Description

Today, I wanna talk about my inability to write long stories. If you've been reading my posts, you'll notice that they're all really short; and while I'm not obsessed with lengthening what I write, I realise that this is a skill that I'll have to pick up sooner or later in my writing career.

Without further ado, here's a list of my shortcomings when it comes to writing stories.
There are supposed to be more than this but I'm pretty damn sleepy right now, sorry >:

I'm not good with names -
Most of my characters don't have names. I'm kinda trying to justify this as a writing style, so readers would stop focusing so much on the unnecessary details and pay more attention to the story itself, but I had a change of heart after realising how ridiculously stupid it sounded. Additionally, I'm extremely picky about names. Probably about 90% of the names that come up in my mind sound really weird; it's like most of them are meant to be slapped on characters of a funny story. Here, observe - what do you think of when I mention, "Tom, Peter, Jake, Jerry, Edward," just to name a few. Although it might be from watching too much cartoons when I was younger.. sue me. And although I really like my stories better if my characters are nameless, even more so in short stories because I can get away with it, names will be more important when it comes to writing a book.

Not a big fan of descriptions -
Now I'm not saying that I dislike descriptions, but can you imagine a whole thousand-word paragraph with a huge bulk of it just being descriptions of various things; how boring would that be? The trick is to describe just enough for readers to visualise the rest of the scene themselves. Being a reader myself, I don't want three paragraphs of how a market looks like. Good descriptions are short, but allows me to create the rest of the scene with my imagination. That, to me, is what separates good writers from the amateurs.

Perfectionist -
I don't want to make it seem like I'm bragging like it's something to be proud of. Well maybe it is, in small dosages, but sometimes, I can delete entire stories when I reread them and feel like they no longer flow like I initially thought they would. More than anything else, I find myself hooked on stories with sentences that get along well with each other. Since then, I try my best to ensure that my posts; be it stories or just a simple rant, end up the same way. Just in case you're wondering, one such writer whom I absolutely admire is Lisa Foiles. Here's one of her many amazing articles - CLEEK ME
Oh and for the record, I don't like her just for her huge boobs. Just saying.

With that, you now know why I don't update as often as I'd like to, and why they usually end up short. I've always found reasons to justify myself, until actually attempting to write a book got me thinking that not only do I have a long way to go, I have an entire mountain to climb.

Wish me luck!

Prologue

Start Transmission - (static)Fugitive report. Serial number 64739, has escaped the facility (static). Captured for multiple counts of (static) murder, abduction, and (static) drug dealing. Fugitive is highly dangerous; advised to (static) pursue in groups and proceed with extreme (static) caution.

Repeat.

Start Transmission - Fugitive report (static)...

The broken computerized voice continuously echoed throughout the compound. Of course, nobody was listening to it; that's because no one was around.

The facility was abandoned, but it wasn't always so. Not too long ago, it was a place where gifted scientists conducted experiments of all kinds;  pharmaceutical drugs, biochemical research, nanotechnology  - you name it, they've done it.

Styx Research Facility - in pure, platinum blocks greeted all who approached the main entrance. You won't see them anymore; they've been stolen by petty thieves ever since it shut down. Bright lights illuminated the compound the night before, but everything was taken away the following morning. All two hundred and fifty employees packed their bags and left, without an indication of why they have to leave, or where they were headed to.

All that was left were rows of work desks in their proper positions; and a few lit emergency lights coupled with the occasional splutters of sparks from loose wires hanging dangerously low from the ceiling.

Styx was the model of success for any organisation; a financial titan, an ostensibly benevolent cologomerate.    

Unstoppable.

Infallible.

Until Subject 64739 broke free.

Ideal

You know, I wrote a whole bunch of stuff here before coming back a few hours later and realising that it was utter nonsense. So in lieu of that, please enjoy this 3-line post as a testament of my latest bout of writer's block.

It's like trying to take a shit but only managing to fart.

:[

Butterfly Effect

The Titanic incident teaches us that nothing is invincible, and that even something as massive and powerful as that very liner, can be undone by a seemingly worthless and insignificant iceberg placed on a seemingly random location leading to the events that unfolded thereafter. 

We learn from the Butterfly Effect that a random instance from a random object at a random time has the ability to indirectly alter the course of history - "The flapping of a butterfly's wings has the potential to trigger a course of events that will eventually lead to the formation of a tornado in another part of the world."

In the end, it doesn't matter how much money you make, or how high up the ladder you've climbed; everyone will fall. This is why chaos is embraced: all will be made equal.

Trance

Something I wrote awhile back.

Every morning marks another day I grieve over your passing.The bright shining sun beams at me, as if to assure me that it'll be a better day. Somehow though, all I get is a shiver down my spine.

The vivid vision if your death will forever be etched in my mind,replaying itself, over and over again, like a damaged tape.

Yeah, damaged, just like my soul. Scarred beyond recognition,like a heart set alight, and as I burn inside, people around me resume their everyday activities, like I wasn't even there. But then again, why should they. Who am I that they should grieve with me. After all, you didn't mean half to them like you did to me. Every fibre of my body tells me to pick myself up and move on, but whenever I see a picture of you and me,the floodgates open once again, and I'm left drowning in my own tears.

As I drag my feet to the kitchen in a desperate attempt to nourish myself, I catch a whiff of our neighbor's trademark bacon and eggs. I remember you telling me that you could cook better than that, and then proceeding to prove yourself right, like you always do. The kitchen isn't helping at all,nor is any other part of the house.. our house. Even when I read the papers, I can hear you reading parts of it aloud.

My day ended right when it began. I wake up trying to pick up the pieces, only to return with the dread that there're more lying around. The only thing I could think of was the day I stood in front of the mangled remains of a car with my heart in my mouth. It had to be a joke, I just knew it. You would come out from behind a nearby tree calling my name. The person behind the wheel wasn't you. The blood that stained your beautiful white blouse wasn't yours. The doctor who called for me upon emerging from the operating theatre wasn't real. You should've been here, sleeping soundly while I held you in my arms.

Even today, my eyes see but my mind refuses to register. But somewhere in my unconvinced heart, I feel a faint tug, suggesting that I'll never be able to touch your silky soft skin for as long as I live. But the notion of suicide never crossed my mind. For if I die, I might never see your face again.At the very least, I can smell your favorite perfume, look through our photos, and watch our favorite shows. Sometimes, I can feel that special warmth only you are capable of giving, and sometimes, I can't feel anything at all,just the morning breeze caressing my face. It's like you're drifting in and out, making sure I'm okay.

I guess you'll never be able to hear these words that depart my lips, as much as I want you to.

I miss you.

Parents

Now don't get me wrong, I love my parents and I'd definitely take care of them even when they're old and grey. But where does one draw the line in being filial?

Here, let me paint a scenario: you want to backpack with a friend abroad, but your parents won't let you because they're afraid for your safety. 

It's a simple analogy, but it's something most of us have experienced in one way or another. Out of respect, you give in and listen to them. They're not doing anything wrong; they're just worried because they care for you, even though you know that deep inside, it's not something easy to swallow. Are you going to let your years slip by in "safety" just because you're obligated to obey your parents? Are your parents slowing you down, knowing that disobeying them would have most certainly led to a more fulfilling life?

To be honest, I don't have an answer to that. As a person who is stuck in a similar situation, it leaves me much to think about. Obviously, your parents are the main reason you're even here in the first place, and you have the duty of taking care of them like how they took care of you; but surely there's a limit somewhere - you can't surrender every single one of your dreams to your parents' whims, because eventually, it's your life that you're living. Not to sound heartless, but your parents won't stick around forever either, and by the time they're gone, perhaps it's already too late to make up for lost time.

It's normal for parents to use their past experiences to discern what's right or wrong for you, but it's nor necessarily the best method. While it's probably the only tool they're equipped with, they sometimes forget that the world is ever changing, and what's conceived as unfavorable then may not be the case today. Parents are humans, and humans are part of society after all; they, like everyone else, judges by a set of made up rules by society itself and therefore, completely unreliable. 

At the end of the day, parents are supposed to stop you from falling, not suffocate you. The onus is on you to determine which is it. Don't give stupid shit like I feel suffocated because they won't buy an iPhone for me. Fuck you.

Seriously though, don't let your parents stifle your dreams. Look after them, care for them, but don't let anyone stop you from living your authentic life.

Escape

It has been a while now, since I've been safe for this long; well, long enough to send this out.
Here I go.

Hi, my name is Benjamin Lestrange, and this is my story.

I'm constantly on the run, from whom or what, I'll probably never know; but one thing for sure, is that time is running out. I know I'm being chased, I can sense its breath; sometimes so close behind me that the hair on my back stands. But I don't look back, I can't afford to. Every step less that I take sends me closer and closer to my almost inevitable demise. But I'm not ready to surrender, no not yet. I just keep doing what I've been doing all this while, without a second thought about defeat.

I just keep running.

Oh sorry I forgot to mention, it's like a cave in here - pitch black and creepy, like the ones I'd see in cartoon shows as a kid, except that I'm not laughing now. There are times when I felt like it though, to just laugh at my predicament and give up altogether, but something in me kept pushing me on, and I did, clinging on to the ever fading hope that the end was in sight. I'm still subscribed to the very same belief today, not because I'm an optimist, but it's the only thing I have left - stubborn hope.

I used to be like you, like everyone else, minding my own business. The town I lived in was simple, but we were happy. I still remember the people there who watched me grow up - the nursery teacher, the butcher from across the street, the ice-cream man who would swing by every morning with his white van, bringing frozen treats to all the children.

It started with the flyers - "From rags to riches - Come live and work in the city today!"
We were all used to the simple life, so the city didn't really appeal to us. There were also stories about the city, unpleasant ones. We were skeptical, but we didn't care; we were happy and that was all that mattered Most of us shrugged the flyers off.
Don't fix what ain't broken.

But one went.

The promise of a better life came like gentle whispers and smooth hands caressing his cheek. Tired of his average life, he packed his bags and left. I still remembered that day, and more so, because that dawn painted a sanguine picture; but the desperate pleas of his wife and children not to go, made it almost comical that two contrasting instances could happen side by side. We tried to talk him out of it, but we knew that the moment he set off, he was lost. We saw his silhouette dancing past the clusters of trees and into the dense forest that led to the city.

He never came back, but the darkness came.

We thought it was just another storm, when the dark clouds came rolling in. The following morning came and I opened my eyes; or at least I thought I did, but I couldn't see a thing. Then I heard screams from a distance and panicked. Fumbling about for the door, I bolted out and kept going. I saw pairs of glowing red eyes all over the place, and the fate of the people was a forgone conclusion. They were consumed, not killed. The screams were cut off midway, like a curtain being drawn to block the sun. I wasn't going to stay there for another second - I ran for it.

Two of them saw me, and they gave chase.

I have no idea where I am now, and I still have no idea what those things look like; well, other than their hate-ridden eyes. I haven't seen a living soul for the longest time. I seem to have lost them, for now, so here I am, hoping that someone can read this, and if you are, I beg to God you'll listen to me - don't go to the city, or they'll come for you, and the people you know and love.

I hear the growls now, I have to go.
For some reason, I gave those two things names; it helps lighten the mood -

Greed and Power.