Wednesday, October 26, 2016

The Stitcher of Souls - Chapter 1.1

Chapter 1: After Death - Part I

There I was, just walking out of the school on a normal – ended – schoolday. Completely normal.
Because that’s what I am – I’m normal. Okay, maybe I’m not normal, at least not that day.
I was more, like, dancing. Yeah, dancing! Because I just got the greatest news ever: I got a 10 for my project, for which I worked my butt off but for which I wasn’t sure if it would be good enough and I had to work till late in the night, doing even more research and figuring all that shit out, because it was soooooo haaaarrrrrdddddddd and then mom just barged into my room –
So I was pretty happy to hear that all of it was worth it. Though I was the only one who that my project would be failure; my classmates were literally looking at me with those not-impressed-emoji faces, basically telling me: “Really Quinn? Really?! You, you, of all people think you’ve failed?”
Hehe – I know I don’t get bad grades or anything but still; I can make mistakes, too, you know?
But, ah, well – WHATEVER!
No need to get all emotional and philosophical and stuff.
Anyways, I continued dancing my way to my bike, because I walked out of school to the cycle shed to get my bike and get home, eventually.
But then I actually got to my bike and oh my, what did I see. What did I see!
It was hideous, chaotic, dramatically wrong – devil’s work (though the devil is my best buddy – he’s pretty funny you know. Sorry.)!  How on earth could someone – or should I say, someones – do this? What did I do to deserve this? I just got a 10 for my project – there’s no need to be jealous!
(I’m not arrogant, I swear.)
Why would you make it impossible for me to get my bike, by throwing your bikes against it and oh, yeah, squeeze a few between them, because I’m smart enough to fix it, huh.
Jeez – people these days…
It felt like an hour – when it was only three minutes – to set aside all those damned bikes carefully, without letting them fall over like dominos, and squeeze through the still small space between them.
That’s when something even more horrible happened.
As I squeezed through that damned space and got to the lock of my bike, I felt the front pocket of my backpack, forcing my arms and hands and fingers in the most impossible and painful of positions (gymnastics weren’t and will never be my thing), and then opened it and tried to put my chubby fingers in it, which didn’t really work, forcing me to carefully take off my backpack and put it on the back of my bike and search through the pocket.
As I searched it very thoroughly – I even took the time to search my entire bag with all the heavy books and stiff – I came to realize that I lost my keys. Yup.
They were – nope, not in the lock of my bike either.
I sighed and took just a minute to damn myself, before I squeezed myself through that damned small space again – God! I’m not anorexic, for God’s sake – I don’t even believe in God! Jeez.
I really felt like being in those animes, when I was walking with my head low and sighing my way along – like there was this dark cloud above me, which rained down on me and like I had these blue lines of sadness, pain and depression running down my half-blue and now eye-less face.
Now I understand what that feels like and I regret laughing at them at those moments of pure sadness. Sigh.
My half-blue and eye-less face then met a very hard surface.
I looked up, still wearing that sad – and at that moment also pretty agitated – face to look up at this… guy? Was it a guy?
He was probably cosplaying…at school. He wore this black cloak with this hood over his head that hid his face in such a way that it almost seemed as if he didn’t even have a face. Pretty cool, actually.
And he was tall – BRUH (okay, BRUH sounds so inappropriate and weird here – no, nope, just a big no) he was taaallll!
Wait a second – where did all that black smoke come from?
Did he carry that smoke-, no smoking-, no, no, smoke-machine with him? On batteries, I suppose?
Wasn’t that, like, heavy?
O, wait, that must’ve been the hard surface. Right.
He was a bit spooky, though that probably was his intention – you know, sixth formers trying to scare this girl who looked like a freshman but really was fifteen and then pulling out a camera to film my reaction. Yeah, great people, sixth formers. I’d probably do the same though.
I mumbled a “nice costume” and quickly made my leave, ‘cause it was getting a bit too creepy and I just wanted to go home.
But instead I just gasped, because I couldn’t believe – I could truly not understand, not understand at all why he pierced that knife into my body.
I couldn’t move, I couldn’t think, I couldn’t understand – I could only look into his empty, nonexistent face and choke as he moved his knife, painfully, terrifyingly, idiotically, hilariously, even – because this was just a damned movie scene, wasn’t it? –, he moved it higher towards my heart.
He even stop to twist and turn a bit in my flesh, as if he was looking for something or drawing something inside of me, and still, all I could do was gasp at the coldness of the knife, gasp for air.
Then his knife reached my heart and instant blackness came over me.
Sadly, I didn’t have an anticlimactic joke to end it with.

A gate. It opened.
Three thick threads, blue, red and black.
I walk on them. They pierce through me.
And we’re blinded by pulsing whiteness.

YAY! My first series on the blog! Hope you enjoyed it!
Stay tuned for Chapter 1 After Death - Part II!
See you on the next page!

[pic origin:]

Wednesday, October 12, 2016

A Writer's Thoughts: Fearfully Written

Fearfully Written

What to write? What to do?'

I’m bored out of my mind even though it’s being filled with music. Beats and words bouncing through my head – inspiration flowing in…

Or not. Mostly not.

So what do I write? What do I do?

I’m so bored. No, actually I’m not. I feel awkward sitting here, I feel watched and judged. Like everybody’s reading what I’m writing down right here. Or typing, because I was so stupid to leave my little notebook full rambling thoughts – hey, hey, my blog – and really good pieces, though in need of editing and sometimes chaotic. Always chaotic.

Just like me.

Just like right now.

Because suddenly I actually start listening to the music and I feel like dancing. I imagine myself in some prehistorical fashion with a man dressed as an angry bird beside me. He’s blue, I think, and has this yellowish slowly flowing into gray –

O the song’s over. “I just can’t waaaiiiittttt (…) To be kiiiiiiiiiiinggggg”

Oh. A story about a king, perhaps? A feared king who’s organized a fighting tournament and someone participates in it – our protagonist – and this just sounds just terrible. Yes I used "just" TWICE.

It all sounds terrible.

But not this remix of Light It Up by Major Lazer.

But my writing does.

What do I write? What do I do?

Can I write well, actually?

I mean, this piece sucks. I don’t even know what I’m trying to achieve by writing all of this down.  Or is that what makes writing fun? Didn’t some author say something inspirational about how writing is the chaos of the mind put into words, in some rational order? Didn’t some author talk about–

Just thinking about it gives me a headache. All those cliché, supposedly inspiring quotes! What do I do with them? How will they help me when I’ve heard them so many times over and over again?

What point is there to them?

But then, I’m getting angry for nothing. Because how cliché they may be, they can be helpful. They share the most obvious of the obvious, but sometimes, that’s EXACTLY what you need – what I need.

Because sometimes I think too hard, too difficult. I think as if the whole world is reading my mind and will judge me on my imperfections and the lameness of my ideas.

I fear to write what sounds nice, because what if it’s too cliché? What if I can’t think about anything to add to this idea? That I have a beginning but no end? An unfinished story. An unfinished project.

A failed attempt.

“No matter what you do; finish what you started. If you do so, you’ll do it always.”

My dad told me that not too long ago. And I knew that it was true all along, but I feel like I didn’t follow this rule of life, from the many rules of life. That’s when I feel like I have to finish every story I’ve begun with RIGHT NOW. That’s when I feel like I’m pulled back from my o so happy and perfect imagination and plunge into the darkness that confronts me with the downside of all things.

I mustn’t begin with another story, because I won’t be able to finish it.

I must finish the rest first. But I have no ideas. No inspiration – lame excuses. Just excuses. Always excuses.

Always excusing yourself, huh. Calling yourself a writer, huh. But where’s the writing? Why aren’t you writing?


Ugh – I hate that word. But it’s there more often than not. Failure. Failure. Failure.

What a nasty word – so negative and dark. So present and pressing. And o so effective.

Then the darkness stops and a neutral clear spot in my mind catches my eye, where I float to.

I then look at this piece.

Calling yourself a writer, huh. But where’s the writing? Why aren’t you writing?

But I’ve written.

And it may not be good. It may not be bad, either. It may not be powerful and beautiful. It may not be interesting or mindblowing. It may be meaningless and chaotic.

But it’s something. Something written.

Something I’ve written.

And then I started imagining again.