Tag Archives: Television

Guest Blog from James Buysen


Hey psycho people! Here we have another awesome writer in the making, I would like to introduce to you James Buysen. All of us here at young adult fiction welcomes you to the halls of insane, James!! READ MORE OF JAMES WORK HERE   thepaperbackadventure.com

***

“I turn 21 tomorrow, the day I can officially consider myself an adult. My awkward teen years are behind me, I’m going to make something of myself… oh, who am I kidding? Look at me. I’m pathetic. I’ve got no friends, my parents are ashamed of me, I’m flunking all my classes at Uni. In ten years time I’m still going to be living the same dead end life I am now.”

Story of my life really; Scott Grafter the outcast and failure, no friends and nothing to live for. What I wouldn’t give… just to do something with my life.

***

As Scott slept that night he was unaware of the cost that wish could bring him, some deals just aren’t worth the price. But the haze of youth can cloud the judgment of the desperate. Whilst Scott slept he was unaware of the choice he was about to be given.

“Mr. Grafter?” only a few seconds ago he had laid his head down onto his pillow. “Over here Mr. Grafter.” He could feel the rough surface of an asphalt road beneath his feet. His spun around to see where the voice had come from; he stood at the centre of the crossroad outside his house. Opposite him stood the silhouette of a man hidden in the shade cast by a street light on an old oak tree. “Do you know where we are Mr. Grafter?”

Scott looked around; he was clearly no longer in the bed in which he had fallen asleep. He was not even in his room for that matter. “We are on the street outside my house.”

“That is correct Mr. Grafter.” Scott eyed the silhouette warily. “It’s your birthday tomorrow isn’t it?” The man looked down at his wrist, “twenty three minutes to be exact…”

Scott didn’t speak; this was possibly the strangest dream he had ever had. “Sorry, how rude of me, I completely forgot to introduce myself. My name is Alistair.”He stepped from the shadows to reveal himself, an average height man dressed in a cheap dinner suit. Cleanly shaven and short cut hair; he had the air of a door to door salesman who sold useless ‘necessities’.

“This is a dream isn’t it?” Scott pinched himself with no effect.

“On the contrary, this is very real Mr. Grafter. I mean, this is all in your head but you can be assured this is far from a dream.” Alistair offered a hand to Scott.

Scott looked at him for a moment and then at his hand, he did not move. “Very smart Mr. Grafter, you do not know me, how could you trust me. Perhaps we need to find some common ground?” still Scott remained quiet. “Do you love your parents Mt. Grafter?”

Suddenly he had taken Scott’s interest, where was he leading with this? For a moment he thought the man’s eyes had flashed a bright pearlescent white, almost demonic.

“Of course you do what a stupid question. What if I told you, you could save them?”

“What is that meant to mean?” Scott had started to fidget now.

“Earlier tonight your mother forgot to turn off the oven… it’s still on right now; a very easy mistake to make.” Scott eyed the house, he made to move but found his body frozen stiff. “Hold on Mr. Grafter, your forgetting something. We are still in your head.”

“Let me go.”

“I can’t do that.” His tone changed, he had suddenly become very stern. “Even as we speak it is too late, too late for you, too late for them. I can give you a choice though.”

Scott tried with all his might to move, to get free of the grip on him. “Why should I believe you?”

“You smell that?” It was the smell of smoke, Scott could smell it strongly but he still didn’t trust it. “You can wake up now and deal with the consequences of your choice…” The windows in his house as it stood there behind Alistair lit up in a blaze of fire. “Or you can make another choice. You can save them, and in return you will work for me. Your life will have a purpose.”

Was that it? What did he have to lose?

***

If only it had been so simple, he had shook Alistair’s hand that night and his life had changed forever. He had awoken in a burning house and dragged his parent’s unconscious bodies from the flames. He was made a hero. His face was all over the TV for weeks. Never had he felt so loved by his parents and the people around him.

At the end of the second week though, Alistair came to him again. It was time for him to hold up his end of the bargain. He would become a Grimm; a soldier of the Covenant. For eternity his soul would be held until his dept was deemed repaid.

For months he wore the price of his parents lives; until he learned not all had gone so well for them. Whilst he hunted souls that had run from their deals; his parents had died in a fiery car crash. He had sacrificed his soul for them, only to have them taken from him months later. And then he learned the worst part… a soul saved through the selfishness of another would be condemned to an eternity in the pits of hell.

He had not asked any questions; he had been promised a purpose in life, a chance to be more then what he saw in himself. Without thinking about the cost he had taken the reward, and it was only temporary. It was snatched from his grasp like it had never been his at all.

***

“You realize that if you do this, you will be hunted as a traitor and a rogue? It is forbidden for a Grimm to peak through the veil.” Scott had managed to track down a highly reputable Psychic who was reported to have a direct line to the souls of the damned.

“They are there because I put them there. If there is even a chance I can save them from the fate I have committed them to, then I owe it to them to do just that.” She closed her eyes and took a hold of his hands as they sat across the table from each other.

NOW PRESS THAT LIKE BUTTON AND VISIT MORE INCREDIBLE WORK HERE   thepaperbackadventure.com

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Success is the Best Revenge


success is the best revengeWe were partners in crime, who would have thought you would ever steal from me. We laughed at this world, thinking we were two of a kind and the cotton we pulled over their eyes was practically playground game to us. They had no idea of our ideas or schemes, but I didn’t think you were planning further into the future. I am a wolf in sheep clothing; your costume was that of an actual wolf; you’re a sheep, just like the rest!

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“I think we should just be friend’s xxx.”

Sent in a text message, six hours before midnight on New Year’s Eve, when I was relapsing and a day after my grandmother died. Friends you say? I think not! That smile you portray tells more of the darkness towards men you have. I should have read the signs, should have listened to the voices. I was love drunk on you so I thought I could gain a free pass into normality forever with you by my side. You were not a nice person when I needed someone the most; you were heartless and found yourself someone to share a beat of life with. I hope you choke on your new love!

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But I seen you walking around town with your new man and new smile, I hide when I see your face. My success will be my revenge! You left me for something better, a new family along with a new smile and the price you had to pay was my happiness! Without a second thought you took that from me. But I will have the last laugh!

When you sit at home and pick up a bestselling novel, I will be there!

When you switch on the TV and in the interviewers seat, I will be there!

When you buy a new DVD, on the start and end credits, I will be there!

When you pick up one of your girly magazines, I will be there!

When your favourite musician or band plays out on the music channels or radio, I will be there too!

This is my design – This is my revenge!

You made this; I will forever be you Frankenstein lover. I will haunt your thoughts – home and job. I want you to know how crazy you made me. But to have you to second-guess for one second within your happy new life is all I am asking; because then you will know it was all for nothing and I was the right choice. But here is the kicker!

I DON’T WANT YOU BACK!

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I am happy now. I have found someone who loves me more, I have tamed my madness (a little more) and my writing is gaining substantial views and followers.

And when my life is complete and I am laying out in the sun without a worry in the world and the life you chose is re-falling apart, I want you to think of me and what you put me through.

Do not write, do not get in touch. Our relationship was a farce, falsified love!

I will become great in life and you will be great at opening your legs! Some life you chose…

So bring forth these pages, I have some revenge to dish out!

I love you!

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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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The Serial Killer Part 1. Chalk-Lines and Blood-Spatters


Here is another installment for the Young Adult Fiction Writer, Alexander Kennedy. This is a narrative thought processed story of a serial killer with good intentions and also alot of raised questions about her past. Like, Comment and subscribe.

Caution Adivised – Bad Language.

The Serial Killer Part 1. Chalk-Lines and Blood-Spatters

I am going to show all of the saners worldwide, my world.

I guess introductions are necessary at this point, my name is Sally. This is my fifth Vic; I would like to believe I am doing a public service when killing. There are not large job openings on either sides of my curriculum vital, upon one side, my normal job title of TV reporter, advanced literacy conqueror, mother to my little girl, Grace; wife to my beloved Alan, a police officer for six years, seven months and fourteen days. Upon the other side of my page, written in invisible blood, I am a psychopathic murderer.

He lies hogtied in his stripy boxers on the motel bed, wriggling, baby-like; unable to shuffle his little toes just yet. Not yet found his big-boy voice to cry for his mommy, the pervert’s mouth is duct taped; I drew a smile over it in black felt-tip. How dare he anyway think I was streetwalking bimbo; who just came here to fuck the dark memories away, how wrong was he? My dark memories are about to fuck him.

I stick him in his podgy belly with a box-cutter; he groans under his voice in pain, his eyes shut trying to remember a few minutes prior to the cut.

“Stupid little man, I ain’t no prostitute and I certainly ain’t no business venture you can finger fuck over with your board of directors, overtake a small company and leave hundreds of people not only fighting for their jobs, but also money and food to keep their families from harm. This is your judgement Terry Wilkinson, CEO of the Formed Electrics Empire. You make billions off business investments and liquidizing smaller projects assets. And here we are a corrupt billionaire, a motel room and a killer.” I theorize.

I fix up my disguise in the finger-printed mirror, black gloves on, contact lenses and wig. From my jacket I reveal an item wrapped in a black cloth, I place it ever-so gently upon the dresser. And duel my reflection once more.

“Imagine, Terry, a plethora of teeth chattering, heart cupped, fear gulping saner’s, saners are people, which would inevitably be someone like you. Now this mob is being chased, about to be mort by a maladroit soul who is swinging an axe; he is chopping down people who are slow on the foot. This type of psychopath is what I like to call Fire-holders; these fire-holders have always had a problem with society, thinking they have been wronged in some fashion and have to take their angst out on innocent people.  Their mental health problems have always been known by everyone within their path of life. Now an ice-holder like me is the person who befriended you years prior to this act of an attack with axing; came round for beers and dinner, basically loved you. But hold your thoughts right there. Within this evil event, I am the person who would suggest hiding within this room where the lock is on the inside, I turn the key and put it within my pocket and reveal my own axe. You see, where the fire-holder only gets a handful of victims, I will get a roomful. I am smarter. I am.”

He begins to shake his head, I believe he wants to get something off from his chest; hopefully it’s his heart; if I remove the gag he will scream as if he was a teenage girl losing her virginity.

“Why are you shaking your head, Terry? Is your head going to fall off? Don’t worry, you will not be forgotten within this world, I want the whole world to know you were killed here in this poggy room, and still you are shaking your head. Here, let me give your head a head-start.”

I pick up the item wrapped in a black cloth and unfold it. An old knife rustic knife lays silently on the material, it has been over used and sharpened so many times, the wonder is, why hasn’t it been trashed by now?

Wrapping each one of my fingers around the handle, I march for a war of wrath against Terry, taking the knife and dragging the life from his throat.

Silence is the scream within the night that screams back around.

Nothingness has his grasp around my trembling hands and vacant eyes. The blood treacle’s from his void, spraying the sheets and carpet red. I wrap my weapon back in its cover, putting him to bed. I made sure I touched nothing and maintain on doing so. I retreat from the chalk-scene and blood-spatters into the danky bathroom, pubic hair toilet rims and used condoms in the bathtub.

I open the bathroom window and making sure no scuff marks are left, I exit cat-like. I do not close the window, the less I touch the less I am likely to be caught. I have no ties to this man; it will look on the news as a sex scandal gone wrong.

Over the brush I travel, not looking out of place, hood up and on a one way mission towards my car which is a thirty minute walk away. I take my high heels off and plonk them in a homeless man barrel fire, no shoe prints. I make no face contact with the homeless man; he was drunk anyway so his testimony is invalid.

I get into my beamer, sitting in my seat, putting my head back while I listen to Otis Redding – Dock on the bay.

I am a killer; I never thought as a child I would amount to anything, now all I do is scare the streets to staying in at night, an old west scenario, when you rolled into town and they closed their doors and shutter windows. I didn’t want any of this to happen but once I started it was for the greater good for my own benefit and now it’s a solution to stop people to find out who I am and what I’ve done. I feel so crippled with this anger of shadows within me.

I know now, I am here from this world’s amusement and disobedience; I am a walking, talking Frankenstein monster, they made me and now they can’t control me. I am worse than any terrorist, thug or nuclear weapon because I know who and truly why I am killing, I put the effort in to know how these people will die in a precise way and I follow no one’s plans. You can call me evil, scum or inhumane but my mother branded me as Sally.

I’m twenty-seven years old and I’ve lost count on how many people have crossed my path and lost their future in some diabolical way. Someday I will take my own life, but before I do I would like to tell you my story, but with every story there is a beginning and an end. So let me take you back to the warm summer in Clayford, a small suburban community. It was nineteen ninety-seven, I was thirteen years old when my soul was taken from me, my father had a rough time at work and I was the one to blame, I was the one who helped his anger process really get loose, the office banter must have been my fault too. That’s when he and his friends came.

I laid belly flat on that ground, burning ants with my magnifying glass. I was a really goofy looking kid and that wavy brown hair was nothing to be proud of. She rolled by on her pink bike with entourage, Lacey Burns, Her dad owed Burns hardware store in Town. She will always live within my memory as perfection. She will always be my first love and first victim.

I’m getting a little too far ahead from head. I think I will leave my coldblooded thoughts to rest in peace for tonight, I do not wish to tell you all my tales, straight away, you’re a stranger. Perhaps another night we can continue.

But for tonight I am going home to spend time with my little Gracey before her bedtime; I like knowing the world has one less corruptor within in. I will sleep well after Alan time. Goodnight and I will be seeing you soon.

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