WordSmith discussion
Writer's Bone
Mod
You may think you can't write a book. You're stuck at fifteen pages, and to even think of writing 350 pages seems impossible. But all of us can write for five minutes a day. It doesn't have to be anything special, it doesn't even have to make sense. It can just be a list of your favourite songs, or just a bunch of rambling sentences about a story idea you once had. The point is to write...so go set the clock and see what kind of nonsense you can come up with!
Mod
Until then, here's something I found on the web by bestselling author Janet Finch, author of White Oleander and Paint It Black. In her words...is what sounds like a interesting and fun writing exercises. I've pasted it below. (All her own words)
WHAT IS THE WORD? THE BEST WRITING EXERCISE EVER
Everything I've ever written has come from this exercise.
It was a regular feature of my very first writing workshop, designed as a way to get non-writers, mostly actors, writing. Every week, they would decide on a word, just a simple word, like 'light' or 'fan,' and you would write a short story--two pages, double spaced--using that word somewhere in the little story.
That's it.
It sounds like nothing, but in fact, it is a remarkable way of finding out what jewels are hidden in your unconscious. Unlike longer stories, you come to these short short stories fresh, without preconceptions. They're like a Rorschach ink blot test--every person sees something else in the word, and in writing it, you to get to material you didn't even know was there.
For instance, White Oleander came from the word WIND. I saw a woman on a rooftop in the Santa Anas, and her white hair, and the white moon…. and discovered that it was oleander time.
Here's how it works:
Say the word is…. PEN. (The simplest words are best, and words which are both nouns and verbs are the very best, because the number of possible connotations.)
Then I list my connotations to that word.
Holding pen in a jail
Pen the pig (a kid's game)
Pen some barn animal
A pen you write with
Fountain pen.
My fathers fountain pen my mother gave me after his death... (what if I lost that pen? Or it got stolen in some way. Hmm... promising. But i don't want to stop there, I want to list some more.)
Pen marks, pen stains.
A quill pen
Some rob you with a six gun, some with a fountain pen (Ballad of Pretty Boy Floyd, referring to banks)
To pen a response
A poison pen letter
To pen anonymously
Now, looking at that whole list, I can feel myself drawn to that poison pen letter. So I write the story. Two pages double spaced, and use the word "pen" somewhere in there.
And I end up with a story that goes somewhere I didn't even know where, hadn't ever thought of writing, based on the idea of a poison pen letter.
And if it doesn't turn out, if I don't like it once I start, so what? Maybe I'll go back and lose my father's fountain pen instead.
My students in my workshop at USC do this exercise every week for sixteen weeks--and at the end of the term, they have 16 short short stories, several of which will have been lengthened into full stories. Maybe one of them even wants to be longer than that--the bud of a novel.
There's another way to play with this prompt, something even shorter than a two page short short story, and that is the PARAGRAPH story.
There used to be a wonderful literary journal called Paragraph, that was completely comprised of stories a paragraph long, no more than 100 words. Though I'm a novelist, it was a great challenge, to write a story in 100 words. This is the Haiku of fiction writing.
The Best of Luck,
Janet Finch
Hi everyone, just wanted to share a fun writing prompt that I found online (from WriterDigest.com - check it out!): 'Take the first line of a song and use it as the first sentence in a story.' I did this one the other night, and was happy with the result. It's not really a short story per say, more a musing. The hardest part was deciding which of my favorite songs to use the first line of!
Incidentally, I used the first couple lyrics for the first two sentences and then added the main chorus of the song for one of the end notes. (The song is 'Little Too Late' by Default)
"Maybe I missed you.
Yes, maybe it’s true. Why else would I be standing here in the rain, hoping that you will look out the window and see me, but I know that you aren’t even there. Part of me won’t believe that you are really gone, but the rest is resigned.
Your car hasn’t been in the driveway for weeks now, and somehow I know that you’re never coming back. I hurt you too much. Stabbed you in the back, gutted your heart, snapped your spine. I won’t deny it, and I don’t blame you for doing the same to me.
As much as I hate to admit, I’ve moved on too. New place, new life. Yet I keep coming back to this, to what we were. Everyday. Yes, I’m pathetic, a hopeless romantic, unable to let go of our rosy past.
But there are thorns there too. Oh, so many thorns, prickles of past fights, petty quarrels, heated arguments. Doors slamming, glass shattering, furniture tipped. Shouts and screams, blatant hatred coursing through our veins.
I don’t know how many times we came crawling back, fury beaten down, sheepish and repentant. How many times we curled in each other’s arms and promised that it would be the last time. Yet it never came, until now.
Half of me wishes that I had never said goodbye. Half of me knows that it was time. Time to let go, to leave you behind, to move onward, to be free again. I stand on the driveway, raindrops hitting my face, looking in the windows, and I can breathe again. It hurts so much, but the air is sweet and clean. Eventually, it will heal the wounds, make them into thick, impenetrable scars. I know it will do the same for you.
We will both carry the scars, along with the memories.
Today it is finished. I will never come back here, and I know you won’t either, even if you wanted to.
It’s a little too late.
I still miss you."
There! It's not overly long, but it's all baby steps! See what you guys think, and it would be awesome if you would try this prompt yourselves to see what you come up with.
Mod
My favorite part of writing stories is the planning part. I spend days planning out each and every detail in my story. I love developing plot lines and adding twists and turns. But my favorite part of story planning is the development of the characters. Creating characters that are realistic enough. Characters that take on a life of their own. The best exercise I've used for creating realistic characters is creating character emails. Whether these emails are between the writer and their character, or two different characters, the emails help immensely. It allows the writer to explore their character's thought patterns and attitude. When I was developing my character, Henry, I decided to use different exercises to develop him. The character emails allowed me to understand this character and get inside his mind. If Hey_jude is alright with it, I'll post some of the character emails we exchanged as examples. But before I post the emails I must warn you that Henry is on the verge of insanity and his thoughts are slightly twisted. But he is now my favorite character:)
Okay, I liked the whole, start a short story with the first line of a song. So here it goes. It’s seven o’clock; the moon is turning.
I sit on the concrete steps with it in my hand. Its smooth metal burns against my skin. This time with it is what makes my day. I need it. I've always needed it. There is a subtle click and suddenly I can’t think anymore.
I’m mesmerized by it, flickering, glowing. Orange light. Blue at the very stem. Where it protrudes from the metal. It is mine but it always wants more. It is never content, never satisfied. It flickers with the breeze. It is hungry.
I turn it off. There is nothing for it to consume. Not yet. My eyes search for something that isn’t there. Then it is. It stands so serene and peaceful, like a watchful eye just closed for rest. It is abandoned for the night.
The flashbacks begin. The smattering of machine gun fire. The roar of artillery. The shaking of the earth. The burning, the flames.
It is time. Don’t fall through the cracks. There’s no turning back.
The fire comes alive.
It’s seven o’clock; the moon is turning. The streets are burning. I’ll be hiding from the sun.
Wow, this is amazing WAKEtheSLEEPERinside! I love how it's almost like poetry. Great job! : )
Hey, that story exercise with the first line of a song does seem like a really cool idea. Yours is great, WAKEtheSLEEPERinside. I think I'll just have to try that...
Thank-you. I've been a bit nervous putting some of my stuff on here because I'm not sure if it's any good or not. So thank you for all your kind comments. :)
No problem, and don't worry because you're not the only one who's nervous about posting different pieces of writing. I haven't posted anything yet, but I will be as soon as possible.
Oh, I almost forgot. The name of the song is "Hiding from the Sun" by Default. I don't usually listen to it much but the first lines really stood out for me.
Mod
Mod
He wishes he could hate her.
But then it comes to him, that afternoon, seemingly a lifetime ago, dancing through his mind. He closes his eyes, in desperation to drown it out. .
It was this time, and he can’t remember how to describe it cause he was never good with words. He sees it in his eyes, two people pretending to be happy, encaged within their own world, separate but seemingly hinged at the hip.
This is how he remembered her first.
He'd walk along the highway, the one that she hated. She’d cover her ears and close her eyes, frozen like a woman made of ice. And the cars whistled by and subway was drowning with noise.
“Don’t be afraid.” He’d take her arm, cover her shoulders and tuck her head under his coat and led her through. People would stop and stare, but it was like leading a frightened animal through a fire.
He was used to watching people, making sure to blend it cause while he watched and studied them, he didn’t want them watching back. But he saw her there, frozen and scared; back slightly arched like she was preparing for a bomb
He had stopped listening to what his mind was trying to tell him, the damaged nerves tangled together from childhood had left him squeezed and strained like water through a sieve. Always being drained and left to puddle in sandy ditches of his consciousness.
So he wasn’t thinking when he led her through the subway and into the whistling train waiting at the platform, condensation building on its crystal windows.
And no one noticed them taking a seat together; their arms entangled though still strangers.
“I’m not usually like that,” she said. “I was trying to embrace my fear.”
“Trains?”
“People.”
She smiled at his lack of response “How can I be afraid of people?”
He liked the way she was not moving away, still tucked like an extra part of him underneath the jacket, big enough to conceal them from the rest of the world.
“It started when I was little, I rode the subway with my mom and it was then I saw how big and strange the world was, and all the people clustered together like animals being kept in slaughterhouse pens.” She paused, extracting herself slowly from the past.
“They tell me I have to face my fear of people, but each time is bad as the first. I want to disappear. It’s like I’m the only one realizing where the journey ends…and no one listens when I try to warn them. I think it’s getting worse.”
“Don’t listen to them. Why are they anyway to tell you what to do? It’s not such a bad thing to fear people. They are dangerous in their own way.”
She cocked her head, regarding him softly and he felt the ice from the windows melt against his neck where he’d knocked his head back.
“You aren’t scared of people.”
“I’m smarter than them,” he began. “But I do hate them…almost everyone other person in this world.”
“Almost?”
“I don’t hate you,” he said.
She grinned again and reached up to his mouth, tugging at the corners with her fingers. “Smile for me, I want to see how it looks on your face.”
So he did.
“I live here,” she said when they left the subway.
She had calmed down and wove her hands through her corduroy vest while she talked.
“Here?”
“I just moved here, to the city I mean, but I always wanted to go to Paris or Poland with all the ghettos.”
He nodded.
“I thought to myself, why don’t I go do that now because you never know how much time you really have, but I didn’t want to do it by myself.”
“I thought you didn’t like people”
Her eyes were almond shaped and very dark. She smiled hesitantly.
“No, I just don’t like to be surrounded by them. I like simple things and silly things that no one does anymore cause they’re too busy. But I also don’t want to have do these things alone.”
“I’m alone,” he said. “All the time.”
“Yes, but there’s a difference between being lonely and being alone. I guess in a way I am lonely, even though I like being alone.”
“There are few good places left in the world,” she said. “I wonder what makes a place bad, of if a place can be slightly bad or downright rotten to its core. Sometimes you can tell with a signal look and other times, like when I look at places that are faraway and still and old and mysterious, I see that these are the places with good silence left.”
“Good silence?”
“You can’t hear it sometimes, but if you went someplace, say it was the end of the earth, you’d stop and listen and you’d hear nothing and that would be good silence.”
He thought about this and realized that she had taken his hand while they walked along the cement streets. This made him actually stopped to listen to the silence, and he found much to his anger, that there was no actual silence left.
“I see what you mean.”
“And then there are the times, when you are in a bad place, not a down right awful place, but a place that’s slightly rotting at it’s edges and you don’t notice cause you’ve met someone and fallen in love, or you’re just so alive and happy that within yourself you create good silence. This is silence only true lovers can understand.”
“I’ve never thought about it like that way,” he said.”
“I guess not many people do, but I’m sorry if I keep talking on and on, it’s just I don’t like talking to people when they’re rushing and busy cause it goes through one ear and out the other and I feel like if I don’t say these things now, they’ll just be forgotten. And years from now, all the good silence will be gone, even the ones that come from within cause people won’t know how to listen.”
He looked down at her hand and watched in slight awe how well it looked within his own, finger slightly bent like they had indeed been made for this moment, for holding onto someone.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been happy,” he said.
“I thought so. You look like you are angry with a lot of things”
He thought about this and it dawned on him.
“I don’t really know you,” he pointed out.
“And I don’t know why you helped me.”
“I really do hate people,” He said, tightening his lips together. “And you should be afraid of me, cause I would do horrible things in my head all the time. I think of things I shouldn’t think about and I’m angry all the time, but then the anger goes away and sometimes I just want to laugh even when it’s inappropriate.”
“Do you like jokes then?” she said, in a perfectly calm and rational voice like he hadn’t said what he had said.
“Yes, I do.”
“So do I, but sometimes I don’t really want to laugh, cause laughter should be kept for something that’s really amusing. And you can use laughter for just about anything, good or evil. It can make you feel light; it can make you become scared. It’s like the trains and the people, and the sound they’re feet make and their voices make like some evil creature laughing at me, cause it knows I’m going to run and I can’t possibly outrun it.” She shivered, a feeling that ran down the length of her arm and touched his fingers laced within her own.
“I think that laughter can frighten a person more than anything, because it’s so inappropriate to laugh when someone’s hurting or dying…and it makes them realize that the person doesn’t care about anything or anyone and they can’t possibly help them or sympathize cause it’s all a joke to them.”
“Really?” He stopped under the lights from the skyscrapers and studied her very frankly, becoming annoyed for some reason. “How do you know about these things?”
“It’s alright,” she said. “I can’t help myself sometimes from saying what I am thinking or how I see things for myself.”
“I lied to you,” he said all of a sudden. “I don’t like jokes, not one bit. I’ve always been serious, always and always so serious.”
“Yes,” she nodded, completely unfazed. “You need to smile more.”
That day he learned her name and saw that he did not have to be alone.
oh, this is soooo sweet!! I love it. :)
this is really good, did you use a writing prompt?
Mod
Here's a little piece of character writing I whipped up in a couple hours. I kind of like it, I hope you guys do too. It remains untitled (because I have a really hard time with titles. :) Just to save some time later it was from a writing prompt. :) They were always louder on Friday nights. That was why every Friday there were cars parked all down the street and around the block. I would watch from my kitchen window as all those teenagers gathered at the front door of the next-door neighbors. They never filed inside in an orderly fashion; it was that common “me-first” mentality. Then the drinks came out and it was like a bunch of apes had moved in. There was yelling and laughing and all sorts of noises that floated through my windows in the unhealthy hours when normal hard-working folk are sleeping in their beds. It made my blood boil to hear them.
I only started calling the police when the noise carried on for longer than usual. “They are being too noisy next door,” I said into the phone to the police operator on the other end. She would then ask me for my address and I would give her the neighbors instead. After all, they were the noisy ones, not I. Anyway, the operator doesn’t ask for an address anymore. Afterwards, I would leave my house and stand on my front lawn in my bare feet and my bathrobe. I always looked haggard, I made sure of it. The squad cars would crawl up the street; they never put their lights on, which was always disappointing. But they always came and for that I was glad.
“Is this the place of the public disturbance, ma’am?” The cop always came up to my fence and asked me. I would run my hand over my Velcro curlers and looked tired as I nodded.
Then another officer would get out of the car and the two of them would go over and knock on the neighbors’ front door. I would smile when the door opened. Bunch of drunks. They deserved to get told off by the cops. Creeps. I would fold my arms across my chest and wait. Sure enough, after the police left a citation, those idiots would come over to my fence and scream at me.
“What’s your problem lady?”
“Can’t we have a party without some old hag callin’ the cops?”
“You’re crazy!”
“Every single time, dude!”
I would yell right back at them. I couldn’t help myself.
“You’re too loud!”
“Serves you right!”
“Bunch of drunkards!”
“Stop having dumb parties and maybe the cops will stop coming!”
After a while, they would eventually shut up and go back to their house. Some of them left immediately; those few who were able to drive home without killing themselves. I would go back to my house and sit on my back porch chair for a while in the warm summer air. Yes, it was a little juvenile to call the police on the same people three or four nights a week, every week, for the noise they made during their parties. Actually, I wasn’t really bothered by the noise. I could probably sleep through an earthquake. It’s just when you’re eighty-four and still single, that’s about all the action you’re liable to get.
Mod
This is excellent. I like how you add the twist at the end. That's the key to writing stories that keep readers hooked, I think, the ability to provide the twists that leave people saying "wow, I was not expecting that!" I would like to work some more on shorter character sketches now; this has inspired me!
Hi, I've just joined the group as I've just begun writing my very first piece of writing. I'm not a writer by any means but this particular story sprang to me and is gnawing away at my every thought... Just a question, if I'm basing a story on historical events, but slotting fictional characters into the story, do I need to change the names of support characters whose actions are pivotal to the history of the story and are recorded on public record? Ie if a proprietor of a hotel which burnt down died, can I name the character the actual person or should I create a whole cast of fictional characters?
I believe that you can use the names of real people in your story without permission. After all, just look at all the "unauthorized" biographies floating around! Of course, in your case you aren't writing a biography, but the concept is probably the same. The key thing is making sure that you do your research so that you portray that person(s) accurately according to history.A lot of writers recommend keeping actual people out of your writing or minimizing their roles as much as possible, just because you have to be so careful to get them exactly right. Often it is simply easier to make up a new character, then there are no rules, they can be however you want.
However, if a person is fairly critical to the plot, but you want make up a new character, then just "base" your character on that person. Then you could just tell your readers that that character is actually based on a real person without all the hassle that may come with trying to include a historical figure in your story.
Whatever you decide to do, it would probably be a good idea to have a disclaimer of sorts with your novel, explaining to the readers that while based on historical events, it is a work of fiction and any actual people are portrayed in a fictional context.
Mod
Whatever you are, be a good one, my dad used to say.
I was good at playing dead. I made a fine corpse everyone thought so. My skin was white as chalk dust and I had dark black eyes and long black hair, maybe this was why I looked so good being dead.
Sometimes they’d hang me up from the stage’s rafters and I dangled in the full aura of the stage lights while they all gasped. Shocked, but of course I wasn’t really dead.
Other times I was stabbed...that was a common favorite. I was always wearing white, a white nightgown and when the rubber knife cut against my dress, blood exploded onto the front, so real and thickly spreading that people would rise from their chairs and cry out.
“No!”
I’d lay on the stage, unmoving, letting my mind travel to that place, that silent gentle place where eventually I forgot to breathe.
Like I said, I made a convincing corpse.
I was used to dying and I did it quite a lot. People praised me for my ability; there was no other that had my particular talent. I was given a raise.
Then came the day when I didn’t want to die. I took a moment to look out into the audience, a sea of enchanted faces and I didn’t want to leave them. I captured their attention for only a moment, before my stiffened body was carted behind stage. I wanted more than just to be dead…I wanted to be remembered.
I recall my first audition. I walked into an office, in front of three strange men. They looked at me and then they looked at each other.
“Lie on the floor and look dead,” they said.
So I did. I lay there through the lunch hour, I laid there through the afternoon, I breathed while seeming to not breathe, and I kept my eyes fixated on the yellow carpet, lost in that place I’ve told you about.
Finally they said, “That’s good.” They had to say it twice. I think they were frightened I was really dead, for their faces were relieved when I stood at last.
“You look very convincingly dead,” the one said to me, awed.
“You’re hired,” the third spoke.
The second just watched me, shaking his head.
I told the director I was tired of being dead but he shook his head. “You’re good at being dead…you’re my best corpse in the whole show. We need you.”
I liked to be needed, doesn’t everyone?
So I continued to lie on the floor some more, or I hung from the ceiling or I drowned in the fake water tank while the audience watched.
Then I came home and looked in the mirror and saw nothing but transparent skin and bones, all a horribly ghastly white. It’s hard work you know, being a corpse. You have to look just right or you aren’t very convincing no matter how still you lay, or how softly you breathe. You have to look the part.
One night I decided to change it all. When it was my cue, I came onto stage, saw the rubber knife in the fellow actor’s hand as he rushed towards me. He stabbed me and the blood hidden in the palm of his hand leaked onto my dress.
But I didn’t let myself die. I wobbled, clutching at my stomach but stood standing. Confused, he stabbed me again, same thing. We stared at each other and I could almost hear the audience panting, waiting for more.
Then someone stood up in the doomed silence.
“Die already!” he yelled…and soon the rest chimed in.
“Die, die, die!”
The actor raised his knife brought it down against my shoulders, the fake blood was running out, and still the audience cheered. Finally I gave up…what else could I do? I dropped to the stage and lay still, dead as usual.
Only then did they clap.
I told myself you couldn’t change who you are? But I couldn’t help myself from wanting to be more.
“I quit,” I said to the director for a second time. “I quit being dead. Give me a part, a real life breathing part.”
He smiled, overcoming shock. “Impossible,” he said. “You don’t have enough experience.”
“I’ve laid on that stage for a hundred times, what do you mean experience?”
He looked at me in a way of someone who doesn’t quite know what to say. “Exactly, you’ve lain on a stage, anyone can do that. It takes real talent to do what those actors do.”
“I am an actor.”
He shook his head and with a Mickey Rooney smile, said, “No you’re just good at dying.”
I did quit. Right then and there, cause I figured my talent was wasted on those people, people like him. That is, if I had real talent. I wasn’t sure. I went to a new show, auditioned, and then watched as they talked amongst themselves.
“What else can you do?” the one said after five minutes.
So I sighed, and lay on the floor for three hours while they watched. They really thought I was dead. I heard them talking, wondering if they should get an ambulance.
When I sat up, they all took a step back.
“You have the part,” they said
“I don’t want it.”
“You make a very convincing corpse.”
“I’m tired of being dead.” I brushed off my sweater and stood. “Do you have any talking parts?”
They looked at each other again then shook their heads.
“Sorry, we’re looking for corpses today.”
I left in short order.
I walked by the police station and saw my friend waiting for me along the curb. He waved. He was an inspector there and wore a tweed jacket. He had watched me in a play and thought my portrayal was very accurate to what he’d seen in crime scenes.
“What are you up to?” I asked.
“I have to tell a mother her daughter is dead.” He shook his head sadly.
“Are you sure?”
“We’re going to the morgue now. It’s really sad, the poor woman is dying from cancer and not one day had she lost hope that her daughter may still be alive. It’s been five years.”
“That is terribly sad,” I said and we stood by the awning of the police station and thought about it together in silence.
“Is the mother really dying?”
“Terminal, she can barely walk poor woman.”
“Do you think this will help?”
“No, it will probably break her fully.”
We were silent again.
“Let me come with you,” I said at last. “Let me be dead for a couple hours just for her to see me instead of her daughter. She doesn’t need to know right now, does she?”
He studied me for a moment, almost not believing.
“It’s very unorthodox,” he said but he was smiling.
Together we went to the morgue and they laid me on the table. I lay there for a long time, in the cold room under the thin sheet, thinking this is really what it’s like to be dead. It was cold and ugly, and then I figured that if someone were really dead, they wouldn’t notice all these little details, so they didn’t mater anyway
“This is highly unusual,” the mortician said.
“Trust us,” my friend said. “She’s awfully good.”
After a while the mother came in, I heard her wheezing. She could barely walk, seated in a vinyl wheelchair, and hooked to various oxygen tubes, like a walking hospital machine.
“This no doubt will be disturbing,” my friend was saying by her side.
“Show me,” she wheezed and they drew back the blanket.
There was a gasp and awful stillness than a hand drew across my face, soft and liver spotted and reeking of onions.
“No,” the voice was small. “There’s been a mistake. This is not my daughter. Thank God it isn’t her.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.” The hand touched my cheek again. “So cold,” the woman said. “It’s a pity this one had to die, but I’m glad it’s her and not my Anne. I’m so very glad.”
Her hand moved away and my friend covered my face again.
“Sorry to have wasted your time,” he said and they left together.
When I was sure they had gone, I sat up in the cold room and breathed, mostly because I was unsure whether I was still alive or not.
My friend came back; he leaned against the door and shook his head
“You’re a wonder,” he said.
“Not really, it doesn’t take much skill to be dead.”
“Perhaps.” He shook his head again. “But I don’t think many people could have done that.”
“No,” I thought aloud. “I suppose not.”
I never could have thought of something like this. Very well done, Hey_jude!
How ever did you come up with this? It is absolutely brilliant! You definitely continue to amaze me with your writing. This story was chilling and creepy, yet so cool! I know I'm always telling you how much I love your writing, but it's true:)
Mod
Nice writing Hey_Jude. :) :) :)
Here is a piece of writing I quickly whipped up:Memory is like the knife I hold. It brings pain, blood, and tears. I see my reflection in the perfect blade. I despise the monster I see staring back at me. Tragedies of the past have molded me into the beast I am now. At the very core of my heart is revenge. Revenge drives me; it is what sets me in motion each day. Without this urge I feel for revenge, I would have succumbed to my grief and sorrow long ago. But the tragedies of my past have hardened me. Hardened my soul, my mind, my heart. My past self died in that prison chamber along with my sister. A phantom of myself was left behind the day I escaped from the dungeon. I no longer recognize myself when I stare into the mirror. For the man that stares back at me is no longer distinguishable as human. Years of spiraling downward into psychological chaos has destroyed my sense of reason and civility. There is no longer any meaning or significance to my actions. I have no cause or reason to follow through with my crimes, yet I still carry through. I am a monster.
Memories of my past seep out from the back of my mind and haunt me during the night. In the darkness, recollections of my most traumatic experiences revisit me, forcing me to relive the horror. Each memory that comes back, stabbing me in the heart, tears apart my civility bit by bit.
Revenge is a foul thing, for once you get a taste for it, you find yourself suddenly craving it. You carry out an act and think you’ve satisfied that urge, but the next minute it has complete control over you. You become obsessive and fanatical. It controls you.
It is hard to describe the meaning behind my actions, when in reality, there is no meaning. Where once there was a meaning, there is now an empty space. I was once able to justify my actions. Now, that phase of my life is but a distant memory. Why do I do what I do? Because I can. I do what I do to the best of my ability. It is what I live for. Nobody can understand it, although many pretend they understand. In order to understand, they need to first witness the horrors and traumatic circumstances that I have lived through. But, that is only the beginning of the long process they would have to endure before reaching complete understanding. I do my best to explain this to them, but experience is the best teacher.
I do not know what I have become. There is no word to describe who I am. No word except monster. I was once driven by hate and revenge. A person driven by these things is a danger to the world around them. I am now unsure of what it is that drives me to commit the crimes I do. A person unsure of what drives them is a danger to themselves. I used to believe that in order to achieve the perfect revenge, lives need to be lost. Once a person gets into the revenge business, there’s no escape. It has an unspeakable hold over them. When they begin carrying out the revenge, they are in complete control. In the end, they are the ones being controlled.
This is very edgy, Memory. I really like the lines "Why do I do what I do? Because I can." Very impressive. :)
Mod
Thanks so much Sleeper and Hey_jude! I'm glad you enjoyed reading that. I was hoping it wasn't going to come across as too creepy or anything:) I haven't been working on too much lately, although I have written a couple more poems. I really like that one line too, Sleeper. And I like the part saying that 'experience is the best teacher'. In the end I was surprised that what I had written didn't sound all that bad (I tend to be overly critical of my work. If I write anymore, I'll be sure to post it. Thanks again for the compliments:)
Mod
Yeah, it was quite creepy. This time I sat down with the intention of writing a light-hearted piece, but this idea formed instead. I had watched a movie trailer and was inspired to write this. It WOULD be interesting to see and maybe even write about how people lose hope in certain situations, because it definitely happens. But you're right, hope is always there, it's never completely gone.
Nice writing Memory. It's very edgy with powerful undercurrents of emotion.
I'm with Anastasia, Memory. You create a lot of emotion in your writing. Good work.
Thanks Anastasia and Nicola! Your compliments mean a lot to me:)I'm glad you're all enjoying my current style of writing, with all the creepiness and such:) I have just finished another piece of writing. Here it is:Dear Human,
Do you know who I am? If yes, on what level do we know one another? Am I the one who comes knocking on the door of your soul on occasion? Am I the one that consumes your mind? Tell me this, Human, when did I first begin visiting you? For when I began to visit, I only came as a faint thought. You barely knew I was there, but I was there. My first visits were so subtle that you might not have even acknowledged my presence. That’s how I work. But then I begin to show up more often. I begin to plague your thoughts. No matter how hard you try, you cannot evade me. Distractions cannot save you.
I am not a visible being. I am a state of mind. We may begin our relationship as friends. We may begin our relationships with you being in control. In the end, Human, I am in control. That is how it ends with many of you. There are those who are saved by their salvation, saved by their God. There are those who find their end with me. We do not die together. They die while I remain in the thoughts of the next human.
People can find comfort in me. When they call upon me, they believe that have found an ultimate peace. I want them to believe that I am their liberator. I am their simple way out of this world. I am an easy escape. When they have this frame of mind, I have complete control over them. I am a disease of the mind that cannot be cured. Once I’m in, you can’t get me out. You can battle me until you have no strength left. Until you have no desire to live. And even then I have won. Even if you manage to snuff out the core of my fire, there is always a small spark left behind. That spark is ready to spring back full force at any time. You’re never free of me.
I exist primarily to destroy. It is a desire to terminate lives that controls me. There is no justification for my cause. None is needed. I am too complex for people to truly understand how I operate. Nobody can be sure as to whom I will target next, until it is too late. I enjoy taking people by surprise. It makes my existence that more enjoyable. You may hate me now, but who’s to say you won’t love me in the future?
I would love to be able to say that nobody is safe from my grasp. Unfortunately for me, that is not the case. The innocent are protected from me. They have no concept of me. They don’t understand how I work; they have no idea of my existence. I target those who are depressed and have gone through horrific situations. Those are the ones most likely to give into my control. Those of an already shattered frame of mind are simple to persuade. I am like a fox and humans are like rabbits. I come running when I hear them scream; only it’s not to help them.
Beware, Human, of my cunning ways. Never leave your fragile mind unprotected against me. I target the emotionally and mentally weak. I am cold and calloused. Once I target you, I persist until you succumb to my power.
I know who you are. Do you know me? You should want to be able to say no. Can you? You should hope so.
Conveniently yours,
Suicide
Memory, I am continually astonished by your writing. You bring such a passion to it and I love how you explore these themes in your own special way. Keep up the good work. :)
Every time I read your work, Memory, I get goosebumps.
Mod
I am often inspired by things I read on the news or other true stories I read. Lately I've been inspired by various movies that include darker themes and tough issues. Issues such as abortion, suicide, murders etc. occur daily and the statistics are astonishing. Right now, these things and more have inspired me to write the things I write. Thanks, everyone, for commenting on my writing. I really love the feedback I get from you all:)
D: so much has happened and i have missed out on much. trying to catch up on some of the writings. I am enjoyin what i have read so far!
Finally you're back? Where have you been huh?
oh you know...places...:3Actually had some browser/compatibility problems. But got that patched up.
Mod
A Letter to Someone Who Doesn’t Care
If I could say one thing to you, if I had a ten second chance to say one thing that would actually make a difference, maybe get through your head, I’d said I don’t deserve this…and you must really hate me if you think that I do. Where have you gone? I look and look but you are in hiding, maybe you were killed in your sleep and somehow this was left behind, a hollowed eye impersonator that tries to pretend that he’s the real deal when he’s really not. And you’re just waking up to it? Is this a joke, maybe I’m crazy. Maybe this isn’t really real, like maybe I’m asleep or seeing things cause when I try to tell you how much I miss you…you don’t know what I’m saying. You shake your head and look around as though looking for someone to explain, “what is she saying?”
You’re right there, you’re sitting in your chair, looking like someone I know, but you aren’t, you’ve become that horrible apparition of someone I knew. And I hate who you are, I’d want to close my eyes and turn around, count to ten with an abracadabra, the impersonator would vanish in a puff of smoke and the real you would take his place, smiling like someone I can actual love.
I love you, I hate you, you should be flattered either way, and you’ve gotten under my skin like ants and nestled there, building a fire till I’m ready to combust. Either emotion has enough strength to kill or to forget. I can’t do either, and worse still you don’t care! You don’t care! You don’t care. You don’t care! YOU DON’T CARE!
Go away. I’d rather you hit me; it must hurt less than this, words twisting like a knife through my chest, then working to my wrists but never hard enough or sharp enough to kill me, cause you’d rather watch me bleed. I could bleed and bleed until I’m dry bones and you’d still look on, cause in your world, there is only you and the rest of us are puppets bending to your will.
I should have never tried to dance on my own; the great puppeteer is angry, wants to crush my puppet bones for insolence. How dare I? How dare you?
Go on, go on, and hit me. I want you to, I need you to, I need to have an excuse to hit back, and to make you hurt as much as I’ve been hurt! I hate you, I want to hate you, but it’s too strong, so I just feel empty, cause I love you despite it and that word tastes like poison in my mouth. Swallow, swallow and die.
Goodbye.
This isn’t right, but why are we just wasting our time, wasting our words when you’re deaf. You’re too far-gone and you don’t give a damn.
Never listen. Never care.
But you should…you must really hate me in that slow kind of hate that builds in your stomach…. but no you don’t. I’d know if you hated me, I would feel here, but all I feel in the centre of my chest, take a look and you’ll see that cavern in empty, cause you don’t seem to get it that hearts don’t just break when they’re trampled. They are pounded to dust and are blown away, infecting the rest of the body, till I’m sick, physically sick.
I know you don’t hate me, but I wish you did. It takes energy to hate, but you’ve got nothing but freeze her to hell indifference.
And it’s wrong, so wrong cause you should care.
You should care, and you should care….
I want to say it a millions time just in the hope that one day one time, you may hear me whispering a million times, reaching that and starting over again.
And I’ve cried and cried and I’ve got no place to store the tears, so I let them drain down the floorboards and down the bathtub and the sink but there’s so much. Tell me when to stop and I’ll stop. But you look at me quivering mess of tears and mascara and I’m choking and going to the toilet and throwing up cause I’m suffocating on my own tears
I’m made of tears so you better not let me go outside I’ll melt into a puddle and sink into the ground. How dare you make me feel this way!
I haven’t given up. I should give up. It’s hopeless. I’m hopeless. You are hopeless. I am stupid for trying; I am stupid, so stupid. Do I like getting hurt? No, of course not, each one is a bullet wound that continues to bleed and one day, yes I’ll die from it, so I should let go, but if’ I’m trapped, but if I’m dying, but If there’s a small chance that I can save you, I will, even if I have to drown to do it.
I’m stupid. You’re undeserving, I shouldn’t care, I shouldn’t give you the time of day, cause I’m not garbage, I could go find something better, but I wouldn’t leave you behind. I can’t, I can’t, cause I’m a bloody hero; I have to save you from yourself. Isn’t that pathetic?
I should leave you behind; I should be as indifferent as you are.
I lay alone at night and think, I will leave you behind, I don’t need you, I have too high expectations, and I deserve more.”
And I will do all these things cause the latter is true. I do deserve better, much better.
But I’m no quitter.
This piece of writing has SO much emotion packed into it. It's so sad:( I can see the reality in it though. While I was reading this I could feel it tugging at my heart strings. It nearly brought tears to my eyes. I'm not one to admit to crying (so don't tell anyone). As sad as it is, I really enjoyed reading it.
Mod
I completely understand how you felt, Hey_jude. I've been feeling the same way . . . this writing pretty much sums it all up.
This is something I wrote the other day. I was experimenting with adding psychological twists to my stories and this one was just a practice. I have two other plot twists I'm planning on using for this story.I draw in a deep breath through my nostrils. The room reeks of blood, of death. I slowly exhale in a futile attempt to calm my quivering nerves.
The walls are a steely gray with dark red splatters in various locations. My gaze hardens as I focus on a slightly lighter red splatter on the wall. It appeared to be a recent addition to the series of stains. My gaze follows the stain down wall and across the black marble floor. In the fluorescent lighting, the blood looks to be nearly as dark as the marble floor.
The room is eerily silent, adding to the disturbing mood. I draw in a short and shallow breath as depression rests heavily upon my shoulders.
What is it that brought me here?
Fate?
No.
Choices I’ve made have brought me to this.
This is what I deserve, my punishment. Each of my sinful acts will be justified here tonight. Tonight will be the end, of that I am nearly positive.
My entire life has been like a crack in the mirror, bringing seven years of bad luck upon me. Except my sufferings were never alleviated. No, things only deteriorated until all that was left was a crumbling frame.
My heart hardened beneath the sufferings I endured throughout my childhood. My mind fell into the cold steel fingers of misery. My eyes became hollow, my body disintegrated until nothing remained but skin stretched taut across a pile of bones.
In the end, I find myself sitting here, confronting death itself.
The corners of its black mouth twist upwards sardonically. Its fingers curl around my heart and mind, squeezing the remaining life out of my broken body.
For years I have fought against its murderous efforts. For years I have stepped out of the brutal battles, fist raised victoriously. Only this time I will not emerge as the victor. The triumphant finale belongs to death.
I scrutinize the man who sits in the blood-splattered wooden chair across from me. His face is cold as stone, but the fear in his eyes doesn’t go unnoticed.
Understanding his background, his intentions, his motivation, is out of the question. It is obvious that we are seated in this room for a common purpose.
“It’s just a game.” He whispers as he places the metal object on the wooden table in front of me.
The table is splattered with the blood of previous players. I eye the revolver. A single bullet lies beside it. I close my eyes in a silent effort to acquire a new perspective.
The gun, the bullet, they aren’t my adversaries. No, they’re my liberators.
For years I have sought for answers to satisfy my questions and alas, it comes down to this, a bullet and a gun.
In this game I can either win or lose. It will be an outcome of either death or life. In this potentially lethal game, I am the pawn. The revolver and bullet, they’re like the dice I roll. One simple move and it’ll be my brains that splatter the wall, adding to the sickening collection of blood and guts that have accumulated over the years.
I open my eyes. I feel my face harden into a stone mask, concealing my inner emotions. Fear has no place in this room.
I nod to the man seated across from me. He grabs the slug and places it into a chamber in the revolver. I watch in silence as he closes it and gives the compartment a spin. The gun is placed in the center of the table. His fingers move to the barrel and he gives the revolver a spin. It slows to a stop. The barrel points directly at the center of my chest.
I reach out and grasp the cool metal object in my hand, drawing it towards myself.
Taking a deep breath, I raise the barrel to my head. Pushing it into my temple, I squeeze my eyes closed. A tremor races through my entire being. My heart thunders in my chest. With a hoarse cry I pull the trigger.
Click.
My heart stops beating, then returns at twice its natural speed. My eyes slowly open and I place the gun in the center of the table. My hand momentarily rests upon the gun as I realize I hadn’t given any thought to the value of my life. I shake the thought from my mind. My life is of no value, I tell myself. I draw my hand back to my lap, clenching it into a fist in an effort to stop the trembling.
The man grabs the revolver and gives the cylinder a spin. His gaze briefly catches mine before he squeezes his own eyes shut and pushes the barrel against the side of his head. He pulls the trigger.
Click.
His eyes shoot open, revealing a mixture of fear and relief. He places the gun in the center of the table once more. I deeply inhale. In one fluid motion I grab the gun and place it against the side of my head. A sudden surge of vigor races through my veins.
Is it confidence?
No.
More like a surge of madness.
I close my eyes and pull the trigger.
Click.
Silence floods the room. I softly place the gun on the table in front of me and give it a slight push. It slides across the table and comes to a stop in front of the man. He blinks and then stares at the revolver. I know that he has played this game on more than one occasion.
He sitting here can only mean one thing.
He’s never lost.
And that in itself is terrifying. Perhaps even fate chooses its favorites.
The seconds pass by like hours as he grabs the gun, pulls it to the side of his head, and rests his finger ever so gently on the trigger. Watching intensely, I see his finger twitch once, twice. His eyelids fall shut and he jerks his finger back.
Click.
A deep sigh escapes his trembling lips. No matter how many times you play the game, each and every pull of the trigger is a terrifying and traumatizing experience.
You either live or you die.
Nothing, nothing in the world can ease the terror of holding your finger on that trigger. It forces you to consider the value of your life. But you cannot allow yourself to consider such things. You cannot lose your concentration, for doubts will only increase the terror. Whether you die composedly, or screaming, is your choice.
I push my racing thoughts aside and once again, I hold the revolver in my hand. My thumb brushes against the chamber, giving it a slight spin. I raise the gun to the side of my head and press it against my skull. I clench my jaw in concentration, tossing aside my doubts and fears.
This is it.
I know it.
I can feel it.
Good-bye, world. You will no longer be able to control my life with your bitter cruelness. In this final act, I am the one in control, and it’s all I’ve ever wanted. For once in my life I can control which path my life will follow.
My finger brushes the trigger and finds a resting place against it. It’s either now or never.
I chose now.
I pull the trigger. The last thing I hear is a roaring thunder in my ears. My body jerks to the side as darkness overcomes me.
I slowly open my eyes. On the wooden table in front of me sits a revolver and a single bullet. My gaze flickers around the room before coming to a rest upon the man sitting across from me.
“It’s just a game.” He whispers. I smile knowingly and reach for the gun and bullet.
William Wordsworth
HI everyone, here is the promised new forum, virtually a writer's playground of advice and ideas. Feel free to add comments and/or share and ideas or advice you may have to offer. If you're not sure what to say, just tell us a little about your writing routine or books that make you feel inspired. Talk about writing, what you love about it. But most of all, have fun with this. Whatever you decide to share, it's all meaningful to other writers hoping to hone their craft.