A Return and A Story

So, I have been MIA once again for quite some time, and it is simply because I haven't had the time nor the interest in keeping regular updates, especially when I have nothing to update with or for. This time, however, I have written a short piece entitled "Jumper" that I want to share on my blog. Remember, everything I write is false and does not come from any experiences I have actually been through.

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"Jumper"

I remember seeing her light green dress flutter as the wind took hold of it, as gravity began to fight to pull her down, and wondering if I had started my dryer that morning. It was a ridiculous thought to have at that moment, and I silently cursed myself later for even thinking it, but it passed through my head before I got a chance to stop it. That light green dress, a cotton one meant to wear on such a nice day, was the last bit of beauty I saw in this absolute stranger.

I had walked behind her ever since she had appeared from the library. I tried to remain polite but I couldn’t stop myself from noticing how the dress clung to her, how it moved softly when she took a step. It ran down to her ankles, and the material was thin. There was a small floral pattern, but only the barest amounts. It was a simple dress, but it looked perfect on her. I never even got the chance to see her face; I only admired her from behind, a few feet away. Her hair was a dark red, long and freely flowing down her back. There were no bands or hair clips pinning it up in odd, unnatural ways. Her skin, what I could see on her arms and bits of her neck when her hair was pushed aside, was pale, ivory, as if the sun had never kissed it before. She looked, from behind, to be a gorgeous woman in her mid-20s, not a care in the world. She seemed confident, just by her gait, her head held up and her back straight. Observations give no insight to what is going on inside the mind, however.

We both began the walk across the bridge just a few seconds after one another, myself still keeping a good few feet behind her. I wanted her to continue on not noticing me. If she saw me, she’d instantly change her pace, move a little faster, and the confidence, the beauty about her, would be gone. Many women did not feel comfortable when a man of any size or age was around them, even if it were broad daylight. Would I have done anything if she were to turn to me, to say something? Probably not. I wasn’t interested much in starting a conversation; I simply wanted to continue on observing this bit of beauty that had managed to find herself just in front of me. The bridge was high over the freeway. Traffic was a bit heavy, with cars speeding by below us well over the 60 mile per hour speed limit. No one in the city tended to pay much heed to the signs anymore; they were there mostly as a suggestion.

I observed her curves, the flutter of that damned dress as it sashayed around her ankles with each step, and in an instant it seemed, she was gone. I caught just the briefest glimpse of her grabbing the railing on the bridge, another moment where gravity didn’t quite take hold, where she was suspended in midair, and then she was gone. The air pushed against her dress, gravity pulled her down to the cars below, and I thought briefly of my own laundry.

It only took a second for her body to make impact, for the cement and metal to seal her fate. I watched, unable to tear my eyes away, even as it began to register blood. I had never been partial to grisly scenes, always turning away from movies, but this, a real life horror-show, had my eyes stuck. I took in every detail as if in fascination, but instead it was trance. I couldn’t break it. I couldn’t simply decide I was finished looking. I was trapped on the bridge, one had holding on to the railing, my neck slightly craned to look down. I felt as if I would never step off of the bridge again, that I would always be there, watching the scene below me.

A car hit her body, causing it to careen off to the right and into another car, a slightly bigger one. They were the first two cars in what would be a painful pile-up. I saw car after car either hit the one before it or slam to a halt. I didn’t move my hand, which was gripping the railing so tight that I my knuckles were a bright white and my fingers ached. My other hand dangled uselessly at my side. I didn’t notice the ache in my hand as I watched the wreckage, the blood, the screeching of tires and the horrible noise that came when one car hit another, the screaming and yelling of people taken off guard by a body falling from the skies in front of them. These are all noises that will continually pervade my sleep; noises that will make me toss and turn at night until I eventually wake up drenched in a cold sweat, near tears.

Finally I found I could pull myself away. Slowly I unwrapped my hand from the railing, bringing to it a fresh gale of pain, but I still barely noticed. Sirens were approaching, both below me and on to the bridge. The police. They knew I had seen it, they wanted to question me, and perhaps they wanted to make an attempt at pinning her suicide on me, to claim that I had pushed her. The simplest of answers isn’t always the one that is chosen. I turned to look at the first cop car as it approached. An older man bolted out, took one look down at the wreckage, and looked back at me.

“What…?” He started, possibly an accusation by the tone he had given me, but it was cut short. His eyes widened just barely. He had noticed the look on my face, the haunting in my eyes, and had known in an instant that I had had nothing to do with the young woman’s death.

“She jumped.” I said, surprised by the evenness of my voice. There was no emotion, no wavering as a word caught in my throat, no pausing as I worked to gather my words. Just a voice that was flat and even, completely void of any feeling that one should be feeling. “She was here, then she was gone.”

“Why don’t you come to the station with us, give us a full report? We can drive you there, if you don’t feel safe to walk.” His tone had completely changed. There was something wrong about it, as if he were scared of me.

“Yeah, alright.” I hung my head a little, feeling myself slipping further out of the trance that had kept me attached to the railing of the bridge. It was at that moment that I realized that I was smiling.

As the woman had turned to jump, as I had caught the flutter of her dress as the weight of the world began to pull down on her, I thought of my own laundry back at home. My washer had not been started, I remembered, because I had been out of bleach. Nothing gets blood stains out better than bleach.

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There is the first example of my writing that I believe I have posted on to my blog to date, and I am actually highly pleased with it. I've been working on it for around a week now, editing and finishing, and it didn't end how I wanted it to. But, I enjoy this ending much more. It's nice how your brain sometimes decides the ending you chose is wrong, and a more twisted one is better suited, isn't it?

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B.K.

I'm back.

I have not updated in a few months, and for those people that actually read this, I apologize. I wanted to take a step back, away from this, and actually decide if I wanted to write a blog, or if I was trying to feel important in some strange, absurd way. Do I really want to blog? Not so much for other people, but I really need a log of sorts for myself, of how I feel about a variety of things, so I shall continue. And I’ve had so much recently pop up in my life, that I feel I should write it down for the sake of keeping my thoughts in order.

Columbine. Strikes a nerve with many of you, doesn’t it? I know that it does. Whether you were personally affected (lost someone you knew) or were upset and angry at the idea in general (like many people I know were; I don’t live in or near Littleton, Colorado), you have some emotions towards this incident. On April 20, 1999, Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, of sound mind and with no actual trigger, set off to their high school to not only kill, but decimate the place. They managed to get 12 students and 1 teacher, which was so much less than they had intended. Their intent? As much of the 2,000 student population as possible. They had bombs set up, but Eric had never bothered to actually make sure that the fuse and detonator were set properly in either the cafeteria and their cars. They committed suicide in the library roughly an hour after they began their spree.

My thoughts on this? I don’t want to sound overly morbid, or make it sound as if I like the idea, but a part of me is curious as to what would have happened had the bombs been set right. Would it really have killed the 500+ students in the cafeteria during that moment in “A” lunch? I believe it would have, and the numbers would have been staggering. I’ve written a book (that I’m currently editing again) about a school shooting, and I’ve always been sickly fascinated with the idea. Not that I would do it, but more with how a person of sound mind can suddenly decide that other people are not worthy of their lives.

How do murderers come into existence?

Of course, this is the now famous “nature vs. nurture” argument. Were they born that way? Or did years of some sort of abuse or trauma turn them into what they became? Is it their genetics or society? Personally, and this is a generalization because it is always case by case, I think it’s a mixture of both. Genetics can make a person predisposed to violence, but pressures and abuse can trigger those feelings to erupt, causing them to put a gun to their head, or worse, someone else’s. Many mass murders I’ve looked into seem to be a result of both pressure from society/family/friends and a genetic mutation already present in them. I think sociopaths and psychopaths are born, not made. Murderers are often made.

But this, of course, is my perspective. Everyone has different ideas, and everyone has their own beliefs. Mine come from a purely agnostic, politically apathetic, female of a decent enough upbringing and social status. I was never abused, I was never so dirt poor that I went without food or shelter, and I was never the target of school bullies. I knew people in those situations, but that is as close as I ever got to experiencing certain things firsthand. Instead, I create stories and have my characters live through them. I think it’s my way of creating lives I never had, never wanted, but always knew about. I wasn’t hidden to abuse, both physical and mental, and talk of drugs wasn’t forbidden. I know, and I always have. I’m just choosing now to express my knowledge in some way. This blog is a part of this expression. As is my writing. We’ll just have to see where it all leads me, won’t we?

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B.K.

Another pointless, pointless ramble. I apologize.

I guess I could talk about many different things today, like what I have been obsessing over in recent days (which would be LatumWay’s channel on YouTube, which is awesome if you are an atheist, agnostic, curious religious person, pro-gay, etc. etc. because he is a very smart person that has a lot to say about all of that), but I don’t want my blog to turn into that sort of thing. I don’t want to just come on here, suggest something for you to look in to, and be on my way. Well, I sort of did just tell you, but that’s beside the point. The point is, I haven’t really updated recently because I don’t know exactly what to update about. My mind has been relatively calm, which makes writing very difficult, and it makes blogging even worse. But, and I might ramble a bit, I’m just going to write, free and unedited (mostly) and see what comes of it. Who knows? Maybe it’ll be brilliant.

Violence. Let’s take an aside (aside from what, I don’t know) and talk about how I view violence. Last night, when I was driving about, I actually had a good idea for something to write down about this but, being the genius that I always am, forgot to make a note of it and now I’ve forgotten. No matter. I can always bring up a new discussion about this.

In general, I like to think that I come across as a non-threatening person that has no ill thoughts towards anyone. That’s mostly true. I’ve never gotten into a fight, physically at least, and I’ve remained fairly good at leaving arguments when they get too heated. I hate arguing because I get very upset if I’m proven wrong, made a fool, etc., and I tend to become silent if I feel that way. So, in general, I’m pretty good at not getting into any sort of serious argument.

My stories, and how my mind truly works, on the other hand show differently. Sometimes, if the mood strikes just right, I would like nothing more than to full on yell at somebody, to have every point of mine get across articulately (since I stutter and stammer too much), to be correct about it all, and to come out victorious. The same goes for punching someone. I’m small (relatively), but I like to think that I know enough about the human body to know where to punch and how to really make it hurt. But I don’t ever fight, and not because I might hurt someone/myself. No, it’s more for the actual consequences that are bound to follow. That, and I have a set of morals I should probably continue to abide by. Fighting steps outside of those morals.

Wait. I need to take an aside from that aside. I was just, jokingly or not, referred to as “hostile”. I have no idea what it is people see me as. I’m keeping a good level on anonymity here, which I intend to continue, but I really want some of my friends to paint a picture of me. I think I see myself very differently from how they see me. I’m going to make a plea to them to describe me, and I might add this in to a future blog.

Now I’ve lost where I was going with the violence bit. No matter.

I took a quiz that a friend linked me to (and I can’t find it at the moment; maybe I’ll add it later), and it described what your personality was like. More specifically, what your personality defect was. Ah! Found my results. It said that I was a smart ass, with these percentages: You are 71% Rational (alright, good), 71% Extroverted (also good), 86% Brutal (in honesty? I guess I’m fairly brutal, but maybe not that much), and 71% Arrogant. Am I really that arrogant? That’s the only part that I find issue with. I want to know if I am arrogant.

I consider myself to be a rather humble individual. True, if I do something great (get good grades, finish a story, anything of the like), a large part of me wants to shove it in people’s faces and say “LOOK WHAT I ACCOMPLISHED.” But, I don’t. Or I try not to. Because that’s just showing off, and I like to remain humble. Maybe I am arrogant, though. Damn high horse.

I honestly have no idea where I was planning on going with this entry at all. I still want to work in a short story into a future one, and I’m working on it. I just don’t like the tense I’m trying to work in still (it should be past, as most stories are told, but it’s trying to come out in present, and that just feels odd). I feel like I should show off my writing at some point in this blog.

Alright. Well folks, until next time…

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B.K.

Here's a title for you.

I’m sorry to my one follower and everyone else that is too afraid to follow me officially that I have not updated in recent weeks. I have no excuse other than laziness as to why I haven’t. School is over for the next few months (thankfully), and I don’t work in the real world nearly enough to blame that. I just have been feeling incredibly lazy (although I’ve been at my computer) and haven’t felt like updating. I should, I know.

I started a blog that included a story I’ve been playing around with in my mind, but I really didn’t like how it was turning out, so I’ve tossed it aside for the time being. Perhaps I’ll come back to it and you will all get a taste of my work. We shall have to see, though. I’m having a hard time even coming up with how to go about writing this particular story. The tense is strange, but it’s a good exercise, I suppose. You know? I will probably come back to it in upcoming days and really try to get it written, something good, and show to my follower(s) that I do actually write and that I’m not lying. I swear I’m not. I do write.

I’ve been watching movies lately. I have found movies that are very much in my line of thinking, and feed into that dark side of my mind. I enjoy, very much, being able to sort movies on Netflix by genre. Psychological thrillers seem to be my favorite (I’ve found a few different ones that I’m in love with). So, because of that, I now know my favorite genre! I had never known it before, aside from I’m not big into westerns or sci-fi, and I hate torture porn (which includes such monstrosities as the Saw series and Hostel). But now I know: psychological thrillers. Good horror movies that not only show scenes of gore and action, but mess with your mind as well. They make you think. They are giving me all sorts of fresh ideas for writing.

I have set my vampire novel aside for the time being (despite being so close to being finished) because I’m disliking all I write towards it. The story line I’ve created is just what I want, but the words themselves aren’t quite correct. Instead, I’ve taken to editing my school shooting stories (entitled “…And the Halls Screamed Silence”), or, as I like to call it, “red pen of death.” I’ve already decided on so much to change in the story, and I’m excited to get to work on it. It’s about 65,000 words at the moment, and it would be perfect in every way to add another 15,000 words by the end of this. I know that there is more I can add. It is also nice throwing myself into another world, away from mine and everyone else’s. Mine is too confusing for me at the moment. For this, I’ll blame certain events.

As I mentioned in a previous entry, I have been blown away by the work of Tana French. I finished reading “The Likeness” recently, and I have never had such separation anxiety from characters that I cared for so much. It actually hurt a bit to know that they would never be together in a book again, at least not in the same way. I recommend, once again, her books to anyone willing to listen to me.

I feel that this isn’t going to be much of an entry today. I can’t take my mind off of the movie “Rampage” by Uwe Boll (who, by all accounts, is normally an awful, awful director). It is an amazing film (if you either think like me or can divorce your mind from the actions happening in it) that I’ve already watched twice. It is about a young man hell-bent on making the world “right” by building a suit entirely comprised of Kevlar and going on a city wide shooting spree. The acting in it is very good, and the lines were almost entirely reliant on ad-lib from the actors. I learned that and was impressed. A movie based on an idea with multiple people creating lines on the fly? That is so difficult to do.

I don’t have much more to add into this at the moment, and I apologize if you came here expecting some more. I encourage you to read past entries, but it isn’t necessary. My posts are almost always random rants/raves that have little to do with anything. My mind doesn’t think in a straight line, so to put up with my blogs, you have to bear with me. It works less in a straight line than ever recently, and I’m having a hard enough time staying on one train of thought.

There you have it: an update. I apologize for it if it has been illogical, but I felt that I should get an update in at some point this week. I am going to go write about a teen’s descent towards psychosis and watch more explosions.

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B.K.

Death and Praise

The more I type up my story, the more I feel for the characters I am planning to kill. I feel almost guilty, mostly because their friends don't know, and are completely oblivious that anything is going to happen. It’s almost as if I’m planning to ruin their lives. I’m finding it very strange (especially through this story) to see how much power I have over my characters, and what I can do to them. I am plotting to give a main character a rather noble death, but it will ruin the others. They have to see it, and they have to lose someone so close to them. It is the perfect ending, but I know that I will have a hard time killing someone I like so much.

Aside from writing: I would like to take a short bit to commend some authors whose work I enjoy so much that I am jealous. I have a knack for finding authors no one I know has ever heard of, and this is the perfect location to push their work. I have two for this update, and then I will allow you to once again go on with whatever it was you were doing before you stumbled across my blog (if you enjoy reading, please at least check out these authors).

John Connolly is a man that writes some of the best pieces of detective work I have come across, and I normally dislike cop novels. In his running series, Charlie Parker is an ex-cop turned private detective, hell bent on figuring out who killed his wife and daughter, and trying to make sure that every other individual gruesomely killed gets the same justice. His best friends are very strange for a cop, an ex-con and a murderer for hire, but how they play off one another is amusing and wonderful. They provide just the right amount of comic relief when the words in the story are becoming just too much. There are several novels in the Charlie Parker series, including a nine full length novels and a novelette in the book of short stories, The Nocturnes, and each is just as amazing as the last.

In addition to the Charlie Parker series, John Connolly has also come out with a couple of books that are geared a little more towards fantasy and science-fiction, both coming from a child’s perspective. In The Book of Lost Things, David has to cope with his mother’s death, his father’s new wife, and a new home in a very short amount of time, almost too short for his liking. He isn’t happy with any of it, until he stumbles through a hole in the garden and finds himself in a land with knights, witches, and other creatures both dark and light. This story has some interesting takes on well-known fables, such as tales by the Brothers Grimm, and is all-over an amazing book.

In The Gates, one of Connolly’s newest novels, Samuel has just happened to notice that his neighbors are up to something strange, and that demons might just be taking over some of them. Oh, and the gates of Hell might just be in danger of opening. No one believes him, as is clear, so he and his dachshund, Boswell, must find a way to save the world from Satan and other demons alone. This is a fun, fast paced story that kept going without break, and had some bits of sarcasm that were perfect.

He also has a book of short stories, The Nocturnes, which has some of the creepiest little stories I have ever had the opportunity to read. It is also how I first fell in love with Charlie Parker, and a novel called Bad Men, which mentions Charlie Parker, but is a novel told from multiple perspectives of a few mysteries surrounding the inhabitants of the small island known as Sanctuary. This was a slower paced book for me, but still more than worth it in the end.

Tana French is another author I have to mention in this, mostly because I am completely in love with her novels. In The Woods is her first published, and it’s won an Edgar Award for Best First Novel (2007). In the story, you meet Rob Ryan, who used to be Adam Ryan as a young boy, before he lost his friends to a mysterious accident in the woods near his house. He was found, clinging to a tree, blood soaking his sneakers, and not a single memory of his accident. Years later, he has become a detective in the Murder squad, and a fairly decent one, paired perfectly with Cassie Maddox, a woman who has recently been transferred into the department. They are both doing fine until a young girl is found dead in the woods where Rob’s friends went missing so many years before. The detective work in the novel is brilliant, and I was kept guessing at who the killer was, and who was even involved. This is definitely amazing.

I am currently in the process of reading her second book, The Likeness, and I am just as in love with it. Cassie Maddox is out of Murder and on to Domestic Violence, a place that is a bit slower paced and more suited to her. Everything is going along smoothly when a girl looking identical to her and using a past identity of hers is found dead in a small town. It is then that Cassie’s world is turned upside down, and she is finding that she has to, once again, don the identity of Lexie Madison to find the girl’s killer. The housemates in this story are beautifully written; I genuinely care for each of them. While there is a chance, I know, that they are guilty, I can’t help but be amused and amazed by everything they do.

Well, that’s my two cents for today. If you can at least pick up one of their books, even if you don’t fully read it, I will know that I have at least accomplished something.

Until next time…

B.K.

On disappointment, strangers, and ramblings

Things have been odd in my mind as of late. I have really been living in the world of my characters (from my vampire story “On Death and Immortality") as I try to figure out how I want to end the story. I have grown attached to the characters that should be the antagonists, so I know that, if I must, I’ll have a hard time actually killing them. I don’t know which angle I should go towards. That is why I’ve taken a break in writing and have started the long process of typing up everything I have already written (I hand-write all my stories into a variety of notebooks I buy and scatter around my living room). I am hoping to come to a conclusion as I relive what it is I’ve already written.

“Are you okay?”

I’ve heard that a lot this week. I thought that I was acting sociable, friendly, maybe a little less talkative but not unlike my usual self. But, my friends, peers, etc. have constantly been wondering how I am. The truth is I’m better than I have been in a long time, and I don’t know why. I’ve suddenly begun sleeping better, leaving me to feel rested during the day (a phenomenon I recently thought was purely a myth), and I realized that I have a greater handle on my school work than many other people in my situation. Is it perfect? Not by a long shot, but it will never be perfect. Those that strive solely for perfection will continually find themselves to be disappointed by what they do achieve. I do not wish to be disappointed.

I love all of my friends, and I keep them as close to me as I feel comfortable. Some are closer than others, and they generally know where they stand. Strangers? I have no time for, unless I am put into a situation where I am forced to talk. It’s not that I am shy, or introverted, or whatever you would like to call it. I just don’t have interest. They don’t know me, I don’t know them, and it’ll stay that way unless an outside force intervenes. That is how I have come to meet any of my friends. None of them are from random walk-ups on my behalf because they looked interesting. I figure that, if I’m not interested in a person, they aren’t interested in me, so why bother? Perhaps this is normal to more people, but I know many people who actively try to meet new people, walk up to strangers at anything (event, school, public place) and try to start a conversation. Which seems intrusive, but they have good intentions.

On a similar subject, I have realized how little time I have for certain things. If a person strongly opposes a view of mine, and will talk at length about their side (even if they do it in a fair manner), I find that I have no interest in listening. To me, I have my reasons for my view, and I don’t really care to listen to yours (there are exceptions, both for views and people). If I see a homeless person begging, coming to me time and time again, I do feel like I can’t possibly connect to them even though I probably CAN. I make judgments very quickly, but I can change those views if push comes to shove. I feel disconnected from so many groups that I’ve always strived to be in, and it’s starting to not matter. High school mindsets are in the past; I’m in college now and petty things such as groups, name calling, etc. shouldn’t matter anymore. And, to me, they mostly don’t.

This is a bit of a rambling blog update. I want to strive for similarity amongst one post, but I am not in a similar mind today. Living, mentally, within another world takes you far out of the normal one. I have a test today that I didn’t do hardly any studying for, but it seems fine to me because I also got around 10,000 words written in the last week. Justification? Not entirely. But that’s what my mind is trying to do. It’s what it has always done to prove that, even though I didn’t do one thing, at least I did something else. If I spend an entire day doing nothing, just sitting on the couch staring blankly at the television, I cannot stand myself. I have to do something, whether it is helpful or not.

Until next week (or whenever I get the time to sit down once again)…

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B.K.

Getting the ball rolling.

So many things run through my mind when I am given the time to sit by myself, stuck again with my thoughts, and usually I don’t know what exactly I can do to entertain them. Should I dwell on the strange thoughts that come into my head, the ones that show me stories to write, stories I have written, things I should edit? Or should I try to focus on something that, to outsiders, would be more important? I, as should be clear, almost always dwell on my stories. There isn’t a moment in the day that I’m not at least partially focused on something to write. A classmate of mine told me I have “graphomania,” an obsessive impulse to write, and I agree. I have over ten notebooks scattered across my house that all have different stories started in them. I can’t stop buying more, because I always think of new stories.

Anything sets me off. I don’t get my stories from dreams, which is something I might be a tiny bit jaded about. My dreams? What could possibly go through my sleep mind? The same mind that obsesses about school shootings, vampires, serial killers, and death? Work. School. Everything that is normal in my life. It seems almost like, when compared to my day dreaming mind, I get worn out of certain thoughts. I want to find something that will cause more vivid and strange dreams. Think of the possibilities! I’m bound by my own set of morals and limitations, I can only think so far, but when asleep, the mind can create such fantastical worlds and characters! Maybe I will begin having dreams that will excite me when my life doesn’t revolve around schoolwork and retail work. I have at least another year to wait until I that will happen, however.

How do I get my story ideas, though? Clearly, as just said, not via dream world. Damn. No, I watch a large amount of television and movies, and read so many books, that are mysteries, that include story lines that absolutely fascinate me. I approach situations like this in a different way from many people I know. I go in almost always knowing who did what, and why. Yet, I’m not always right, and generally, when I am actually wrong, I enjoy those stories a great deal more. I enjoy being tricked when I’m reading/watching something. Without that trickery, there isn’t the guessing game and the intrigue. I take the storylines that I see and put my own twist to them. I wonder what would happen to those characters if their friend had really died in that car accident, if their parents hadn’t gotten a divorce when the character was a young child, anything. How could I make this story my own?

Daydreams are have a huge contribution to my story writing, along with just paying attention to things people tell me. I react to things in a strange way (as long as no one I personally know is, in any way, involved; keep this in mind). Here is an example: a friend came up to me not to long ago and told me a story. Their coworker’s friend had gotten a phone call from their ex, the ex said a lot “I’m sorry. I miss you. I’m back in town.” Anything that was possible to show that this person wasn’t in a good state of mind. And then they said the one thing that caught my attention. “I’m so tired.” And a sound like a gunshot. I don’t know what happened with this individual, if the noise was just a general misunderstanding or not, but it really interested me. I haven’t made a story based on it yet, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t been simmering on the back burner for awhile.

“I’m so tired.” What a wonderfully dark phrase that is all on its own. It could mean so many different things, from true general sleepiness all the way to severe depression. I can’t even begin to express how many different story ideas I thought of when I heard that story. I acted sad (and, in a way, I felt for the person who had heard their ex say this), but really, I couldn’t feel the correct amount of empathy. I can’t. This isn’t to say that, if you were to tell me a story, I will just smile and start writing. I know what I’m supposed to feel, and I try to. But I honestly cannot pull up the emotions that convey empathy, sadness, etc. towards stories that are deliciously twisted (another phrase I am very fond of). I do feel a great amount of happiness towards strangers (watching reality television has done nothing but prove that to me), and I feel embarrassed for characters, but not sadness/anger.

I want to add some short stories to this blog, but I need your help. Is there anything you’ve ever want to see written into a story? A character that you have created, but you don’t like/don’t feel like you can write? Anything? I have a large list of things already, but I haven’t touched on them in so long that I am afraid to touch them again. The characters guide my stories, and I’ve ignored them. Help me out?

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B.K.