Tag Archives: Young Adult Fiction

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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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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