SP

In my opinion, there’s three steps to good writing (in no particular order): 1.        Learning theory- the knowledge of how to write. 2.        Practicing- the actual writing. 3.        Analysis- the shouting at oneself about how one is a bad writer and (this is the important part) then learning from one’s mistakes. 1.        Theory: Two people decide to be writers- The first decides to start writing right away. They come up with a character, a setting and they are off. They reach chapter two, chapter three, and keep going, but they falter. What to do now? They don’t know where the story is going? Ah, okay, we’ll come up with a random new direction, let’s go. Keep going, and the end result is a meandering mess. The other person goes to Google and types ‘How to Write Better’, and gets an awesome article that explains the Three Act Structure, and the ...

Wake up. It’s itching again. Scratch it. It’s swollen up already. Breathe slower. Your hair is wet, slick with sweat. Breathe slower. Keep your heart rate down. Do not panic. Scratch it. It’s just an itch. Just an itch. It’s stayed with you for a few months now: red with scratch marks, swollen now, bruised. But it’s still just an itch. You took it to a doctor, I believe? I don’t think you even remember. I was with you then. I’ve been with you for a few months now. But you don’t look at me. You just keep looking at that goddamn itch all the time, scratching. Scratch. Scratch. Claw it out, come on. Rid yourself of that goddamn itch, so you can finally look at me. The doctor said it was a mosquito bite. The doctor talked loudly, and sharply. You didn’t go back again. What if you went back, and he looked inside your brain and found out about us? About me? No. You began worrying that the truth was printed on the back of your iris, and if someone was to look too closely into you...

Ever since Ber and Dor were born, they had been pretty much inseparable, much like their families, which lived next door to each other. Their two houses were merely fifty feet apart, separated by twenty feet of garden on each side, and a ten-foot pathway, which was where Ber and Dor had played for as long as they could remember. The pathway was dotted on each side with flowers, which the gentlemen of the family tended to every once in a few days. The ladies looked after the garden once a week, usually on Sundays. They made it a family affair too, and would do so together, swapping stories of the week, and drinking home-made lemonade. Ber and Dor were cousins; their mothers were sisters. But you wouldn’t know if you looked at them. They looked different from each other, apart from their habit of cocking their heads to the side when they thought their name was being called. Each had an exquisite collection of toys; their parents spared them no expense, as they were each the lo...

They lived in a two-room flat with peeling walls, where it rained inside all day. It rained in the other room, thankfully, so they could sleep in a drier place. The roof leaked so much they referred to that room as the rainforest. The two couldn’t be more different from each other if they tried. They stuck together because they couldn’t afford the rent alone, and no one else wanted them. They had to stick together. But they were very different: the second was rather short, with almost elfish, pointed ears, a smile that bordered on a smirk, twinkling eyes, deep brown eyes, and hair that were cut the right length. He was what one would call a charmer. He could talk the shoes off of a horse. The first, however, was much quieter. He moved slower, and blinked his eyes a lot. He had trouble sleeping too, for his mind was always thinking, though he barely ever spoke. He had always been told by everyone except his mother that he had rather large ears, but his mother had told him to igno...

SEPTEMBER, 2016: It wasn’t a particularly nauseating day, in the typical sense, and yet, when Chamuk woke up in the morning, he felt the uncontrollable urge to commit suicide. It wasn’t a peculiarly nonsensical day, in the traditional style, and yet, when Chasut woke up in the morning, he felt the untameable urge to commit suicide. Thus, both our protagonists got out of bed, with almost a flourish, a smile playing about in their eyes, not a trace of it on their lips. They sat overly long with their first cup of coffee, and yet, downed their second in one testy gulp. With a spring in their step, they left their respective houses, and, as fate would have it, ended up waiting at the same bus stop. In fact, my dear readers, if you’ll allow another little coincidence, they ended up sitting right next to each other while waiting. So, the two little bundles of joy, enthusiastically conjuring up ways to end their respective lives, did not pay much attention to each other, nor even...

The soft pitter-patter of water on a mossy roof. Red staircase. Solar panels where the sun never shines. A rope. Two thin ropes dividing life and a four-storey quick vertical run down. Would need to. Would need two. Heh. Two times four equals eight. Eight stories enough. Eight stories is life. Life is made of eight stories. A boat off of the side of the walls, crawling down. Waterfall. Water. Fall. Fall. Berlin wall. Red staircase. The brick fell from the skies. Dark sarcasm: it is a sponge. A sponge of murk. Mirth. Murk. A murky sponge. Red. Stair. Case. Nutcase. A sponge. Clean your face, he said, and gave me a red sponge. Red tears. Tear down the staircase. It can be used to escape the wall. Red wall. Dead wall. Waterfall. Snap back to reality. The water breaks. The roof falls. Green everywhere. And now orange. And now red. Fire! Fire! Fuel! Fire! Stone. Sink. Like a dog. Stink… If you stare long enough, the world turns into an acid trip ...

Dance on a corpse Weight on your chest You are the best You are the best Tendrils of memories Under the ground Lost what you found Lost what you found Fancy drums made Of human skin Sonorous skin. Sonorous skin. Beat it so hard Turns black and blue They have no clue They have no clue Hide your dark blood Under your skin Sonorous skin Thick leather skin Over your eyes There’s a blindfold You’re getting old You’re getting old Sonorous skin About to break For its own sake For its own sake Are you the best? Are you the clue? Imposter test Imposter test Put back the shards With sticky glue Always on guard Always on guard Under the weight Upon your chest You are the best You are the best