accident, or because you are here because you love words like I do. I see words in complete different way from the layman writer who sees what everyone else see, but I take all forms of writing in to consideration before I put fingertips to keyboard. But it’s a great way to stretch my writers-legs. Let’s see if we write similar, if not I would love to see what you scribble.  Read this and give it a like and come follow me, there is plenty more to read.

Microsoft Word

Microsoft Word (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

How We All Write

He was a broken writer, out of luck, bedraggled in and out of the tangles of life. His Ralph Lauren hoodie pulled over his head and his Amilo laptop opened and set to the blink of the pages cursors starting line, he stares into the abyss of the whiteness of the Microsoft Word Document, snarling with his eyes wishing for something to be produced by his unmanned thinking. The four walls he is surrounded by falls away to a disintegrated texture of nonexistence, his mother ironing clothes in the middle of the cluttered living room slips to blurry, passed the lines of his focus and distaste of his own writing talent.

“C’mon you stupid piece of paper, help me, help me write something, you douche.”

The young man bangs on the buttons of his laptop and writes Monsters create fear, fear creates nightmares and nightmares create more monsters. He sits back and basks in the idea of perhaps an influential but horrific piece of writing the whole world can remember on his WordPress.com blog.

“Where are my words?? I should give up this writing lark, mom; I’m not getting anywhere and I have no clue if people are actually getting to my website and like it.” He prays for hope that may rest behind his mother’s mindset.

“Well I know for a fact that all great writers have that exact same sentiment, they over critique their own work and believe that they are going nowhere with their words and don’t believe they are… How you kids say, awesome enough? Anyway, keep going, I believe in you, I do put up with you clicking the keys on your computer in your little trying to create something, don’t think about it too much, just go with where your head is at and I’m sure the words will find you.” Urging the confidence through her speech, I analyse all she has to say and construct it into a push into the colourlessness of the first page.

Write, Read & Die

Sometimes in life you have to fight, those are the rules and this is my time to hold my fists up. Can you hear that? The voices are laughing at me behind my back; it’s surprising you cannot heed their hysterical cackles. I pretend I hear nothing as I try to focus on the dialogue of this movie. It’s not about how much I can build; it’s about how much this world can build upon me until I crumble at the knees. Skyscrapers are mere scraps of paper, monumental mountains are minuscule mites. Life is a game show, we all need to observe and learn from the losers to become winners. The best self-help is the hand you show to help yourself to life.

Lend me your eyes and I shall whisk you away with the wish of my magic pen to a far away parallel world adjacent to the one you stomp upon now. Welcome to Hell friend, this is where I live; wipe your feet before you leave. My life is cookbook, I’ve found the perfect recipe for disaster, become a fiction writer to shook shock this world into being force-fed my words, you will consume this, now open those eyes and shut your mouth. The voices are laughing so thunderous within my head; everyone in the hospital waiting room can hear them also. This is how a mental patient has the ability to let his writings blossom, a little miracle-grow always helps.

I can’t differentiate the difference between good and bad, the rules seem to belong to others, unlike myself. But I am trying at life, I am writing my thoughts so you can understand where this man stands. My thoughts have an insane manmade disease; please contain yourselves everyone, my evil form of writing is the cure for all the malevolence within me. Literally Literacy lit up me and Lives in me illicitly but until those Literary Agencies appear licking at my feet, I’ll pretend to be an inbred breed with pen on his sheets.

If you’re being bullied, fight with all your might. News Flash, if your streets are war zones and you want out, walk away. If you are hungry, go in search for food. If you want something, go get it. We forget we are all tools for our own design. If you would like to make history, you must be willing to incorporate the past for future reference.  I’m tearing up my work because I am a no one, Jack the Ripper.  All my oppositions are waving guns and blades at me; I reach into my Levi jeans pocket and wield my pen, smiles turn to shrieks.

I’m keeping up with the best writers to have ever lived; Once upon a time there lived a schizophrenic and instead of being Jekyll & Hyde he found respect to write. I am the devil wearing Edgar Allen Poe’s Skin, I am the true definition of writersblock… put your pens down and stop squiggling; resistance is futile. Reality has wriggle and wrestled into my head and has meddled this vessel, I am awake in my bed scared to sleep encase I end up dead. Am simply showing this planet the pain I must claw over and the super human ability I fight evil with, Alex, exact your Superman pose now.

I am begging and pleading with the powers that be, I need out, I am looking for a writing career. Have I not proven myself? If not show me what I must do to entail greatness. I do not wish for Ferrari’s or Mustang’s. I do not wish for Celebrity friends. I do not even wish to the best all of my time, but I will try my hardest in doing so.

Be afraid of me! Hasn’t your mother every told you not to feed the animals, the same rules apply for me.  This mirror is pushing his luck, cracking every one of them in my home; is this why no wonder wondrous wonders can find me? I’m saving the best until last; the rest of my work will fall into the wrong hands and burst into flames. I’m a writer; life for me is black and white, neither shades of grey nor gloom of colour.

I don’t know what is real or not, this is what I get for living amongst people who would rather act fake than themselves. As long as I stay true to myself and to my writing I cannot lose. Go down-down-deeper and down to see my more black. A cracked window to my soul, ooze out these words through life’s battle holes. Smitten towards the dark side, all I am doing is light searching.

A regular job, conventional living, typical relationships, uniformed and all but underneath the ordinary, I don’t work, I am out-of-order.

My work will be cryptic when I snooze in my crypt, laughing all the way to the grave, My B-day jumps down the alphabet to D-day. But on these weaving streets the police can’t unravel crimes; I am the king of this jumble. No one is a patch on me, the closest they get to me is wet patches when they see me writing. Haha!

What am I writing? How do I write? Who is the best literary agent? How do I get a Book Deal? What do people like to read? How to become a great writer? What are the best pieces of writing? Google-God, please answer me! I beg and plead to the almighty Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn and other social networks I look upwards for guidance in my quest.

I babble sometimes, stemming from coherent to believe it or not. I don’t live in your world, I live in these words. So please keep up, as I have millions upon millions where this came from.

I care less as this world has treated me careless. I’m chasings legends while trailing questions but the meds wedding date is set for Feb. My play on words along with my wayward ways equals bad school days. For you; so who is the loser of the class now? Riddle me that. You’re all the class clowns. It’s the slim line between genius and madness I always trip over when I’m sleepwalking in my own darkness. I’m writing akin to giving a great white shark a kiss, sinking my teeth into this pad for bad bliss. As I’m feeling a little red riding in the hood, I’m embarrassed.

Chasing dreams while nightmares are chasing me, poetic justice, in the eyes of thee. I’m channelling this brutal beautiful baleful attitude before you accuse me with your poison arrow looks. This pen can feel, my pain, use your eyes, this instrument of writing will be my bane; before long you will no longer read the same. You’re bargaining as I’m barging into writers with a pad full of words, I’m on a rampage, I should belong in a glass cage or the bat cave, master of my craft, one day to the bank I shall be laughing, grasping my sword, so watch your work become ravished in invisible ink, I can write you all to vanish is such anguish in which you tarnish your own page.

Blench and bench your pens, this time is mine. I’m coming for it all, plus one. What do I need to do? I NEED TO SHOCK AND INSPIRE!!! I can do this… I can… Now can you hear me screaming? I’m transforming, the true birth of a writer is painful. I’m reaching for light with both hands, I will get burned; a little melted flesh is nothing to me. So bring forth the unemployment line, I will wait my turn to get paid, I can wait a lifetime as I am a mental patient with eternal patience. Times are hard, writings soft, life is sorrowful, what else am I to do but go after what I want. Bleach your words.

Unlovable, in one word, outcast and unknown, would three more.  I have to be this way; a certain side of me cannot sustain the natural laws I am born chained too. Monster or freak would sum up your feelings towards me if you had gotten to know this stranger I see deep within this mirror. I have an attribute of possession, possessed by a demon named Crowl. How I came to possess this possessor is a British Horror Story Asylum I’d rather forget but as my story unfolds you will question your own dark side I know you yourself possess. I am nobody, this is not my body, bloody and boldly I write slowly cold, whilst I’m holding my soul, folding these pages and getting back to work, I want to walk and blow. I’m going to hell!

Deliver me to the underworld, I’m ready for death. Geronimo! Bullets and knives make my halo; I stand with my horns held high as this world must witness both my points; my own and my pens. Charge! Bind my soul in hellfire, masochistically speaking this will be the best time of my life. Lit torches and pitchforks melt my skin, marvel at the screams for more. The strong stay strong and the weak get eaten. This is amazing, I’m no longer human I am devilishly makeshift inside, I see a bad moon rising. I’ll be a troublemaker, shaking hands with undertakers so I can outwit extraordinary wonderfully strangers. I feast on devils and angels, a wing or a trotter, nibble along with this sinner.

I’ve had it with this world, start dispensing the oil; don’t worry everyone! I have hacksaws and a matchbox. I’m sitting on my throne of animal bones and alien skin. Can you feel my anger yet? Warm your hands from this page. Welcome to the new age; Thugs have had their shots and Vampires have had their bites, now give mental patients a slice of legendary, I promise we will not disappoint. I’m not possessed by an entity, but I am full of demons. Plug-ugly!

I’ll be running around down here killing killers, a psychopath’s wet dream. A knife in one hand and a pen in the other, if I can’t catch and kill you I’ll destroy your soul within my fiction. I’m bringing the world to its knees, how can you beg for forgiveness with your mouth full? Swallow my pride. I’m a forgotten evil; I told this world I will be back as I remember every detail of what you have all done to me. Feeding my hell-hounds all which have fell from shuddering grounds, hell bound, fresh meat, fetch their flesh for me once I ring the dinner bell. I’m a male dictionary and a malediction. Seven deadly sins in seven seconds flat, seven levels of hell and a head-full of hellish schedules, life can try its hardest to take me back.

My phraseology is impeccable but so is my unnatural nature which natters in my noggin. Look on the Brightside of life, everything over there is settle snug when I set it alight. You say I am a sheer handful, perhaps yes, of fire, please hold me a little longer. I’m bucking up my ideas; penny for my thoughts means money for my fury. I’m living in a home where everything I do is wrong, a correctional house. Burn it, burn it all!

I demand a modicum of respect whilst tied down to this bed; this is not for my protection, it’s for your safety encase I get my hands on the murder weapon, my pen. I learnt to write what is carved on my chest from Tupac and The Notorious BIG, two shooting stars, I wish to you when your music blears loud. This world isn’t full of humans, your all antipsychotics; I am popping two a day now. So bring forth cataclysms and pitch black padded prisons, battery in my back; one cell per patient.

He takes drags his fingers from his keyboard and clenched the tension in his knuckles.

“There you go world, no let us see if this makes any difference to my blog.” A sigh of relief is exhaled.

His mother walks over, slinking and chasing his work on his laptop.

“That seems like a lot of writing, I told you if you kept at it a focused properly, you would conjure up something.” She winks and she hands him a wad of piled clothes.

“Yeah, but I don’t think they are on the same wave length as me when I scribble stuff down, to them it’s just nonsense.” A sigh of disbelief is acquired.

“Listen to me, if you write it people will read it and in time they will get the gist of how you write. Its complicated process and most writers go through it. Write for greatness and great things happen. Remember, what is for you shall not go by you.” She speculates in her motherly ambitious tone.

Thanks mom.



I hope you guys liked this. PRESS THE LIKE BUTTON!!! (The button is right underneath here, or on the bar on the top of your page.) Also if you can circulate some of my work around your social websites, it would be a great help. And you can follow me too. I am coming to visit your blog soon, I promise.

Keep those pens busy!


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My Evil Pen Told Me to Write This – 3


My Evil Pen Told Me to Write This – 3

I am a mere scab upon this world as the whole planet wants to pick on me. Beware world, this is my turn! When I straddle this pen, I can kill you with my mind. I would scribble this world as an ignited cherry-bomb to have revenge upon you and you alone. Why individually miss a target when I can wipe clean the table in one sitting? I have eaten a dictionary. Each page thrashes out and rustles with a shiver with the knowledge of what my pen is about to carve upon its skin. Get them, boy!

if i fall asleep

I am wearing my madness as a medal; this world will not allow me to forget what I am, so neither should I. Bring forth your scrolls of paper and your flickering quills, condemn me, crush me and quarter my limbs; for I will write myself a new destiny, one where you are all alone in the darkness where I have lived, let us see how the monsters shall treat you in time.

michael phelps

I am running on the fumes of past fears, my memory sticks out from my brain as a protruding cocktail sticks. Lobotomize these thoughts forever Alex! There is madness in my method of writing, yes, but my method in which I use helps tame the madness into a constructive horror show for you all. I am a master sculptor with a pen, chipping away at my mental illness so you can see revulsion from my perspective. Behold a masterpiece from my membrane pieces. Doctor, open me up and fish these voices from me; Priest, open my soul and take this ghost that is haunting the hallways of this body!

ernest hemingway

Fear is only a choice – A brain tidal wave! I choose to grant it, as it is the only thing to ever stay consent within my life and thinking. These words are actually flesh-eating ants, that when you inhale with your eyes, they feast upon your brains. Yummy!

If you think reading is boring

I am cold towards this world, hence the shoulder barge; I am marvellously a marvel with a heroic heart which has stopped beating; I am burning words along with my cape to keep mildly warm from your frozen breathes.

rained upon

I am running naked in the rain for revenge, pointed fingers and tuts ensue. I have made a deal with the devil; if I use him to write and give him a purpose, he would return the favour. My words are jumbled and my blog is a jungle book; can you hear me roar in pain on my pages? My apple has fallen light-years from my family tree; my DNA is not even human, let alone the same as my mothers.


I’m living in your walls; I know all of your dirty little secrets. What you do when no one is looking and what you think to yourselves when no one is around. You’re all damaged, just like me. I was brewed in the chaos of humans malfunctions, now I have doctors telling me I’m the one that needs fixing?

edgar allen poe

“You have me confused with all of them, wait! Please don’t lock me up, I was happy before they came into my life and broke all of my windows.”

Now I am smashing each of their windows in revenge, well, I do need a breakthrough. Haha! I’m not aiming for the stars, the sky is far enough, this where I will explode into smithereens and my ashes will twinkle downwards upon the clouds and wreak havoc with acid rain. Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Nope; it’s only blindness for looking for me. Haha!

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Filed under Author, Blog, Blogging, Books, Fiction, Interview, Life, Literacy, Literary Agent, Love, Mental Health, Misc, My Insane Scribblings, Random, Wordpress, Writer, Writing, Writing #2

Guest Post: Into The Web – Written By Sarah Shackleford

I made a friend the other day, my fellow followers. Her  name Sarah Shackleford and in within such an Insane amount of time we have become blogging-buddies. I twisted her arm and made her send me a short story (The one you are about to read and like.) So she will forever go down in history within my writing. Read, subscribe to me and subscribe to her; time for something different to read. Here she is http://agirlwhowrites.wordpress.com/


Into The Web – Written By Sarah Shackleford

“It’s not aliens, Brian. Jesus.” I said. I could feel the heat of judgmental stares bore into my skull as soon as the word left my mouth. My cheeks burned with the same intense heat. “You don’t take the lords name in vain,” my mother’s voice echoed through my head. Especially when you’re in the company of several Peruvian missionaries.I closed my eyes and sent a tiny prayer- for a language barrier- upward.

“Well what do you s’pose made that… that…” Brian Fulbright fluttered his hand in the air, hoping to pull a word out of it.

“It’s a web. Can’t you see that? I’d bet a spider made it. Maybe a worm. Oh- maybe a caterpillar!”

With his hands placed firmly on his hips, Brian announced to the world that he believed that I was a know-it-all. “Rachel T. Everest, professional jungle explorer and resident expert Entomologist, apparently.”

I turned my back and knelt down in front of the little webby creation as Brian gossiped with the missionaries in Spanish.

I had seen the design before, but never as a web. I didn’t tell anyone, though. Not a soul on earth knew this was why I was here, why I flew halfway across the world, why I was so persistent about traipsing through the jungle.

Yes, I’d seen it many times. In the brush strokes of a painting in the Louvre. The symbol in advertisements. In my dreams. I knew it was meant for me.

I studied it carefully, counting each of the tiny posts that made up a perfect circle. There were thirty. There were always thirty. They were woven together by a tiny but mighty thread, like a microscopic fence. In the middle, a spire, like an upside down ice cream cone, completely spun of silk. Definitely not a Spider. And not aliens.

I pushed closer, inching my face forward, trying to see the tiniest of details when the voices behind me were suddenly quiet. Again, I could feel holes being drilled through my back as if they had laser vision. I quickly turned to shoot them a look back, but fell over and landed in a bush. My feet flew straight up in the air and my arms became stuck in a tangle of branches and sharp, stinging leaves. My pride was long lost to the Gods of the jungle.

I flailed my arms and kicked and bucked waiting for someone, for anyone, to come rip me from the brush. But the voices became smaller and more muffled and the bright green light of the jungle became sallow. I started to drift into blackness and felt the pull of gravity release me. I was free and floating amongst the stars for a moment, then came crashing back to Earth in a flurry of puffed skirts and billowing petticoats.

Skirts? Petticoats?!

My head felt bloated as if my brain was swelling and pushing out from my ears and nose. The whoosh of blood pumping in and out of capillaries and veins overwhelmed me. I couldn’t orient myself. I called out to Brian. To anyone.

“Help me, dammit!” There was only silence, though. Brian wasn’t there, the missionaries weren’t there. I wasn’t in Peru anymore, not in a vast and dying jungle of the modern world. Instead, I was slumped over on the jagged cobblestones of an alley, and just beyond my little corner, a bustling street full of people dressed the same as me.

I stood too quickly and wretched the lunch I had eaten in Peru just hours before into the wooden bin beside me. People walked up and down my little alley, but as hard as I tried to call out, they seemed not to hear me. Doorways leading out to the alley opened and shut and people bustled in and out, but no one helped me. No on heard me.

Like a ghost. A ghost stuck in the eighteenth century.I couldn’t process it, didn’t understand what was happening.

I was quickly losing track of time. Am I dead? But then a child stepped out from the shadows, dirty and afraid. She wore a ragged dress with no shoes.

She could see me.

She sniffled and wiped a grimy hand across her nostrils as she came near. Her tiny hands were shaking. She didn’t say a word, but took my hand in her own and I followed her, without question, out of the alley and through the streets to a small pub. And there, etched into the glass, was my symbol. Thirty perfect posts surrounding a conical spire.

I turned to speak to my tiny guide, but she was gone. All the people in the street began disappearing around me, fading into the smog of the city. The universe began its work on me and the pull let go, my body became fluid, my head emptied of all fears. I fell to the ground and hugged my knees to brace myself. I shut my eyes tight. My mind went blank. When I opened my eyes again I was gone from the alley, the skirts were gone, replaced with an airy silk robe tied at the waist with a fragile gold chain.

It didn’t take long for the child to appear to me again. She was older this time, but with the same chubby face of a child. She took my hand and silently guided me to a vast wall. It stretched as far as I could see on either side of me, around the entire city. A mountain rose up in the background, casting a shadow across the valley.

Carved into the mighty gray stones were pictures, stories, from a civilization that would be gone one day, but would leave their great legacy etched in stone. The carving the girl traced with her small fingers now was my symbol, an exact replica of all the others.

“Who are you?” I asked. But gravity released me again, quicker this time, and I smiled at her as my body was pulled from her place. She smiled back and shed a single tear as I left.

Again and again I was claimed and released by the Universe, traveling through the web of time and space. Each time I was met by the child, and then the young woman, who led me to my symbol. She never spoke, she never faltered, she never failed me.

But then she didn’t come.

For what seemed like days I walked alone through the woods, dark as night, never seen by the creatures who roamed. Never heard by the beasts that stalked. Although my guide was not with me, I was being drawn to her. I felt her inside of me, her thoughts overlapping my own. So I searched for her, never stopping, never faltering.

When I entered the clearing I immediately recognized the spire. My symbol, although incomplete, was real. Unlike the etched, carved, drawn, and painted versions I’d seen before, in a hundred lives, over hundreds of years, this was real. Here it was, larger than life, rising up into the skies like a gift to the Gods.

I walked straight to it and ran my hand around the large, flattened stones that made up its foundation. They were blackened with soot. As I touched them I felt the heat of fire, although it was damp and dark. Reaching up from the stones were tree limbs leaning into one another forming a tee-pee. Intricate carvings adorned the newly cut wood. I could smell the resin wafting through the gentle breeze.

I felt them behind me, but knew they would not see me, could not hear me. I turned to watch as they began circling the spire. Thirty altogether. They were robed in black. Hoods covered their faces and ornate sleeves drooped to the ground. A soft chant, in a language I’d never heard, echoed through the clearing. The music seized me, chilled my blood, and sent me to my knees.

When I turned back to the spire, the girl was there. Her hair was wild and whipping around her face as the wind picked up. The chanting grew louder as they circled around us, completing my symbol in the ancient woods of this ancient Earth.

She was tied to the tree but did not squirm to be let free, did not cry out for mercy.

“Who are you?” I asked her again. I reached up to touch her and flames began to lick at her feet, reaching up from the blackness in the center of the stones which held her prison. She began to scream and writhe as the fire grew and spread upwards, scorching her naked flesh.

I ran toward one of the hooded beings, hoping one of them would hear me, would spare her. But when I touched them they vanished. I turned and was back at the spire. All I could do was watch my guide, the woman who had been a little girl, as she was consumed by fire.

Her screams faded, her body went slack, and then she was gone from my head and I was alone with my thoughts.

I stood watching, did not take my eyes from her as flames inched upward. Fire replaced her flowing black hair, and for a moment she could have been a fire goddess with glowing ember eyes and a head full of flaming tendrils.

When the fire finally enveloped the spire entirely, the hooded ones began to leave and their chanting faded with them, back into the woods. The only sound was the crackling fire. But then the girl opened her eyes and looked at me, a hint of a smile on her cracked and blackened face.

“I am you.” She said. Her voice was smooth, calm. She was at peace.

“How?” I asked. I sobbed for the girl.

“Follow the symbol. It will always lead you home.” As she spoke she transformed into a body of fire herself, reborn from her ashes.

“What does it mean?” I asked. I watched in awe as she pulled the fire into her body and was reborn from it. She reached for me with her hand like lava, but I did not burn. I let her take my hand, let the warmth spread throughout my body. Floating above me, outside of her burned body, she was no longer the sacrifice. She was a God.

“I died for it. You will fight for it. Always follow it. It will never fail you.” She said.

“The little girl, in all those places. Do you remember?” I stepped closer.

“You are the little girl. I am you.”

“I don’t understand!” I screamed.

“The symbol is your destiny.” Her eyes fluttered; the magic that kept her with me was fading.

“Don’t leave me. Tell me what it means. Tell me what I have to do.”

“You will save us all. You were chosen. To be our hope. To live a thousand lives. To never forget. To keep the symbol. To obey it. Always follow it.” She was fading, the fire was going out.

“Why didn’t I remember?”

“They symbol will always tell you what you need to know.”

“What do I need to know now?” Her flaming ghost fell back into its blackened corpse. I knew it would not be long before she was gone forever.

“It’s coming. You will save us as I saved you. As I saved them. It’s coming. Follow the symbol. It will show you the end.” Then the light was gone. Her eyes closed and the wind picked up, sending her ashes billowing through the wind.

I walked out of the clearing, into the unknown, without my guide or any knowledge of who I was, where I was going, or what I might face. But I would follow the symbol. As I reached the edge of the clearing I turned back to see the spire, glowing blue and white under the black sky. Embers still spiraled upward to join with the ashes of the one who saved me. And as I looked upward, I felt her, in my mind, her thoughts overlapping mine.

Follow the symbol.



Sarah Shackleford’s blog http://agirlwhowrites.wordpress.com/

Tell her what you think and subscribe to her.

Keep those pens busy!



Filed under 2013, Articles, Author, Guest Posts, Wordpress, Writer, Writing, Writing #2

The Dark Night Writer

ff_darknight_fYo! Yo! Yo! I’m back, baby!

I got this question the other day from a dude (No specifics) From America his name is Dale Booth.

“Alex, what’s it like to be a hungry writer and juggling your mental illness in the other hand that you don’t write with? Your blog is legendary and I hope the best for you and your words in the future.” (That’s sweet! Thanks dude.)

Well my friends this is question I have trekked into and bypassed because of fear but I shall answer it the best I can because I am a fearless bastard!

First off can I just say to writers who give advice like “The first rule of writing anything is…. (Wait for it!) To write.” Okay, first off I know what you are trying to say but if you do not dive into detail of HOW TO WRITE people will look elsewhere. So to all looking for advice of how to write all you must know when you are looking for writing advice is…. Don’t go looking for mediocre writers advice, they have no idea what they are talking about or don’t go into detail, these people will not help you publish your work.

Sorry about the rant, back on with the question.

To be both, a writer and psycho is quite a challenge at times. I’m on meds so sometimes I am too spaced out to write and others my brain goes haywire and wants to write in my own blood, so I quit before I start.

I know I want to be a writer so I try my hardest every day. I look at what I write as I job I must complete, if I look at it as fun my words will not come across as serious I want them to. If you look at prior posts I have publish on WordPress you know within a matter of months I have out written most “run of the mill” writers, so already I know I can keep up.

But I know as a writer and a blogger that people on the internet do not want to sit and read a 5,000 word piece of fiction when they can go elsewhere and find other forms of entertainment. So what I tend to do is write very short flash fiction, this not only give the reader what they want is a smaller form but also gives me a challenge to write a huge story and squash it into perhaps 1,000+ words.

Also I think of some weird things which will make you think “Where does he get his ideas!” What can I say, man, I’m awesome that way!

But my angle of writing is darkness! And I make sure my thought of becoming a better writer is more that what you can produce which in essence makes me PROLIFIC! Observe…

Darken your pen and nightmares will come to life. I am a God that creates the evils of beauty and sometime with a flick of my wrist I show distorted images I see when I look into my mirror, I am an artist that works with ink and jagged-edges for your pleasure.

The pain I have lived will echo a smile upon your face, my job is done. I am my own worst enemy; shoot to kill and write in blood. I write the word flower and my petals will cut through your very soul, you will know me as a writer.

Have faith my pen using friends.

P.s. to the motherf*cker who keeps on sending me emails saying “Hey, I know Stephen King, he wants to read your fiction, for a small fee, I can help.” Can it!

So this is me signing off as The Dark Night Writer!

Keep your pens busy!


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