Wednesday, May 28, 2008

How Far?

I stalked her home. All the way from school. Every single step of the twenty blocks she walked. She never saw me. She never noticed me stepping in step with her, breathing in breath with her. She was mine, and mine alone. No one else would have her. I will never let that happen. She will be mine, she will die mine. She always opened her window rather than turn on the AC or a fan. Something about saving money. I climbed in through there. I thought she had heard me, I fell in pretty loud. But I heard the water running. She was in the shower, singing. It was hard to make out from downstairs. Creeping up the stairs step by step, it seemed her voice got quieter and quieter. Maybe she knew I was here. Maybe not. I got to the door, and put my ear against it. I listened. The water was running, but no singing. Then the water stopped, and I could hear her slide the shower curtain open. My heart never beat faster. I opened the door...

The Problems With Inspiration: What To Do?

No one realizes inspiration, the struggle to get it, the indecisiveness when you get it, what to do with it. Do you know how hard it is? You're falling asleep, but inspiration comes to you, and you're wide awake, pounding away on the keyboard, rushing to get it on the screen before it fades. Or how about when you're trying to get your work done, and guess what comes? You put everything on hold, and scribble away on a piece of paper, just to get it recorded, just to get it out. Before you know it you're behind on schedule.

Why would you do these things you ask? Because when you don't, the inspiration just drifts away, and you're left with nothing but half a memory of the art that could have been born. You end up regretting you never did write it down while it was fresh in your mind, inspired. You might try to force it out, but it never turns out right, not the way it would have been had you written it down while it was there. Or maybe you just don't care for inspiration. You write whenever you feel like it. But don't you need inspiration to feel like writing? Maybe you just write when you have time, the time when inspiration refuses to come. You end up sitting in your chair, staring at a blank screen and a blinking cursor that just pisses you off in the end.

It's hard to write stories with nothing to write about. Same goes for painting and drawing and poetry. Even music. Art is the same all around. It spawns from inspiration, creativity, and a little bit of talent or ability. Perhaps inspiration chooses who it wants to inspire, maybe at random, maybe at the most inconvinient times for the person...

Monday, May 12, 2008

No Reason for Killing

The first victim was pure coincidence. She had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Her name was Elena Moore, or at least that's what her ID said. She was going on a walk, she only had twenty bucks with her. She wasn't dressed for anything either. Just jeans, T-shirt, and a jacket. Some boots for the snow covered sidewalk. He didn't mean to kill her. She just died.

He was dumped. After five years of kisses, a text message ends it all. It happened on that same street too. Elena seemed naive enough. He took her to a coffee shop. They made out in the alley. His pocketknife came out of his jean pocket. He left her cut up when he was done with her. The snow buried her body. Some guy tripped over it taking out the trash.

The second victim was intentional. The bitch clerk wouldn't take his credit card. He had to pull out some cash. So inconvienent. Her name tage read Racheal Peterson. He decided to take her somewhere. It took longer than the first. He wanted to kill her with the motor running, to drown out the screaming. For a week they had a fling, then he flung her over the cliff and into the gorge. They did it to metal. Screaming mixed with screaming, plus the motor. They never found her body.

The third victim was an opportunity he took. She had just gotten dumped in public. In a library actually. Such an odd place. Crying over a guy who just didn't care anymore. Called her a hassle. She told him her name was Cindy Crawford. He had this one last a month. He felt sorry for her. But he was getting back at the world. He found out he had AIDS. Dumb bitch left him a damning surprise. It was that same day he killed Cindy in her house. Just beat the shit out of her. Bloody mess. He wiped himself off on her sheets and left. Arrested at the front door. Turns out some neighbor had heard her scream. There was still traces of blood on his knuckles. He couldn't clean all of it.

He told the police he just wanted to kill somebody. He almost strangled the detective. He had nothing else to confess. They were sure he killed the women for some other reason. He just wanted to kill somebody. The trial came, and his attorney got him life imprisonment rather than execution by lethal injection. But he took suicide. Found a sharp piece of metal. Stabbed himself. He made sure to make a bloody mess.