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A Monster of a Writer


leave this book alone

A Monster of a Writer

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.

Keep going, Alex. Keep going! Show them all what you can do with words, out write them all, have them think twice about you!

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.

monster writer

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?

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Filed under Blog, Fairy Tales, Fiction, Life, Literacy, Mental Health, Misc, Poems, Story, Tales, Writer, Writing, Writing #2

Fairy Tale Writing For Teens & Adults – The Tale of the Not-So Grateful King – Written By Alexander Kennedy


Here we have another small tale for people who love fables.  About an ungrateful king who doesn’t know what he has gotten until it is gone. But Alex has promised he will be posting another “The Serial-Killer” Story later on today or Friday night. Like, comment and subscribe.

The Tale of the Not-So Grateful King

There once was a king of Sluinn who was in love with the most beautiful black haired maiden in the land. He made the young maiden, Lucia, his queen, post haste; as he knew that he could love no other and nothing as much. At this time he was a gracious king, he helped feed his kingdom, he kept a clean and prosperous land which no other line beyond had, all his lands people loved him.

One day as the king and queen rode horse-back in the woods; an assassin sprung an attempt on both their lives. The blackened mask of the assassin had the emblem of a scorpion; he was from the evil tribe of Pion, far beyond the snowy mountains of the north.

“What do you want? Guards! Guards!” Lucia chants.

The king motioned his horse in front of the Lucia’s to protect her. The assassin drags his sword from his holster, taking swings at the king’s feet.

From out of nowhere a spiralling blade propels from the bushes, sticking into the hired-knives neck, killing him.

The guards finally arrive, circling the king with their spears and swords. A ruffled man exits the cobwebs of branches, without a care in the world upon his face.

The king bypasses his supposed guard and trots up to the scruffian with so much pride stance within his stare.

“My name is King Orwin, I rule Sluinn and everything that has colour within our beautiful world. You have saved mine and my wife’s life, name your price and it shall be granted.”

“My name is Gossoon sire and all I ask is a few pennies to see my belly get full tonight.” He pleads with his hands together.

“My fellow saviour, I have left my pouch back at Castle Grey, we have no money here. If you return back with us I will fill your pockets with as much gold and bread as you can carry.” The king proclaims with a bow of his head.

“My gracious king, I am on a path home, I have not seen my family within ten years, and if I return with you it will be another day too long. Forgive me.” Gossoon bows his regrets.

“Well you will not go free without a token.” The king insists.

“Sire, I will be arriving back here within one year, if possible I can collect my reward then?” Gossoon gulps in hope.

“I now know that the tribe Pion are advancing an attack because of this attempt and you have saved my life. Within one year, you can return and ask me for anything within my world and it shall be granted, young Gossoon.” The king, queen and troops turn and hike back towards the castle and Gossoon continues on his travels.

A war broke out within Sluinn between the king’s army and the tribe Pion. It raged on for several months. But in the end, the king was victorious. He had now become the wealthiest man upon the planet, his country size doubled. And it was all because of one man’s kind nature to save another human being.

Now the king had become so powerful and rich, he had also gained paranoia and an anger problem, thinking people were going to try and steal what he had taken in conquer. It had reached the eleventh month of the year and the king started to over think everything, believing the stranger who saved his life so long ago, would come and bow at his feet and ask for his full bank.

The king commanded his guards to arrest the stranger on sight and bring him forth to the king. As the twelfth month gleamed and died, the stranger travelled back to Sluinn to collect his reward. He was captured and chained and dragged to the king’s court to be heard. Gossoon was thrown on the floor. The king sat next to his wife Lucia within giant golden thrones.

“You have come to take my money, haven’t you stranger?” The king hisses.

“Sire, no, you asked me to return to claim my reward, so here I am” Gossoon stammers in fear.

The king rises from his cushion and looks down with an odious stare, pointing at Gossoon.

“You will receive nothing, you deserve nothing, you are to be banished for eternity, and if you return back to my kingdom you will be beheaded. Do you have anything to say?” He addresses.

Gossoon shed one tear and looks upon the queen; she rests ever so quietly as both their eyes connect in gaze.

“Sire, from this day on I hope you find yourself, once something that means so much to you is gone, you will try your hardest to get it back. But I will leave with something that has no weight or colour within your world, something that does not belong to you.”

“If it is not mine, you can have it, now leave and never return!” The king bellows.

Gossoon is picked up and lead from the castle. The king sits, gripping onto his armrests with apathy tapping on his fingertips. The queen leans over.

“Husband, I am feeling rather lightheaded, I think I may take my leave from court and go to bed, my love.” She says ever so gently.

The king leans in for a kiss.

“Yes, my dear. Have your bed maids escort you to our room and I shall be there soon.” The king whispers.

The queen stands and shuffles herself out of the side door, five maids cluster behind her.

That night the king flings his sheets open and creeps into bed next to his beauty. He looks upon her face, thinking he could never love something or someone so much. A kiss upon the lips for the queen.

The queen awakens, squinty eyes at first, she shoots up bright eyed.

“AAAAHHHHHHH! Who are you? Who are you?! Where am I?” The queen falls out of bed and with the balls of her feet she scrapes backwards to the corner of the room.

“My love, my love. It is me, the king.” He pleads with her to know him.

“I have never laid eyes upon you, sir, or this place.” She cries.

“You do not remember me? Is there anything you do remember, my love?” He sobs.

“One thing, I will leave with something that has no weight or colour within your world, something that does not belong to you and I have already taken it; only those words, sir.” She replies rather hypnotized.

Moral of the story, you don’t what you have got until it’s gone and something’s in life are worth so much more than others.

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Tall Tale Fiction Writing For Teens & Adults – The Tale of Black Cats and Broken Windows – Written By Alexander Kennedy.


Here is a Young Adult Fiction Tale and also a lesson to be taught to all of us, from children to adults; respect the people who have live longer than you. And by the time you have read this story you will know why. Please, like, comment, share and subscribe.

The Tale of Black Cats and Broken Windows

The teenage lad picks up and hurtles another rock at the eerie house, it clonks off the wooden skin of the home, the dead ivy clings to the side of the almost dilapidated home like a person living in the past, unable to let go.  Upstairs windows have already been broken with antisocial behaviour but have been that way for a while as the curtains to each of the room’s hangout like hung prisoners.

“I’m throwing rocks, aren’t you gonna’ do anything?” The young lad Fran performs.

Fran stands at the front gate that has been ripped from one hinge and hangs on for dear life. The garden of the property had become a tropical forest of weeds and bush, everything colourful has been drained and sucked dry, it seems like a mystical mystery as every other garden on the street was pristinely cut and watered on occasion. Fran stands with his arm pulled back with a rock gripped and throws another.  The rumoured witches’ liar lives under a giant black cloud that only seems to blanket this house on the street.

The old lady who lives in the rundown home scrapes her dead-leg across the floorboards; she limps over to the screen-door, opening it very cautiously. A cat in tow within her arm, she rests an eye on the young hooligan who is outside of her gate.

“Young man, what do you think you are doing?” She responds to the stone thrower in her rustled voice.

“I’m throwing stones; what are you going to do about it, old lady?” Fran charges out; picking up another rock.

The old lady shuffles out a little more to the top step of her doorstep. Birds in the sky who circle, break from nature and fly away; the clouds of mosquitoes disburse and vanish into the brush of the garden jungle.

“You shouldn’t be throwing stones at all; it is not a nice behaviour. Why are you doing this?” She replies.

“Because I can and it is within my nature to destroy; even when it is the home of a rixatrix.” Fran picks up another rock and lobs it through another window. He stands tough with pride, believing he is more superior to the old lady.

“Go find prey, Paws.” The black cat looks up into the woman’s eyes; she lets the cat fall to her feet, it scampers away. “Young man, you have broken the rules for your entertainment, you must pay for all you have damaged, I will ask you to go home to where you feel safe with one small idea; I am an old lady, yes, I have lived along long time, so in ending I have been through more fire than you can imagine, I have done worse acts than you are doing now but repaid them all with all the happiness I lusted for. You believe I am only a haggard woman; I am so much more than that. Soon I will be throwing my own rocks at you.” So contempt the lady declares.

Fran’s eyes open to fear, he backs on his feet to the uttered words of promise from the witch. Turning and running away in cower. The old ladies wrathful laugh echoes all the way down the street, following Fran home.

That night as Fran settles snug in his bed, a storm concocts and evil idea within the night sky, spitting bad words against the world against Fran’s bedroom window.  He rests his head upon his pillow and begins to close his eyes and fall into a deep sleep.

“Goodnight, Fran Munroe; do not wrestle and do not speak within your slumber.” A rustic voice spells out from the shadows of his bedroom.

Fran’s eye open with a phobia he could not nightmare about. He tries to wriggle from comfort and shout-out to his parents but no movement and words come to be.  The only thing Fran can do is watch and listen, finally.

“I told you to heed yourself, Fran, as it is within your nature to throw stones for fun at an old woman’s home.” The witch reveals herself from the shadows and comes into dim light from the hallway and lightning strikes. “It is within my nature to deliver revenge upon souls who hurt me. Young people nowadays a forgetful, they forget that we old people have been around, seen and done everything; where you have pride and energy, we have fought and have memory. You should respect your elders, Fran. My cat, Paws, followed you home tonight and as you came to my home for disruption, I have come to yours for destruction.” She comes to his bedside and smiles darkly in his face.

The doubled windows of Fran’s bedroom open with the intruder of wind, ever so grimly. The rain chucks harder and thunder and lightning bang drums and sound symbols to the theme song of murder.

The sinister old lady takes flight within Fran’s room, hovering over his bed; she lets out a devilishly spine-chilling shriek. Fran can still only watch as the old decrepit woman is sucked out from his window into the war that has broke-out within the sky; her overalls and skirt flicker and snap at the wind as she holds herself in front of the moons light.

“You broke my home, now I shall take yours!” She screams.

With that, she extends her arms, pointing her blackened fingernails at the house and begins to hum to herself; she rolls her eyes again and again.

Fran’s whole house begins to shudder with fear, shivering with the real reality that is happening. Photo frames and ornaments firstly begin to fall from shelves, windows begin to shatter; walls begin to peel like skin from the bone. The whole house topples on top of the adolescent, and all Fran can do is witness the wrath of an old lady from down the street.

“The moral of this story, you ask? Respect your elders; they know even more sadistic and evil shit than any of us.” – Alex Kennedy.

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