#writerwoman

[ix-c-999]

writergender

a gender that is experienced through or because of writing.

when writergender is its own gender, it may feel like the following: -instead of being a man or a woman, you are a writer -your gender feels like a story you are writing -talking about your gender feels like talking about a writing project -the way writing makes you feel is also the way this gender makes you feel -a gender that feels creative, literary, verbal, expressive, imaginative, insightful, or any adjectives one would associate with writing

when writergender manifests alongside another gender (e.g. writermasculine, writerxenic, etc.), it may involve the following:

-your gender changes to match that of the characters you're writing about -you write about gender and experience gender more strongly as a result -you lean into masculine/feminine/etc. archetypes of writers -you believe your style of writing is masculine/feminine/etc. and see this as part of your gender itself

this can relate to any kind of writing (e.g. fiction, non-fiction, fanfiction, academic writing, etc.) and does not have anything to do with the frequency with which the person writes.

one can substitute "gender" with whatever gender one feels. e.g. writermasculine, writerwoman, etc.

this can be experienced as a xenogender but is not inherently one.

this post has no DNI

[therunawaywriter]

“Shadows at Night” - KMBradshaw

[jehloo-blog]

Ester

      Ainda de frente para a tela brilhante do notebook, ela encarou o branco da ausência de palavras. Frustração, seria uma palavra possível, ao menos para começar. Estava prometendo para si mesma que, assim que começassem suas férias, empenharia-se em escrever. Mas, escrever o quê? Nada lhe vinha! Ela sentia sempre que tinha um potencial, uma possível história grandiosa ou um pequeno esboço de uma personagem carismática e complexa. Em seu âmago, sentia-se especial, com muito para contar. Mas nada se desenvolvia.

     Já havia tomado quase toda a garrafa de café, mais pela força do hábito. Era uma forma de ocupar-se, para se sentir menos improdutiva. Já havia dado várias voltas pela sala, pela casa, verificou a caixa de e-mail. Mas que bela escritora! Sem ideias, sem conteúdo algum. Uma casca oca, onde apenas havia ecos de uns pensamentos rasos. O que poderia escrever? Tudo lhe parecia tão clichê. Ela tinha muito medo de parecer brega ou repetitiva, de apresentar “mais do mesmo” e cair em esquecimento. Seu maior pesadelo era apresentar algo medíocre. E nesses momentos de bloqueio criativo, sentia que era apenas mais uma. Não possuía nada de especial e, de fato, não teria nada de incrível para escrever sobre.

     Nessas ocasiões, nenhum esforço mais valeria a pena. Todo seu mundo já havia perdido o encanto. Sua vida era enfadonha, sem grandes personagens, e ela mesma, constantemente, assumia o papel de coadjuvante. Nada de novo sob o sol, dia após dia, em sua rotina monótona de trabalho. Havia tempo que sentia sede de algo diferente, mal podia esperar por suas férias, para que pudesse, finalmente, sentir-se. Mas quando passou a ter tempo, faltou-lhe experiências. Sempre sonhou em ser escritora, mas tudo parecia agora uma grande ilusão. “Não sirvo pra isso. Não é minha vocação”. Parava para analisar sua vida, pensando o que serviria de material para uma boa história. Quem se interessaria por ela? Por aqueles dias quentes e lentos atrás de um balcão de um bar caído? Quem compraria um livro sobre uma mulher comum do interior?

     Passadas mais algumas poucas horas, ela já estava absorta em outros devaneios. Por fim, começou a pensar em uma velha amiga, com quem já não batia papo havia um bom tempo. Era muito simpática e muito determinada, e uma de suas frases favoritas era “A parte mais difícil sempre é o começo”. Quando ouviu em sua cabeça a voz alegre de sua amiga lhe dizendo isso, sentiu uma leve pontada no peito. Onde andaria aquela mulher? O que estaria fazendo? Sentiu uma imensa vontade de falar com ela, convidá-la para sua casa para fazer-lhe companhia. Imaginou como seria ter a amiga para rir juntas nas férias, tomar um café enquanto conversariam sobre assuntos banais ou pitorescos.

     Deitada no sofá, voltou a olhar para o notebook que estava na escrivaninha, um escritório improvisado. Agradeceu mentalmente à amiga pelo conselho, logo procuraria seu contato. Sentou-se novamente para escrever, repetindo para si mesma “a parte mais difícil sempre é o começo”, quase como um mantra. Se é a parte mais difícil, teria que superá-la. Talvez sua vida não fosse tão rasa, por mais trivial que poderia parecer. Decidiu narrar seus dias, começando por seu nome: Ester.

[uriska-uriska]

Hoy, el #diadelasescritoras os #recomiendo #eligieronserlibres de @alohaeditorial #chussanchez #julianasoler #lectura #libros #literatura #leoautoras #writerwoman #leoautoras https://www.instagram.com/p/B3o1Tm1ISnM/?igshid=63s5rdw481f8

[silviyawritingnook]

OBSTACLES IN MY WRITING LIFE | #AuthorProtagChallenge Day 3 . This is going to be a really long post. . It's been 2 years since I decided to change the direction of my life and to start writing a book. A fiction book. I've written several books but they were all non-fiction and law-related since I am also a lawyer and a university professor. . And here comes the first obstacle - my full-time jobs. They are so time- and energy-consuming that there are days that I have no energy left to write. I also travel a lot because the university where I teach is in another town. . But these aren't the main obstacles in front of me. . I will be honest. I'm AFRAID. Phew, I said it🙂. I am afraid that my book won't be as good as I wanted it to be. I am afraid because English is my second language. I am afraid that... Well, I'm afraid of so many things. . And the fear is what draws me back. I am constantly procrastinating because of this. I know it's the worst thing I could ever do. I know there is nothing to be afraid of. But somewhere there in the deepest cell of my brain there is this grain of fear that I cannot erase. . For a year and a half I was wondering what exactly I want from my life. I was reading how to write and being afraid to do the only thing that can teach me how to write - WRITE. I was justifying myself with the work I have and everything else. . So to conclude, the main obstacles in my writing life are fear and self-doubt. I am fighting with them but there are still moments when I'm not very sure in myself. And this is not good, at all. . . . #authorprotagchallenge #writingchallenge #writerschallenge #writingcommunity #writers #writersofinstagram #igwriters #authorsofinstagram #writing #amwriting #wipjoy #letsdothis #writerwoman #writerlounge #writersblck #writersproblems #writersblok #writerscomunityofinstagram #writersgonnawrite #writerdream #writersofinstagram #writersofig #writers #writerscommunity #writerslife https://www.instagram.com/p/BySaUfvA5Yx/?igshid=1mfaw6gx9c5p5

[aureadas]

Hello friends, I come to make a proposal. I have an epic novel that I have just illustrated and others that are on the way. You want to help me? In my blog @aureax.dixit (link in my biography) I explain better how you can do it. An idea has just occurred to me through the lack of models that I find to illustrate my novel, since I always choose real people to pinterest photographs. Through a free contract, on both sides, we will contact you to see if you can help me, while you will become one of the characters in my novel. They are not real portraits, they are exclusive character portraits for my novel. See the available vacancies in my blog. @aureax.dixit #characterdesign #man #beardman #beard #vikings #celtics #charcoal #illustration #art #pagan #portrait #fantasy #character #body #cuerpohumano #trazos #carboncillo #charcoal #ink #ilustradora #artistofinstagram #artista #escritora #novelafantastica #ilustracion #hombre #belleza #grises #blancoynegro #writerwoman (en Barcelona, Spain) https://www.instagram.com/p/B8HMgy4CICp/?igshid=1rg66jlnod1t8

[thesimplyunknowngirl-blog]

The Unknown Introduction

Hey guys!

So this is my first Tumblr blog and I am really excited about it. I have never used Tumblr before so I’m also equally nervous about this. This is my first post as an introduction but, guess what, I am not here to disclose my identity. Like my blog title says, Unknown ko Unknown hi rehne dete hain! But giving a bit of a background won’t hurt either. So here goes!

I am a 28-year-old (soon to be 29) woman based in Mumbai. I am a Content Writer and Editor by profession and blogging is one of my hobbies. I had my own blog once upon a time, but with time it withered away. I had stopped writing for quite a while until I recently felt the desire to start again. After all, the internet is a kind place and for an insecure and overthinker woman like me, what can be a better platform to open her heart out?

I guess I will keep it short for my first post and let the mystery continue. Hope to write regularly and keep in touch with my internet community.

Cheers, guys! <3

[silver-flame-alchemist]

More changes coming. Found inspiration for my next book, so next is to follow my own advice: don't panic. Take your time. #writerwoman #writersofinstagram #editing #BeginnersGuideToTheUnderworld #InTheDark #EpicMashup #WhitewoodWriting #NewBook #StayTuned

[lizzstraight]

#grantwriting so much fun #notreally #lol not at all #writerwoman #writerlife (at Subculture Coffee)

[pwrites]

🗣🗣🗣E-BOOK GIVEAWAY!!!!🤗 Get your Sunday 📚 https://ift.tt/2TmM8DT SOILED SHEETS 👁 FREEEEE ON KINDLE APPS & DEVICES 📱 ALL DAY TODAY! ❤️ Read Dana and Marshall’s story of magnetic love 💕, betrayal 🙀, lust 👅, revelations 👩🏾‍🦳and trauma 🥺 https://ift.tt/2TmM8DT #amwriting #writerslife #lifeasp #imdoingit #getyours #writersofinstagram #writerwoman #authorlife #BelieveInUrself #itellstories #freebooks #kindlepaperwhite #kindleunlimited #kindlebooks #amazon #amazondeals #📚 https://ift.tt/2IKYtNN

[nikkesalvatore90]

Sim, eu engoli a alma do mundo. Após ficar meses entalada na garganta Agora ela faz novidade no meu estômago Eu sempre fui de intensidade, burocracia dispensável pra você. Que fazer? Há uma galáxia no meu pulso, um Universo na minha cabeça que hora calha numa xícara de café e hora desaparece numa página. #NikkeSalvatore #frases #artwoman #intensidade #frasestumblr #Tumblr #engolir #alma #Bukowski #café #estômago #Universo #novidade #xícara #galáxia #artsy #poesia #poesiadigital #inspiração #página #writerwoman #status #millenial #millenialwomen #art #artistry #vida #tcd #frasesinspiradoras #amor https://www.instagram.com/p/CBjdwTGB_Vd/?igshid=n1hpsr69ocxq

[jehloo-blog]

Tarô, magos e janelas

    Na quinta-feira passada, tive uma aula de uma disciplina chamada Filosofia da Ciência. Gostaria de escrever um pouco sobre como foi essa primeira aula do semestre (pelo menos sobre alguns pontos que surgiram na sala e na minha cabeça).

    Primeiramente, o professor pediu que nos retirássemos da sala. Fiquei esperando do lado de fora, enquanto lia para passar o tempo. Mas fiquei curiosa, afinal, já estávamos todos sentados. Mas ok, esperei. Quando voltamos para a sala, ele (o professor) havia preparado todo um “cenário” para nossa aula. Na mesa, havia uma toalha toda estampada, livros, incensos, pedras, velhas com óleos aromáticos. No chão, um pequeno vaso de cacto e outra vela. Todas as cadeiras também foram organizadas, direcionadas para a mesa cheia de objetos.

    Lembro que ele começou a falar um pouco sobre do que trata a filosofia da ciência, sobre como a filosofia antecede à ciência (campo de conhecimento que se separou da filosofia), sobre o mito da criação presente em todas as culturas, que responde à necessidade humana de obter respostas sobre a própria origem (chegou a ler o primeiro trecho da Bíblia Sagrada e do Alcorão). Também, em algum momento, pediu para que um aluno escolhesse uma carta de tarô (todas viradas para baixo). Coincidentemente, ou não, a cara tirada foi a do Mago, que, segundo o professor, é aquele que domina a matéria para criar narrativas que convencem aqueles que estão do outro lado da bancada (parecido com o cientista).

    Foram quatro pontos que observei, que foram abordados (pelo menos, são os de que me lembro um pouco mais). O primeiro, a partir da metáfora do mago como cientista, é sobre a ciência como narrativa. Lembro que, no ano passado, fiz uma disciplina sobre Sociologia da Ciência, que também tinha uma visão bem similar. De forma bem simplória, resumidamente, vi em Sociologia da Ciência que o campo científico (ou os campos científicos, pois há vários) segue uma certa lógica interna, e que a ciência não é neutra. O saber científico possui um prestígio dentro de uma comunidade científica e reflete o trabalho do cientista, que vive dentro de uma sociedade. Portanto, a ciência também funciona como uma narrativa.

    Não que devemos ser totalmente céticos, achando que tudo não se passa de teoria da conspiração (não, não sou terraplanista). Mas devemos pensar que nenhuma descoberta científica, seja de uma ciência natural ou humana, é totalmente neutra, como se não causasse nenhum tipo de impacto na sociedade ou não fosse reflexo da mesma. Basta pensar que, por muitos anos, as teorias eugenistas tiveram prestígio e espaço no campo científico. Portanto, é necessário nos apropriarmos das ciências, de suas descobertas, de suas consequências em nossas vidas. Não vou entrar nas questões da expertise, de como a linguagem científica é (na grande maioria das vezes) inacessível às pessoas leigas, pois isso renderia muito texto. Mas creio ser necessária uma maior aproximação das academias, dos centros de pesquisa, de cientistas com a comunidade, promovendo uma melhor alfabetização científica, um maior interesse sobre as ciências (naturais, sociais, exatas, etc). Pois todas essas produções de conhecimento, todas essas narrativas, dizem respeito a todos nós.

    Isso me lembra uma segunda imagem utilizada do professor, a dos olhos como janelas da alma. Mas por que disso? Ainda na discussão sobre a ciência ser uma narrativa, ele alertou para o fato de enxergarmos o mundo através de nossa própria perspectiva, de nossa própria janela. Então, a forma como experimentamos o mundo e narramos sobre o mesmo, é afetada por essa perspectiva. Mas, é possível viajar, adquirir conhecimento, trocar experiências com outras “janelas” para que possamos ampliar nossa vista. É possível e necessário que não nos limitemos apenas ao nosso quintal.

    Surgiram também outros dois “tópicos”, mas estes deixarei para uma próxima oportunidade. Por enquanto, contento-me em dizer que a aula foi mesmo muitíssimo interessante e contribuiu para ampliar mais a minha própria janela.

[irinatracy-blog]

Eeeeeeh, what did I say? Oh my, what am I gonna do with myself lol True story. Just because I have the vocabulary of a well educated sailor, doesn't mean I'm not a lady. 😂 . . . . . #excusemyfrench #fuck #ladylike #vocabulary #leo #leofacts #leofamily #leowoman #leomagic #leosign #becauseican #maybeishould #educatedlady #writingnight #writinglife #awriterslife #wordsarejustwords #wordsarewords #wordsmatter #wordstoliveby #rightwords #truewords #writers_together #writers_around #writerwoman #writerlove #writerslovewords #nolimitsoldiers https://www.instagram.com/p/B56W4x-hQtC/?igshid=h9taxmqttt60

[aureadas]

Finished one of the two personalized portraits that won the draw on March 18. The character chosen by my client is that of a Tolkien dwarf. Drawing someone anonymous is always somewhat enigmatic. The features of the face give me information for future characters. 👊🏻📚📚📚 . #compartirnocompetir 🐿 . Acabado uno de los dos retratos personalizados que ganaron el sorteo del pasado 18 de marzo. El personaje escogido por mi cliente es el de un enano de Tolkien. Dibujar a alguien anónimo siempre tiene algo de enigmático. Los rasgos del rostro me dan información para futuros personajes. 👊🏻📚📚📚 . #characterdesign #man #beardman #beard #vikings #dwarf #celtics #charcoal #illustration #art #pagan #portrait #fantasy #character #trazos #carboncillo #charcoal #ilustradora #artistofinstagram #artista #escritora #novelafantastica #ilustracion #grises #blancoynegro #writerwoman #lordoftherings (en Barcelona, Spain) https://www.instagram.com/p/B-KdGLICZ9u/?igshid=17zovzmrc4qx5

[silver-flame-alchemist]

What's next for me, you ask? Editing the rest of my books to bring them up to snuff. The next book is Straitjacket Memoirs, and you should look for it soon on Amazon too! #writing #writersofinstagram #writerwoman #writerwoes #writerwork #editing #publishing #selfpublished #DiamondIsBae #StraitjacketMemoirs #vampires #gothic #horror #noir #gothicnoir

[writerwoman-blog]

Nightmare#2

This was a dream...or a nightmare, that I had awhile ago and still remember in vivid detail. If some parts of it seem a little odd/confusion, it’s because that’s how I dreamt it. (:

I watched in awe as the sun’s rays burst into a miniature explosion of light on the plane’s aluminum surface. Its tail end receded into the distance, gaining tremendous speed in preparation for takeoff while at the same time appearing to decelerate the farther it progressed. Swallowed by the brilliance of the sun the enormous aircraft transformed into an insignificant speck at the end of the landing strip, practically vanishing from sight. I raised an elongated finger and positioned it just beneath the entirety of the plane that I still managed to see, providing myself with the illusion of balancing a two thousand pound machine on the tip of my finger. With boredom often comes the creativity of humouring yourself. The finale I awaited to alleviate my boredom finally arrived as the tiny aircraft defied gravity and terminated contact with earth’s surface. Ignorant of physics, it appeared to weightlessly climb an invisible road ascending above of the vividly orange sunset and through a veil of white cloud cover.   

I stepped away from the airport window, disappointed in my loss of entertainment. How long have I been waiting here?  I paced back and forth for a short moment until he arrived. A young male, no more than 15 walked through the terminal gate. Assessing his appearance, I immediately noticed his overly sun-kissed browned skin, messy brown hair, and dark brown eyes that masked any existence of having pupils. The assortment of three triggered thought of the word tri-force. Five individuals, all dressed in black suits and conveniently matching black shades identical to myself, stood up and approached the young boy. Strangers to each other, the six of us shared a common fate for the next ten minutes. The untidily dressed infantile young man slouching before us was it. He was our job.

“To escort Mr. Scott safely and hastily through the airport upon his immediate arrival and exit into a black limousine parked outside the southernmost entrance of the airport.”

The assignment description appeared effortless in words, but my training gifted me the skills of recognizing two important elements dwelling within its simplistic disguise. First, this young man was not born to the name Scott. This came obvious enough on its own for identity protection purposes. Second, the incredible lack of information within the job description silently exclaimed details of the seriousness as well as dangerousness of this ten minute escort job. Delegated under our protection, several of the most highly trained professionals in the industry exceptionally skilled in hand to hand combat and the art of tactical warfare, stood alone as a substantial enough basis to reveal the gravity of an operation. Leaving us in the dark increased its magnitude of severity exponentially. The thought instigated a dilapidating fear churning within my stomach. I wondered if it didn’t settle down, the agitated acid would soon dissolve my stomach wall and feast upon the rest of my organs. I fought the urge to collapse. Studying the expressionless faces of my associates, I wondered if they all hid behind an impassive mask the way I did. If the mind of each and every one of them was besieged with a hissing panic, and fought the monstrous fear that wrenched at their hands, begging them to connect with the ground. For a brief moment, I returned my focus to the vast airport window and was overcome with an intoxicating sentiment of nostalgia. Feeling melancholic, I found myself wishing I was a passenger on the weightless aircraft I fervently observed ascending through earth’s troposphere only moments ago. The thought of residing weightless in the congested confines of an airplane was a soothing thought despite the irrational anxiety and paranoia I and many others often associate with flying.  I guess any physical detachment from earth would be comforting at this moment compared to the incredibly unnerving mystery of the unknown in which my near future provided. Ten minutes may seem insignificant compared to the span of one’s life, but when one’s life lies in the fate of ten minutes, the cliché of relativity becomes insignificant.  The words of a poem I read years ago echoed in my mind.   What do you fear? Monsters? A lust for inciting terror. Spiders? Thin harry legs crawling on your skin. Snakes? Slimy creatures slithering around you. Vampires? Trust me, they don’t want your heart. The Criminally Insane? They don’t feel remorse. Sounds in the Dark? What are they? Guns? Twitch of a finger, you’re dead. The Dark? Anything can hide in the dark. Dying? Every second every day your life might end. Nothing? Nothing can be scary. Can you handle nothing?

Stop it! I need to focus. I have a task to complete and letting fear overtake my emotions will only render me useless in combat were it to become a necessity.

 The tallest man among us approached the young male.  Something about his posture and about the blank canvas he wore for a face was intimidating. He spoke, in an uncomfortably authoritative tone, “Mr. Scott. We have been appointed to safely escort you directly to the hands of Dr. Wilson who is awaiting your arrival in a limousine outside of this airport. You will not speak; you will not ask any questions. Please follow us.”  

The six of us immediately formed a human hexagon around the boy and started towards our destination. We moved swiftly in a deliberate synchronization, avoiding prolonged exposure to open and congested areas. We kept mainly to vacant hallways and turned every corner cautiously.  My heart skipped a beat for each corner and for every swift movement my peripheral vision never failed to notice. I voicelessly calmed myself after every false alarm, thanking my luck of being the tail of the group as no one could notice the brief twitches of fear that overtook control of my facial muscles. The southernmost entrance of the airport neared faster than expected. Has it really been almost ten minutes already? I would check my watch if it weren’t against the rules.

I wondered what it was about this boy that made him so desirable. Why is he so important to have professional combatants escort him through a public setting? Was his life always this exciting? This thrillingly dangerous? I stopped myself, remembering these were the kinds of things we were trained and hounded vehemently to not question, think about, or care about. This boy is a job, and a job alone. I ignored the fleeting spike of jealousy stabbing me in the stomach, and it was gone.   I felt relieved and bored as we approached the end of the final hallway to the southern entrance of the airport. Of course it felt uplifting knowing I accomplished an extremely significant assignment unharmed, but my animalistic instincts were too often overpowering for my control and left me desiring at least some sort of confrontation. Yearning to rip my gun out of its holster in a blindingly rapid motion. Enduring the spike of adrenaline jolt though my veins and every deafening and pounding beat of my heart while I sighted on a target, gripping a device that gave me the power to dictate a fate, or one’s doom.

 One more corner to turn and we would see the glass entrance doors, the limousine parked outside with a suspiciously over-sized “limo driver” standing in front of the vehicle. Dr. Wilson would step outside the limo greeting the young boy with gluttonous anticipation, I was sure. I wondered if the boy were some sort of science experiment. Or maybe he possessed some sort of super human genome.

Turning the final corner, I saw the glass doors scripted with “SOUTH C-5” in black bold lettering labelling the southernmost entrance of the airport. Later, I’m sure I’ll wonder how on earth I managed to notice the labelling marked across the door while a man wearing a filthily sadistic grin stood a few paces in front of the entrance, resting a grenade launcher over his shoulder pointing in our direction. Before terror had a chance to impale me, I felt shamefully hypocritical for complaining to myself that this was not the form of dangerous exhilaration I craved. This felt inconveniently and even embarrassingly inextricable. He had a terrifyingly lethal monstrosity of a firearm. We had pistols. And perhaps a genetically altered super human. Or maybe an alien from Krypton. Hopefully. I’m still not sure.

Before I could mentally process the obvious and rational question how he could possibly have managed to effortlessly waltz into an airport carrying a grenade launcher, I was interrupted mid-thought. An ear piercingly thunderous yell escaped his mouth. Did it catch the others as off guard as it did me? No more than a second later, I noticed a rapid protuberance of muscle that inhabited the length of his forearm, the arm that grasped the pistol grip. I threw myself onto the young boy who momentarily lost entitlement of priority for the abrupt second that confusion, panic, and horror was instantly bestowed upon each of us in the unexpected presence of this man.

For the first time, the world was tongue tied. Questions flooded my mind while silence responded. Blackness took place of colour. Am I dead? A surge of painful pressure forced itself from my chest up my throat. A cough. Certain that the dead couldn’t cough, I forced myself to regain consciousness. Wondering what on earth happened, my thoughts were replaced by a screeching hiss that quickly increased in pitch. As the voice of the outside world returned, it stung so vociferously in my ear drums forcing me to clasp the sides of my head with my palms. There must have been an explosion. I struggled to lift the shields inhibiting my vision. It felt as though my eyelashes were glued together. Upon the return of sight, I noticed I was lying on the ground. Above me bodies were tossed around by the intense blast wave like ragdolls. Tiny fragments of wall ripped through the air piercing the flesh of victims in their path. Massive shards were blown off of walls and crumbling around the scene. The extreme temperature circulating the air hungrily attempted to melt my skin further than the reddened tinge that took place of its originally pale pigment. A violent red stained the distance with flames that consumed what used to be the innards of an airport, and evoked cringingly agonizing screams from the victims it embraced.

Where was the boy I threw myself on to protect? Where was the man with the grenade launcher? How could a grenade launcher possibly set off what seems to have been a massive bomb? How am I not dead? Everything was much too incredibly surreal. A frantic part of me tried desperately to convince myself that none of it was real. This can’t be how my life is going to end. Everything I’ve ever known, everything I’ve ever aspired to be, amounts to nothing. It’s not possible. Is everyone that is given the uninvited opportunity of knowing their life is about to end propelled into such a painfully gut wrenching sense of denial?

Dazed and confused I lay on the ground struggling to move while every muscle I possessed resisted my control. My body teased me, only allowing control of my eyes. Studying my surroundings between the wreckage and thick haze of dust and smoke that fogged the air, I caught glimpse of a human figure, standing statuesquely still with hands so forcefully clenched their veins protruded to an unhealthy extent. His body stood only feet away from me allowing me to recognize his tousled brown hair and short stature. It was Mr. Scott. I focused on his face and caught the frightening glimpse of animosity gleaming in his eyes. His face looked hard as marble and cold as stone, and I could tell he was clenching his jaw. Every aspect of his facial features comprised a hostility that could sting a soul from a mile away. It evoked a new kind of fear inside me. A powerfully foreign fear. It reminded me of earlier when I fretfully feared the unknown danger my life may be in protecting Mr. Scott, but worse. Worse, because I knew an expression like that is fuelled by an extremely authoritative emotion. An emotion that does not depart silently.

At the end of a partially destroyed hallway, the smog of dust finally settled to the floor revealing another figure.  Facing Mr. Scott, standing just as still and looking just as ominously frightful was the man that carried the grenade launcher only moments ago. Something was noticeably different about him this time. Perhaps it was simply that I didn’t notice it the first time around because I was much too focused on his weapon. Or maybe I did see it, but my mind refused to notice what it did not believe. In the place of eyes were two hollow caves of blackness. His lips gleamed dark red. Long strands of messy black hair hung chaotically to his waist. Ghostly hands with pulsing violet veins hung motionless against his thighs. There was too much to notice about him. I could not fathom the reality of what my eyes displayed. Part of me refused to believe any of it. I wasn’t lying immobile on a majorly obliterated airport floor. I couldn’t see dead bodies sprawled in painful looking contortions across the floor. I wasn’t looking at what may or may not be a human breakthrough in genetic engineering. Or maybe this had nothing to do with humans. Maybe this was foreign to our planet.

In an unexpected split second my body was detached from the floor it stubbornly fastened itself to and was hurled through the air until colliding into the partial remnant of a wall that survived the explosion. Upon smashing into the floor below me, I was struck with disorientation and confusion. I shook my head to regain focus and spat a warm puddle of red. Did I break a tooth? I frantically searched for the two men I was previously watching and immediately regretted doing so when I found Mr. Scott returning my gaze. His originally brown irises were now the colour of crimson, glaring at me with a violent intent. However his glare was far less impossibly terrifying than the six translucent arms that floated mid air, appearing to come from his back. Was that what sent me flying through the air?

“GO NOW!” He cried. It was the first time I heard him speak. And I was thankful for that. He possessed a voice that could evoke a nauseating terror in the most imaginably horrifying monsters. It sounded similar to what one could imagine for the voice of Satan, I thought.

Frozen in fear, I unintentionally ignored his demand. I removed my focus from Mr. Scott and noticed the other man directing his gaze at me as well. A threatening humour masked his face. He grinned, revealing blindingly white teeth that ended in razor like tips, and his black hollow holes for eyes thinned, creating a look of concentration. Was he focusing on me? Immediately, I felt an unbelievable pain manipulating every muscle in my body. I could feel my veins expanding and contracting. It felt like electricity was running in my blood. How was he doing this? In worse pain than I could have thought possible, I remembered the pistol I had on me. I desperately forced my negligent arm to reach the weapon and remove it from its holster.

For the first time in what seemed like a lifetime, I felt a rush of hopefulness. Gripping the gun, I extended my arm and sighted on the man. Anticipating the exhilarating jolt of adrenaline that didn’t come, I prepared to pull the trigger when my finger disobeyed me. Every muscle in my body seemed to disobey me. Under an influence other than my own, my wrist twisted until the end of the gun was pointing at me. If I had time to cry, I’m sure I would.

 “NO!” Mr. Scott screamed and all six of his translucent arms flew at the man with remarkable speed and drove him backwards with impossible force, smashing him into a cement wall. But it was too late. I shot myself. I’ve changed my mind. This was the most painful experience I could imagine. I felt my mind slipping, getting heavier and lighter at the same time. I knew I was dying. Surprisingly, I wasn’t afraid or upset. I wasn’t filled with regret or denial like I would have expected. Instead, I was in a euphoric state of acceptance. It didn’t matter what else in life I could have accomplished, because nothing could amount to what the last minutes of my life provided. I’ve witnessed something extraordinary. I’ve seen what defies every societal claim that magic, or monsters, or something greater than all of us does not exist. That in itself was the most fulfilling thing I could have ever desired.

With only seconds left of life, I lay on the floor in a pool of my own blood looking past burning debris and shattered walls of the airport to the beautiful mixture of faded blues and oranges in the sky. I couldn’t hear it, but I could faintly make out a tiny blur floating through the air. A plane. For the first time this evening, I was glad I wasn’t its passenger. I felt sorry for everyone on it. Because they’ll never know what I know.