Tag Archives: new writer

True Evil Holds a Pen


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I am flirting with fire; from normality I had cold-feet. I am a kerfuffle of trouble, there’s no saving me now as I have mushroom-clouds for thought bubbles. They lacerate my world believing they killed me, I’m letting slip my dogs of war until they know me as a reformed super villain. Challenge Completed, Planet Earth; I’m spinning out-of-control, no fault of my own, I couldn’t keep hold. I’m a libertine shoulder barging my way through the captive creators; I’m writing on black paper in the dark.

No brain freeze or frisson, picking up lightening-bolts and throwing them at the pages of rapture I capture. This is merely reverie I reveal and unravel, I time-travel back and thwart all my enemies plans for me. I am no poltroon, I pollute pages personally I made it personal because I am no longer a person. The rain trickles down and washes away all my plights from my face, I change my mind and change my face and I am giving the world hell again, true evil is holding a pen. My calm levels are unstable, upon this page I have too much sycophantic horsepower, I bucking-bronco my way out from this web of life.

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In school, after Maths was English class where I jotted down my aftermath from the bullies pulley, I guess I’m pure vile and puerile, I’m not a Transformer I can transmogrify. Rambunctious to my soul’s battery core; setting my switch to self-destruction. A man can only receive so much failure in his life before superiority takes over his eyes focus. Insanity is a gift from the Gods; I wield and shield it against sanity.

This world sees what they want to see; I could have charming characteristics, suave and soigné, hats off to me, my undercurrent is currently a catastrophe. All passengers, we have a slight insurgence for turbulence and wizen, please, fasten your seatbelts and come join me within my plummet. Its drizzling green and yellow pills, I’m dancing in the pain, I jump in blood puddles and reappear in sky tunnels of bliss. This hurt in my head I play it over and over again, until a joker smirk arises on my face, I’m no longer insane, isn’t life splendiferous.

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Within my writing I cannot be a stentorian, so I must visual lies my memory video-taped life, transplant and transport all of my supercilious kisses of life, these pages are where my wishes go to find a place to die. This world should have boxed me in early, now I can create topsy-turvy from everything that profoundly promotes to hurt me. Here comes the valetudinarian again, turn away, don’t dare turn that page, it’s all of the same. I could be a beacon of silver-lining light, but the doctors beat my head in with a rock to keep me under it for eternity. I am a writer, this is what I do, keep bringing you words and I shall sit here and laugh at you.

This image was selected as a picture of the we...

This image was selected as a picture of the week on the Malay Wikipedia for the 44th week, 2009. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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This Pen Is a Monster; It’s The Only One That Gets me!


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This pen is a monster; it’s the only one that gets me!

I’m coming for it all, one last stand on every piece of paper, crumple it up and use them as bombs or make myself paper aeroplanes. Extremists, Haha! Please… I’m an extreme extremist; I eat terrorists as if they were bubble-gum, see what I did there? I just blew-up another one. Pop! I’ll be waiting here forever on these pages; a pen as my gravestone, a bunch of blunt pencils as flowers and a papier-mâché coffin.  I’m throwing sucker-punches at this page but this isn’t the bible, less holy! My life stinks, I can’t even afford to pay my water bill; I’m the stinky-kid. Help me, I’m a writer! What have I gotten myself involved in? I’m sick of this life; this must be the withdrawal from sanity. What can I do with this life except become a writer; there a light-bulb has just switched on, turn it off! This headache is getting worse. My words jump straight off the page, don’t they? Beware they could blind you.

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This whole big bad world has nothing on me, why do you think I peeled off my own skin? I wanted to become appealing to everyone. You cannot do what I do; you can only do what I cannot do, which is stop and fail. I’m now stabbing my eyes with my pen, so I can really see what I am writing for you. Can you see passed my words and see the light? Here, let me put this computer over your head. This is what I’m meant for; to me it’s as if I’m carving my name in cement. It’s that easy!

So throw all your pens up in the air, blacken out my Sun, no matter; I write in the darkness. Human emotion is my only kryptonite; it radiates through and clouds my vision, I just have to remember I’m not human. I live in this pen, I live in these words, now you have read me; I’m on your mind – my job is done. Don’t blame my mother; she did her best to raise Hell! From every litter you must have a runt, that’s me. I’m Mr. Brightside though; I must have rolled on my side on this hellfire. I could always count my blessings in life but I’m a writer, I don’t deal in numbers.

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I sleep with this pen every night; I think I have contracted ink-poisoning, it’s life-threatening with every word I scribble. Fame is in a frame on my mantle, I’m in love with her but she is too busy satisfying other people but I will be the love of her life, until we’re both dead! I bucking-bronco off all of my mental baggage, I’m sick of carrying all of the dirty laundry; they call me a pig-headed ass!

there is evil within us

Why are you asking me to leave? I don’t even live on this world. These aren’t words, they are only spasms I suffer with, so what exactly are you reading? That’s right, nothingness. Why are you here? You could be writing screenplays, you could be living your perfect life, you could be making money; don’t do what I’m doing, I’m doomed!

On a scale of one to five, in women’s eyes, I’m usually number 4. Why do you think I never step forward in this line up? I don’t want to be underrated. But I did it! It’s like a murder he wrote.

I burst into laughter every time I read my journal, my life is such a sick-joke it’s actually funny. I can’t talk to some people, I get more sense from talking to brick-walls, so I did that and they tried locking me up for that too.

A problem shared is a problem doubled, my words can be infectious. Does Alex live here? Sorry, his upstairs is vacant. This pen is a monster; it’s the only one that gets me. We’re all prisoners behind this mortar; I’m reaching through the brickwork to show you I’m still alive.

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And as soon as my stars have aligned, you can then watch me as I shoot! Because I’ll be a Superstar.

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My Evil Pen Told Me To Write This


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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!

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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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Dead Revenge – Fiction by Alexander Kennedy


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Dead Revenge

I… Have… Been… Shot… And now they are aiming the gun at my little brother. My face is broken, bruised and blood kissed. Tired with the feeling of carelessness possesses me. Do I want to move? Do I really? How about I just close my eyes? Give up and say I did try, did not succeed, I only gave it eighty-five percent of myself. My eyes have almost closed, just a little further and we can slumber forever… …wait… I… can’t leave him, not alone, not like our family did, I am all he has and he is all I have.

Now get up, come-on, do one push-up, you can take more hits than this, show this world, that has to result to weapons to put you down, they cannot hurt you, stand. The blood is making me heave like a bad dinner from the night before. Good, you’re on your knees now, just a little more, just a little more. My head spins around and around like I have been on a bender but you have been in worse states, just stand. For a minute I forgot my surroundings but I’m picking up small details of my surroundings, like the people peaking from their curtains, trees dancing to the music of the wind all in a synchronized order, beautiful, the stars seem so close, can I touch them? …little bro, this is for him, focus, focus.

Here we go, just stand straight, show them what a true person does when they try to pick on someone you love. You stand in front of that barrel and take on each monster that comes at you, remember you told him that monsters didn’t exist, just make sure he remembers that. Four men each with evil eyes, no horses but this is nowhere near my end or my apocalypse. There are rows and rows of houses at either side of them, no one has come out, emptiness, they must not care, show them you do. Is that rain I can feel? To be honest, each hit is cooling me.

Everything is coming back to my vision, complete coherency. Was that another gunshot that had just gone off? I look down at my stomach; I have another two holes to my one. I run my finger over the hole that is a couple of inches to the left of my bellybutton. I guarantee you; death will not be shopping for souls within my bloodline today. Don’t give these cretins the satisfaction of fear, which is an emotion within your body, your will control that, do not allow it to surface. I pick my eyes back up to the horizon being blocked by four nothingness beings and throw them a smile, hurt is a deeper emotion, don’t let it through, don’t you dare as soon as they know they cannot kill you they will flee back to the cesspools shadows.

I take one slow step, my foot is the heaviest it has ever been, then fall, in the longest of plummets, my hands do not have time to be thrown in front of me to cushion gravity’s plan. My eyes won’t open and my breathing starts to slow until it eventually gives into inevitability. My little brother runs over to me, shaking me to wake me up, the main horseman (Death) takes a step forward towards him with an evil intension crossing his mind until it shows in his eyes. My little brother begins to yank on my clothing trying to pull my no more life moving body to safety, but strength was never one of his strong points.

The horseman points the gun at my little brother, emotionless.

A slight quake tears like a water ripple from the other end of the street about half a mile away, knocking off guard the street terrorists, Death loses interest in my little brother and walks through his brothers to lead the squinting eyes to see what had happened. Now who feels the fear? No longer me… Within a blinding light that explodes from nothingness, I am back, unharmed and more. My little brother sees his chance and takes off running, leaving my first body, Death spins his head to him and raises the gun and within one loud bang my little brother is being chased by a loose bullet.

I take a small run up a monstrous roar exits me as my soul had just done and pull away from gravity, I pick up speed until the road beneath me cracks and the houses shiver until breaking windows, just desserts to the street of inattentiveness. Everything but me has decelerated, my brother was about six steps from my body and the bullet is a fingers length away from his upper-spine. I move into the path behind the bullet and overtake it and scoop my brother up in my arms and take off in a different trajectory. I fly over a houses rooftop and land in their back garden.

I kneel down and rub away the tears he had spilt on himself, throw him I am proud of you grin and race back to the skies with the fury of do not try to take something I have raised and brought up correct for your street credit or intimidation fulfillment. The lit up streets make me think of a seat in heaven looking down at the world. In floating I can feel the perpetrators of my death but it is death I am hunting, he has taken off running with the same fear my little brother felt, now I am the loose bullet sent from heavens gun.

I race for the ground with a fist of fury with my own version of hell. Death has taken the coward way out, jumping over fences and gardens to escape his fate until he is confronted by an open emptied road, his eyes hit sky looking for me in the abyss of darkness, he makes a break for freedom seeing a car he could boost. He runs for it, out of breath. He reaches the middle of the road when he hears a whistle in the wind along with my roaring voice; he finally spots me and stops in his tracks, now who is giving in? I put both of my hand out in front of me latch on to his clothing and carry him off to a painful black ending.

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A Letter To a Literary Agent


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My letter to a literary agent!

I remember when I was just like you. A struggling writer who wanted the whole world at his/hers fingertips, trying so desperately to make these gatekeepers (Literary Agents) read – enjoy and publish their works.

There was a time when I wrote a piece of material which I loved so much, it was a screenplay, one of the best pieces of fiction I have ever written and to this day I hold so close to my heart as child I gave birth to an ultimate idea of pure delight.

Well, I finished it; made sure I rechecked and rewrote the story until it was a machine that did its job well. So I tried my hardest to send it to Literary Agents from London to New York, most of them didn’t even reply, so did with…

“We’re really sorry at this time but we are not taking on new clients at this time, thank you for writing to us.” In other words… PASS!

I even received a reply from a literary agency in London; first I have to explain that my writing in this certain piece of fiction was rather violent and detailed within the gory. But this certain agency sent me a reply stating “We love the overall idea but we do not take on non-fiction stories.”

I had written a piece of fiction so well they believed that it was non-fiction. For a long time I had a chip on my shoulder because I believed that the main rule of writing fiction was to make it believable, I thought I did my job, I thought this was the name of the game. But no other nibbles after that.

I was destroyed by their overstepping; I cried and had trouble sleeping. Yes, I continued to write but I lost faith in the whole writing industry. This was at a time when I was coming out of my mental illness the first time so my disappointment from the rejection letters didn’t help me stay stable for long.

I broke, again.

It was only when I came back to reality for a third time I had finished writing my first novel The Diary of an Immortal (Which I have right here on my blog.) I let my demons take over but for a price to use my mind for this purpose, to write material that has never been seen before.

But I also learned that Literary Agents will not publish works from a writer that has no real following to their work, publishing cost money and if no one knows who you are, no one will buy it, making your work pointless.

So I came up with another idea which might make my work get to the Gatekeepers much easier than writing to them individually and bothering them. I know of certain blogs success so perhaps one day one of them may stumble upon my presence and make my dreams come true.

So for now I will keep writing until I have all the followers I can lead into fantasy.

So please just click on the follow button, if you do it now, you will get rid of all of my blog posts and you can take my place as the best writer online. (Jokes.)

Keep your pens busy!

Alex

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