Psych Ward

Copyrighted


It was hard seeing him like this. Being led through dreary halls, probed with needles, stuck in rooms with no windows. But I held his hand the whole time.

They couldn’t see me.

Whenever we would have a minute alone he’d glance at me, piercing gray eyes that didn’t belong in that grimy, unshaven face.

“This isn’t fair,” He rasped.

“I know.” I placed my hand alongside his face. My pale skin glowed against his rough exterior.

“I just want to be with you.” A tear made a visible path down his face.

“I know sweetheart. But I’m always here.”

“They won’t let me see you sometimes.” He started to get angrier. “They won’t let me talk to you. I can’t touch you!” He shook at the restraints he was in.

I kissed his forehead gently.

” I’m always here. I’m right here with you.”

The men came and got him again. They started leading him somewhere new, somewhere I hadn’t seen. I had to run to keep up.

“Where are you taking me?” His legs went limp, but the men dragging him along didn’t miss a step. They had dealt with this before.

“Tell me where we’re going!”

“We’re just going to help you Mr. Jones.”

“My name is not Jones!” He screamed like an animal, he kicked, he bit, he swore. It tore my heart into pieces.

“Maria?!” He called behind him.

“I’m here baby,” I said softly, tears choking me. “I’m here.”

“Maria!”

“I’m right here. I’m always with you.” But as I said the words I knew something was about to happen.

They led him through a door and it slammed in my face. I reached for the knob but couldn’t grasp it. This had never happened before.

I rushed to a large window. The glass was too thick, the walls had to much padding. He couldn’t hear me. He couldn’t see me.

He thought he was alone.

The men hefted him onto a table and strapped his legs down. He arms were still stuck in that horrendous jacket. His chest was pinned against the cold metal.

I could see he was screaming, the veins popping out of his neck.

“I’m still here!” I screamed.

A long needle was presented to a man with gloves on.

“No. You can’t do this! He’ll forget me!” I wailed as I pounded on the glass. Nobody in the room noticed me.

The needle was inserted into his arm. Even as it was drawn out I could feel it.

I was the ghost inside his head. And they were forcing me out.

“I can’t leave him! He needs me! He loves me!” I hit the glass with my failing strength.

“It’s been so long since he held me,” I whimpered. I was starting to go and I couldn’t even tell him good-bye. It was the car crash all over again. I could see him, but he couldn’t see me.

“Don’t make me go,” Even I could hardly hear my own voice.

They were giving him some sort of medication. I barely caught the pills being forced down his throat as my legs gave out and I sank to the floor.

I tried to tell him that I loved him but the words wouldn’t come out.

My world became white.

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The Ghost Writer (3)

(Copyright)


Her attacker stood over her, face hidden in a shadow. Casidi’s side burned again. It’s like it never stopped.

“Casidi,” the sinister voice said hoarsely. “You’re about to be saved.”

Casidi didn’t even have time to be confused. There was a loud clang and her attacker fell to the side, revealing Dean holding a trash can lid.

“Cas! Come on.” He grabbed her hand and helped her up. Suddenly her side was healed.

“Dean, what’s going-“

“Who’s Dean?” He replied.

“That’s… that’s you.”

“No. I’m Charlie.”

“What?” Casidi stumbled as he pulled her along. “You look like Dean. Where are we going?”

“San Antonio.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s where we’ll find answers.”

Casidi’s alarm buzzed her back to reality. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and took a moment to realize how weird it was for her to continue a dream the next night. As far as she could remember, that hadn’t happened before.

Her eyes roamed to her typewriter, almost subconsciously.

A fresh page, typed up. There was part two of her dream.

Casidi found Dean at lunch.

“You were there this time. You saved me from the guy who stabbed me.”

“I have been trying to tell you I’m the man of your dreams.”

“Except your name was Charlie.”

“Whoa, who’s Charlie?”

“You.”

“But I’m Dean. Why wasn’t I Dean in your dream? Do you not like the name Dean or something? I could change my name to Charlie if you feel that strongly about it.”

“Oh good grief,” Casidi laughed. “I like your name. I don’t know why you were Charlie.”

“You know, I read this article about how you never see new faces in your dreams. Always someone you already know. So maybe you were just using my face, and that guy isn’t supposed to be me.”

“Maybe. I wonder whose face the attacker had.”

“Who knows. Anymore weird typewriter incidents?”

“Yes, actually. Just like last night, every detail typed up to perfection. There was even a misspelled word crossed out.”

“Huh. What have you been eating before bed? More importantly…” Dean leaned across the table. “What have you been drinking?” He cracked a smile.

“A Dr. Pepper.” Casidi stuck her tongue out at him.

“Mystery solved! Don’t drink Dr. Pepper.”

“I had water the night before.”

Dean huffed and crossed her arms. “Stop poking holes in my half-baked theories.”

A Break From Reality

Time to inject some fiction back in my blog. Here’s a little idea I was playing around with.


Casidi Porter was slowly bleeding to death. She had escaped her attacker ten minutes ago and was being the chased through the dizzying streets of her city, holding in the gushing red liquid as best she could. The pain from the stab wound was unbearable. Her side burned with an intensity she had never felt before.

She heard footsteps, quick and heavy. Her heart leapt into her throat and she staggered along the alley wall faster. Any moment now the cold-blooded killer would be upon her. The lamplight from the street was not enough to navigate the dark pathway and she tripped over a garbage bag. She could hear the man’s breathing now, so peculiarly calm while she was in such a panic. Casidi wanted to cry out in agony and despair but she refrained.

“Where are you going, Casidi?” the sinister, smooth voice called from the beginning of the alley. It had a silken undertone that would’ve been comforting if the voice was not so cold. Casidi couldn’t hold back the whimper threatening to escape her lips.

“I’m coming for you, Casidi.” his laugh then echoed around her, bouncing off the brick walls and crashing into her ears. Casidi had only moments before he finished her off.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Casidi shot up from her dorm room bed in a cold sweat. She frantically grasped her side, checking for the wound, but her hand came back free from the sticky red blood. Her clock informed her it was 5:12 am. She needed to get up in 45 minutes anyway, and there was no way she getting back to sleep. Casidi decided to start her day early.

Her room was dark and deathly quiet. She didn’t have a roommate, she was the extra person at the end of the hall. As she crossed the small space to the bathroom, she noticed something odd. Something had been typed up on her typewriter. She examined it closer and discovered, in shock, that it was her dream. Her dream had been typed up in every detail, from the pain of the stab wound to silky smooth tone of her assailants voice.

She didn’t remember doing that last night. She had just woken up.There it was though. Every breath, every footstep, every drop of thick red liquid that had splattered onto the cobblestone ground.

She settled on the insane notion that she had written the entire thing up in her sleep. But a doubt tugged at the back of her mind. The spelling was perfect, correct grammar, interesting sentence structure…. it was written up like a mystery novel.


I would love some feedback for this. It was my mom’s idea and I have a couple interesting thoughts concerning it. Please talk to me 🙂

Don’t Fool Yourself

Here is my favorite writing tip:

You don’t write the story.

Yep, it’s true. You aren’t doing the work. You set it up, sure. You have some vague notion of where the plot is going. You probably even have an ending in mind.

But you don’t write the story.

That is the job of your characters. As soon as you create them, don’t try to control them. They have become living beings in your computer or notebook. They have brains, hearts, emotions. They will do what they please.

If you realize this, life will be so much easier. I’m sure many of you writers already have, but this writing rule is just beautiful to me.

Maybe I’m weird. I mean, I am weird, but maybe weirder than I think.

Anyways, let your characters loose in your pages.

What are your favorite writing rules? I would love to hear them!

The Writer I Wish I Was

With my current reading list, I’ve come to almost idolize two writers who are completely new to me. Not the people themselves, but their flawless writing style.

These two writers are John Green and Ayn Rand.

ouch
Okay (hahahaha John Green joke. It hurts.) if you’ve read any John Green, I’m sure you’ve noticed his extensive, almost over-the-top vocabulary. Well I love it. I think it’s beautiful and charming and it added so much to the story for me. I loved his use of the English language, besides the cussing. I could do without that. Reading The Fault in our Stars was like reading poetry. Acceptable poetry.

Now, Ayn Rand is a completely different story. I’m reading Atlas Shrugged and I am constantly finding myself in awe of the woman’s genius. That’s the only way I can describe her writing. It’s bleak, and technical, yet so very descriptive. She thought of ways to describe characters that had never occurred to me before. She has created an entirely new scope of imagination for me.

atlas
I realize that, as a writer, I have to find my own voice, my own writing style. But if I could choose, it would be an equal mix between these two incredible writers.

The Midnight Society {part 3}

My Monday schedule: wake up, eat breakfast, worry that I didn’t get all my projects done. Go to math class, worry that I didn’t get all my projects done. Read for an hour, worry that I’m forgetting something. Eat lunch, talk to phoebe, worry… well you get the picture.

            It’s not that I’ve ever actually forgotten an assignment or haven’t finished in time. I just worry about it. A lot.

That particular Monday however, I had an evening appointment.

            The mansion looked so different in the daylight. It was well-kept but the magic of the classical music and lanterns was gone. Phoebe and I hesitantly approached it, senses tingling. Her heels clicked against the stone walkway while my Converse remained silent.

            I was about to knock but the door was opened before my closed fist made contact with the splintering wooden door.

“Come in,” Branden himself ushered us inside. Phoebe and I exchange a wary look, but she followed closely at his heels.

“So what’s going on? You didn’t give much of an explanation last night,” Phoebe said. Branden gave her a mysterious smirk, but remained silent.

            Jason walked by us in one of the halls. I almost didn’t recognize him, if hadn’t been for those eyes. His hair was a wavy mess and he wore jeans and a V-neck tee. He glanced at Branden quickly, but other than that he remained stoic, not acknowledging me or Phoebe.

            I tried not to be bugged by it. Honestly, we had only talked for like three minutes. But we had kind of flirted. Well I flirted. Maybe he wasn’t flirting. Ugh. Whatever.

            Branden led us to the overly-large living room. It was still devoid of the usual furniture and there were nine other people there. They all gave Phoebe and I an odd glance, but then continued whispering among themselves.

            Branden gestured for us to join the tiny crowd and we did so, as he moved to the front like he had last night.

“So I’m guessing you’ve heard of the CIA?” He started.

Um, was this a trick question?

“And the FBI. And the NSA. And MI6. All those?”

Those of us in the crowd nodded warily, not positive where he was going with this.

“Well you probably don’t know that they’re constantly recruiting college kids, such as yourselves. In case you haven’t figured it out yet, which I’m sure you have or else you wouldn’t be here, my job is to seek out those worthy of recruitment.”

Ok, this had to be some sort of college prank. Branden couldn’t be serious. This was too ridiculous.

“I see your faces, your expressions of disbelief, of doubt. Rest assured, I am very serious. I am an agent for one those agencies, as is almost everyone at the gala last night.”

Jason was a secret agent? A spy?

I glanced at Phoebe to see if she was buying this. Not only was she buying it, it looked like she was stocking up on it, eyes glued to Branden. There would be no dragging her away from this.

“So, why don’t we get started. If you’ll look to the back,” All heads turned simultaneously. “You’ll find a table with a change of clothes for you. You should have no problem finding your size.”

It was obvious that was our cue. As the eleven of us headed back to find whatever he was talking about, he told us that there were plenty of rooms upstairs to change in.

On the table, there were uniform workout clothes, grey sweatpants with dark blue tanktops. Sure enough, it wasn’t hard for Phoebe and I to find the right sizes. We headed upstairs together to get changed.

 

The Midnight Society { part 2 }

A little while back I posted the first installment of the Midnight Society. I hope you enjoy this second part.

 

After our dance was over though, I didn’t talk to Jason Clyde again that night. I danced with two other perfect gentlemen, one named Justin, the other, Kameron. I saw Phoebe dance with several men including both Branden and Jason. I couldn’t help but wonder why Branden didn’t ask me to dance.

            Around 2 a.m. Branden stepped onto the musician’s stage to make an announcement.

“I believe this has been put off long enough. Those of you who were invited are probably wondering why.”

I felt Phoebe move to my side.

“Well I’m afraid I can’t quite tell you yet,” There were subtle groans from the few in the crowd that had been expecting answers, including me. “But, I can tell you this. As you know already, this is a society. An exclusive one. A dangerous one.” He paused long enough for me to whisper to Phoebe.

“What on earth is he talking about?” She just shrugged, still glued to the ruggedly handsome Branden.

“But if you’re up for it stick around. If you don’t have time, think I’m joking, or aren’t ready for some excitement and danger then I would ask you to leave.”

Someone scoffed in the back. “Are you serious?” A male voice called.

Branden gave him a cold stare. “Deadly.”

I heard shuffling. “Whatever. I’m out of here.” He left and was shortly followed by about a dozen other people, laughing about the ridiculousness of the party.

            Phoebe and I looked at each other. I had a feeling we were on the verge of something fantastic, life changing even. I wasn’t sure I was ready. Branden was a statue up there, the very picture of seriousness.

I saw the sparkle in Phoebe’s eye. She wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

So neither was I.

“Well that was over half our recruits. I guess that means my little speech was a success,” He gave the crowd a smile and there was chuckling from the members of the society, like it was an inside joke. I suppose it was.

“The rest of you will report here tomorrow evening at seven for initiation. Goodnight ladies and gentlemen,” And quick as that he was ascending the stairs.

“I guess that’s our cue to leave,” I said. Phoebe nodded, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the mysterious figure of Branden Gates. I pulled her out the door and to her car. We chatted about the guys we had danced with, the dresses the other girls wore, and we pondered what was so dangerous about the Society I think we had just joined.

I’m not positive I was ready to find out.