Strawberry Perfume

Hello. 

That’s the only word I can ever manage to say to her, but it never gets a response. She floats by me every single day as if I’m a ghost or something. I know she sees me, but for some odd reason, be it egotism or repulsion, she refuses to even spare a glance my way. I’m not one for love and I’m not the kind of guy to chase women, but I want this one. No, I NEED this one. I utter my “Hello” as usual, but the girl with the blonde hair and strawberry perfume just floats on by.

What the hell, man? Is she a lesbian? Does she have a boyfriend or something? Well today we’re going to find out. I’m not one to chase women, but that’s all about to change. 

She exits through the door and I slither my way through, keeping just enough distance to see her and not be seen myself. The door shuts behind me and I’m outside, surrounded by the thousands of New York City skyscrapers, rude pedestrians, and honking taxis. The girl crosses the street and the crowd swallows her whole. Damn it, I’ve lost her. 

But wait… it’s in the air, I can smell it. That unmistakable scent of strawberries. I follow the scent and make my way across the street as well. I can see the mane of blonde hair flowing down her back and tossing through the crowd. She’s moving quickly, as if she’s afraid of something… or someone. Has she noticed that I’ve been following her all this time? Maybe, but it’s unlikely considering that she seems to be running to a particular place. She zigs and zags through the crowd and makes a sharp right turn through the double glass doors of a building.

Her perfume is my guide as I zig and zag through the crowd. I slam into a photographer and he falls backward into the crowd of people and many of them fall like dominos. Finally, I find the door she went through and push my way through. I’m standing in a lobby and I can see an elevator across the hall that’s just started closing. I can barely see her as the doors close shut. The indicator on top of the doors says that she’s traveling to the fifth floor. 
A security guard near the front door asks if I need help, but just as he utters the word, I spot a door leading to a staircase on a nearby wall. I have no time to waste. I push the door open and storm up the stairs. I’m skipping two, three stairs at a time, and I almost lose my balance, but I keep moving to the fifth floor. I push through the doors just as her elevator opens and she makes her way out and down the hall. She pulls out a key, goes to a door three rooms down, and opens it. Now is my chance. I sprint down the hallway and stick a foot in just as she closes it. I push the door back and step inside. Her face is a mask of surprise. 

“Who are you, and what the hell are you doing here?” She asks. Panic explodes in her eyes. 

“I say hello to you every single fucking day, that’s who I am.” I respond. My voice rises uncontrollably, but I don’t care to adjust it. 

Suddenly, she smiles. A devilish little smile. Behind her lips sit two rows of razor sharp wolf teeth. It all happens so fast. She morphs and her ears become pointed and dog like, and her body grows dramatically. Her clothes shred and fall to the floor, replaced by hulking muscles. 

My eyes grow wide. No, no, please. No! I run for the door, but she knocks me off my feet and pulls me back by my legs. She looks me in my eyes. “Hi.” she says. 

The last things I remember are the scent of strawberry perfume and two rows of sharp teeth coming for my neck. And then everything goes black. 

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Why I Write 

  

I originally started writing to get my thoughts and feelings off my chest, but during this journey, some amazing things have happened. But I would like to tell you about a terrific Norwegian kid named Markus who has helped change the game. 
I met Markus on Twitter a few years ago, due to our mutual interest in the Inheritance Books by Christopher Paolini. We ended up discussing a lot about books, tv, movies, and life in general. One day, Markus found my blog, this blog, and started reading… And you know what? He hasn’t stopped. He would often send me supportive messages telling me that I wrote a great short story, or that I wrote a blog post that helped to get him through a tough day. 

As I wrote more and more about my experiences and personal battles, Markus would tell me that my writing helped him get through the struggles in his own life. He would often send me feedback on stories and give me suggestions on what to write next. He’s the reader that every writer dreams of having.

 
  

In the beginning of my writing journey, I always said that I wrote to release my feelings and free my soul onto the page. But now things are slightly different. Markus’ feedback has made me realize how heavily words can impact others. I’m no longer writing for my own freedom, but also for the freedom of others. 

Throughout this journey, even more readers like Markus have sent messages and left comments about how my writing has helped them, and when I see these messages, I can’t control the tidal wave of pride that surges through my body. I’m no longer writing for myself. I’m writing for you. I’m writing for us.

How many times have you had a bad day and you needed something to pull you out of your slump? Where did you turn to? The arts. Movies, tv, music, and writing. 

The power to help and inspire others is a major responsibility. We can all give someone a helping hand. It’s our duty as human beings to improve the lives of those around us. 

Markus’ compliments and feedback have helped me in more ways than I can count. I always tell him this, but I don’t think he understands exactly how much he has assisted my writing. His kind words have often lifted my days and they give me motivation to keep going, even when it’s been difficult. Writing is a mind-nubingly difficult task, so to know that you’re doing something right is priceless insurance to keep going. As Dory would say, “Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming. What do we do? We swim.”

Dear reader, a simple comment or even the smallest bit of feedback can really turn someone’s day around. Whether you’re reading a great story, or if you see someone at the mall wearing a nice pair of shoes, you should let them know how you feel. I appreciate the time that you have spent reading these blog posts and sticking around for this crazy journey. I can’t help but notice how supportive you’ve been, and for that, I am forever grateful. Thanks for taking the time out of your busy schedule to read these posts and all the rambling nonsense that comes with them. I have some serious plans for this blog and we are going to have tons of fun this year. Be prepared to have more fun than you ever thought was humanly possible. 

Writing is powerful magic. It withstands the tests of time and traverses the world’s oceans. It evokes feelings of centuries past and paints pictures that no other art can emulate. With great power comes great responsibility. I’m no longer writing for myself, I’m writing for you. I’m writing for us. 

Nobody Hears You Scream

  

She appeared every night. She stood at the foot of his bed and watched him sleep; weekdays, weekends, holidays. No exceptions. He didn’t know her name. She never spoke a word as she glared down at him, unblinking, not moving a muscle. 

On the first night she appeared, Peter had just come home from a night at the movies with some friends, drank a steaming cup of cocoa, kissed his mother good night, and went to bed like he always did. He took off his watch and put it on the dresser, in the same place he always put it. He changed into his pajamas and put his clothes in the hamper the same way he normally would. He wriggled under the blanket and went to sleep immediately, just like always. 

He didn’t dream that night. His sleep was more for rest than entertainment, so only the darkness behind his eyelids greeted him. At least until the middle of the night. 

His eyes popped open, and that was the first sign something was wrong. On this night, his eyes were panicked and paranoid, desperate for an exit.

2:13 AM flashed on his alarm clock. He had gone to bed only three hours ago, so why was he already awake? Something trickled down Peter’s brow and he reached a hand to wipe it. Why was he sweating? He wiped his wet hand on his bed sheets and noticed that there was someone else in the room. 

An old woman with skin like a weathered plastic bag stood at the end of his bed. Her eyes were abysmal, and if you stared too long, they would probably suck you inside, never to be seen again. Her mouth was a violent line and her nose was shaped like a fishing hook. Her moss-like hair hovered just above her bony shoulders. The woman reeked like a New York City dumpster, ammonia, and gasoline. Peter’s body tried to gag, but couldn’t. 

“Who the hell are you!?” He tried to say, but no sound would come from his mouth. His eyes darted, horrified as he tried to repeat the question, but the words died on his lips. The woman and her abysmal eyes stared back, still as a statue. 

“ARRRRRRGGGHHHH!” He tried to scream at the top of his lungs, but his voice box failed him. This was unreal, he had to go get help. Peter tried to sit up, but his body remained pinned to the bed like it was tied with ropes. He tried to swing his legs over the bed, but they wouldn’t budge. Panic set in. He couldn’t leave his room and nobody could hear him scream. His windpipe tightened. It was like someone was choking him; hard enough to watch him suffer, but soft enough to keep him alive.

Who was she? Why was she there? Would she kill him? Sell his organs on the black market? Steal his soul? 

But she just stood there. Blue electricity radiated off her figure and adrenaline vibrated through Peter’s body.

The minutes and hours moved at a snail-like speed until the sun shone through Peter’s window. The incoming sunlight flooded the room and the old woman vanished into thin air. Her disappearance left Peter gasping for breath. He put a hand to his chest and felt his marching band of a heartbeat, relieved that his body could move again. Shaking, Peter swung his legs around the edge of his bed so he was sitting. He collapsed his head into his hands and sobbed.

Of course, his mother didn’t believe him. She said something like “That’s what you get for watching those horror flicks, it’s all in your head,” but he knew the truth. No matter how many times he told her, she wouldn’t understand. He couldn’t tell his friends either; they’d just say he was imagining things and tell him to “Man up, dude.” 

Ever since that first time, Peter awoke every night to the creepy old woman at his bed. He never knew her name. He never knew why he couldn’t breathe or why he couldn’t move. He never knew what she wanted with him. But one day, that woman would speak, and her words would change Peter’s life forever. 

-Daevone Molyneux

Never Sleep Again

  

I can´t remember the last time I slept. I think I live a normal life, like everyone else. I’m a regular woman with regular hair and regular friends. I have a regular job, with a regular car, and a regular apartment. I don’t party often and I live in a quiet neighborhood where police cars are as uncommon as four leaf clovers. But I will never sleep again.

I can’t remember when the nightmares started, but all I know is that they never stopped. My mind loves to torture me with many levels of hell and to sleep is like playing a game of Russian Roulette. I’ve been eaten by goons and goblins. I’ve fallen down an abyss so dark I couldn’t see my flailing arms and legs. Strange creatures break down my door and carry me off to strange lands where I’m forced to forever serve them. I see myself killing without control, for no reason whatsoever, as if I need a fresh coat of blood on my hands like my lungs need oxygen.

I wake up screaming every morning and for the last few days, my nightmares have followed me in my everyday life. I can’t help but check over my shoulder every few seconds for goblins and gargoyles. I don’t eat steak with knives anymore, as I’m afraid I might have murderous thoughts. 

I’ve thought of getting help and seeing a psychiatrist so I could get some peace of mind and some shuteye, but that would do more harm than good. They’d think, no, they’d know I’m crazy and they’d send me to live in some nuthouse in the middle of nowhere. I can already feel my neighbors’ ridicule. “You remember Janice down the road? Well she went mad and claims that ax murderers had been stalking her. I always knew that owning so many damn cats was bad for your health.”

The best thing to do is stay awake. The nightmares have started to creep into my day, but that’s nothing compared to what I go through when I close my eyes. For now, I have a cup of coffee and a three month bulk supply of 5 Hour Energy. 

I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure I never sleep again. If that even means cheating death, so be it. 

A New Direction

 

I would like to thank you for all the wonderful comments and support. You are limitlessly fantastic and I hope you know how much you’ve made me laugh, smile, and beam with pride from your wonderful words.

I’ve gotten requests to write more short stories here on this blog and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to post much more frequently throughout the week with new flash fiction pieces. I’ll still blog a few rants and observations about life, reading, and writing, but this blog will now feature more stories than ever before. 

If there’s anything you’d like me to write about, please leave a comment below, I would love to hear your opinion. 

There will be a brand new flash fiction piece tomorrow, and it’s unlike anything I’ve ever done before, so I’d love to know what you think of it.

Once again, thank you for being the supportive fantastic creature you are. I’m amazed at how far a few words can travel across the world and reach us all. Stay tuned, we’re about to have all kinds of fun. I hope you’re having a fantastic day. 

What Am I Working On? Say Hello To “The Sanguis Jewel”

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September 9, 2014 was an important day for me. It marked the day in which I wrote the final words to my novel and wrote those beloved words every writer dreams about: “The End”. I have discussed this novel a little bit in the past, but I didn’t want to say too much until the second draft was complete. But guess what? The second draft is finished, so now I’m about to spill the beans on my current work in progress (WIP): The Sanguis Jewel.

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What To Do When Your Motivation Has Dried Up

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I recently went through a rough patch with my writing. During the past month or so, I became lazy, disinterested, and flat out discouraged to write. But I didn’t know why. I’m sure we can all relate to that same feeling at one point or another in our lives. Maybe it wasn’t with writing. Maybe you’ve lost your passion, your drive and determination to keep going. If so, then strap on your seatbelt. This blog post is for you.

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How Do I Write? A Writing Process Blog Tour

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Hey guys. Before we get started, I want to thank Raytchul (@WreckingRaytch) for giving me the opportunity to talk about my writing process and how I do what I do. She’s currently writing an apocalyptic fantasy novel, so that should be a delicious read when it’s finished. She’s an immense friend who I’m grateful to have crossed paths with and somebody whose opinion I value with the utmost care. Check out her blog when you get a chance and read her insightful posts here: Wrecking Raytchul.

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The Greatest Gift You Could Ever Give A Writer

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Writing is a solitary act. We scribble endlessly across a sheet of paper or assault keys with those pointy thing-a-ma-jiggers we call fingers. If you’re friends with a writer, you probably know the freakishly perfectionist tendencies they have and their stone cold dedication to their craft. Writers are mysterious creatures, as mystical as unicorns, yet as human as angels. With that being said, writers are complicated. Have you ever wanted to give something to a writer you know, but don’t know what to get them?

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