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Sunday, 31 July 2011

A Continuation.

                                                                                        

                                                         *
There is no justifying the murder of someone you love. This is why I fled the country. I wasn’t the wrong doer, yet I knew I couldn’t justify my cause in the court of law as much as the killer couldn’t justify its in front of me.
I boarded the first boat to nowhere. It swept across the seas in the black of night. As the rest of the world stood still, moored to an unmoving and unchanging landscape, my world was careening into the unknown. My thoughts at this point weren’t bound to either past or present. I didn’t waste time looking back to what had happened, and I didn’t worry myself over what the future had in store. I was in my own personal limbo. Nothing really mattered to me.
The boat docked. I made my way to the exit. I was in no rush. After everyone else had pushed through and made it to dry land, I made my move, only to be stopped by a hand placed on my shoulder, and the words,
‘I’ve seen what you can do. I think you can help me. I think it’d be in both our best interests if you agreed.’
I turned my head imperceptibly, resting my eyes on the hand preventing me from leaving. It told me nothing. I then turned towards the owner. The hand belonged to a man of uncertain age. Physically, he was almost certainly young, though on looking into his eyes, I read years beyond measure. And, despite the fact that he was slightly shorter than myself, and from appearances not much stronger, the grip he had on me proved otherwise. I must admit, I was most intrigued.
After gaining these first few impressions, I said,
‘What I do is always in my best interests. I don’t know what you’ve seen, or what you think I’m capable of, but I will gladly help if our interests coincide.’
With a stony yet otherwise unreadable glance, the man motioned for me to move. Without further ado, I made my way off the boat. After all, nothing really mattered to me.
                                                                   *

Saturday, 30 July 2011

An Introduction.

This is the beginning to a story I am currently working on. The story in its entirety is going to be devoid of specificities, such as names and locations. The idea is that we as reader know nothing for sure throughout, we only know what the narrator tells us. This will become apparent later, as we discover that the narrator isn't as innocent as we'd expect (despite the fact that he/she has just gunned down a man).
Without giving too much away, here is the beginning:

                                                                         *

It starts with a gunshot. A bullet, straight into the killer’s spine. I grin from ear to ear as I watch the blood spout forth from the wound, the wound that I’ve created. The body spasmed momentarily before contorting into its cold and lifeless form. I hadn’t even cared for an explanation as to why he did what he did. There is no justifying the murder of the only person I’ve ever really loved.
He had tortured him. When the body was found it was evinced that he had been starved, severely beaten and stabbed. His eyelids had been cut off. One of the eyes had been removed from its socket and left to hang from its sinewy cord, unable to shut out the surrounding world of horror and pain from its foreign angle. He had been fed substances to make him hurl, only for his vomit to be forced back down his throat to burn his insides through. Stab wounds covered his body from head to toe, burns ravaged his flesh.
To this day, this is the only image I can recall of the one I held so dear. The boy who grew up to be a man in my company is no more. The violence of his death and the suddenness of his being taken from me has supplanted any memories that may have given me consolation and reprieve. He was my brother, the only person I have ever truly loved. Now he’s nothing. Now I’m nothing.
             I stood over the killer, the killer now lifeless, with my gun held limply by my side. I hadn’t felt the need to torture him. I just needed to see him dead. I just needed to see his body, once so lithe and strong, made to curl in on itself and become the physical manifestation of his weak and heartless self. I live for this image. All the memories he had taken away from me, all the future that he prevented myself and my brother from sharing are times that I can never relive or experience, but this one image, this one memory, will replace everything that I once held dear. This was humanity laid before me. It is only through death that the truth is revealed. There is no good in anyone, no-one but my brother, but even that has gone. There is no good in this world. This, now, is what I hold close to my heart.
I turned my back on the killer, the killer’s corpse, and started to walk away. Yet, something fired up inside me, and turning back, I shot the remainder of my clip into his head and groin. The bullets exploded through into his skull and pelvis, the bones shattered. It was left faceless, sexless. Nothing.
                                                                     * 

I would say that; of recent, I have mostly been inspired by the T.V. series The Sopranos. If you haven't watched it, I'd like to recommend it now: It's nothing short of brilliant.


My first blog.

My name is Tanya. I am currently studying English Literature at the University of Portsmouth.
I've started up this blog because I feel that, although my degree has enriched me with literary knowledge, and that it has made me able to read books in a more critical manner, that this has impacted negatively on my capacity for creative writing, as well as my imagination.
This may sound rather absurd, yet I have felt this way from the first year of my degree. Instead of simply being able to read books for pure enjoyment as I used to, I notice that I'm always in the habit of analysing everything down to the smallest detail. It is very difficult to revert back to the way I used to read books.
I don't use the word 'revert' to make reading for enjoyment seem lesser. It isn't a lesser way of reading: far from it. To read purely for enjoyment is a wonderful thing.
I remember always having my own ideas for stories after reading in this manner. Maybe they weren't good ones, I've never been sure as I never allowed anyone to read them. But, at least I had ideas.
So now; with this blog, I want to finally share my creative side. As before mentioned, I feel that my creative writing isn't particularly brilliant, yet I look forward to any comments: positive or critical. Thank you for reading this, and I hope you enjoy my blog.