AdrianSmith Profile

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Location: Hornell, United States

Member Since: October 2009

Open for read requests: Yes

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When I first started  writing this collection, I was writing it as a tribute to my favorite author and his persute to keep the art of the short story alive, the great and legendary Stephen King. It all began as a sort of of audition to be placed on his eternal shelf of immortality, hell I would've felt blessed if he had just opened the cover. His influence plays heavy into a couple of stories and he will always remain my favorite author and unknowing mentor.

But as my pen flew over the pages I realized I was no longer writing for him, but for myself. After the first story I went through a period of depression. I was fresh out of high school with no method to get to the future and never thought I'd get there. I was 18 years old and felt I hadn't acomplished anything with my life, and when I reflected on it I really hadn't. Sure I could've graduated top of my class, but school came natural to me and i never had to work to get ahead in it. So I slept through it, most of the time literally, and graduated with about a 3.0 to 3.2 adverage. I even skipped my graduation to go to a concert with my girlfriend at the time, a decission I will always have mixed feelings about.

I am also a pretty fair artist, the only thing is I can't draw. I know that's an oxy-moron but it's true. Everyone was astonished at my talent but it wasn't me, it's my emotions. You see if someone had asked me to draw something i wouldn't be able to do it, I have many unfinished sketches to prove it. Yet if I "loved" someone, and I use that term lightly as that feeling seems to come and go, I could've drawn a myraid of exxposes forthem.

The same went for depression, except it manifested itself in the form of writing. I could bullshit my way through any essay an English teacher could dream up better than any other high schooler who actually tried. But real writing shined in my darkest moments It started off as poems and gradually grew into short stories as the depression rose.

I of course went through the classic depression expressions, the angst teenager mad at the world, dabbled in the gothic scene, and yes even resorted to cutting. Yet I could act so well, another of my hidden talents, that no one seemed to notice. So I found it to be more healing and relive the pain then rather spill blood, to bleed myself into my stories.

Let's face it almost no one is going to read this and for those of you who do, you're wondering why I was depressed. Well that my friends is another story, which depending on the success of this one, might be published one day as well.

As the pen that is my knife and the ink that is my blood drained onto the pages i am constantly reminded of a latin phrase that has become my motto and shares the title of one of the stories in this collection, "Mortaleum Te Esse Momento", Remember you are mortal.

So without further adue i will keep you no more from you're sick fedish and suductive images i shall paint for you. All i ask in return is to immortalize me upon your lips, for that I will bleed myself dry.


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