Here is the best piece of advice I can give you.

Do it for the plot!

You don't need a reason to do things. You wanna do something crazy? Do it for the plot, baby! I know you would make your main character do it if it advanced the plot, so why would it be any different for you? You're writing your own story, make it fun to read.

I remember everything.

Our first date, he took me to my favourite restaurant. Over a steaming pizza, we fell deeply in love. I knew I'd never be the same.

Our first time, he was gentle and caring. He touched me like one would with a butterfly and I soared in his embrace.

Our first apartment, he wanted us to live together. I was on cloud nine, always in his company. I''d never have to miss him.

Our first fight, he screamed with fury. Never had I heard such anger in a voice, his typically smooth voice was hoarse with rage.

I remember when he came back, crying. He apologized like no man ever had, and asked if I hated him. I told him I could never.

I also remember when the police first visited. They questioned us for hours about things I didn't understand. He held me and I felt that everything would be okay.

I remember when the police showed up again, breaking down the door of our home. They searched it all, throwing down everything without a care.

I remember finding a note on the refrigerator the next day. He had to leave, it said, to keep me safe. He also wanted to know if I hated him. I could never, I thought.

I remember the police coming back. They asked about him, wanting to know where he went. I wish I knew, I answered truthfully. Criminal, they called him.

I remember it all.

Our eyes meet and I know he remembers too. His gaze was always louder than his words. He missed me. I missed him too. I stare into his bright eyes turned dull. One thing weighs on his mind. Do you hate me?

Arson, they called it

But we knew better

A ritual it was

A cleansing in a way

Freeing the mortals

Making them worthy

Their sad souls we mended

And gave them to heaven

My fingers hover above the keys. There is nothing to say. It's all been said before. What was I thinking? What's the point of words if they're never new? Why say what's been said over and over before? I do not know what to write.

I could write about love. But my love is long gone. I am not made for love. I have tried time and time again but I cannot love. I am too cold, too distant. My heart cannot be one with another person's.

I could write about family. But I have never had one of those. No one wants to hear about a family torn apart by hatred and misery. The screaming, the shattered plates, the slammed doors are my burden.

I could write about life. But I don't have a life. Work has consumed me. I am just a machine, automated. I am nothing but a puppet and capitalism holds my strings, making me dance to its wicked song.

They say write what you know, but I know nothing. Today is another blank page. There is once more nothing to be said. I have lost myself and the words that my soul held.

Hush little girl

Don't talk about it

Don't let them know it hurts

If you want them to be happy

Hush little girl

Keep it for yourself

Keep a smile on your face

No one likes sad girls

Hush little girl

You can't fall down

You can't be broken

It costs too much to fix

Hush little girl

It's all in your head

It's all your fault

Everyone is gonna hate you

Hush little girl

The pain is small

The pain is fake

You just want attention

Hush little girl

It's just a scratch

It's temporary

You won't feel it tomorrow

Hush little girl

Be good

Be perfect

Don't be yourself

Hush little girl

Shut up

Shut up

You can handle it

Every scar, I want to kiss

Every wound, I want to heal

Each hurtful word you've heard

I'll replace it with my love

You deserve more than the world

All I can do, I will do

Take my humble affection

As a thank you for your care

I don't want you

At least I don't think so

But I need you

Or that is how it feels

Here's the problem

The thing that troubles me

They always say

It's when you know you know

But I am scared

Because with you, I don't

No, we can't. The butterflies that flutter in my stomach at the sight of you won't just die. My skin will always remember the electric waves that your touch sends through it. I can't unlearn the curves of your tattoos, the angles of your face or the way you just fit in my arms perfectly.

No, we can't. Not when I myself stripped in front of you. Of my clothes, yes, but of my shell as well, so that you could see my weakest spots. Not when I tore down the walls that protected me because that's you wanted.

No, we can't. Because it's your face that I see when I wake up. Because my y soul longs for you. Because my body begs to reunite with yours. Because I love you and I can't not. We just ca-

"Yeah, sure... "

*I wrote this a few years back for a school project. We had to invent a superhero's origine story and I thought I would show it.*

My name is Mors Susurro. Ever

since I was fourteen, I can communicate with the dead.

Actually, I have to talk to them. There is nothing I can do

to make them stop talking, except making sure the least

people die.

When I was a teenager, my friends and I played ouija. I

still regret going to that old abandoned warehouse. We

didn't believe anything would happen, alas we were so

wrong. We began the game. At first nothing happened,

but soon things got scary . Lights flickering, doors

slamming shut, creepy laughter all around us. Sophie was

the first to break the rules and take her hands off the

board. “I'm sorry guys, this is too much!” She said as tears

fell down her cheeks. She ran off but dropped dead on the

floor. Her brother Sam jumped up and screamed. He

shook her lifeless body but seconds after he fell dead as

well. The pointer moved and spelled out B-E C-A-R-E-F-U-L. My hands shaking, I moved it to the goodbye symbol.

I safely removed my fingers from the game. Although they

were dead, I still could hear my friends voices. “What

happened?” “Why did you do that?” The closer I got to the

bodies, the louder the words. I ran past old machinery and

heard “Thank god technology advanced, right buddy?” He

was talking to me. I couldn't see him but I knew this was

where he had died. I understood that the closer I got to

someone's place of death, the more I could talk with them.

I wish I had a good motive for saving people, but I'm

selfish. I just can't stand all the voices anymore. I just

don't want more people talking. The ghosts could help me

but I don't want to interact with them. I don't get close to but I don't want to interact with them. I don't get close to

people anymore, since they might die and I'll hear them.

The things dead say are anything but peaceful. I guess

I'm still a superhero since I save people, but I don't feel like one. I'm nothing but a death whisperer.