Writing
The process is as follows:
Step one – feel the heat of the idea's fire burning in your mind. Stoke the flames until it becomes a wildfire that rages through your entire soul.
Step two – take your notes out and start spreading the inner fire outwards.
Step three – begin self-doubting. Struggle to find the correct words. Rewrite every sentence at least ten times. Sit back and take a closer look at what you've written so far. It's a couple of puny sentences.
Step four – delve into your mind in an attempt to feel the flames once more. Close your eyes to see if it helps you focus. Find yourself amidst ash and soot, the flames long gone.
Step five – do not freak out. Try to scribble something down anyway, with hopes of rekindling your flame.
Step six – continue self-doubting. Maybe your idea wasn't as good as you initially thought. Someone has probably done it already, and done it better than you ever could. Maybe it's not your thing. Maybe you're not a writer, not an artist. Never a creator, only a consumer.
Step seven – keep scribbling down. Realize that it will inevitably suck, but so do all the first drafts. So does everyone. Writing is a craft, not a gift. It must be learned, honed. And learning is a process. Realize that you are not writing, but going through a continuous process, a path, and that you change and evolve with every step you take. So you keep going.
Step eight – once you feel yourself getting weary, sit down to catch a breather. Take in the sights. Listen to the birds. Take a deep breath and relax. This is not a race. Put your notes away, give yourself time to rest from your writing. Read it again in a day or two with a fresh mind and view.
Step nine – completely ignore previous two steps. Instead, force yourself to finish your work in one sitting, no matter how long it may take or how tired you may become. Put a period at the end of the last sentence. Carelessly re-read your work, missing all the obvios erorrs. Realize that it's even worse than you predicted it would be, but post it anyway in a desperate crave for validation and recognition. Receive none, delete your work and vow to never write again.
Step ten - feel the heat of idea's fire burning in your mind once more.
Coffee and Death
The little bell chimed as the door opened, another pair of soaked boots finding its way out of the rainy city streets and into the balmy refuge of the "Strawberries & Cream" café. The new arrival was instantly greeted by the warm lights and the permeating aroma of coffee, accompanied by the soothing jazz music on the speakers. Usually, the ambience like this would put her at ease, but she wasn't here to rest.
The newcomer took her hood off and took a quick, but careful look around. At the far end of the café, a lone man was reading a newspaper. Although his back was turned to the door and she couldn't see his face, the woman instantly recognized him. Leaving her coat on, she made her way to his table and sat down without a word. A half-empty cup of coffee and a plate littered with crumbs rested on it.
"Terrible weather, isn't it?" The man said with utmost calm, his face hidden behind the newspaper. "They say the rain is going to get even heavier next week... Ah, but you're not here to talk weather with an old geezer now, are you?"
He put the newspaper aside, revealing his weary, wrinkled face, and took a sip of his coffee as he looked at the woman in front of him. His eyes were met with the stare of the void as a pair of dark-lens round sunglasses hid the eyes of the woman entirely. Her skin was of a fair tone, with freckles and wrinkles covering a good part of her face, and her long red hair fell freely on her shoulders.
He sighed. "And here I thought they've caught you. Well, if you are here, then I guess that you know who I am. Though I can't help but notice that in person you look way different than on your mugshot."
"People change."
"We both know they don't, especially people like us."
"I have nothing in common with you."
"Oh don't bullshit me. I am old but I am sure as hell not senile."
"You're a–"
"Can I get you anything, Miss, Mister?" A waitress stood by the table with a polite smile on her lips. The worried look in her eyes, though, betrayed the fact that she overheard some of their conversation.
"Oh, could I get another cup of coffee, please?" The man replied with the deceiving warmth in his voice.
"Glass of water. With ice." The woman said , not taking her eyes off the man in front of her.
The waitress nodded, scribbled something on her notepad, took the empty cup and plate and scurried away.
"Oh, you should've asked for their strawberry pie. It's the best thing they've got here."
"Some other time."
"Suit yourself. Anyways, what were we talking about? Ah, yes, our differences. You see, I think you're full of shit."
The man leaned in and continued in lowered voice, the warmth in his voice replaced by something cold and sinister.
"You and I are the same. No matter how hard you try to deny it or how many excuses you come up with, you're a cold-blooded killer, the same as I."
"You're a rapist and a murderer. I am nothing like you."
"Sure," he scoffed, "you think killing people like me makes you better? You think it doesn't count, doesn't change you? Let me give you some advice, lady."
"Your coffee, Mister..." The waitress returned and placed a new cup of coffee on the table. "...and your water, Miss." She placed a glass of water in front of the woman and winked at her. The man didn't seem to notice that.
"Thank you, my dear." The man replied, his voice full of warmth and care again.
"Thanks." The woman nodded.
"Enjoy!" The waitress said with a smile and left the two to their conversation. Once she was gone, the man continued.
"Every time you kill somebody," he took a careful sip of his still hot coffee, "their face gets ingrained in your memory. Every time you wake, eat, work, fuck, read the news, watch TV, stand in the commute, spend time with your loved ones, your kids, your friends, and so on and so on – their faces are right there, in front of you, looking at you with that dread in their eyes. They plead, cry, and scream right into your ears, no matter how hard you try to push them back."
"You're not listening to me, old man. I'm killing monsters, not people. Nothing you say will save you from what's coming to you."
The man chuckled and took another sip of the coffee, looking at the woman in front of him with an amused glint in his eyes. "The youth, always hasty with their assumptions. I'm not telling you this to save myself – I always knew that, sooner or later, someone's bound to cut me down. I'm telling you this to stop you from making the same mistake I did. I'm trying to save you from yourself.
"Hide your eyes all you want but I can still see into your soul, into who you really are, not who you pretend to be. So tell me, detective, do you really want to go down this path? Don't you remember how it turned out for her?"
For a moment, a frown appeared on the woman's face, but she shook it off almost immediately. Then, she got up, approached the man, put her hand on his shoulder and whispered into his ear.
"I'm already walking this path. Enjoy your coffee."
She patted the man on the shoulder and made her way to the café's front desk. She reached into her coat's inner pocket, took out a 100 dollar note from her wallet and put it in the tip jar. Behind the desk stood the same waitress who was serving their table, smiling politely. The woman returned the smile before turning to leave the café.
As the little bell chimed, the man at the far end of the café began coughing.
If I Had Known
I wonder, if I had known back then, would I still be captivated?
Would I still want to know her better, would I still savor the sound of her name?
If I had known back then, would I still long for her attention, for her affection? Would I still cherish every moment spent together?
If I had known back then, would I still crave her touch, her sweet and soft embrace?
Would I still confess to her my feelings?
If I had known back then, would I still kiss her? Would I still rid her of her clothes, caress her soft, angelic skin?
Would I still let her slide inside me, would I still put my mouth between her hips?
I wonder, would I change anything at all...
If I had known how close we actually were?
Melissa Ashwood. Therapy Session #?
The following audio log is a recording of one of Dr. [----] Carter's therapy sessions with a client, Ms. Ashwood. The tape is dated [--/--/--01], and is one of the few remaining tapes that gives us insight into the events leading up to [--- -------- --------.]
[The audio starts.]
"Welcome back, Ms. Ashwood. How are you feeling today?"
"I'm feeling fine, Doctor, thank you for asking."
"I'm glad to hear that. Our last meeting we were discussing your relationship with your daughter's father and how that affected you, your daughter and your lifestyle. Is there something else you would want to discuss about that topic?"
"Actually, I wanted to talk with you about my daughter. Me and Erin, you see... we've been drifting apart for some time now and..."
[Ms. Ashwood sighs.]
"I've noticed that lately her behavior has become even more distant.. And ever since this freakish incident at school happened, she's become even more closed-off. I'm afraid that I'm going to lose her completely."
"And since when, do you think, you began to 'drift apart'?"
"About when she was twelve years old... after we have moved out of that town in Wisconsin. As shy as she was back then, Erin became friends with this one girl there – they were practically inseparable."
[She chuckles softly.]
"But we had to move, unfortunately."
"I see. And can you tell me more about her recent behavior? How does it manifest itself?"
"She's avoiding me. She's already gone by the time I wake up, and I only hear her coming back when it's late at night. When I do manage to catch her, she gives me the cold shoulder. And yesterday I saw her hands were all covered in bandages! When I asked her about it she told me that she 'just fell from her board'! What if she's hurting herself, or someone is hurting her, and she's not telling me?!"
"Ms. Ashwood, I need you to take a deep breath and count to three."
"Yes.."
[She inhales deeply, and exhales shortly after.]
"Sorry for that, Doctor."
"No need to apologize, Ms. Ashwood, your emotions are completely understandable. Her behavior, especially if the bodily harm you described is self-inflicted, might be a response to a deep emotional distress that has recently occurred. Can you tell me about this 'incident at school' you mentioned earlier?"
"This is a small town, Doctor, you must have heard all about it yourself."
"What I heard were rumors. If you want to help your daughter, Ms. Ashwood, I need to hear the truth."
[Ms. Ashwood exhales deeply.]
"You're right. Erin, she.. she got into a fight with her friend."
"The same friend from the town in Wisconsin?"
"Yes. Hayley was– is her name. It was a very public fight, and very ugly."
"Did they fight physically?"
"The Principal told me that it was a very heated argument, with a lot of shouting, but there was no physical violence."
"And what was the argument about?"
"She accused Erin of abandoning her. But it wasn't Erin's fault, it's.. Oh my god..."
[Ms. Ashwood starts crying, but her sobs are muffled, most likely due to her covering her face.]
[There is a sound of a paper tissue being taken out.]
[Ms. Ashwood whispers 'Thank you', takes a moment to wipe away her tears.]
"She had always blamed me for leaving that town. But now.. she must truly hate me."
"Ms. Ashwood, I doubt that she 'truly' hates you. As I see, this issue stems from the lack of trust you have shown to your daughter before. I presume that you haven't told her your reasons for moving out? The true reasons."
"But... how could I?"
"You have told me."
"Yes, but... I don't want to hurt her."
"I will be frank with you, Ms. Ashwood. You have hurt her already, and you only keep hurting her further by hiding the truth from her. Erin, simply put, is doing the same. She doesn't know if she can trust you with what she's going through at the moment, she doesn't know whether she wants to trust you with that.
"If you want to shorten the distance that has grown between you, if you want Erin to trust you again, then you will need to be honest with her."
[There is a long pause.]
"I.. Thank you, Dr. Carter. I will think about what you've said today."
"You are always welcome, Ms. Ashwood. I simply advise you the course of action – whether or not to take it is up to you to decide. I only hope that the relationship between you and your daughter will mend."
"Thank you again, Dr. Carter. Same time next week?"
"Yes, Ms. Ashwood. See you next Sunday."
"Until then."
[The door clicks open, then shuts close, creaking all the while. The lock on the door clicks. Footsteps are getting closer to the audio recorder.]
[The audio ends.]
Nick the Homes
Feel the jolly Christmas Spirit, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la
While our bombs leave children bleeding, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la
In the land where Christ was born, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la
We'll make sure that they all burn, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!
We'll kill their mothers, kill their fathers, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la
Sisters, brothers, pets and others, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!
And if you dare expose our violence, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la
We will force you into silence, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!
Don't expect us to be candour, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la
We'd rather feed you propaganda, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la
To make you think it's justified, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la
To be committing genocide, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!
Outburst
I remember the first time it happened. The pounding of my heart, the anger, the rage. I remember how I gave in, and the horror that followed right after. The screams of agony and terror, and the smell of burning cloth and hair. I remember stumbling as I backed away, struggling to take in what was happening right in front of my eyes.
"What did you do?! What the fuck did you do?!" someone shouted at me. I didn't know.
I remember getting up and running away as fast as I could, the agonizing screams of my bully and panicked shouts of his friends echoing through the woods. I remember running until my feet hurt and my lungs burned, and then running more.
I remember the effects of adrenaline wearing off and the unbearable pain in my hands kicking in. I remember realizing, as I was bandaging the burns, that what happened back in the woods wasn't some freakish accident. It was me.
My anger. My rage. My fire. It lashed out of me, right at the person I hated.
It wasn't spontaneous. I wanted it to happen. I wanted to hurt him.
And it felt good.
Burn
Burn all the letters, all the drafts
Burn everything I've ever said and done
My mind's corrupted, my mind is daft
A barren land devoid of water and of sun
The mountain looms over this land
But I can never reach it, cannot climb
For I am shackled to the ground
Imprisoned in the wasteland for my crime
And if you wish to set me free
Then burn me, burn me, burn me down
Let the flame devour me
Just burn me, burn me, burn me down
And from the ashes of my bones
Will rise the one who burdened is no more
Free of everything I've ever said and done
No longer fire walks with her
I can't, this world is driving me insane
It gnaws at me, devouring all hope
I look outside, inside, on small and larger scale
And all I see is madness sweeping through the globe
I find respite in worlds that aren't real
In memories of past, a child's naive assumptions,
Dreams
Each day it's harder to emerge from soothing depths, there isn't much appeal
For water is the silence – it's the world above that makes me want to
Scream