tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54837445691835312242024-03-05T11:05:50.427-08:00Della Van Hise - A Dark and Stormy NightOnce upon a time, I wanted to be a writer.
What the hell was I thinking?Della Van Hise / Quantum Shamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15981554252784274711noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5483744569183531224.post-41541476146769894582017-12-08T11:03:00.000-08:002017-12-08T11:03:08.213-08:00The New Mediocrity<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz2TsS7MjAn5TgQDmDPwGjxA9hZPT6A40Whnw6ZuQiGcqTzvoCnVVz_Tde39wv6T5QoFoHokvzjI7d1BG5AOV4A3i0m6TyyUfe9y3SXqkFsy6mvwOXA2xODrduMPWhxW29rf0mBLBeWkRi/s1600/state+of+the+heart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="436" data-original-width="640" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz2TsS7MjAn5TgQDmDPwGjxA9hZPT6A40Whnw6ZuQiGcqTzvoCnVVz_Tde39wv6T5QoFoHokvzjI7d1BG5AOV4A3i0m6TyyUfe9y3SXqkFsy6mvwOXA2xODrduMPWhxW29rf0mBLBeWkRi/s320/state+of+the+heart.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Someone asked why I don't post much here on my writing blog. Simple answer - there's very little interest in my published books, so I would logically imagine there's even less interest in an obscure writer's blog that promised from the start to tell the ugly <i>truth</i> about writing, the publishing industry, indie publishing, and the sad and secret life of writers. Let's face it - not a lot of love and light, joy and cha-cha there, so rather than burden others (and myself) with those dark and nasty truths, I took a break from blogging and, to be honest, a semi-permanent break from writing in general.<br />
<br />
So if you are looking for helpful hints on how to break through the Amazon algorithms or a phony-baloney YouTube pep talk to convince you that you're going to be the next Stephen King if you just keep at it, you've come to the wrong place. So move along and take your shiny expectations with you. I'm not the droid you're looking for, because the truths I've discovered about trying to be a professional writer in today's market are <i>not</i> truths any sane and relatively stable human being wants to hear.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizfX9IvgtUa7YpYmyHPfT7aXWxomh-0JUV6C2MBhdh6h1_Zc3dEuprWPyfS8VgZw0qboM65ATPRzf5-PIvn1vk_2z4nQZHhzl53U0gvWkJoEiP2FmEd5SUJseUv90jRNc7k5cKbPmRl9kd/s1600/grammar.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="223" data-original-width="326" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizfX9IvgtUa7YpYmyHPfT7aXWxomh-0JUV6C2MBhdh6h1_Zc3dEuprWPyfS8VgZw0qboM65ATPRzf5-PIvn1vk_2z4nQZHhzl53U0gvWkJoEiP2FmEd5SUJseUv90jRNc7k5cKbPmRl9kd/s320/grammar.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My grammar teachers were so strict that<br />
they would say the word "Grandpa" should<br />
be capitalized because it is a substitute for a<br />
proper noun (grandpa's name). Then again,<br />
we live in a different world now where we<br />
make up the rules as we go along and<br />
ignore those that are inconvenient.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For starters, if you're at all <i>serious</i> about writing, you've honed your craft. You can spell, punctuate, create reasonably correct paragraphs, and you have a workable grasp of grammar and the English language (or whatever language in which you're creating your masterpiece). And if you don't, you'd best have a very good editor, proofreader and - at the very least - a spell-check device.<br />
<br />
And yet... all one has to do is go to Amazon, pick a category at random, choose the "Look Inside" feature, and be prepared to be dazzled... not with brilliance, but with baffling and brazen bullshit. What you'll find, just to pick on one area, are stories written in first person that shift abruptly and without reason to third person... and that's just the tip of an iceberg the size of a planet or two.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>My name is Peter, and I went out walking late last night. But by the time Peter had gone only a few blocks (inexplicable shift from first person to third person), he realized he'd left his <b>sell</b> phone in the pocket of his other jeans. So I (shift back to first person) had to run all the way back to the apartment, all the wile (sic) hoping<b> </b>my girlfriend hadn't been home and <b>checked</b> (past tense) my messages to see <b>I've </b>(present tense) been cheating on her with Emily and Jack and half the Denver Broncos.</i></blockquote>
<i><br /></i>
Yes, the writer referred to it as a "sell phone" and used the word "wile" where he clearly meant while. No, it wasn't just an affectation or manner of speaking intrinsic to his character (an excuse often used when writers get called out on their atrocious errors). There were also numerous grammatical errors throughout - even though the character was presented as a young man with a college degree working in corporate America. Perhaps it's really just a matter of money - when writers are too cheap to hire an editor to fix these glaring problems <i>before</i> their magnum opus hits the cybershelves. The tense changes were maddening just in the opening few paragraphs, but what's <i>really</i> mind-blowing is that this writer and plenty of others just like him (her?) are very high in the Amazon rankings, raking in the big bucks while highly <i>competent</i> writers who are far better storytellers languish in obscurity with no clue as to how this world operates nowadays, or at what point in time readers turned into illiterate revenants who clearly never struggled through rudimentary language skills in third grade. Put simply: they don't know the difference between good writing and bad, or they just don't care.<br />
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When I've questioned readers about how they can tolerate this kind of blatantly bad writing, they generally tilt their head like a confused puppy meeting his first kitten and come up with some response that sounds vaguely like, "I just liked the part where the zombie was banging the dude's girlfriend and his dick fell off. That was really cool!"<br />
<br />
At which point... I realize we are living in a world where there is no longer any value placed on anything with relevance or even competent writing, but instead the value system has shifted to how many obligatory sex scenes the writer can cram into the first three chapters (to insure those are the first things a reader encounters when surfing through the Look Inside feature.) Sex sells. Hell, if it didn't every cheap whore and expensive call girl (or boy) on the planet would be asking if we'd like fries with that Unhappy Meal. But at some point it started to become virtually the <i>only</i> thing that sells, and that's where I begin to question not only the quality of so-called literature, but the role the internet and indie publishing is playing in the dumbing down of the hoomans inhabiting Planet Earth.<br />
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Don't get me wrong. I love sex. I even loved writing it for many years. Got nothing against it - not the act itself or the tomes of erotica (or outright porn in some cases) describing what goes where, how hard he shoved, and the resulting torrent of ecstasy and expletives following in the wake of the little death. Overall, my problem isn't with the genres of erotica, porn or various degrees of both masquerading as "romance." My problem is the <i>quality</i> of what is being cranked out without any manner of quality <i>control</i> whatsoever.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWdRyg3FHejQQKudm7g1hEmqt-AYJpTZIsezD9ZMW7cpWadg4h_kARngfOsNilSxCJUO6FfptZZDTbbAH1dSvH1R4RlmjOldag3bfMSU2_b5y7mdjTGKePeWYedl-1Rd9QXdWU8kIpJYVe/s1600/incompetent+doctor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="233" data-original-width="349" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWdRyg3FHejQQKudm7g1hEmqt-AYJpTZIsezD9ZMW7cpWadg4h_kARngfOsNilSxCJUO6FfptZZDTbbAH1dSvH1R4RlmjOldag3bfMSU2_b5y7mdjTGKePeWYedl-1Rd9QXdWU8kIpJYVe/s200/incompetent+doctor.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Seems to me that if Amazon (and others) can have software that can listen in on our cell phone conversations or monitor our email to see what brand of condoms and laxatives we prefer, they could perfect some sort of program that could detect atrocious writing skills and simply decline publication accordingly. If a writer can't (or won't) bother to learn his craft, perfect his skills, and produce a product that isn't riddled with errors, perhaps that writer doesn't deserve to be taking up space that would be better filled by someone else. After all, if a doctor prescribes heart medication for a raging bladder infection, or amputates the wrong limb because he doesn't know his left from his right, he's pretty sure to lose his license and end up in the unemployment line. Unemployment lines do exist for incompetent doctors and even buffoon lawyers. They <i>don't</i> exist for writers.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Eyjl7iiaoioXN8RIAF58MLwTx0vyzVVjvS6sBMNoPV0lvoNVmlmcnUcVPtAh5ZdPK6IVookx-bKIlq_GSSwmOPto8p8K2KBaKzrkeZvZX1NwNFYoKj_wqBLQW_kx5R3DbR3DK7XOU3vs/s1600/pinto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="407" data-original-width="720" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Eyjl7iiaoioXN8RIAF58MLwTx0vyzVVjvS6sBMNoPV0lvoNVmlmcnUcVPtAh5ZdPK6IVookx-bKIlq_GSSwmOPto8p8K2KBaKzrkeZvZX1NwNFYoKj_wqBLQW_kx5R3DbR3DK7XOU3vs/s320/pinto.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Point being - consumers hold providers to a certain standard, and when that standard isn't met or, worse, when it is ignored altogether, consumers tend to lose faith in the thing itself until, eventually, that thing disappears from the market. How many Ford Pintos do you see on the road these days? Would you like a prescription for fen-phen? The list is long, and in my opinion one reason the publishing industry is in the crapper is because the quality has been allowed to slip below what even minimally-educated readers would consider to be reasonable expectations. Even if a book is indie published, that's no excuse - and even <i>more</i> of a reason - to provide a quality product at a reasonable price. And to be fair, some indie writers <i>do, </i>but far too many simply don't. Instead, I've heard newbie wannabe writers say they consider the indie publishing bandwagon to be "a way to make some bucks without doing a lot of heavy lifting." Apparently they should also include in that statement, "without doing a lot of heavy thinking."<br />
<br />
I'm off topic. So many problems in the writing industry today, it's hard to stay focused on any single issue. So I'll keep it personal for now. It's all about <i>Me</i> after all.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq2o-_HDPq7tf51EZ3lYXdgfj1cVA9lZPsBwpq_Kgopi4fvDGwAFC79ueBuzCNqui4Bml9bryplGmdd2b9swa2KXyRPOodRpTJamD_Rkf88c-nxMNrwcZnKTysOOeZ8wMSBB2YWqtt6pmc/s1600/blog+book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq2o-_HDPq7tf51EZ3lYXdgfj1cVA9lZPsBwpq_Kgopi4fvDGwAFC79ueBuzCNqui4Bml9bryplGmdd2b9swa2KXyRPOodRpTJamD_Rkf88c-nxMNrwcZnKTysOOeZ8wMSBB2YWqtt6pmc/s320/blog+book.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More & more, I'm convinced that the key<br />
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">to success is outright Copy Cat</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Pretenderism. Pick a famous author,<br />slap a similar cover on it, and</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">make your book look just like theirs. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My main gripe today is that my non-fiction books seem to be largely ignored, and whenever I've tried to determine why, what I keep coming up with is something that can't be easily fixed. I'm a woman writer in a field dominated primarily by men. In fact, I was joking around with a friend lately and made the comment that I'd have to change my name to Don Julio Carlos de Flores in order to be taken seriously in the world of shamanism, nagualism, and Toltec practices (a field in which Carlos Castaneda became the resident guru, whether he wanted the job or not). In reality, I've had more experience than most of the up-and-coming male writers in that field, but unless I petition the courts for that name change and pursue gender reassignment while I'm at it, I've had to accept that nothing I write in the field is going to be even remotely successful - not because of the quality, but because of the obscurity that comes with being a fish out of water in a pond dominated by sharks and leeches. As an example, I recently read a book by a male author in the same field (shamanism) that I considered to be sub-par at best, nothing more than a rehash of what's already been said a thousand times, and yet the book is receiving good reviews and ranks high in the Amazon standings. Trust me, folks, it's not because the book is good. It ain't.<br />
<br />
So what can be done about any of it? For starters, if you're a female writer in a field dominated by men, get yourself a male pen name and see things as they are and not as we might want them to be. If you're in a field dominated by women (such as the romance genre) consider a name like Destiny Dawn as a pseudonym, but keep in mind that your success or lack thereof usually won't be based on merit, but like everything else in the world, it will be reflected by who you know and who you blow. Such is life. Nothing wrong with it as long as you're aware of it - but don't go in with blinders on as I once did, expecting to be successful on your own merit, when the reality is that <i>bad</i> writing seems to far outweigh the good, and your ranking on Amazon will be based on social media popularity rather than the quality of anything you may do.<br />
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When I was still in high school, teachers and friends alike encouraged me in my writing. Some even went so far as to say it was my destiny. My own mother was fond of telling me, "Cream rises to the top." What she failed to mention is that turds are also notorious floaters.<br />
<br />
My mother - rest in peace, Mom - was either a consummate liar or altogether ignorant of the ways of the world or (most likely) simply programmed by <i>her</i> time period and culture to believe in the inherent goodness in the world and in other people. Amazing woman, really. Barely scraping by while married to a turd of a man who sat on his ass at home while she waited every morning in the dark for the Greyhound bus to take her into the seedy cobblestone streets of downtown Tampa where she worked as a waitress at the Walgreen's lunch counter. Yet despite her own hardships, she taught me to believe in myself, assured me I could be the first woman president or a surgeon or even a best-selling author to rival Ellery Queen (one of her favorites). In reality, I've come to think I would have had a <i>much</i> better chance of becoming a president (no skills required, judging by the present administration) or prominent surgeon than I <i>ever</i> had of becoming any sort of successful writer.<br />
<br />
So what's the point of this long and rambling rant? Absolutely no point whatsoever. Except perhaps to illustrate that few things in life come to us by merit these days. Perhaps they once did. I remember picking up a brand new copy of <i>Carrie</i> by some obscure writer named Stephen King at the local magazine rack one day in 1974. Read it in one sitting and then read it again because it had a "shine" to it that most books simply don't. Same thing with Anne Rice's <i>Interview With the Vampire</i>. So perhaps things were different in The Way Back When - when good writers <i>could</i> reach the top on merit and skill rather than how many "likes" they might get on Facebook in a single day.<br />
<br />
The world has changed. Some change is good. Other is just rearranging the broken furniture in the name of progress, but all too often I fear the wheels of progress run over fragile wildflowers and crush rare butterflies into extinction. Not that I consider myself either butterfly or flower. I'm just that fish out of water I mentioned previously - usually swimming to the side, shaking my head in confusion at the machinations of a world gone mad. But occasionally I feel some strange (and altogether pointless) need to examine that world on paper, which only brings home to me once again how altogether pointless it really <i>is</i>.<br />
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I see good writers trying to jump through hoops in some misplaced belief that the <i>next</i> workshop they attend will be the one that launches their career and brings them the accolades they so richly deserve. The reality, of course, is that most of these conferences & workshops only benefit the people running them, who collect thousands of dollars to provide naive, desperate writers with the privilege of staying at an expensive hotel for a weekend (an additional charge, of course) while attending panels comprised of "successful" indie authors (usually the promoter's daughter is among them) who do little more than talk about their <i>own</i> success, offer nothing of value to the attendees, and often conclude with the words, "I really can't tell you what I did to get where I am, but here I am and here you are listening to me blow smoke up your ass, and god bless us one and all." You really do need a barf bag, or at least a hefty dose of common sense to know your money would have been better spent on a cruise or even an ugly designer sweater. Most writers I know who go to these things are already good, solid, competent storytellers. And for the record, I actually <i>can</i> tell you what 99% of those "successful" writers did to get where they are.<br />
<br />
Lean in. Want to know the secret? I'll tell you, but you have to promise not to pass it around.<br />
<br />
Here goes...<br />
<br />
<b><i>There isn't a secret. </i></b>In almost every case I know of "overnight success" on Amazon, the writer was simply at the right place at the right time and got struck by the random (emphasis on <i>random) </i>lightning bolt that puts their book on some sort of fast track to getting noticed. It's not that they spent a lot of money on advertising. Been there, done that, got the merit badge but it didn't do squat to improve sales. It isn't that their book is actually good or even competent. In most cases, it's riddled with errors in the first 10 pages and only gets worse from there. It <i>might</i> be that the writer cajoled 500 of her very best friends to review the book on Amazon or Goodreads, but even books with 100 reviews or more are often very low in the sales standings.<br />
<br />
So after having actively engaged in the indie writing circus for more than 15 years now, I can only conclude that it's like a random pull on a slot machine. Maybe the jackpot rolls up and you retire to some exotic beach where you sip mimosas by day and wear a corduroy jacket with fashionable patches on the sleeves by night while smoking a wretched clove cigarette and boasting your accomplishments to passing strangers in an affected writerly accent. But for most who play the game, that jackpot remains elusive, frustrating and - after awhile - rather like those sour grapes for which the fox wasted a lot of time and energy prancing about before realizing the game was rigged from the start. If you <i>are </i>lucky enough to finally <i>see</i> the leg trap (most never do) you stop desiring what you can't have and direct your energies toward something you <i>can</i> accomplish.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjPtpwnWjCMlYxU2stq0f0xHrrOvE8TkpVdYINXtM5ZBbSnm8J55FQiouxweoIMrno67cnL_Jwy-87awW5qXsiZR9SjjKWfFLMnc9nXsXikOAs37sX6CrfxIsnu1Tu4H8_tEXzrvDzS20m/s1600/false+promises.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="376" data-original-width="500" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjPtpwnWjCMlYxU2stq0f0xHrrOvE8TkpVdYINXtM5ZBbSnm8J55FQiouxweoIMrno67cnL_Jwy-87awW5qXsiZR9SjjKWfFLMnc9nXsXikOAs37sX6CrfxIsnu1Tu4H8_tEXzrvDzS20m/s320/false+promises.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Yes, I'm older now, and a tad bit bitter. Can you tell? I'm tired of watching good writers chasing that jackpot with such fervor that it becomes their sole reason for Being. I'm tired of looking at book previews only to find myself wanting to take a red pen to the monitor. That's one major reason I <i>quit</i> reading almost entirely several years ago. Nowadays, I'll only read a book if it's recommended to me by someone I trust. And, no, I don't trust reviews by the writer's illiterate friends and inbred relatives. Basically, I'm tired of jumping through those hoops when it's plain to see the only thing on the other side is more hoops, more false promises, more roads leading nowhere, and more disappointment. So I pet my kittens, post meaningless crap on Facebook when I have spare time on my hands, and concentrate on<a href="http://www.eyescry.com/" target="_blank"> the business we own</a> that <i>does</i> actually pay the bills and keep food in the dog's bowl.<br />
<br />
Oh dear. Did I give anyone the impression that this was going to have a happy ending? I hope not, because if there is one, I haven't found it yet, and neither have 99% of the <i>good</i> writers I know personally. So don't bother writing to offer thoughts and prayers, or shake a finger of admonishment about my darkness and negativity. This isn't something that can be fixed <i>or</i> ignored - and <i>that</i> is the hardest lesson of all. When mediocrity becomes the new normal, there is seldom any 12-step recovery program to bring back the standards of excellence that got crushed under the relentless grind of the profit-motivated juggernaut.<br />
<br />
You will either get struck by lightning or you won't. That's my experience from the desert - where the lightning is rare and not particularly interested in what's right or fair, or even what's good or competent. That's what it means when I say there's no secret.<br />
<br />
It's all random. Just like the lightning.<br />
<br />
...<br />
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And, of course, the <i>next</i> question becomes: What happens if you <i>do</i> get struck by the fickle finger of success? Who or what do you become and would you even recognize yourself in the mirror? To what extent does "success" spell certain disaster for your identity? Another rant for another dark night of the soul.<br />
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Della Van Hise is the best-selling author of KILLING TIME - without a doubt the most controversial STAR TREK novel ever published!</div>
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Della Van Hise / Quantum Shamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15981554252784274711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5483744569183531224.post-65481912632792868692017-03-01T10:03:00.000-08:002017-03-01T10:06:18.708-08:00Coyote - Free on Amazon!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><i>Coyote - Free on Amazon, Feb 28 - March 4, 2017!</i></b></div>
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Journey with River Willows as she runs from the law, only to be swept up into a parallel reality where she is destined to meet a man she had believed was only a dream. Suitable for young adult and up. 5-Stars all the way!</div>
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<i><b>A Novel of Love, Honor & Personal Sacrifice...</b></i></div>
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When River Willows is accused of a murder she didn't commit, her life takes a turn toward the sanctuary of a world existing at right-angles to our own. Combining the mysticism of martial arts and the romantic conflict of a young woman torn between two powerful men, COYOTE takes the reader on an epic journey of dangerous secrets, military cover-ups, and the infinite heart of the peaceful warrior.</div>
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<br /><iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/SRM892OPbBg" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
<br />"So who's Coyote?" I asked, trying to ignore the effect he was having on me. "You?"</div>
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Steale laughed easily, though it did little to hide the torment behind that mask of indifference he wore so well.</div>
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"Coyote's a scavenger, Jack of all trades. The Native Americans call him the trickster - the one who brought chaos down on the world." He shrugged as if altogether unconcerned. "Original sin, I guess."</div>
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"Is that what you are?" I asked, keeping it light despite the growing knot in the pit of my stomach.</div>
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He kept his profile to me, eyes straight ahead as he drove. "Sure you want to know?"</div>
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I couldn't help wondering if I had cornered the coyote, or if the clever trickster had cornered me.</div>
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Della Van Hise is the best-selling author of KILLING TIME - without a doubt the most controversial STAR TREK novel ever published!</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">To view all of my books... <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Della-Van-Hise/e/B003ZOK75G/ref=dp_byline_cont_book_1" target="_blank">Click Here</a></td></tr>
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Della Van Hise / Quantum Shamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15981554252784274711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5483744569183531224.post-89978370698303871582017-02-25T13:14:00.000-08:002017-02-25T13:14:19.218-08:00Alexis Fegan Black is Dead<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpRuPVvvl1PYcbggKyOsLIySTm3ZktishWE3wR3SvNShyphenhypheni20_IkxG_9rf0o9VHCULz40b71i185jhWOo5PyP2IpYQ_VC7og4TYR4t1nmzVKlEUFDCq7VqJjl1D8q3xTJnYbHfGiBnrJsVi/s1600/Alexis+Fegan+Black+RIP.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpRuPVvvl1PYcbggKyOsLIySTm3ZktishWE3wR3SvNShyphenhypheni20_IkxG_9rf0o9VHCULz40b71i185jhWOo5PyP2IpYQ_VC7og4TYR4t1nmzVKlEUFDCq7VqJjl1D8q3xTJnYbHfGiBnrJsVi/s400/Alexis+Fegan+Black+RIP.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Perhaps Alexis's greatest fault was that she expected the world to be reasonably fair, she expected people to be true to their word, and she believed it when her mother told her the cream rises to the top.<br />
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Alexis was very naive.<br />
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Having any such expectations from the world today is rather like expecting Donald Trump and his cronies to do something reasonable for the people they pretend to represent. Might as well wish in one hand and shit in the other, and see which one gets full first.<br />
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All of this started when I received a rather snottily worded letter from AO3 (Archive of our Own, for the mercifully uninformed) telling me that my works on the archive were in violation of some obscure (and petty) little "rule" which prohibits "advertising" on the site. (<i>As of this writing, I've just received an email from the same twerp who deleted my works, saying "there can be no mention of any commercial works at all." Nothing like making it up as they go along. Any site that expects authors to contribute FREE material, and then makes it impossible for that author to promote herself, is not a site I would promote, and not a site I would encourage any sane writer to contribute to.</i>)<br />
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<span style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Della-Van-Hise/e/B003ZOK75G/ref=dp_byline_cont_book_1" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKD_JcyL6kdDZ0aVDRZ1U_qxb1kQp8VEAXX4I3drKjfzykRh404QRE6Qt-yHIsoVH0uxHSfpmpk9NJd2aVnOK9TRgcHEed-BDtjaaGk66gJde1Fj45iWlIaHUTOhYc0JQA6Tgd9lgJPZz-/s320/front+cover.smaller.jpg" width="244" /></a></span></div>
When I looked at the specific work that had <i>allegedly</i> been reported as offensive, all I could find were the typical mentions any self-respecting author would make in the end notes, as a means to guide readers to her more recent works - such as what might appear on the author's website, blog or her author page on Amazon. I should also point out that the author page on Amazon doesn't <i>sell</i> anything. There are no links to put anything in a cart or buy it now. The author page is nothing more than a listing of the author's works - and a link to that page from the archive seems a <i>tiny</i> price to pay in exchange for the stories and novels I had uploaded for their readers to enjoy, absolutely free of charge. In order to actually buy anything from Amazon, a potential reader would have to click on the title, and only <i>then</i> would they see anything offered for sale. So for the "powers-that-be" (term applied <i>very</i> loosely) at AO3 to make an arbitrary decision that I was attempting to "sell" something on their precious little site is not only ludicrous, but downright stupid in the extreme. Yes, stupid - a word I generally reserve for Irish Setters and anyone with an IQ below 70. Sorry, but if the shoe fits...<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When no issue exists, social justice warriors crawl<br />out from under the rocks in their mommy's basements<br />to create one. Haven't we all had enough of this?</td></tr>
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So here's the thing... when I was asked (no, when I was <i>commanded) </i>to remove all mentions of my website, my Amazon page, my blog, etc., I found the demand so completely unreasonable that I could only laugh at the self-importance of whatever social justice warrior had "complained" in the first place. First of all, I have some serious doubts that there was <i>ever</i> an actual complaint. Reason being - the author is not allowed to confront her accuser, so any half-baked "admin" on the site could simply decide for herself (based on rumors or based on nothing whatsoever) that she was going to make a stink and threaten me with taking down <i>all</i> of my works, even though the complaint was based on only <i>one</i> of my works (Private Possessions).<br />
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So I gave it some thought, and made the suggested changes to the novel in question. I removed all potentially-offending links & mentions, tidied up the front and end notes like a good little girl bowing to the whims of some over-zealous spawn of The Entitlement Generation... and then this morning I received notice that <i>all</i> of my works had been removed from the archive. Actually, this comes as no surprise - not even the fact that Private Possessions was also axed, even though it had <i>NO</i> violations of the petty little rules of the petty little dictatorship that apparently runs the petty little archive.<br />
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So I guess that makes it personal, right? I mean... if 13 works are in violation, but the 14th is perfectly fine, why would <i>all</i> the works be removed even if one is <i>not</i> violating any precious policies? Yup, I'm going to say it's personal. I'm going to say it's targeted harassment, and I'm <i>absolutely</i> going to say this is just indicative of the kind of crap that caused me to leave fandom many years ago. I know <i>at least</i> a dozen other authors who post direct (and clickable!) links to their websites or their Amazon author page, etc) and never have they been targeted for this kind of harassment which suggests prejudice and possibly even bigotry at a level which defies explanation. I'm a gay woman, after all. Perhaps I should be an SJW in my own right and say I'm being harassed for <i>that</i>. Makes as much sense as anything else.<br />
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I had originally chosen to upload my stories (including two long novels!) to the archive as a gift to fandom, to express my love for <i>Star Trek</i> and my appreciation to the fans who read my works for years when I was still producing fanzines back in the dinosaur days before the first social justice warrior crawled out of the belly of a jackal. The <i>real</i> sad thing here is that removing my works from the archive really doesn't hurt <i>me</i> in the least. The ones who are hurt are the fans who clicked on those stories, read them with obvious joy, and left kudos numbering in the thousands. The archive isn't hurting <i>me </i>by removing my works. It's hurting its own readers -<i> and for absolutely No Thing whatsoever.</i><br />
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There were other ways to handle this. For starters, they could just as easily have removed the entire end notes or front notes, if they were so terribly offensive to all those social justice warriors seeking truth, justice and Having Their Way. Hell, I wouldn't have given a fat rat's ass had they done so, since time has proven that the "links" actually served <i>no</i> purpose whatsoever. They certainly didn't increase sales by even a single book that I can tell. They didn't lead to a multi-million dollar movie deal when some lost producer found my novel and realized it was the Holy Grail of possibilities. They did <i>nothing</i> for me, other than <i>maybe</i> give fans a clue as to where to find my <i>other</i> books should they ever have even the vaguest of interest. (No one did that I can tell). So, what was the harm? And why remove the <i>entire</i> work when it would have made far more sense to simply remove the tags some self-righteous twat found offensive?<br />
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Yes, I am outraged, because this just dredges up all the reasons I left fandom in the first place. Sure, there are rumors of every description as to what Big Bad Della "did" to fandom. There are just as many stories from people she helped - with their writing, their art, their zine publishing, and so forth. Believe what you will. But the bottom line is that there came a day when I could no longer abide the back-biting, underhanded, duplicitous and outright <i>lying</i> that had become the norm in fandom, rather than the exception.<br />
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More times than I can count, unscrupulous zine editors lied to artists and writers in order to get those same writers and artists to write for <i>their</i> zines instead of mine. Unfortunately, most of those writers and artists never even bothered to ask me if the load of crap they were being fed was true. They simply swallowed it, hook, line and sinker, and pledged their allegiance to the liars at the same time they apparently sold their souls to the devil. No great loss - except for <i>them</i>. Because it really only validated what I had come to see over the years - <i>Star Trek</i> was no longer about the values and philosophies put forth on the show, but had apparently lost its true meaning and de-evolved into a shark tank of fangirls who were far more interested in "Shatner's package" than in <i>anything</i> remotely meaningful. Over the years, I watched even the genre of K/S de-evolve from stories about <i>love</i> into nothing more than sexual escapades between two characters who bore absolutely <i>no</i> resemblance to the Kirk and Spock anyone might have recognized.<br />
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During that same time period (very late 80s, early 90s) I was also seeing various articles in high profile magazines or newspapers talking about K/S, and occasionally some reporter would even ask the actors about their feelings on the matter. Both Shatner and Nimoy were always very gracious and never came out and said, "Don't do it," but the message was obvious for anyone who bothered to read between the lines. It made them uncomfortable - and who can blame them? It wasn't the fiction, one of them once said, but the artwork - which, let's face it, knew no restrictions. But be that as it may... I began to wonder if perhaps I was trespassing into someone else's life, and I certainly <i>knew</i> I had been trespassing into someone else's <i>characters</i> from the moment I wrote my first <i>Star Trek</i> fan fiction story at the age of eleven. No, it wasn't K/S, just a standard Mary Sue story, but those characters didn't belong to <i>me</i>, and they don't belong to "fandom", despite what many will try to tell you.<br />
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But in the big picture, I started having second thoughts about the "moral" implications of all of this. And when I combined that with the changing attitudes I had witnessed in the shark tank of fanzine publishing, I began to truly realize that I no longer wanted to be a part of it in <i>any</i> capacity. I'm certainly no prude. I've written some of the most explicit stuff out there in the world of K/S, and I have no regrets about that. I loved writing K/S, and still have dozens of stories and novels in my head... but I have no desire to write them because 1) I am a dinosaur and the ideals I hold about <i>Star Trek</i> would appear to be every bit as obsolete as the writer; and 2) The universe is ripe with so many possibilities that I don't need to trespass on the characters someone else has striven to bring to life.<br />
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There is certainly a split opinion of fan fiction in general. Some authors actively encourage it, while others have placed a "Do Not Touch" sign on their characters. Anne Rice, for example, expressly forbids fan fiction about Louis and Lestat, and personally I not only agree with her decision, I openly <i>applaud it! </i>Why? Because as a writer, I know how important my original characters are to me, and while I would be flattered that anyone else might want to write about them, I would always feel that someone else's take on my characters would never be <i>my</i> take - and, let's face it, many writers are territorial, and with good reason. No one else can know what's in Anne Rice's head - Lestat is hers to do with as she pleases, and despite the cries of certain members of The Entitlement Generation, he doesn't belong to the world. He belongs to Anne until <i>she</i> says otherwise. Write whatever you want for your own entertainment, but when you start posting it to the internet because you believe you're <i>entitled</i>... maybe better re-think that and read up on copyright laws and what they actually mean.<br />
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Off topic, but such are the ramblings of a displaced writer. Let's just say that there came a time when I had to evolve and grow as a writer, or forever stagnate in the fields of fan fiction. And while I truly <i>loved</i> every story or novel I ever wrote as a fan, I don't think it's the be-all and end-all of a writer's career. My own life took a sharp turn to the left around 1992, when we moved to the desert and I embarked on a spiritual journey that truly and <i>literally</i> took me "where no man has gone before." In order to devote the time and energy required by such an undertaking, I had to give up the pursuits that were no longer advancing me in the direction of my heart's desire. Sure, I still loved <i>Star Trek</i>. Still do. Always will. But I have watched fandom as a whole change (though not necessarily "grow" in any real sense). I'm sad to say that, and I hope I am wrong. I've made some good friends along the way, but I've seen into the dark and twisted hearts of others. I suppose that's true with anything in the world, but for myself, I am choosing to put the <i>Star Trek</i> I love and remember on a shelf, in a glass case, where no harm can come to it.<br />
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As for the archive... I can no longer support its "efforts," for I have come to view it as just another petty organization in a petty world. Hypocritical and self-serving at best. The publishers of tens of thousands of <i>illegal</i> works, yet they prohibit legitimate authors from posting a link to their quite <i>legal</i> books and remove an author's entire list of works on what appears to be a personal whim and personal vendetta.<br />
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I'm done. Simply. Finally. Absolutely... <i>Done.</i><br />
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So it is without regret that I must announce...<br />
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Alexis Fegan Black is Dead.<br />
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<a href="http://www.fanzinesplus.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1pTnL2IQBDMZKZbrobXCNeE7JeU6jAFfk24f9Wv0iakFFVx8W_0SZU_rN-RITR6oLMGjL3BrJC3dRFpXOh0uycg_VrVF223fj8oFb66TtsA52iihCn3Ml6TozrSKjRABgChS2gYAP3K54/s320/nt2.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<br /><br />If you want to read any of my fan fiction stories, a few of them are available on the archive at <a href="http://www.fanzinesplus.com/html/downloads.htm" target="_blank">Fanzines Plus</a><br />
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You can also purchase out of print fanzines at <a href="http://www.fanzinesplus.com/index.html" target="_blank">Fanzines Plus</a>.<br /><br />To access my professional works, including male/male erotica and gay romance, please visit my <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Della-Van-Hise/e/B003ZOK75G/ref=dp_byline_cont_book_1" target="_blank">Amazon Author Page</a><br />
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Prince-Umberlight-Tales-1/dp/1942415044/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1488057118&sr=1-1&keywords=prince+of+umberlight" target="_blank"><img alt=" Alexis Fegan Black" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhPSn2_7yzRLMITklFxtRenIl4XHro6ClPk-DYuh9cxQkmzXJepj0ofaN7qBA_rWwWPlNO_xF_Rc1TokJAQtu4IBV4Z9uxePhEbAe50WFC2XhEMPuz9wvQN7oPbLnanpYEyies_qydaM4D/s320/cover.umberlight.smaller.jpg" width="215" /></a></div>
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<br />Della Van Hise / Quantum Shamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15981554252784274711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5483744569183531224.post-53305756732633441582016-02-06T15:59:00.001-08:002016-02-06T15:59:06.555-08:00Two Brand New Quantum Shaman Books!Two new releases from Quantum Shaman!<br />
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<a href="http://www.quantumshaman.com/html/questions.htm" style="clear: left; color: #cb7fff; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvBMOoVT-Qlb4S56XDxpCuIkmmxfBA9cIfCU8Pu2VulXT1ql_BQuHqAB-Yo6PvubthyLeMoW5KXRYXDaz5awKmNT9xZf4ShFLBrViTErWx66Rz8wxapPPXMM8k0rOuWES_oqa0J8nGIAg/s320/Cover.smaller.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="236" /></a><a href="http://www.quantumshaman.com/html/infinite.htm" style="color: #cb7fff; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ8kHbGX3ngYt4H9XlsIsASpO_p6JIJnN3KfHtH-muw0NCm_pVRfmG_sDkN_f4C4MPTM-DEmO66Avz7gVLbkFchrPeZj-yR2eX5_4lIVioDSJ2XgJTwKSFSYrm5G6KEXZ4-M-XD4wEHjI/s320/cover.smaller.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="216" /></a> </div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Questions-Along-Way-Conversations-Quantum/dp/1942415095/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" style="color: #cb7fff; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Questions Along the Way: Conversations With a Quantum Shaman</a><br />Book 3 in the Quantum Shaman Series<br />Available from Amazon or directly from <a href="http://www.quantumshaman.com/" style="color: #cb7fff; text-decoration: none;">www.quantumshaman.com</a></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Into-Infinite-Opening-Quantum-Shaman-ebook/dp/B01B6O9O8C/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" style="color: #cb7fff; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Into the Infinite: Opening the Door to the Unknown</a><br />Book 4 in the Quantum Shaman Series<br />Available from Amazon or directly from <a href="http://www.quantumshaman.com/" style="color: #cb7fff; text-decoration: none;">www.quantumshaman.com</a></div>
Della Van Hise / Quantum Shamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15981554252784274711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5483744569183531224.post-72382955679604090092016-01-13T22:47:00.003-08:002016-01-13T22:47:55.731-08:00The Effect of Moonlight on Tombstones<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFLa8Qe609gC1Q67NMIjEE7t2rHdHeY2S8AruPfVs9NVXiQ713q75Mzpb3fEP_CMVwSz3pi27qz6_T82FfrmSXV4LN7ZUzbyoG3JDMAoGohAQVb_MAo0WcT6FfkStyZ_h2HDDGACZ81Gjs/s1600/BookCoverPreview_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="473" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFLa8Qe609gC1Q67NMIjEE7t2rHdHeY2S8AruPfVs9NVXiQ713q75Mzpb3fEP_CMVwSz3pi27qz6_T82FfrmSXV4LN7ZUzbyoG3JDMAoGohAQVb_MAo0WcT6FfkStyZ_h2HDDGACZ81Gjs/s640/BookCoverPreview_2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Available on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Effect-Moonlight-Tombstones-Little-Collection/dp/1942415079/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" target="_blank">Amazon</a></div>
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Also Available from <a href="http://www.eyescrypublications.com/html/moonlight_tombstones.htm" target="_blank">Eye Scry Publications</a></div>
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A dark little collection of poetry gleaned from the gnosis of vampires and songs of the muse. The Effect of Moonlight on Tombstones is Della Van Hise's first full-length book of poetry, spanning more than 25 years of her writing. If you enjoy dark fantasy and gothic grimoires, this is one book you don't want to miss!</div>
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<b>Moments Frozen In Time</b><br />
<i>(A Foreword by the Author)</i><br />
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Poetry has never been something I consciously set out to write. Instead, it is something that comes or not, entirely at the whim of whatever it is that writers call "the muse." Over the years, I have come to think of my own poetry as a form of shorthand - an attempt to capture a moment frozen in time. A wayward leaf caught in mid-fall. A glimpse of a shadow cast by nothing at all. The effect of moonlight on tombstones.<br />
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Though I write primarily novels and nonfiction, I do find myself pleasantly haunted by what my mentor once referred to as "the gnosis of vampyres." What does that mean? In essence, I would say it is the voice of silent knowing - the observer within all of us who possesses the ability to see the world clearly, and at times perhaps too clearly. As another dear friend once said, "Poetry is the streaming download from the broken heart of the universe." I have found that to be true, at least in my own humble attempts at the art form.<br />
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The poems in this anthology represent approximately two decades of those streaming downloads, most of which were scribbled hastily and in bad penmanship into cloth journals. If I have been at all successful in capturing some of those moments frozen in time, perhaps a line or two will resonate with you, hopefully bringing a smile to your face or a chill to your spine.<br />
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At the very least, enjoy the dark side of the light.<br />
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Della Van Hise<br />
November 8, 2015<br />
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Candles keep journals<br />
of time’s passing<br />
in empty books of matches.<br />
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My heart is a haunted room,<br />
sinister sanctuary.<br />
When it breaks,<br />
shattered by your sharp white smile,<br />
all the shadows come leaking out,<br />
phantoms of neverland<br />
loosed on the world of men.<br />
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The cemetery lies empty,<br />
pallid headstones only coloring books<br />
for the idle hands of time.<br />
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To view all of my books, please consider...</div>
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<a href="http://www.eyescrypublications.com/" target="_blank">Eye Scry Publications</a></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Della-Van-Hise/e/B003ZOK75G/ref=dp_byline_cont_book_1" target="_blank">Amazon</a></div>
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Della Van Hise / Quantum Shamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15981554252784274711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5483744569183531224.post-58861831505773523882016-01-13T22:38:00.002-08:002016-01-13T22:39:07.852-08:00Questions Along the Way - Just Released!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Questions-Along-Way-Conversations-Quantum-ebook/dp/B01A4MPLI4/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNHQ9vgVeXXCvP4hUsGx_exkNHW9YzYrt4MTQqNSvKitM1JXVMncuUVUS_XvIvH1eoMYRh6KxO__UtGnjeOcOS2mylZvs0B9Bhw2FOEJnbHmGupD_E4Ch_czOBtBbg-umiDDnNk0qx_nZl/s640/BookCoverPreview+%25281%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Available in print or digital format</div>
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Questions-Along-Way-Conversations-Quantum-ebook/dp/B01A4MPLI4/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" target="_blank">On Amazon</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.quantumshaman.com/html/questions.htm" target="_blank">From Quantum Shaman.com</a></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Anyone on a journey of personal growth and enlightenment is sure to come face to face with difficult questions that will keep them awake at night and may even plunge them into the dark night of the soul. In Questions Along the Way, Quantum Shaman Della Van Hise talks frankly with seekers on the path of heart and opens wide the door to a new understanding that lies beyond the false belief systems and cultural programming all of us must confront when emerging from the dark into the light.</span></i></div>
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Just wanted to let everyone know I've completed the third book in the Quantum Shaman series. "Questions Along the Way" is a compilation of questions I've received over a period spanning more than 20 years - inquiries from seekers who find themselves faced with conundrums that run the gamut from 'Is there a God?' to 'How can I improve my relationships right here and now?'</div>
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Much of the work I've done with others on a path of heart - a journey of personal growth, enlightenment and evolution - has been previously scattered over a wide variety of groups, online forums and in-person talks and seminars, so it is my intent with this book to bring many of those questions together in an easily accessible format. "Questions Along the Way" is available on Amazon, both in digital and print versions, as well as on the Quantum Shaman website.</div>
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I hope you will give the book a try, and as always - look me up on Facebook if you would like to follow my ongoing endeavors. I do plan a second installment of "Questions Along the Way," most likely to be released in 2017. Also, I have another book in the works in the Quantum Shaman series entitled (tentatively) "A Love Affair With the Unknown: True Tales of Otherworldly Encounters," which will be released in January or February of 2016.</div>
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As always, thanks for your interest in my work. May your path be filled with wonder, imagination and freedom.</div>
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Many blessings,</div>
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Della Van Hise</div>
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Della Van Hise / Quantum Shamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15981554252784274711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5483744569183531224.post-74700103328428935862015-10-19T14:35:00.000-07:002015-10-26T10:52:56.251-07:00Bring Your Own Marshmallows<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCreI5rwubC8-tXuj1HW7NBtISBfjKsdwD6IwfS1UH18d8aEq2mIMUaOUlfSGEq-zt04vdhMoNOB8xqn2BWJ9Ss6oKPryvh4FwYWFM4U8EbamrFcj5LAo4cqJpa10y8mCGCcyp0lvkvYcc/s1600/book+burning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCreI5rwubC8-tXuj1HW7NBtISBfjKsdwD6IwfS1UH18d8aEq2mIMUaOUlfSGEq-zt04vdhMoNOB8xqn2BWJ9Ss6oKPryvh4FwYWFM4U8EbamrFcj5LAo4cqJpa10y8mCGCcyp0lvkvYcc/s200/book+burning.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
I've decided what I'm going to do for Halloween this year. A bonfire. A big one. I have a free-standing barbeque pit in my back yard - perfect for constructing wood-burning fires, and big enough to accommodate all the copies of my fiction books currently on hand. I estimate there are probably about a hundred books, so it should make for a full evening of roasting weenies and toasting marshmallows and saying goodbye to what I once (foolishly) thought might be my "writing career." Gotta laugh. In reality, of course, one cannot call writing a career, but only an obsolete hobby - at least that is how it has begun to appear in today's "market."<br />
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Market. <i>What </i>market?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVg-hMJRvIsngwFoVs5mqWIowlw790AkurSI1Vstc_nKb-hq1BvZt_ugSGCIWfc57qMqMcf_Qt5nTN_pYOQ0h6Rxi5iGbrj6QYT7F2oVkcC6nMBzwk7hw2Gzl12jrTijVyMgpKxjKudiSx/s1600/book-pile-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVg-hMJRvIsngwFoVs5mqWIowlw790AkurSI1Vstc_nKb-hq1BvZt_ugSGCIWfc57qMqMcf_Qt5nTN_pYOQ0h6Rxi5iGbrj6QYT7F2oVkcC6nMBzwk7hw2Gzl12jrTijVyMgpKxjKudiSx/s320/book-pile-1.jpg" width="228" /></a>I have been doing the fiction writing thaaang for over 35 years, and other than KILLING TIME and a few short stories, I'm sorry to say I have not been especially successful. If I listen to my fans and critics, it's <i>not</i> because I'm not good enough. It's not even because I haven't been especially prolific in the past 10 years (hard to be a full time writer when one actually has to work for a living). It's largely (but not entirely) because the "market" has become glutted with garbage (and most of it actually IS garbage) so that anything with any substance 1) can't be found; and 2) if it IS found, it is generally given a wide berth because the reader has been burned far too many times by all the <i>previous</i> garbage; and 3) even if the book is found and the reader decides to give it a look-inside, chances are high that some clique of trolls has posted so many negative reviews that the reader ends up tucking her tail 'twixt her legs and fleeing in terror. Who can blame her? Certainly not I.</div>
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My SO, Wendy Rathbone - who is a seasoned, published professional writer and highly-awarded poet - recently attended a "writer's retreat" in San Diego, which was geared specifically toward the kind of fiction she writes (male/male romance). Aside from the fact that the convention itself was organized in a very peculiar manner (no dealer's room, no place to actually SELL one's books even though readers were there allegedly wanting to BUY books), Wendy had an author signing on Thursday morning (worst possible time, since people are still arriving or won't even show up until the weekend) Not sure whose bright idea that was, but it basically sucks. But no matter... </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYJqBKLoxZ0MhoVe6LVDv_6XxOcwjjP0n_ZJxmtdNxqqn7luyye44deyEs9gABzm9Fgd2iEP0JVBMoQ05SRLn7dj5OTf-k3uBZTfHIo_OpVByf1An8dVEjpL5NVbAXuM7SxxuPUIwBgT0d/s1600/wendy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYJqBKLoxZ0MhoVe6LVDv_6XxOcwjjP0n_ZJxmtdNxqqn7luyye44deyEs9gABzm9Fgd2iEP0JVBMoQ05SRLn7dj5OTf-k3uBZTfHIo_OpVByf1An8dVEjpL5NVbAXuM7SxxuPUIwBgT0d/s320/wendy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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After much chaos and fuss to get everything in order, Wendy managed to sell precisely <i>no</i> books whatsoever, even though she had over a dozen titles on her author table, including two brand new ones which just became available this month. She received multiple compliments on the covers, but ultimately it was all for naught. I had originally been scheduled to attend, but as the time approached when I should have been getting in the car, my own "little voices" gave a shrug of screaming indifference and strongly suggested that I stay home with the new puppy and enjoy the rare desert rain. So, as it turned out, my own books weren't even put out (which is no one's fault but my own), but at this point I have no doubt that my sales would have been nada-times-nada as well. As Mr. Spock was fond of saying - "If I drop a hammer on a planet with positive gravity, I don't need to see it fall to know that it has, indeed, fallen."</div>
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Lotta truth to that.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKCg1uyxq0Ey2i-e2MOYjvrarGiT3Mh0tTIWpSDJgnHHc4nG9TPqkigOZs6gcxOTns53xMRJzl23u5MH3aLXGLJ7qUend28Sr9RKRaOaiWxNM7YDrUYms7yIHYYzAcMZ6jmAYKyuWXKbbS/s1600/i.quit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKCg1uyxq0Ey2i-e2MOYjvrarGiT3Mh0tTIWpSDJgnHHc4nG9TPqkigOZs6gcxOTns53xMRJzl23u5MH3aLXGLJ7qUend28Sr9RKRaOaiWxNM7YDrUYms7yIHYYzAcMZ6jmAYKyuWXKbbS/s320/i.quit.jpg" width="320" /></a>Also a lot to be learned from the science of logic. It's one thing to have hope. It's another thing altogether to have <i>false hope. </i>And to be brutally honest with myself - if I haven't made a real dent as a writer in 35 years, logic dictates that I probably ain't gonna. So... no worries, no regrets. Just simply time to put my energy toward something else. Sure - who knows? - maybe I'll start a new book next week, but right now, I can see <i>no</i> reason to keep writing book after book... only to watch them languish in total obscurity. </div>
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Wendy's words upon returning home from the convention were, "But I had a good time." Hmmm. The same words spoken by beauty contest runners-up and people who get thrown off the island. That's the difference between Wendy and myself. She's the positive one always finding that golden ray of sunshine and looking to the future, whereas I tend to be the darkling who can predict the future based on the past - and I must say that the future of writing doesn't look the least bit promising. Wendy is already planning her next novel. And I'm preparing for a bonfire.</div>
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Bring your own marshmallows. (And your own books, if you feel so inclined.)<br />
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Being a fickle bitch prone to occasional fits of drama, I reserve the right to change my mind. But right now... I've got a book of matches burning a hole in my pocket.<i> Bon appetit.</i></div>
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_________________</div>
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Just a few of the titles that will be smokin' this Halloween! Get 'em while they're hot! </div>
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Della Van Hise / Quantum Shamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15981554252784274711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5483744569183531224.post-37923273908742128372015-07-04T16:15:00.004-07:002015-07-04T16:18:02.611-07:00Indulgences, Negative Pleasantries and "Gaslighting"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<h3 style="text-align: center;">
A Personal Rant<br /><br />
<span style="font-weight: normal;">(Having nothing to do with writing, quantum shamanism, or anything other than my personal observations of life, the universe & everything wedged in the crack in between)</span></h3>
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In case of rant, break glass. (Then use it to slit the throats of any idiots standing within 100 yards).<br />
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With that said, there is nowhere to begin except in the middle.If you are offended by strong opinions and truth, you may want to go back to looking at pretty pictures on the internet or hook up with your "nice" friends who like to facilitate your ongoing whiny weaknesses that you've been milking for sympathy, attention and financial support all your life. The bottom line here is that a <i>lot</i> of people who call themselves victims also <i>create</i> themselves as victims - and with what turns out to be good reason. Hell, if I'd realized earlier in life that I could <i>get </i>stuff (including full financial and emotional support) by pretending to be sick, injured, mentally ill, or just plain lazy, I might have bought myself one of those patented "Victim Here!" t-shirts and hopped on that bandwagon that never stops at any workplace, and certainly doesn't make any layovers in Reality.<br />
<br />
For some, the status of victim brings lots of attention, and you can always roll out that big banner that says (with great big tears), "Don't blame me, I'm the victim!" Well... how about this? How about not <i>choosing</i> to <i>be</i> a victim and watch how your life turns around? I'm not ignoring the fact that some people really <i>are</i> mentally ill or otherwise disengaged from reality - that's absolutely <i>not</i> what I'm ranting about here - but many (if not <i>most)</i> are simply milking the system and their family and friends for every ounce of energy, money, emotional support and whatever else they can get. No, I'm not an unfeeling monster. Yes, I know people who are legitimately "victims" of life. But I also know a lot of people who fall under the heading of Energy Vampire - and that's a vocation, not just an unfortunate set of circumstances.<br />
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Where is all of this coming from? you might wonder. Life experience, for starters, but also from a lot of stuff that makes the rounds on the internet from time to time. I'm simply tired of keeping quiet when it has become an epidemic of entitlement, self-indulgence and self-pity. In reality, most people <i>choose</i> to be the victim because - let's face it - it's a lot easier than being strong, much easier than standing on <i>your</i> own two feet, and a <i>helluva</i> lot easier than thinking for yourself. It's much easier to blame others in the aftermath of your failures, as opposed to taking the bull by the horns and living from the vantage point of your own strengths (and you <i>have</i> those strengths - believe me, everyone does!) So when someone whines about how they have "been a victim all their life," it just makes me want to grab them and shake them and ask them why on earth (or any other planet) they would choose to passively <i>allow</i> their weaknesses to rule their lives, while ignoring their strengths.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Most</i> victims aren't born. They are (self) made.<br />
<br />
I recently read an article about "gaslighting" - but to be honest here, a lot of it sounded to me like the author was trying to assign blame for every sleight she had received in her life. If your family is comprised of assholes and homophobic rednecks, why are you still there? If you're an adult, you can walk away (yes, it will be hard, but that's why you learned to walk). If you're a child, you (hopefully) have been schooled in the fact that you <i>can</i> report physical or psychological abuse to the authorities (teachers, police, <strike>priests</strike> - well, scratch that last one...). Bottom line - if you're willingly standing in the shit line, don't whine! If you need help, <i>get it</i> - report the abusers or simply walk away. It doesn't matter if they're your family members, your best friends or a stranger on the street. If you <i>really</i> feel you are being victimized, get the fuck out of Dodge. What are you waiting for?<br />
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But on the other side of that coin... whether you decide to stay or go, don't <i>then</i> turn around and blame everyone but yourself. Don't run your passive-aggressive self-victimization performance on those who have been trying to help you for years despite what you might prefer to believe. I've had more than my fair share of people (mostly emotionally needy women) come into my life as "friends" but as time wears on (more than 30 years in some cases) it has a tendency to turn toxic when I begin to realize that these women who sought me out for my strength (their words) are now blaming <i>me</i> for their own weaknesses. Or, more precisely, they are <i>defending</i> their right to be weak, and annoyed that I see it.<br />
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This has happened to me at least 3 times, and not in any minor way. In my early 20s, a woman in fandom (who was twice my age, married with children and seemingly settled in life) attached herself to me under the guise of being a friend/mentor. For awhile, it was fun - having an older friend who shared my same interests (<i>Star Trek</i>, fan conventions, writing, etc), but it wasn't long before things turned weird. I suppose that all started when she would come to my house on weekends, half drunk and out of her mind on prescription pain pills, and begin to throw herself at me as if we were lovers. And this was with her two young boys tagging along for the ride - inappropriate, to say the <i>very</i> least.<br />
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At first, I thought I was mistaken - being young and naive allows one to live in a state of quasi-denial - but when she would unroll about a foot of tongue into my ear and call me "Baby," I started to get the idea that it was a great deal more weird than I had originally imagined. Of course, I'm no stranger to same-gender pairings (I've been with the same woman for over 35 years), so one time I responded... only to later be accused of raping her (even though the "relationship" never went any further than a kiss, and not even a memorable one at that). Bottom line - her strict Catholic upbringing wouldn't allow her to realize she was actually a Lesbian, and so her only recourse was to violently and vehemently blame the person <i>she</i> had been trying to seduce for months. Chalk one up to Crazyville.<br />
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Is that "gaslighting" on my part? I don't think so, though I'm sure I've been accused of that under more than one trendy psyche term over the years. Point being - it was to her <i>advantage</i> to play the victim. Got her lots of sympathy from people who blindly believed her, and made it easier for her to run back and forth from the east coast to the west and keep a "Baby" in every port (or so she originally hoped). Smart. And hardly a victim if you look at it with clarity rather than blind emotional empathy for the one who always whines the loudest. She created her own reality through her own actions. She simply skipped over first year physics, wherein we learn that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. In other words... consequences. If this, then that... it ain't rocket science.<br />
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There have been other incidents, more recent and, frankly, even more unbelievable. A friend of over 30 years abruptly decided to write me a "Go fuck yourself" email - which was probably not a bad idea under the circumstances, seeing as how any real "friendship" ended long ago as a result of her own inexplicable actions (not once, not twice, but dozens of times). Though in all fairness to myself, I'd have to say that her agenda in finally breaking it off is every bit as transparent as her behavior over the past three decades. It becomes impossible for any <i>real</i> friend to remain supportive when you have seen through the facades and the childish, immature, self-indulgent games. So the only way to protect herself from the potential scrutiny of her family members and other mutual friends was to make a "first strike" tactical maneuver and label me as the tyrant, thus allowing herself to go right on playing the role of the victim to those who <i>do</i> buy into the charades. *shrugs* I don't take it personally. It's just business. If those closest to her knew the <i>real</i> truth about her agendas and her manipulations, she would stand to lose a <i>lot</i> more than she will lose by just unfriending <i>me</i> out of her life. Hell, I don't even blame her. Just wish she would stand on her strengths instead of always falling back on her weaknesses. Tried to tell her that a few times, which is probably why I am now the poster child for her dart board. *lol*<br />
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Another long-time friend (over 30 years) also recently told me to go fuck myself. Damn - I'm starting to need a tube o' lube for all that self-abuse I'm being told to inflict on myself, but that's okay. I'd rather fuck myself than most other humans these days, so now all I need is a new bunch of D-cells. They get the job done and don't write me nasty emails in the morning. The thing is... the consistent complaint in these last two cases ultimately boils down to... "You're not giving me enough attention." If I boil away all of the other self-indulgent and self-entitled whining and attempts to twist reality (of which both are true masters), that's it in a nutshell. In both cases, I was essentially told that I wasn't playing the game right. I didn't say blue is my favorite color (because it's purple). I wouldn't tell them it's okay to say one thing and do the opposite (that's what a yes-man does, not what a friend does). I just wasn't playing the game the way <i>they </i>wanted to play it, and that was enough to get me thrown off the field. That's okay - I'm not invested in those games anymore anyway. Happy to <i>know</i> that the only winning move is <i>not</i> to play. Happier still not to need consensual agreements with pretenders.<br />
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And yet, I always ask myself, "Self, <i>is</i> it <i>you</i>?" Am I a bad friend? Am I a bad person? Am I a bad influence?<br />
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I honestly don't think so, and neither does anyone who really knows me. (I've asked.) I'm strongly opinionated (who isn't?). I have my own ideas about the meaning of life. If you want to discuss them, ask me. If you want me to change those ideas to suit your notions... ask yourself why you so desperately <i>need</i> me to agree with you. What it really seems to come down to is a bad case of false expectations - and it's easy to play the victim when you think someone <i>owes </i>you something, even if in your own mind. The whole thing about "gaslighting" as it is being discussed on the internet <i>usually</i> isn't about real mental abuse. It's just <i>life</i>. Not everyone is going to agree with you. Not everyone is going to like you. And very <i>very</i> few people are going to love you. Why you would think everyone <i>owes </i>that to you is what might need to be examined.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihkEI1AYSGP69RutvfIxDB1uMgOFaav5jix0BmDlvFS5TI_Ftpexhmikob-4j8RFNlbBExDrpq7dOw1xoLBbHvvpcLftRC-p2ukihaCJfe5MNC8NP8m-R436m_QXN2bGd_1yDYSngr3I6u/s1600/gaslighting2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihkEI1AYSGP69RutvfIxDB1uMgOFaav5jix0BmDlvFS5TI_Ftpexhmikob-4j8RFNlbBExDrpq7dOw1xoLBbHvvpcLftRC-p2ukihaCJfe5MNC8NP8m-R436m_QXN2bGd_1yDYSngr3I6u/s320/gaslighting2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Keep this in mind... when someone accuses you<br />
of "gaslighting," they may <span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">not realize</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">that by pointing a finger at YOU,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">there are 4 other fingers</span><br />
pointing back in their own direction.<br />
In common English, it's also known<br />
as the cat calling the dog a hairbag. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
People have disagreements all the time, but in today's world that seems to mean crying mental abuse and running to your friends and family in the hopes they will agree with you and give you all that "Oh poor baby" attention you seem to <i>need-need-need</i> so very desperately. As far as I can see, in <i>most</i> (not all, but most) cases, what that really points to is just one more manifestation of the very thing the "victim" is crying foul about in the first place. In other words - instead of standing up for yourself, you turn and blame everyone <i>but</i> yourself (making <i>yourself</i> the victim in the process), often pointing the finger at the people whom you know full well have seen through your games and your manipulations. Deny it all you want. Turn and point the finger at someone else if that's what you need to do - but it won't change who <i>you</i> are, and it won't get you any closer to who you might <i>want</i> to be. It's just one more diversionary tactic, one more dive into the depths of your own self-deception rather than any attempt to climb the very real ladder of your strengths. And if you want to accuse me of "gaslighting" for that, you go right ahead. Maybe it will make you sleep better. Maybe it won't. But one thing is true: you created your own reality and now you are living in it. <i>You</i> know the truth about yourself (and so do 99% of the people you mistakenly believe you've been fooling).<br />
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There are all sorts of other tangents I could go off on. Okay, you talked me into it. In the same vein as "gaslighting", let's talk about triggering - another buzz word that's gained popularity in social media and especially in fannish circles. Back in the day of the first fan fiction, nobody would have thought to worry about being "triggered." The word didn't exist. But no matter. What it comes down to is that some people are so overly sensitive that they request - no, they <i>demand</i> - to be warned about anything and everything that might maybe possibly probably "trigger" an emotional response. And, well, frankly I find that a bit... er... crazy. (Hope that doesn't trigger anybody, but I'm sure it probably maybe possibly certainly <i>will</i>).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7PpWVZFQfPAtqdIu4DsGv_qOAirlyLaWmRz0TzlX_BDhA8yhSHVaYTo10mA6WofE7fS5f6BpA8eYOtO5hv_Ip5hWPy6MPQw5uDpu7mqYwNae1n-eOsUaupUR_6ipGwHF6dHyoRxOBMCV7/s1600/trigger+warning.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7PpWVZFQfPAtqdIu4DsGv_qOAirlyLaWmRz0TzlX_BDhA8yhSHVaYTo10mA6WofE7fS5f6BpA8eYOtO5hv_Ip5hWPy6MPQw5uDpu7mqYwNae1n-eOsUaupUR_6ipGwHF6dHyoRxOBMCV7/s320/trigger+warning.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
I mean - let's get real. If you are reading fan fiction - particularly male/male or gay romance "slash" - chances are very high that nearly <i>any</i> such story may contain <i>something</i> that is going to trigger <i>somebody</i> somewhere. Granted, if the story contains a violent rape with a Wile E. Coyote as the perp and the roadrunner as the victim, maybe I could understand. But here's a little fact that will probably rattle a few cages and trigger a few hate mails - but it can be validated if anybody wants to go look. I have posted several of my old <i>Star Trek </i>K/S fanfic stories on Archive of Our Own, and the ones that get the MOST hits and the HIGHEST kudos counts are the very ones that have "non-con" sexuality, or - gasp - feature one or the other of the characters as a sex slave with induced amnesia.<br />
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So let's be honest - do people want to be "warned" about non-con, or do they just want to get off on it? Doesn't matter to me either way - but here's another thing. If you <i>know</i> you are uber sensitive to rape stories or death stories or stories in which boy-meets-sheep, boy-loses-sheep, boy-eats-sheep... then why on Earth are you even reading in a genre where you might run across that? Do you expect pro authors like Anne Rice to warn you about all that naughty sex in those Beauty books? Do you expect Stephen King to tell you somebody is going to tango with an ax on page 329? What do you <i>expect</i> - and why do you even expect it? Where is it written that you must be coddled and protected, when you are going out of your way to read the kind of material that might trigger your triggers? Isn't that rather... um... naive? And entitled? And... well... here's that word again... <i>crazy</i>?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid4co4-IX0g-icYkQ81VkZrJtPPCheVaDtGR-XI9YthsKgn7ijoZk9wryrAH7Bm6BmY3Ug_81lAXdJtZQFkqo4I8gKioGSv7jKEYW_pUMhWNq5raZsn_N9bz7d-SOJqgopezDNCsHShevQ/s1600/grumpy+cat+unfriended.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid4co4-IX0g-icYkQ81VkZrJtPPCheVaDtGR-XI9YthsKgn7ijoZk9wryrAH7Bm6BmY3Ug_81lAXdJtZQFkqo4I8gKioGSv7jKEYW_pUMhWNq5raZsn_N9bz7d-SOJqgopezDNCsHShevQ/s320/grumpy+cat+unfriended.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
If you don't like what I'm saying here, that's fine. Unfriend me. Tell me to go fuck myself (I'm starting to enjoy it). But by all means... don't try to blame <i>me</i> if you are twisting yourself up inside because you enjoy the wringer. It's called negative pleasantries - getting off on being weak or indulgent or entitled. Sure - you can do that and maybe even feel righteously justified in those beliefs. But somewhere inside yourself... you <i>do </i>know the truth. And <i>that</i> is what's <i>really</i> eating you up inside. <br />
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Just to be perfectly clear... my comments here are entirely personal observations, and I intend no disrespect to anyone who is genuinely victimized, mentally ill or emotionally damaged. Life happens. Bad things happen to good people. My comments here are wholly in response to what I see as a dangerous trend toward painting oneself as a victim instead of turning and embracing the real strengths you have <i>earned</i> through your own life experience. In at least 95% of all cases, you aren't the victim unless you choose to adopt that label. You are the most powerful being in the universe. Prove it! Not to me, but to yourself.Della Van Hise / Quantum Shamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15981554252784274711noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5483744569183531224.post-662181247434737392015-06-26T11:31:00.000-07:002015-06-26T11:31:25.097-07:00Interesting Times?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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As anyone who is serious about writing already knows, we are living under the shadow of an ancient Chinese curse: "May you live in interesting times."<br />
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Where the writing/publishing industry is concerned, there has never been a period of greater change and upheaval than we are now encountering. The rules are changing by the second, it seems, and what was right yesterday is wrong today, and at this point I'm not even sure how much of the current "trending" is even legal (but that's another can o' worms to be opened at another time by far more qualified people in nice suits). My purpose here is to shed some light on current trends and ask writers and readers alike what they think of it all? My secondary purpose is to appeal directly to Amazon - asking them to specifically consider whether or not the new pay-for-pages-read policy is going to be a money-maker or a potential albatross.<br />
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As many of you already know, Amazon has recently unveiled its intent to begin (as of July 1, 2015) paying indie authors for "pages read." (To read a more fact-based article, please visit... <a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/technology/amazon/11692026/Amazons-to-pay-Kindle-authors-only-for-pages-read.html" target="_blank">The Telegraph</a>. There are also lots of interesting (and occasionally heated) comments following the actual article, which are also worth considering.<br />
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When I first heard about this, I was understandably confused, but also more than a little concerned. On the one hand, I said to myself, maybe this could be GOOD for good authors, in the sense that readers can generally tell by 20 pages or so into a book whether or not it is 1) going to hold their attention; or 2) reads like it was written by a dyslexic first grader; or 3) is not at all what it was hyped up to be in the product description. So, from that perspective, I thought maybe GOOD books would find their way to the top (like cream floating), but then I realized... there are a lot of OTHER things that also float... and some of 'em aren't very pleasant-smellin'.<br />
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Part of the "logic" to this new policy is that it will theoretically (but, hey, it was once an accepted "theory" that the earth is flat, but never mind...) pay more to authors who write well-crafted novels of a reasonable length (50,000 words or more), and "punish" scammers who write 10-pages and charge the same as legitimate writers. Okay - good theory. But... when you look at it more closely, it's probably nothing so altruistic at the core of it.<br />
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So when I began looking into the actualities of this new pay-for-pages-read idea, what it really boils down to is that even the very best writers are going to end up receiving less because it's a fact that a LOT of people have opted in to the "Prime" program (aka "Kindle Unlimited") and the word "unlimited" means precisely that. For $9.99/month, folks can download as many books, movies and music as they want. And what that means is that a lot of people are going to essentially "buy" books that they may or may not ever read. In months past, the actual <i>sales</i> of my books outnumbered the Kindle Unlimited (Prime) copies 2 to 1, or more. Now... quite the opposite. More people are "borrowing" through Prime than those who are actually purchasing the Kindle books. What this means is that most of my royalties are (or <i>were</i>) coming through the Kindle Unlimited avenue, and those royalties will undoubtedly dwindle dramatically because - let's face it, folks - people are fickle. Instead of buying a book for $2.99, they will download it through their Prime service, and if they never even open it, the writer never sees a dime, even though the reader has the full book at their disposal. Seems kinda... weird?<br />
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Okay, so maybe they <i>will </i>read it. Or maybe they will only read 10 pages because, ultimately, people place very little value on things they did not really "buy". It's kinda like being handed a library card with an unlimited number of check-outs, no expiration date, and no obligation, so the books sit on the cybershelf gathering dust because there is simply no incentive to read them. They were "free" after all, and so they are without value in the minds of most.<br />
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When I contacted Amazon directly through our publishing company (<a href="http://www.eyescrypublications.com/" target="_blank">Eye Scry Publications</a>) to express my concern, here is a transcript of what transpired.<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Eye Scry Publications wrote:<br />Subject: Paying for Pages Read?<br /><br />Your new policy of paying writers only for "pages read" is more scary than not. When I opted in to KU and KOLL, that policy was never mentioned. Then, suddenly, writers were only paid if the reader got 10% into the book. Now... THIS? I have to ask - is the same policy being applied to movies and music purchased/borrowed through Prime? If a customer only watches 10% of a movie, is the motion picture company only paid 10%<br /><br />The problem here is that - as always - writers are being short-changed as a way for the company to make more money. Clearly, the company is offering a service to its customers for $9.95/month and since the service has now become popular, writers are being used to make up the difference - which is completely unfair, especially since most of my titles were opted in long BEFORE this practice was instated.<br /><br />Yes, I know I can opt out (and I probably will). But I wanted to try to negotiate FIRST, since I have always SUPPORTED Amazon's treatment of writers and indie publishers. If I went into a book store and bought a book just for one recipe, I still expect to pay for the WHOLE book, and I expect the writer to receive FULL royalties.<br /><br />If you have "oversold" your "Prime" program, you need to raise your price to customers rather than trying to take it out of the pockets of writers. Without writers, Amazon would not exist as it does today. Please consider that. And thank you for listening.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Amazon's response...<br />From Amazon:<br />I'm very sorry for any frustration this has caused.<br />I understand you're concerned about the recent change in our KDP Global Fund calculation for KU/KOLL borrows.<br />Please know, we're making this switch from July 1, 2015, in response to great feedback we’ve received from authors who have asked us to better align payout with the length of books and how much customers read.<br />In the current payment method, when a Kindle Unlimited customer chooses your book for the first time and reads more than 10% of it, their choice qualifies toward royalty payment for you. Though, the borrow will be counted only if the customer reads 10% of your book, you'll receive the payment for a complete borrow, not only 10% payment on the borrow.<br />Rest assured that, even if it takes the customer some time to read your book, we'll still pay you for the pages they read once they read them. For instance, if a customer borrowed a 200 pages book on July, and reads 20 pages in the same month, then the publisher will receive the share of KDP Global Fund for 20 pages on the month of July. Further, if the customer is reading the remaining pages in the September, the publisher will be paid for the remaining pages on September, and the publisher will not lose out the payment for any pages that read by the customer for the first time.<br />In some cases, the customer’s device might not be online, but once they connect, the pages they read will be counted. You will also be able to see total pages read and dollars earned from the KDP Select Global Fund in your Prior Months’ Royalties report.<br />However, I understand your concern and I've passed along your comments to our developers. We definitely value your opinion and will continue to listen and respond to our publisher’s concerns. We will make every effort to evaluate the information you have provided, and try our level best to lead it to program changes or enhancements.<br />It is always important for us to hear how publishers react to all aspects. Your feedback will help us to improve the selection and service we provide and we're glad you took time to write to us.<br />We look forward to support you as always.<br />Thanks for the understanding and using Amazon KDP.</blockquote>
It just seems to me (and many other writers I've spoken to) that this whole new policy is unnecessarily complex. If readers buy (or borrow) a book that they don't want, they have a very reasonable length of time to return it (yes, even digital books). That aside, I also find myself not completely trusting the software tasked with keeping track of how much a reader actually reads from here to eternity. Seeing as how I get all sorts of ads for Viagra and penis enlargement strategies (and I'm not even of the male persuasion) it seems highly unlikely to me that computers can REALLY track whether a reader reads 10 pages or 12 or 2.5. Big Brother is watching you? Really? Seems that Big Brother may be a bit myopic, since I also get ads thanking me for supporting the Republican Party (not!) and letters of appreciation from my own cell phone service provider thanking me for "choosing FiOS" (not!).<br />
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Ultimately, It's ALWAYS a case of "follow the money." I'm pretty sure Amazon doesn't work for free, so why is it expecting writers to essentially place their books in the Kindle Unlimited program and then NOT get paid. When the program was first launched, I opted in based on the contract at that time - and now that contract has been severely altered (more than once) to such a degree that it has gone from paying authors for their work to... well... figuring out ways <i>not </i>to pay authors for their work Yes, writers and publishers can opt out of the Kindle Unlimited program and have their books <i>only</i> for actual sale, but in so many ways that seems like a drastically unfair alternative, since it is beginning to appear that there are more Amazon customers on the "Prime" program than those who might actually <i>buy</i> a book (even an e-book) outright. Cutting off nose to spite face... hmmm... is that <i>really</i> the only option here, or should Amazon perhaps reconsider this new policy? Surely there are <i>other, </i>more reasonable and viable solutions?<br />
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Instead of trying to punish scammer-writers who publish 10-pages of drivel, why not make a minimum-length requirement for books published on Kindle Unlimited? If you're going to call it a book, maybe it has to be a minimum of 100 pages or 30,000 words. And then there's the matter of quality-control - which is another issue for another time going off in another direction altogether, but it seems to me that a lot of GOOD writers are being buried in the mountain of garbage because there does not appear to be a way to auto-scan a book for "This is pure crap." I'm not talking about matters of taste. I'm talking about books that are one long paragraph, no punctuation, no comprehension of language, just run-on drivel that belongs (at best) in a 12-year-old's private diary and <i>not</i> on Amazon. Considering all the <i>other</i> cyber-spy technology, seems reasonable that some sort of quality-control software could and <i>should</i> exist.<br />
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Writing is an artform and also a creative right. But let's face it - much of what is written simply doesn't need to be out there for public consumption. In fact, since print-on-demand technology became easily accessible and the world opened up to "indie digital books," every other person I meet introduces themselves as a writer, when the harsh reality is that 99.9% of them have never sold a book professionally. Don't get me wrong - I'm <i>not</i> an advocate for traditional publishing. I've been screwed once too often through that avenue, but at the same time I see so many problems with indie publishing that I am inclined to conclude... we do indeed live in "interesting times."<br />
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I've also come to the conclusion that trying to make a living as a writer in today's world is ludicrous folly unless you happen to get struck by cyber-lightning for no reason anyone can discern. Mainstream publishers have cut advances and royalties to writers to such a degree that it would be professional suicide to go with traditional publishing, and now Amazon appears to be looking for ways to short-change writers as well. Personally, I think ALL writers should go on strike and just start asking, "Would you like fries with that?" Not a pleasant idea, but maybe the only realistic one. I'm tired of giving everything away to corporations who seem to think writers OWE it to them to line their pockets while our own bills go unpaid. It's absurd - but what can be done?<br />
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Then again - I just heard yesterday about Taylor Swift forcing Apple to change its mind about its notion to give away a new streaming subscription service (free for 3 months, they say!). It was the fact that they would not be paying artists during those 3 months for any items streamed for free that caused a kerfuffle... and that's when <a href="http://appadvice.com/appnn/2015/06/apple-faces-the-music-and-listens-to-taylor-swift" target="_blank">Taylor Swift gave them a Swift kick</a>... and good for her! Too bad the writing world doesn't have someone of her stature to take <i>this</i> bull by the horns and wrestle it to the ground! Any volunteers?<br />
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While I have always supported Amazon's treatment of indie authors and publishers, I am imploring them to reconsider this new policy, because it is really a poke in the eye to legitimate writers. If you want to punish the bad guys, Amazon, then punish the bad guys. The rest of us really are doing the work and the art we love, and when a writer and publisher can come together in a mutually beneficial arrangement, there's no limit to what can happen. Your new pay-for-pages-read policy may look good on paper, but the reality of it leaves a <i>lot</i> to be desired. There <i>must</i> be better alternatives.<br />
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<br />Della Van Hise / Quantum Shamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15981554252784274711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5483744569183531224.post-4299420503202040402015-05-14T18:04:00.000-07:002015-05-15T10:42:10.926-07:00Crickets and Cat Bellies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Spent most of the day on Monday and Tuesday farting around on Facebook. I ask myself why. The little voices in my head just laugh and say, "It's easier than writing and at least one person will probably read it, even if that person<i> is</i> your mother." Were it not for the fact that my mother died in 2006, the little bastards might have a point, which I don't <i>want</i> to acknowledge, but which almost every writer I know nowadays faces like a demon in the mirror every morning. Bottom line - no matter what we write, whether good or bad or potentially earth-shattering and life-altering - it certainly appears that nobody gives a fat rat's ass. Even the Ouija board remains silent, which only goes to show that my mother isn't even reading my drivel. I tell myself that perhaps there are no e-readers in the Afterlife, but who's to say?<br />
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I warned you this blog was going to be a trip to the dark side, so don't throw rocks at my window or tell me that I should "look on the bright side." Don't think for a moment that I am not keenly aware of my own complaining, as well as being keenly aware of my own role in the drama that is professional writing. And don't try to fix me, 'cuz I'm not really broken. I'm simply aware that the world has changed and moved on, and it may well be that most reading and most writing is rapidly becoming a thing of the past - rather like the buffalo, the telegraph and the mullet. I say this not out of bitterness or even sadness, but with a sense of nostalgia.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTnN1w2fnve8fzXUpcTsLRqmGPpJrX-vb55W4HIX3S9tGJpcF6MzXrpeT2QO2j3mj7pVLww18s-0ow9OW3ahCUxEdDK4cPSl0EKtkZdR_JcTaklEpuKLlCrm9KFo6rrJf5jcPm9oCW01Hz/s1600/killingtime2%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTnN1w2fnve8fzXUpcTsLRqmGPpJrX-vb55W4HIX3S9tGJpcF6MzXrpeT2QO2j3mj7pVLww18s-0ow9OW3ahCUxEdDK4cPSl0EKtkZdR_JcTaklEpuKLlCrm9KFo6rrJf5jcPm9oCW01Hz/s320/killingtime2%5B1%5D.jpg" width="187" /></a>When I was a child, the only real entertainment we had was reading. Nothing like curling up with a good science fiction book on an otherwise dull afternoon after school. I blew through Ray Bradbury, Heinlein, Ellison, Bester, Asimov and plenty more. Read every novelization of the <i>Star Trek</i> episodes and whatever rare and occasional tidbit of fiction Bantam threw our way like scraps to starving cats. Because there was so very <i>little</i> of it, I started writing my own and eventually, at the age of 24, sold my first professional novel. It is generally agreed that KILLING TIME is the most controversial <i>Star Trek </i>novel ever published. Rather than reiterating the saga here, if you're interested you can take a gander at a previous blog entry entitled "<a href="http://dellavanhise.blogspot.com/2014/12/once-upon-mad-mad-time.html" target="_blank">Once Upon A Mad, Mad Time</a>."<br />
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Point being - a lot of us became writers out of a sense of genuine love for the characters we wrote, and a true desire to tell a story that would affect readers in some way. My horrible little <i>Star Trek</i> stories written when I was in my early teens were, of course, dreadful. But my friends loved them, and would always show up in school the next morning, eager to see if I'd written more. That was reward enough!<br />
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But now... in the big bad "real world," I'm no longer sure that a few friends saying they like my work is enough. When I was young and wild, living in Miami and San Diego, cavorting with the unknown by night and working crummy jobs by day, it never really occurred to me that a day would come when I would need to "settle down." I probably never thought I'd live this long. Good friends (and more than a few envious cynics) used to tell me, "You can always fall back on your writing in your old age! For now, go out and sew your wild oats! Live like there's no tomorrow! Be all you can be!" (Okay, that last one was probably an army recruiter I passed during my grand exit from the mundane world.)<br />
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But through all those years, I was still writing. Sometimes feverishly. Other times sporadically. Some of it was fan fiction. Other was pro. And to one degree or another, I was always successful. In the professional field, I made enough sales to tell me I was "marketable," and I had the strong support of some good editors, agents and publishers. In fannish circles, I had a huge fan following under my pseudonym, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Alexis-Fegan-Black/e/B00TQ3FCAK/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1431643396&sr=1-2-ent" target="_blank">Alexis Fegan Black</a>. In fact, I couldn't write <i>fast</i> enough to satisfy the hunger of my fans - and for those days I am <i>profoundly grateful!</i> Thank you to everyone who ever stood in line at a sci-fi convention or ComiCon eagerly anticipating one of my novels. To employ a well-worn cliche, those were the days!<br />
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And yet, I have to wonder... where are those people <i>now</i>? I have posted several of my stories on a large fan fiction archive, and have received thousands of hits and hundreds of kudos... and with every story I post, I also include a guide to my professional works in the same genre (usually male/male romance in this case). And even though I would think there would be some cross-over... there're those damn crickets again. It really does perplex me that the same people who literally raved over my fan fiction don't appear to have any interest in anything <i>other</i> than fan fiction. Nothing wrong with that - I mean that sincerely - I'm just sayin' that it surprises me and causes me to re-think that common condolence of 'You can always fall back on your writing in your old age.' Can I? The crickets are singing a different tune, and that's more than a little bit scary for someone who had grown used to feeling successful in most of her endeavors.<br />
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So at some point, I have to wonder if it's just a case of obsolescence. Has reading been replaced with other, more modern pastimes? Not necessarily anything wrong with that either. It's been proven that certain video games can improve hand/eye coordination and increase reaction time. But it's also been proven that those same video games may be at least partially responsible for so-called "ADD" or "ADHD" (whatever they are calling it <i>this</i> week). Even if that's true (either or both), I don't think it's going to change the way we do things in today's world. Kids are still going to play video games, and walk around with their eyes glued to their cell phones, and listen to music that the previous generation would have dismissed as someone having recorded military explosions... and our generation is going to sound like our own grandparents, when they were telling us that television would rot our brains and rock 'n roll would turn us into devil-worshiping zombies. Reading <i>is</i> going to become all but obsolete, and probably a lot sooner than we think. Sure, small pockets of readers will continue for awhile, but will probably begin to be treated much like those strange kids of my era who insisted on listening to Lawrence Welk just because their parents and grandparents thought his "champagne music makers" had a nice sound. You know the ones I mean - pocket protectors and beanie hats with propellers on top, and a line of bullies chasing them home from school every day.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4iValXjbUaehqwSEtbbSagYCbFcizpluRgiL19FqII2Gkdm3_LDzhpZT0Dz5SeJ1bLpj8DTf5691C71KIR18HsSuZ_OE2C0dDbeTZmDpz2SwWBzncJw2lyTifJyfawkEcXkfFbFERU7Uo/s1600/20150506_153539.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4iValXjbUaehqwSEtbbSagYCbFcizpluRgiL19FqII2Gkdm3_LDzhpZT0Dz5SeJ1bLpj8DTf5691C71KIR18HsSuZ_OE2C0dDbeTZmDpz2SwWBzncJw2lyTifJyfawkEcXkfFbFERU7Uo/s320/20150506_153539.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
The world is changing - and the result for me personally is that I spent most of this morning rubbing the cat's belly and marveling at the fact that cats will never be obsolete. Plushie was a foundling who was living on our carport back in August of 2013 - just a wild little half-grown creature who had once been somebody's pet, but obviously got left behind when they moved on. For awhile, he convinced himself he could live on squirrels and sparrows by day and run from the coyotes at night, but finally one morning he let me walk up to him. He spoke in a very human voice with a slight touch of a piratical accent, and said, "It's gettin' tough out there on the high seas, m'lady, and sooner or later that Kracken is gonna take me down. So whatta you say you leave the door open and I'll just find me a nice comfort zone there on the couch?"<br />
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So we came to an agreement, me and the cat, and now he spends his days lounging around the house and serving as an object of meditation on days like this. He has no worries. Food comes. He does not need to pay any bills or run any business. Certainly he doesn't concern himself with writing fictions for the other cats to enjoy. He simply exists in harmony with life - eating and sleeping when he chooses, flat on his back with his eyes closed and just the tips of his little white fangs peeking out as he snores.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCiKYecv8SuTjsAbKPa0VwMqa11H8azH5ss7cWEWk1rV98hQaYe7-XlwHsdqJGWR647pVKAZlPZQFE_AtHfpOL87pgsgiyQ0bXU7KVU9muik5tggdEdk4TGXCV7yS9UugWs1hcVcSsIrCE/s1600/cover.umberlight.smaller.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCiKYecv8SuTjsAbKPa0VwMqa11H8azH5ss7cWEWk1rV98hQaYe7-XlwHsdqJGWR647pVKAZlPZQFE_AtHfpOL87pgsgiyQ0bXU7KVU9muik5tggdEdk4TGXCV7yS9UugWs1hcVcSsIrCE/s320/cover.umberlight.smaller.jpg" width="215" /></a>What this says to me is that humans have really screwed up their priorities. At times, I feel I am somehow "failing" as a writer because my sales haven't shown any drastic improvement in several years, despite the extreme effort I put into it. And yet... how can something "fail" if it is already on the fast track to becoming obsolete? It stands to reason that as <i>more</i> technology becomes available every day, <i>less</i> people are going to be avid readers - particularly readers of fiction. I suspect non-fiction will linger on life support a bit longer, but between illegal pirate sites and dwindling interest in general, I'd give it less than 5 years before the "new humans" have chips in their brains and simply upload their interests the way we download things to our ipads and ipods and PCs and tablets today. Nothing wrong with that either. The world is going to change, and so are those who live in it. Unavoidable.<br />
<br />
I was conversing with another writer today who mentioned she had published a book not long ago and was intending to work on the sequel. But she was reconsidering because sales of the first book were disappointing, and the crickets were doing their thing again. I was amazed at how closely this paralleled my own recent experience. After publishing my first erotic male/male romance in several years (<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Prince-Umberlight-Tales-Book-ebook/dp/B00TRD2EHS/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" target="_blank">Prince of Umberlight</a>), I was frankly appalled that sales were so slow. That's a kindness. Let me rephrase. Sales were dismal. And even though I am at least halfway through the writing of the second novel in the series, I am seriously reconsidering whether it is worth my time and energy to finish it. Wendy (my life partner) says she writes for herself, for fun, for the sake of doing it. She is much more of an optimist than I am, and seems to genuinely <i>love</i> the thing itself. Me? I like that old saying, loosely paraphrased... "I don't like writing, but I love having-written." But even so...<br />
<br />
I think a lot of highly talented writers are questioning whether entering into a career as a writer is rather like going to school to become a telegraph repairman. If it really <i>is</i> a simple case of obsolescence, so be it. Things change. Technology evolves. Humans want what excites them even if it doesn't necessarily enrich them in the bigger picture. That, sadly, really <i>is</i> human nature.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbn_o87b-zjSXyYA1sZmr9p-yRSqC_hjQ3b4qM3pYaI2vqrbt6unE2WfKl4ZyeUPZOi2NEtboeZnOQwV2I0nuzqDY39pNDWWKJjQ183g1JqWbAGMZeP10Y0tYpY5OQYxjq5rjieVPsMxxY/s1600/spock.1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbn_o87b-zjSXyYA1sZmr9p-yRSqC_hjQ3b4qM3pYaI2vqrbt6unE2WfKl4ZyeUPZOi2NEtboeZnOQwV2I0nuzqDY39pNDWWKJjQ183g1JqWbAGMZeP10Y0tYpY5OQYxjq5rjieVPsMxxY/s320/spock.1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
So what now? Where writing and trying to be "successful" as a writer are concerned, I think it may all come down to getting struck by that lightning bolt I've mentioned before. I see some <i>very</i> bad writers having <i>very</i> good success on Amazon and elsewhere. And I see some very <i>good</i> writers languishing in obscurity. If there were any logic to any of this, it would be the other way around, but as Mr. Spock was constantly discovering, humans are the most illogical creatures who ever existed.<br />
<br />
Me? I'm going to go contemplate the cat's navel. At least that makes me smile. By tomorrow, maybe I'll be singing a different tune. Maybe the crickets will, too.<br />
_____________<br />
May 14, 2015<br />
<br />
<h4>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Della-Van-Hise/e/B003ZOK75G/ref=dp_byline_cont_book_1" target="_blank">See all my books on Amazon</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
or</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.eyescrypublications.com/" target="_blank"></a><a href="http://www.eyescrypublications.com/" target="_blank">Eye Scry Publications</a></div>
</h4>
Della Van Hise / Quantum Shamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15981554252784274711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5483744569183531224.post-42988899420991304242015-04-14T09:40:00.000-07:002015-04-14T09:43:14.407-07:00Dangerous Playthings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLXPqSn0UDLxz2OeMBM5DOKuGbQCKQgkluqtln-Cxc8qC5spVWqCHzypNnNLCAsFDT-aLd57poiNgIDLlbeoB4MyOJKNp5nPaK0I-25PZ-zst3MU_6N6WmkejypBCuZRJHr1Tb6Fn7ZVHC/s1600/dangerous.cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLXPqSn0UDLxz2OeMBM5DOKuGbQCKQgkluqtln-Cxc8qC5spVWqCHzypNnNLCAsFDT-aLd57poiNgIDLlbeoB4MyOJKNp5nPaK0I-25PZ-zst3MU_6N6WmkejypBCuZRJHr1Tb6Fn7ZVHC/s1600/dangerous.cover.jpg" height="320" width="216" /></a></div>
Just released!<br />
<br />
<i style="font-weight: bold;">Dangerous Playthings</i> is one of those stories that rattled me out of bed in the middle of the night and insisted I must write it NOW. Do not pass sleep. Do not count sheep. Just do it.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
____________</div>
<br />
It's been centuries since the Earth was struck by a comet known as Denizen. In the aftermath, an immortal named Merkinder has taken upon himself the task of teaching small groups of ragged children the arts of survival and civility in their new world. Willow LeBlanc is one of his apprentices - but as Merkinder is rapidly discovering, this wayward orphan may very well break his immortal heart.<br />
<br />
Told is a poetic and literary voice, DANGEROUS PLAYTHINGS is a story that will haunt you for centuries to come.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
____________</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Dangerous-Playthings-twisted-among-ruins-ebook/dp/B00W2AQ1PY/ref=la_B003ZOK75G_1_15?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1429028843&sr=1-15" target="_blank">Available from Amazon -</a> and only 99 cents to buy!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Also available directly from the publisher<br />
<a href="http://www.eyescrypublications.com/" target="_blank">Eye Scry Publications</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
______________</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"> The
cracks in Merkinder’s window fractured <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Willow</st1:city></st1:place>’s
silhouette, warping and bending it like a funhouse mirror. Just as he had
warped and bent her when he had plucked her from the savage shore along with four
others. What had it been? 10 years ago now? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"> The
others had all gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"> Earth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"> Air.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"> Fire.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"> Water.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"> That
was how he thought of his students, how he named them. Earth and Water were
always girl-children. Earth he schooled in the arts of building and growth,
while Water was the flow of knowledge who might go back to the humans as the
new teacher. Fire and Air were the male children – Fire being the warrior and
the hunter and the guardian of mathematics, Air the custodian of the arts –
music-maker and mischief-maker, poet and priest of words. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"> And
then there was the matter of Spirit, whose gender was determined by Fate with
each new tribe – for he thought of them as his tribe while they were under his
care, living under his earthen roof, tending the garden, practicing dance and
the fighting arts, and polishing their knowledge until, eventually, the ravages
of puberty called them back to the wild, and, one by one, they left his home,
never to return. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"> It
was no coincidence that <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Willow</st1:city></st1:place>
had been his Spirit – pointed out to him by fate. Most of the children, upon
being dragged to the shore and left by their parents to die, wept or wailed or
screamed until they lost the energy to protest, or created their own end by
calling down upon themselves the coyotes and the other predators who were never
far away in the ever-dusk, a quick bolt from the edge of the forest to the edge
of the sea. The shore was littered with rags and bones, child-ghosts, undefined
wraiths who never had the chance to grow up, never the opportunity to earn a
face. The blind ones. The ones who howled like banshees now-and-evermore in the
night that never ended. At times, Merkinder believed it would drive him even
madder than he already was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"> But
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Willow</st1:city></st1:place> wasn’t
like the others. She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She wasn’t afraid. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Instead,
she sang. Not in a particularly beautiful voice, but with an undeniable connection
to... <i>something</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"> That
<i>something</i>, Merkinder knew, was Spirit.
And so she had completed his tribe – the fifth element of creation, the one who
must carry the blessings and the burdens of metaphysical knowledge: the myths
and the legends, the very soul of Rebirth and the bloody scythe of Death – for
Spirit was the spark at the heart of all Creation. Without Spirit, the other
elements might lay dormant for eternity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"> Eternity...
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"> The
word rolled over in his mind, faithful companion and savage trickster. The yin
and yang of his tumultuous essence.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'; font-size: 12pt;"> He remembered the old
world vaguely, though he had no idea how long it had been. Immortals told time
by the rise and fall of mountains, the course of rivers, the path of comets. And,
of course, Time had treated him strangely even before the coming of Denizen –
when he would prowl the transient night and drink from the veins of the dark
ones, the naughty ones who would otherwise prey on their own kind. It was his
job, he had reckoned, the thing Nature had created him to do: exterminator of
the wicked, prince of predators, king of the immortals... though he had no real
idea why or even how he had become the thing he was back then, the thing he was
still now, so many ochre centuries later. His maker had taught him nothing, and
at times he wondered if </span><i style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'; font-size: 12pt;">that</i><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'; font-size: 12pt;"> was why
he had taken it upon himself to teach the sacrificial lambs – not out of any
great sense of nobility, but because they deserved better than he himself had
received...</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'; font-size: 12pt;">_______________</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
Della Van Hise / Quantum Shamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15981554252784274711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5483744569183531224.post-3187767921234133302015-04-02T13:17:00.001-07:002015-04-03T09:46:19.522-07:00Sorry I Sat On Your Rose-Colored Glasses<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUeVgeTqOxPitoJcRO3g1vaaCAFe_YEGiSZGl9elKWvLaR7ygScekG41fYQ-X52xbWqelzFYtf2QZuidHvvYzhHqsqCDSY36BKk5XWypFlSCEVlfBTZ4jRkciVUbYijGQaULRAp9LIMQXQ/s1600/chewing+thru+the+straps.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUeVgeTqOxPitoJcRO3g1vaaCAFe_YEGiSZGl9elKWvLaR7ygScekG41fYQ-X52xbWqelzFYtf2QZuidHvvYzhHqsqCDSY36BKk5XWypFlSCEVlfBTZ4jRkciVUbYijGQaULRAp9LIMQXQ/s1600/chewing+thru+the+straps.png" /></a></div>
Lest anyone think the title of this entry is intended entirely in jest, let me assure you... it ain't. It is my belief (based on decades of personal experience) that all writers go through what can only be called 'the dark night of the soul,' and if those writers are truthful, it is a dark night that may last a lifetime. *ouch* So if you're one of those card-carrying bliss ninnies who needs to believe all mosquitoes go to heaven and all writers eventually achieve the status of best-selling author... read no further, for it is my intent with this entry to disappoint you and shatter your false hope entirely. Like I said in the opening post of this blog (<a href="http://dellavanhise.blogspot.com/2014/12/once-upon-mad-mad-time.html" target="_blank">Once Upon A Mad, Mad Time</a>), a lot of the stories writers tell are horror stories - not fictions in the vein of Edgar Allan Poe, but true tales of dread and woe torn from the pages of their own personal journals.<br />
<br />
The grumblings in this entry fall under that heading and it is intended as a personal rant - so be warned. If you want fairy tales, go to Disneyland. If you want some of the ugly truths about writing in today's world... read on and PLEASE feel free to add your own writer-tales-of-terror in the comments section. It would at least let me know I'm not talking to myself in the dark.<br />
___________<br />
<br />
It was one of those mornings (yesterday, as a matter of fact) when I woke up on the wrong side of the coffin, climbed out of bed only to step in something that had once seen the inside of the cat's belly, and finally stumbled into the bathroom to discover there was not a drop of running water because a hose had been left on somewhere on the 5 acres. This meant trying to track down the culprit, which meant going outside at 6 a.m., which meant looking for shoes and clothes and the AK-47 one normally keeps on hand for just such occasions.<br />
<br />
It occurred to me somewhere between one step and the next that this is all too common, and the words came into my head, "I'm just <i>tired</i> of the whole absurd syndrome!"<br />
<br />
Of course, it had very little to do with stepping in cat barf or having a beef with the house-member who is obsessed with watering the sand. It had to do with... <i>life</i>. My life. And - in particular - my life as a writer. All of this came to me in a rapid flash of awareness. I was simply <i>weary</i> of jumping through hurdles and hoops (most of them blazing), only to end up two <i>more</i> steps behind at the end of the day.<br />
<br />
Yes, I'm whining. And if you're any sort of serious writer, you can probably understand <i>why</i>. But for those who may not have reached this particular stage of annoyance and frustration yet, allow me to spell it out in a numbered list.<br />
<br />
1. <i> <b>Life gets in the way of writing</b>.</i> Most writers have other jobs because writing seldom pays the bills unless one is extremely lucky. I won't even say "unless one is extremely talented" because - let's face it - 99.9% of the stuff in the bookstores (online and brick-and-mortar) is pure and unadulterated crap. Talent would appear to have little to do with success, and so most of us work for a living and write in the hopes of maybe one day far in the future being able to at least supplement our day job. Point being - in The Real World I own a retail business with my significant other, wherein we operate a large merchant booth (<a href="http://www.eyescry.com/" target="_blank">Eye Scry Designs</a>) at Renaissance Faires, Scottish Highland Games, Celtic Music Festivals, and the like. We're on the road intermittently for 9 months of the years, doing an average of 20-25 weekends per year.<br />
<br />
So just as I'm sitting down at my desk, the phone rings, and it's a nice lady who says she was in our booth at a recent faire in northern California. She asks if I remember her (by her voice? on the phone?) and goes on to tell me about her mother's health, what kind of dog she owns, and finally gets around to why she is calling. She had wanted to purchase a dress from us at the show, but "evaporated" (her word - I think she meant "procrastinated"), so now she is trying to describe this particular dress to me (we have probably 30-40 different styles). By the time I finally know what she's talking about, at least 15 minutes have passed, and I am no closer to sitting down at my computer than when my foot was ankle-deep in kitty-pucky. She finally says, "So I was hoping you could send me 2 or 3 of those dresses so I can try them on." Er...? It didn't seem reasonable to her that she would need to pay for them. No, I should just send them to her (at my own cost), and if she liked them, she would send a check along with returning whatever ones she didn't want. Er...? Really? She was a good person, and "completely trustworthy" - but then, I'm pretty sure Chuck Manson would make the same claim to the guys and gals on the parole board.<br />
<br />
But no matter. The only reason this is worthy of mention is because it is all too common - not just with me, but with just about every writer, I suspect. The world at large is a vast conspiracy to prevent a writer from writing.<br />
<br />
2<i>. <b>I stole this book from you, but could you read it to me? </b></i>As I hung up the phone, there were those words again. "I'm just tired of the whole absurd syndrome!" Out of the blue, I recalled an incident that occurred a few months back. I moderate a couple of large forums and groups, so it's not uncommon to get questions about my books once in awhile. One morning, I received a private message from a young woman who said, "I was wondering if you could clarify a few things from one of your books that I just got from _________. (She named a well-known and much-hated pirate site). I read the book in one sitting - it was really life-changing for me, but I don't understand what you said on page 32 about blah blah blah, and if you could write me back and explain it better, I'd really appreciate it."<br />
<br />
Some days it ain't worth gnawing through the straps - because if I did, I would probably only end up in jail for strangling some imbecile who thinks it's okay to literally steal a book from a pirate site, and then have the big silver xmas balls to PM the writer and ask for a private dialog!<br />
<br />
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One has to ask - why are these pirate sites even allowed to exist? I know, I know, most of them are in foreign countries, but then the question must become, why does ANY country allow the outright theft of intellectual property? I've heard the age-old (and bullshit-based) argument which states that "All information should be free!" but as anyone with 2 brains cells to rub together knows, that's just the mantra of the Age of Entitlement Generation. They use the same argument with movies, music, and all manner of creative endeavor, seeming to believe that everyone owes it to them. One begins to wonder where their parents were during their formative years. Nobody owes you anything - least of all entertainment. Entertainment (including books, movies, music, etc) is a privilege, not a right. If you want it, at least have the common decency to pay the artist for their work.<br />
<br />
And if you <i>don't</i> have the decency, you may want to <a href="http://www.extremetech.com/internet/134992-is-a-675000-fine-for-sharing-31-pirated-songs-too-much" target="_blank">consider the consequences</a> - such as a $675,000 fine recently imposed by a judge in Massachusetts. Personally, I hope this sets a precedent - because until this issue of internet piracy of intellectual property is resolved, it seems like all artists are only fools, laboring to produce something of value only to lay it at the feet of thieves. What's the point? If you think about it, it <i>will</i> drive you to drink. And if you <i>don't</i>, aren't you just sweeping it under the rug?<br />
<br />
I could go on at great length about how some (most) of these pirate sites even have the audacity to charge their customers some sort of "usage fee" - $89/year, for example, and you can download anything you want from their site. So, technically, these flagrant assholes are charging <i>you</i> for <i>my</i> books, so if you're going to pay for it anyway, why not go to Amazon and order it legitimately? It's not just my pockets you're picking when you download from pirate sites, it's also a matter of your own safety. Literally 75% or more of these illegal downloads are loaded (intentionally) with viruses and malware of all sorts. I once enlisted the services of a good friend of mine who is also an expert hacker, to examine one of my books that had been illegally downloaded from such a site. What he found was terrifying! I'm not a computer expert, so I don't know all the exact lingo, but basically he said that the text had been embedded with data-mining software that would slowly but surely destroy the computer's registry and invade (and destroy) every other program and app installed on the computer. So - the cost of repairs or replacement of an entire computer seems like a hefty price to pay for what would otherwise have cost the reader $2.99 on Kindle. Do the math. It ain't hard.<br />
<br />
And if you <i>are</i> dumb enough to download one of my books from a pirate site, don't ask me to explain it to you.<br />
<br />
3. <b><i>Use your head - just once.</i></b> I'm tired of "reviewers" reviewing books that 1) they never read; or 2) posting a review based on some quality of the book that was beyond the writer's control. For example, I once read a review that said, "The package was ripped open when I got it, and even though the book wasn't damaged, I'm giving it a 1-star because it should have been packed better." The book in question had been sent by Amazon, and probably torn open by the Klingon Letter Stomper at the girl's local post office. Neither Amazon nor the author had <i>anything</i> to do with it, but instead of figuring that out for herself, the girl left a scathing review and ended up hurting the writer's standings.<br />
<br />
Sorry if this is an unpopular opinion, but I personally liked "the good old days" (she said with a doddering grin) when reviewers had at least <i>some</i> sort of credentials. Like... oh... maybe they were above the age of 11 and had a rudimentary grasp of the language. In my opinion, one of the biggest mistakes Amazon makes is allowing customer reviews by readers who are obviously reading at the level of "See Spot Run" or who base their reviews on their own personal prejudices. I got a review on one of my books which reads..."The story also contained unnecessary profanity but not excessive."<br />
<br />
Er... the book in question is a male/male romance with all the appropriate warnings right up front. And to be perfectly honest, the profanity in that particular book is minimal, and so the question becomes... If you are offended by words, why are you reading anything at all? Okay, maybe that's not a fair question (but I think it is).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrf3s6vQKpiNDZdSNBFWsnItgA0OR1byy95bpDE1bLHHgec5GXNZa5Rpprs28FHTMeprrtEsZaIZWAF3yfKxw48rFDpdQMjHyAKyt3zwzWIh8CDZaoH4XaNcggq8NIuXBjI3MZ7anhPYGC/s1600/books.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrf3s6vQKpiNDZdSNBFWsnItgA0OR1byy95bpDE1bLHHgec5GXNZa5Rpprs28FHTMeprrtEsZaIZWAF3yfKxw48rFDpdQMjHyAKyt3zwzWIh8CDZaoH4XaNcggq8NIuXBjI3MZ7anhPYGC/s1600/books.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
4. <i><b>Banished to the Island of Obscurity</b>.</i> I'm tired of writing books no one is ever going to read - a dilemma faced by most writers nowadays, whether pro-published or self-published, print or e-books. Let's get real and look the tiger in the eye. Reading is rapidly becoming a lost art - and for many of the reasons cited above. The attention span of most readers could be defined by what will fit in a post on Twitter. In a world where things like <i>Game of Thrones</i> and <i>World of Warcraft</i> and every lunatic on Facebook are all competing for our attention, most people just don't have the time to sit down with a good book And even if they do, what can a writer <i>really</i> do to have even a small chance that the one book they <i>do</i> read that year will be yours? Personally, that's where I'm stumped. I've done it all - from Facebook ads to Amazon ads to Google ads... and near as I can tell, I'd have a better chance of turning a profit at the local casino (and we all know what kind of odds <i>that</i> entails).<br />
<br />
I've tried running free promotions on Amazon. I've even posted entire books for free on Smashwords... and though I get tons of people downloading them, I don't see that these "gimmicks" have increased sales more than 1% of 1 percentage point overall. Sometimes I'd like to tell myself, "Self, just face it. You're a lousy writer and you'd do well to forget about this crazy idea of writing and just sit in front of the idiot box all day." But two things stop me. 1) Every time I threaten to do it, I have people telling me how much they love my books, how they will help me by reviewing my books, how they would be devastated if I quit... and yet... while I very much appreciate the flattery (seriously, I do!), even when I give away free review copies, seldom if ever do the books actually get reviewed; and 2) I have these stories in my head that I very much <i>want</i> to write, but after awhile, it becomes disheartening to think I am writing them only for myself. <i>If</i> that is the case, then I ask myself if I really need to write them at all. After all, I know the story - how it begins, how it ends, and all the adventure and angst in between - so if I'm just writing for myself, I can do that in my head, right? Why waste so much time and energy channeling my characters and their worlds onto some idea of virtual 'paper'? Save a digital tree.<br />
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5. <i><b>Where have all the readers gone? (sung in the key of E-minor)</b></i> I've heard authors talk about cultivating an audience, often using the words "one fan at a time," but that's about as realistic as building a stairway to heaven out of twigs and Oreos. Back in the days when I was a fan fiction writer, I had a rather large following. I've posted a lot of my old <i>Star Trek</i> fan fic to AO3, and with each story I include a mention of my works on Amazon, much of which is in the <i>exact</i> same vein (male/male romance), and near as I can tell, there is incredible interest in the old fan fic, but virtually <i>no</i> cross-over interest into my professional works. Is it <i>only</i> because the fan fic is free?<br />
<br />
When I was at the height of my reading and writing phase, I would devour anything by an author whose work I enjoyed. I probably read everything Ray Bradbury ever wrote - whether it was science fiction, contemporary fantasy or even non-fiction. I didn't limit myself to <i>only</i> the characters of Will Holloway and Jim Nightshade. I read the <i>author</i> - and I generally found that if I liked one of his genres, I liked most if not all of the others. So I'm still rather perplexed as to why there seems to be almost no cross-over from readers of fan fic to readers of pro fic.<br />
<br />
It is a strange world in which we live. That's the <i>only</i> thing I really know anymore.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Tnq0R9lrKeDeL9otUh88xrBRWSOz4ejcHULm6oEnjZq_05ZIt0J3M2rPr-3B7TeWpBUQFXHpvUCNm6NRvV22fu9SF5dYrztkYmxasVNzN5TNH4jnKpUf5RuupP_C3FpyTnvHciukWApf/s1600/rose+colored+glasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Tnq0R9lrKeDeL9otUh88xrBRWSOz4ejcHULm6oEnjZq_05ZIt0J3M2rPr-3B7TeWpBUQFXHpvUCNm6NRvV22fu9SF5dYrztkYmxasVNzN5TNH4jnKpUf5RuupP_C3FpyTnvHciukWApf/s1600/rose+colored+glasses.jpg" /></a>__________<br />
<br />
If you're expecting me to now retract everything I've said above and offer some sort of magical solution... I can only say that I <i>wish</i> that were possible, but that genie climbed out of her bottle and escaped long ago.<br />
<br />
Perhaps the only encouraging thing I can say today (tomorrow may be different) is something I learned from my mentor. Loosely paraphrased, it is simply this:<br />
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<i>Looking at the world through rose-colored glasses doesn't change the world, it only skews your own perception. It's only when you have the courage to see things as they are that you may have the power to change them. </i></div>
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Of course, the "problem" (is it a problem?) is that when we see writing in today's world for what it <i>is</i>, it can be so overwhelming that it begins to seem that the only winning move is not to play. Or, simply, "Why bother?"<br />
<br />
That's the view from the wrong side of the coffin for today. Hopefully tomorrow will bring new insight, or at least renewed hope. (That's my attempt at being an optimist... take it or leave it.)</div>
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So... why did I bother to write this?</div>
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Mainly to let you know... you're not alone in the dark. There are hundreds and thousands of other writers right here in that cave next to you. I only only hope we all had a shower and a breath mint, 'cuz it's gettin' crowded. </div>
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Stay sane... if you can.</div>
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________________</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQpEFyeQXUXmOkhYMdFQzMf15czN0sAGvH27zAUNeN0a8JR5yyO9_sSOfsdWD_qOFRHogrb1GUfuV4enWDVW4PVfg-hcp9HavmKIvCwOpOisvhW6b3pd4XU4x4Jkk_KjBC0IfzYSMRPzqa/s1600/cover.umberlight.smaller.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQpEFyeQXUXmOkhYMdFQzMf15czN0sAGvH27zAUNeN0a8JR5yyO9_sSOfsdWD_qOFRHogrb1GUfuV4enWDVW4PVfg-hcp9HavmKIvCwOpOisvhW6b3pd4XU4x4Jkk_KjBC0IfzYSMRPzqa/s1600/cover.umberlight.smaller.jpg" height="320" width="215" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My latest work of fiction, written under my<br />
long-standing brand - "Alexis Fegan Black."<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Prince-Umberlight-Tales-Book-ebook/dp/B00TRD2EHS/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1428005806&sr=1-1&keywords=prince+of+umberlight" target="_blank">Available on Amazon</a> or<br />
<a href="http://www.eyescrypublications.com/" target="_blank">Eye Scry Publications</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />Della Van Hise / Quantum Shamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15981554252784274711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5483744569183531224.post-53072721609930591442015-03-26T10:27:00.000-07:002015-03-26T15:17:23.620-07:00E for Effort, EF for Epic Fail<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ybgCOBOt1XBs_6GwN5Gr2c4RRVfh-wibPo1npGf3ykLjj4-U_4rxI4s0eEIFfXZBC2x0bBt481Zr-P-YVo_UkwgYlG2aQyq4FkkbCEvqCUaxuKchf3yl3BLR5DDLWC811YPkHpO0Fp_n/s1600/bad+book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ybgCOBOt1XBs_6GwN5Gr2c4RRVfh-wibPo1npGf3ykLjj4-U_4rxI4s0eEIFfXZBC2x0bBt481Zr-P-YVo_UkwgYlG2aQyq4FkkbCEvqCUaxuKchf3yl3BLR5DDLWC811YPkHpO0Fp_n/s1600/bad+book.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
We were on our way home from the Phoenix Highland Games, I was shot-gunning in the front seat, half-asleep and bored to tears, when I looked out the window and saw a huge billboard. Nothing strange about that. The roads are littered with 'em - everything from Viagra to vampire movies. But this one was for a book, and so it caught my attention and caused me to give it a second look. I'm not normally a billboard snob, but I did notice that the graphics were somewhat less than perfect, the readability was a bit questionable, and it didn't really communicate anything to the observer other than the title of the book, accompanied by the words, "A medical thriller."<br />
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Out of curiosity, I looked up the book on Amazon when we got home, figuring that any writer who would foot the bill for a gigantic sign is a writer who is as desperate as the rest of us to find his audience out there in the big, bad world. So that gained him some kudos just for effort.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, when I read the "Look Inside" feature, I was not only appalled, but outright embarrassed for the writer. While punctuation existed, it was clear that the writer could have used a competent line editor. Words that should have been capitalized weren't, commas were distant rumors, and character point of view changed from one sentence to the next, sometimes in the same paragraph. And that was only on the first page! The fact that the book had three reviews (all 5-stars) also spoke volumes - the writer has at least three friends or family members who thought enough of him to support him. That's great, but hardly a recommendation for anyone who went to the bother of actually trying to read the "Look Inside."<br />
<br />
I've heard the old argument (usually coming from bad writers) that it's the story that matters. And while that may be true on one level, if readers can't even <i>get</i> to the story because of all the obstacles and road blocks left by the writer, then the story is lost and the book may well be doomed. But even that isn't the whole issue here - not entirely. As with everything, there are levels and layers, and if you want to be a good writer as well as a good story-teller, you'll go to the bother of learning the craft so that when you <i>do</i> break the rules, it will be obvious to your readers that it was intentional rather than just a blunder of unparalleled ignorance.<br />
<br />
So here's the thing... I can admire this writer's tenacity for renting a billboard near a small town where lots of older folks live (folks who might actually read books and enjoy the kind of story this writer was trying to tell). But - if you're going to spend that kind of money on advertising, don't you want your product to be the best it can be so that you <i>might</i> run the risk of getting return customers? As it stands, if I had bought this book and tried to wade through its multiple layers of errors upon errors, I would never-in-a-billion-years buy another book from the same author. No, not ever.<br />
<br />
What to do? In an ideal world, everything a writer writes would come out perfect the first time, a flock of doves would descend to carry the book to the publisher, choirs of angels would proclaim the book's publication, and reviewers and readers alike would sing the praises of the author's exemplary work and recommend him for a place in heaven. The reality is a bit different, of course. And no writer (no, not a single one) is going to be a good judge of their own work - particularly within the first year after the book has been written. Time and distance are the only things that will give a writer <i>any</i> sort of perspective, and sometimes even that isn't enough. I've re-read something I wrote 10 years ago and thought it was crap. And I've re-read something I wrote 20 years ago and actually dared to think it was pretty good. So the writer is the last person who should be the final judge of when a book is ready for publication.<br />
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Point being - if this guy who sprung for a billboard has that kind of money to burn, why not enlist the services of a professional editor? There are reputable ones all over the internet. There are also writer's workshops all over the internet - where other writers (and sometimes even editors) will help you with your book <i>before </i>you embarrass yourself right out of a career. My feeling was that the story was probably fairly good, but no reader with an IQ above room temperature was going to wade through the horrendous, glaring errors just to get to that story. And the sad thing is that <i>all</i> of these blunders are <i>fixable.</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgreWWFhauDYDXh3yFZLZWaWjVCDvBKr-5vPSEMuqp_0IP9XhvyCahEJBWj4rUHcQaTmsJxzntuV98D3sX3QCpkL5Lsebi0eaEcflkyza-m4ysZFXe_BehCzWht0yS7y51kMmT1SleRFzEf/s1600/something+wicked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgreWWFhauDYDXh3yFZLZWaWjVCDvBKr-5vPSEMuqp_0IP9XhvyCahEJBWj4rUHcQaTmsJxzntuV98D3sX3QCpkL5Lsebi0eaEcflkyza-m4ysZFXe_BehCzWht0yS7y51kMmT1SleRFzEf/s1600/something+wicked.jpg" /></a></div>
And this raises another point. Whatever happened to having a good story <i>and</i> good writing? Let's talk about Ray Bradbury, who wrote some of the most lyrical stories ever written, <i>and</i> told some stories that still haunt readers years later. And then there's Anne Rice. Stephen King. And plenty of relatively unknown writers who produce some damn fine work... only to be relegated to obscurity. One may ask, "Why?" but I sometimes don't think any answer exists to that question. It sometimes seems to be a matter of saying - one either gets struck by the happy lightning fairy, or one doesn't. It's a crap shoot.<br />
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But here's the rub: if you're a writer who wants to have <i>any</i> chance of success in this brave new world of indy publishing, the very <i>first</i> thing you have to do is to produce a book that is <i>readable</i>, and as close to perfect as it <i>can</i> be (with the understanding that nothing is ever perfect). Sure, the first time you read your book in print, you'll discover a typo or two. You may even run across a place where you left out a comma or added a semi-colon that's out of place. Minor details - it's gonna happen, and in today's world of ebooks, it's usually relatively easy to correct. But those kinds of errors (in moderation) are insignificant and usually won't stop a reader from reading on <i>if</i> you have done your job as the writer.<br />
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What's your job? Simply this: tell a good story with compelling characters, and - hopefully - do it in such a way that the writing itself is not a long string of cliches strung together to express an idea that isn't even your own. Encourage your reader to think outside the box and read between the lines. Bring your characters to <i>life</i> through a thorough understanding of who they are - in other words, <i>think</i> before you write. As a reader, I'm <i>much</i> more interested in knowing <i>why</i> Joe is burying a body than I am interested in knowing what he ate for breakfast (unless, of course, he had an allergic reaction to coffee and became homicidal...) <br />
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And finally... if you <i>are</i> going to invest a lot of time, energy and money in your book, if you <i>are</i> going to rent an expensive billboard, <i>please</i> do yourself the service of having your book properly edited <i>before</i> you put it up on Amazon. It's the <i>only</i> way that billboard is ever going to earn its keep.<br />
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...and, no, I am <i>not</i> going to tell you the title of the book for a couple of reasons. 1) I don't want to embarrass the writer; and 2) you might be tempted to buy it and I don't want to be accused of encouraging you to waste your money. :)<br />
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Carry on.<br />
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<a href="http://www.eyescrypublications.com/html/editorial_services.htm" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzRQEQavBwW3iNw3phfUM8YEGFVKR6MfaOqUa-0oK2-RPFHu6Uz6fkwea3SuBTfw_TzMzLCaVTdyWGzzYK6flPbi4rEvfToTPBPwL5tTlsgKFkffSm_wMMzm5cwN2E9SFUEfgL8_5QE_Px/s1600/editorial_services.jpg" height="160" width="320" /></a></div>
Della Van Hise / Quantum Shamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15981554252784274711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5483744569183531224.post-86708117814452151752015-02-28T11:55:00.000-08:002015-02-28T11:58:51.506-08:00Remembering Leonard Nimoy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVQLmSrBYJX9zBXOK5MdfAX4xTIJA82IBM9NwxDpGSKqfwVciWm6lhdIU6pJEh0IPGG6rvLG9OHwGYiHUzXo6uxwRT2gMFYhcdlPMuTQ_Xjg4o-7LPnGMQWOSCyVXRcHXmZJO-0PUOye6M/s1600/spock.1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVQLmSrBYJX9zBXOK5MdfAX4xTIJA82IBM9NwxDpGSKqfwVciWm6lhdIU6pJEh0IPGG6rvLG9OHwGYiHUzXo6uxwRT2gMFYhcdlPMuTQ_Xjg4o-7LPnGMQWOSCyVXRcHXmZJO-0PUOye6M/s1600/spock.1.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
Someone suggested sharing "Your Favorite Leonard Nimoy Moments." Here's one of mine.</div>
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It was around 1985 (?) when I was invited as a guest speaker to a Star Trek convention, where Leonard was the guest of honor. As it turned out, the convention was somewhat chaotic. So I volunteered to be on the security detail and ended up backstage with Leonard while he was waiting to go on for his talk. For awhile there were other con organizers and hotel personnel running around, but then came a time when everyone just disappeared and I was alone with Him (yes, capital "H").</div>
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There was a grand piano in the hallway where we were waiting, and on top of it were piled literally dozens of gifts from fans. Leonard was looking at the pile, and so I asked him, "What do you do with all of it?"</div>
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Very politely, he smiled and said, "We donate most of it to charity." It was obvious that he appreciated the gesture of love and affection from the fans, but equally clear that he probably didn't have a big enough storage unit to accommodate all the gifts he received throughout the course of a single year. He stood there for a moment, then picked up a small box and handed it to me. "These will melt before we get back to Los Angeles. Enjoy."</div>
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It was a box of Godiva chocolates. Mr. Spock gave me a box of chocolates! I think I had a big grin on my face for several days. Best damn chocolates I ever ate. One of the finest men I ever met.</div>
Della Van Hise / Quantum Shamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15981554252784274711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5483744569183531224.post-15431544934775827662015-02-25T11:03:00.001-08:002015-02-25T11:08:05.779-08:003 Out of 4 Voices In My Head...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYGMkwDsD7fpkFB-xgVHtJ8bBbVC1cahiwKzGt3IeXG3ijZH-a6lWX-aJCW4ONfxCzkm9vNTWKP4JrNF0LmOv3sqYqkepcJhHSko_Xki0QQ-M2jOZj4bGhJFQh-VCkIQQfCiaBU28arngC/s1600/3+out+of+4+voices.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYGMkwDsD7fpkFB-xgVHtJ8bBbVC1cahiwKzGt3IeXG3ijZH-a6lWX-aJCW4ONfxCzkm9vNTWKP4JrNF0LmOv3sqYqkepcJhHSko_Xki0QQ-M2jOZj4bGhJFQh-VCkIQQfCiaBU28arngC/s1600/3+out+of+4+voices.jpg" height="289" width="320" /></a></div>
I left the field of fiction writing for nearly 20 years at the advice of my spiritual mentor (whom some might say is The Big Daddy of All Voices In My Head), and now that I have written a new novel (<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Prince-Umberlight-Tales-Book-ebook/dp/B00TRD2EHS/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8">Prince of Umberlight</a>) and am in the process of writing the second in the same series, I'm starting to remember <i>why</i> I gave it all up for so many years.<br />
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Aside from the obvious reasons (not the least of which is that my dogs and cats like to eat, and writing is <i>not</i> a reliable way to earn a living), I find myself lying awake in the middle of the night listening to the yammerings of a dozen or more characters, all of whom feel <i>their</i> story is the one that most needs to be told, and therefore I should immediately drop everything I'm doing (like trying to sleep), go straight to the computer (do not pass go, do not collect $200) and at least have the good manners to write extensive notes on who said what to whom, when, where, why, and what the outcome might be 6 novels or more down that long and winding road to Needle (as in - one more indy novel needle in a haystack of literally millions of similar needles). Even if the sun should rise before I am finished, the little voices say, I must not falter.<br />
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And so the sun comes up on another day, the dog is giving me dirty looks for keeping her awake all night while pecking away at the keyboard with all the lights on; the cat is promising to do something <i>really</i> nasty if I don't feed him, clean his box, pet him for a minimum of 1.25 hours without interruption, and groom him in the fashion every prince is accustomed to being groomed - and all in that order, please; last night's left overs are still on the counter; dishes are still in the sink; aliens have landed on the front yard and are asking for a book of matches (I guess they didn't get the memo that I stopped smoking over 20 years ago)...<br />
<br />
And there are vampires in my head asking - nay, <i>demanding</i> - that I must tell their tales of angst and immortality, love and grief, ecstasy and torment, life and death and everything in between. In fact, I have had to tell them I'm in the shower right now, just to have a few minutes to scribble this SOS on the walls in my own blood.<br />
<br />
But be that as it may... (they will be on me again as soon as they realize I've deceived them!)...<br />
<br />
From a writer's perspective, there appear to be two contradictory forces forever at war - the yin and the yang, the light wolf and the dark wolf, the agony and the ecstasy. What are they really? Simply put, they are the thrill of creation and the dark night of the soul that comes with wondering how to get one's books seen, read, reviewed. As I discussed in one of my first entries in this blog, "<a href="http://dellavanhise.blogspot.com/2014/12/getting-found-in-other-world.html" target="_blank">Getting Found In the 'Other' World</a>," writers are now required to wear so many hats that we just don't have enough shoes to match. Writer. Editor. Publisher. Cover artist. Publicist. Webmaster. Advertising manager. Chief cook and bottle washer at the nuthouse. The list is long.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG4ntSHwOWekXlRAiS9H67cIPdMSIWeV4CErxwHEJme1JiG2CsCsbSY6m0nvTUaoZQpseB0uLSbsNphEhyphenhyphenoJ1kwssYyKTLcqrysa7Ct7JmVWNRhWO6jfhYWY33ne-YtrXh3r9tAaVvTgIM/s1600/killingtime2%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG4ntSHwOWekXlRAiS9H67cIPdMSIWeV4CErxwHEJme1JiG2CsCsbSY6m0nvTUaoZQpseB0uLSbsNphEhyphenhyphenoJ1kwssYyKTLcqrysa7Ct7JmVWNRhWO6jfhYWY33ne-YtrXh3r9tAaVvTgIM/s1600/killingtime2%5B1%5D.jpg" height="320" width="187" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Did you know that most of the Star Trek<br />
writers don't get a single cent from the<br />
digital sales of their books? One more<br />
reason I have come to favor<br />
indy publishing.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When I initially released <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sons-Neverland-Della-Van-Hise-ebook/dp/B00O4GUH2W/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" target="_blank">Sons of Neverland</a> back in 1997, the publishing industry was just beginning to shift from the traditional toward a more general acceptance of indy writers. I had always been in the traditional markets previously, beginning with my Star Trek novel, Killing Time, but I embraced indy publishing for a LOT of reasons - not the least of which is that it allows the author to maintain creative control and to ultimately produce a book that is more in alignment with her own vision, as opposed to the typically narrow parameters enforced by traditional publishers.<br />
<br />
Of course, the downside is that most indy writers (including myself) don't have the resources to do a large advertising campaign (or even a small one). Then again, unless you are already a highly established author, most traditional publishers don't waste a lot of time and money on promoting your book either. If you're lucky, it's on the shelves at the few remaining book stores for a couple of weeks, then on the remainder shelf for another month, and then it's off to the land of obscurity. The only real difference is that indy publishers still have the rights to their books - so the book can be re-released and updated over time, and the writer begins to build a catalog of titles which - hopefully - readers will eventually find. Granted, it may be at a time when the author has been pushing up daisies for decades, or cavorting with the voices in her head in the nursing home, but we have-to-believe that one day we will be discovered.<br />
<br />
I could go into an entire diatribe about that, but two things are stopping me:<br />
<br />
1. The vampires have found me again and insist I must stop this foolishness and get back to telling their tales; and...<br />
<br />
2. It <i>would</i> be a diatribe unto itself, so best I should surrender to the vampires before I am seriously punished. What they don't know is that I'd probably like it every bit as much as they do.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJdTiXCbGciwfwFDfsguF8N3vuJDb7r-5eZujGWrSRxwea0ahNWb3RFbFz9dkPqBnPXQpjRKyKjxEQlv1sG4riLizTjKXan9EddDwkRrLLAUSyWrxI75Ri5sw-DSw2QnCoga2Aqbfx1u9k/s1600/emote8vampire.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJdTiXCbGciwfwFDfsguF8N3vuJDb7r-5eZujGWrSRxwea0ahNWb3RFbFz9dkPqBnPXQpjRKyKjxEQlv1sG4riLizTjKXan9EddDwkRrLLAUSyWrxI75Ri5sw-DSw2QnCoga2Aqbfx1u9k/s1600/emote8vampire.gif" /></a><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Prince-Umberlight-Tales-Book-ebook/dp/B00TRD2EHS/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" target="_blank"><img alt=" An erotic gay vampire romance..." border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKdHpFDz3mE67Hx_oFZyVYZ87-WwzJTZLRvUhIT_xoPNlfyCqQO6s8ZVHcse4Tsepq9VUKP5kzcMdi4v5K2xIp-wTHpN0TxkQ4bGcVDE07yC61D4X9IWICR-OrOLkTYQ06K9BRsK6hpQZD/s1600/cover.umberlight.smaller.jpg" height="320" width="214" /></a> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sons-Neverland-Della-Van-Hise-ebook/dp/B00O4GUH2W/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" target="_blank"><img alt=" Sons of Neverland - Available on Amazon!" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKixrlu46sY_h55L4BHSB60-_0uYqLmd_2CnybtEjfg4EQfMfSKDOvPStk01Yf9IsHcP0C-bNiIyLKsbz-zxeWHzdHqzplyoSmQD9C0iThJL2TKQoV279gPqJGVOtG-5T0HuqtqFtySX7r/s1600/cover.smaller.jpg" height="320" width="221" /></a> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Year-Ram-Della-Van-Hise-ebook/dp/B003YOSCKO/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJvt75Rh-IOdy5_zTZddJoeB62-okrLlZFJppAkyj4mRcD5_1ajjl9g4lrCsyGIpPEDT4-hAL2QN7utNE2_kuH41gqmAoDUrQ3FDCLicsSVzsFDNjbODk-zsWm7YyeZjZEcEg2zsQRl3FY/s1600/yotr.cover.cs.smaller.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Year-Ram-Della-Van-Hise-ebook/dp/B003YOSCKO/" target="_blank">Year of the Ram - Available on Amazon!</a></div>
<br />
<br />Della Van Hise / Quantum Shamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15981554252784274711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5483744569183531224.post-35416353059410564002015-02-19T09:54:00.000-08:002015-02-19T09:54:27.193-08:00Erotica: A Return to My Roots<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Prince-Umberlight-Tales-Book-ebook/dp/B00TRD2EHS/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1424366074&sr=1-1&keywords=prince+of+umberlight" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Erotic. Poetic. Mind-blowing!" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqbG3a44sOHesfyXr2OxG7plMiuaF3Mer2rY-mGC41FPxkqd5n_6iW_1jIDolpGc-mVKx7KicPHGxzdrnzhW3p2GEtdV9JRcr8cdBSG3NnBAJ80r1XCeGMhl344G5fQDZVpFAElegznWFv/s1600/cover.umberlight.smaller.jpg" height="320" width="215" /></a></div>
<i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Prince-Umberlight-Tales-Book-ebook/dp/B00TRD2EHS/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1424366074&sr=1-1&keywords=prince+of+umberlight">Prince of Umberlight</a></i> has just been released on Amazon Kindle, Amazon.com and CreateSpace, and for those who have enjoyed my fan fiction erotica over the years, I hope you'll give this one a look.<br />
<br />
One advance reader said, "If <i>Prince of Umberlight</i> doesn't rattle your cage, you're more dead than the undead!" Appropriate analogy for an erotic vampire novel, I think, especially since this book was written with the intent to titillate mind, body and spirit equally.<br />
<br />
A couple of people have said to me over the years - "Gee, Della, do you think it's wise to publish your Quantum Shaman books and your erotica under your own name?" Who knows? In this new day and age of indy publishing, it seems that just about anything goes - and I can only say that anyone who is SERIOUS about their spiritual journey already knows that what we do isn't necessarily who we are. Then again, we are sensual and sexual beings because we are <i>human</i> beings, so I make no apologies for what I've written, nor for who and what I-Am.<br />
<br />
I personally feel a writer should be able to do anything s/he wants, but because I also acknowledge that we live in a world of "shoulds" and "shouldn'ts" (two of the most dangerous words in the English language), I made the decision to publish<i> Prince of Umberlight </i>under my long-established pseudonym (which I've never kept secret),<a href="http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00TQ3FCAK"> Alexis Fegan Black</a>. Of course, now that I've told you, what's the point of a pseudonym? But I suppose some people worry more about the name on the cover than the content inside. *lol* It's a funny, funny world in which we live.<br />
<br />
If you want to get a feel for the book, please check out the "Look Inside" on Amazon or proceed to the excerpt below. <br />
<br />
Yes, it is erotica. Yes, it is explicit. It is even very, very naughty.<br />
<br />
And no, I will not apologize<br />
_________________<br />
<br />
<b><i><span style="font-size: large;">Warning - Obviously this is not suitable for children, but I'm sure they've seen a lot worse on YouTube. As for the rest of you... some content may be hazardous to your calm, so best not to read while at work or on a public bus... particularly you fellas! </span></i></b><br />
<div>
_________________</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Prince of Umberlight</span><br />(abridged excerpt)</b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">PROLOGUE<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Now I lay me down to dream<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I created this place as a sanctuary, for I
am an immortal, you see, and a very long time ago the world of matter and men
became intolerable to me. Certain beings – some human, others not – have asked precisely
when this creation occurred, which only goes to illustrate a supremely naive misconception
of the very nature of Umberlight. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">There can be no <i>when</i> in a land where there is no <i>time</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">For that reason alone, the sun neither rises
nor sets here. There are no calendars or clocks, no watches or work schedules,
no hatch marks chiseled into prison walls to delineate one indistinguishable
day of monotony from the next.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">There is only a single moment here, existing
perpetually at right angles to the dayshine world, and given the name
Umberlight by one of the first Paranormals who stumbled – uninvited, I might
add – into my otherwise uninhabited kingdom. It was his observation that the
orange glow of the street lamps – which are powered by tiny embers broken off
from the Eternal Flame – produce a warm autumnal glow that is a natural beacon,
a porch light left forever on, welcoming fragile moths in gowns of colorful
dust who dance like angels on the ragged hem of this night that never ends.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But back to the questions of when and how
and why, which inevitably arise whenever another wayward Paranormal wanders or
falls or tunnels his way into this place. If I were compelled to pin a
timestamp onto the foundational cornerstone of Umberlight, it would require
looking at the conundrum from the dank and dismal perspective of the mortal
world – at that crossroad moment when it finally occurred to me that these
human creatures whom I have been observing for centuries are, at best, only transient
cattle, bumbling ignorantly toward the slaughterhouse of their own inevitable
deaths. Meek sheep, lacking the force of Will which separates the herd from
those who dine upon them at the end of the day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">So much comes to mind. Where to start? Do I
begin by telling you that the term 'Paranormal' is intended to invoke fear for
anything that does not fit into a strictly human paradigm? And yet, how can
that which has existed since long before the first whining Adam and the first
bleeding Eve crawled out of the primordial ooze be called paranormal or
supernatural? It is merely a fact that all things come into being when
circumstances are optimal and when Nature is sufficiently bored to allow some new
integer into the equation of evolution. There is nothing natural or unnatural
about <i>any</i> of us. Humans and
Paranormals have shared this spinning ball of (b)ore since the last big bang,
and the one before that, and the one before <i>that</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">There are no beginnings and no endings. And
from that perspective, Umberlight is far more kindred with the unfathomable
mysteries than anything humans like to think of as real. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But as to the question of when... <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">It was sometime in the late 17th century
that I had finally endured more than enough of humanity. I had foolishly
allowed myself to become emotionally attached to a mortal female (I hesitate to
use the words "in love"), and once again I could only watch from the
shadows as she became sick with age, withered, and eventually returned to the
Lethe of dust. Nothing more, nothing less. The interminable and intolerable
human condition.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">At that time, I was not yet a Creator. I did
not have the ability to transform an organic mortal into an immortal – or, at
the very least, I did not <i>believe</i> I
could. And that is the horror of being what I am – possessed with the gift to
love more deeply than any human ever could, but simultaneously cursed to grieve
more dreadfully than any immortal ever should.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And so it stands to reason it was in that
same period of time that I lay myself down to sleep one particularly unpleasant
morning when the sun was rising spritely and spring flowers were peeking out from
wooden window boxes in every London suburb, and took my final breath of that
too-bright, too-light mediocrity that humans everywhere hold in such
irrationally high esteem.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I had been dissatisfied for quite some time,
you must realize. It wasn't only the death of Emily that broke the remaining
fragments of my heart. It was the fact that she so willingly embraced her own
ending with wide-eyed faith in a mythical deity whose sole agenda was to crush
the life from her failing lungs, melt the flesh from her bones with decay, and
finally grind those same bones into a fine white powder with the mortar and
pestle of ruthless time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">As an Englishwoman who had been infallibly indoctrinated
to believe in gods and devils, Emily had wholly adopted the idea that some
intangible part of herself would rise up out of a desiccated corpse, ascend
into the sky in defiance of all logic, and spend eternity worshiping at the
feet of the very tyrant who had given her life, caused her to suffer
horrendously, and finally choked her to death on her own blood – courtesy of a
disease that same entity had manifested to menace and control the population of
humans whom he had shaped out of what he stated to be love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Love</span></i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Excuse my blasphemy, but does that make any
measure of sense to any rational creature? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I should warn you right now. If you are one
who needs those fairy tales to get through your daze and nights, read no further,
for I will openly confess I am no friend of God, no blind believer in the religious
fictions Man and Church have written to soothe their fears and fill their
pockets with gold coins.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I am a vampyre, if you must insist on a label.
Though I will further remind you that 'vampyre' is only a word attempting to
define in two finite syllables an infinite being incapable of precise
definition by virtue of its very nature.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">To dispel the distasteful myths...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I do not drink human blood as a necessity to
my survival. I do not sleep in a coffin. I am not repulsed by garlic or crosses
or silver. I have no fear of the sun aside from the fact that it is the
progenitor of Time, and though I prefer the sanctuary of night, I can walk in
daylight whenever I am sufficiently motivated to do so. I cannot be killed by a
stake through my heart, for that heart is made of antimatter and antediluvian autumns.
The body I inhabit is woven of illusion and cast into matter through my will,
and therefore impervious to disease, old age, and the attempts of fearful
simpletons to destroy me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">By human definitions, I am darkly beautiful
– for I am also a predator, though all creatures are predators at one level or
another. Since it is within my ability to be tall and lean and to wear the
flesh of a strikingly handsome rogue, why would I choose to be anything other
than that which humans consider irresistible, unfathomable, supernatural?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My face is a radiant flame to draw you near,
my body an alluring edifice to hold you when I take you, my kiss a wicked sting
that will make you want me beyond any ability to resist or reason.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I am the paradox incarnate. All that I say
is truth. And every truth is a lie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">It was not always so with me. I was once
human – neither beautiful nor powerful - but that is a long and sad story, not
particularly interesting really. Who I am in this moment is of far greater
significance, at least with regard to the tale of Umberlight and the beings who
have come to inhabit her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I could tell you that my given name was
Mikal, but I was human then and it was so very long ago that even I scarcely
remember that name at all. When I became an immortal at the hands of a cruel
and tyrannical Creator, I took the name Thorn, for my maker had often said I
was not the flower but embodied more traits of an annoying prick. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">For now, I will simply add that I swear no
allegiance to any deity or demon, no duty or obligation to any being mortal or
immortal. This is the essence of who and what I-Am – to be whole unto myself,
Knowing through Seeing that no creature is greater or lesser than any other. At
the level of pure existence, we are <i>all</i>
constructs of energy. This is, of course, the ultimate contradiction to one such
as myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I-Am, when all is said and done, a being of <i>light</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I have no qualms with such irony. In fact, I
embrace it completely.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And that is only one reason among many that
I chose to lay myself down to rest on that illumined spring morning after Emily
had been remanded to the dirt. There, safe in the sanctuary of my own humble
bed in an earthen basement where no light could find me, I tore my own wrist
and drank deeply of my own blood – a ritual to bring visions, anesthesia to
induce The Long Sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And here you may cry foul, believing that I
said I do not drink human blood. But remember – I am no longer human. If I
drink from a mortal, it is not the rush of red that sustains me, but instead
the living animus that is carried within the blood, and is as whole and satisfying
in a few sparse grams as it would be if one were to drain the entire organism.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">A single drop of animus (which cannot be
measured in drops, of course) contains the entire living essence of the being
from which it came, just as the tiniest fragment of a hologram contains the
entire hologram. So to drink from a mortal isn't only sustenance for the preternatural
body, it is a rekindling of the preternatural spirit, a rebirthing that is an
emergence from frigid numbness into electrified bliss, and can be so overwhelming
that to compare it to the convulsive force of sexual orgasm is to do it a pale
injustice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But I have strayed somewhere to the north of
the point. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">It wasn't only the death of another mortal
lover that caused me such despair. It was fully <i>seeing</i> that the being I had known as Emily was <i>gone</i>. Into the nothing that is the marriage bed of eternity and
infinity. Knowing there was no God, I knew equally there was no heaven.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And so I set for myself the task of creating
one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I set for myself the task of dreaming into being
a world where death and time have no dominion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">So perhaps it could be said that Umberlight
was sung into existence just <i>Then</i>, on
the cusp of the Sorrowday and Hollownight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">To fully appreciate the mystery of
Umberlight, it must also be understood that once something is created, it
exists not only in the future, but simultaneously in the shadow of the past, as
well as within the unlimited realm of all possibility – countless parallel and
paradoxical Otherworlds where humans and Paranormals might find themselves if
they turn left instead of right, or simply awaken in one of their own infinite
other selves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But even those words are demons of
deception. What is... simply <i>is</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Umberlight did not exist before that long
night of my grief, but now it has always been there and always will be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Such is the fickle nature of a laughing
universe and the unshakeable Will of the vampyre who perceived himself to have
been wronged by God. The fact that God did not exist was entirely irrelevant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I needed somewhere to direct all of those
feelings that otherwise dissipate and vanish into the curse of forgetting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Rage. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Hope.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Sorrow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Emptiness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Winter's memories.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The poetry of fireflies.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The spidersilk of dreams.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">These are the ingredients of Umberlight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">NEITHER CHAPTER NOR VERSE<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The dream before the Dreaming<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The
altar was made of simple wood and held the artifacts and herbs required to
summon an immortal. Agrimony and dream root. Chalice and blade. Scented oil. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Having
lit the lantern to serve as a beacon of flame, I knelt naked and humble on the thin
cushions at the altar's base, took up the small vial of oil, and applied it
sparingly to my chest, careful to cover each nipple with an adequate amount to
make me appealing to the dark spirits. Then to my halfway erect staff, which
lengthened and grew as the oil heated in my palm.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Vampyre,
father, incubus, lover," I intoned as I had done each night for several
months. "Come to me now, make me yours forever."<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">As
I spoke the words I had gleaned from the darkness itself, my hand worked a slow
and familiar magick on my body, gliding easily over my straining phallus.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Vampyre,
father, incubus, lover... come to me now, make me yours forever."<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I
murmured the incantation for the second time, my breath coming faster as the
fire in my belly burned higher.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The
trick was to go slow. To focus on my intent. To tease the pleasure without
indulging it too soon.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My
hand slowed, though it wanted to move faster. My heart pounded, a summoning
drum.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Beyond
the window over the altar, the world was liquid ebony, not even a sliver of a
moon on the orchards which had been in my family for generations. A flirtatious
early autumn wind gripped me, running curious hands over my body until my
phallus stood at full attention.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But
tonight the wind which had always been feminine and sweet had turned darkly
masculine and carried the sharp edge of a king's avenging sword. And whereas
that same wind had remained elusive and always slipped free of my embrace,
tonight that wicked elemental had taken on shape and form, and was kneeling
behind me on the cushions at the window overlooking the vineyards and the
distant sea beyond.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Is
this really what you want?" a man's voice whispered, so close to my ear I
could taste the wine on his breath, yet so soft I could go right on imagining
it was only the wind reflecting my forbidden intent back at me.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I allowed
myself to imagine he was really there – something I had seldom done even at the
peak of these dark rituals, for it was said that to finally believe in one's
magick was to give that magick permission to believe in itself.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Yes,"
I whispered. "Yes – it's what I want!"<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My
hand moved automatically toward my staff, but in the very next moment my wrist
was seized in a powerful grip and before I knew what was happening to me, I was
driven face-down onto the cushions with such a force that I thought for a
moment my home had been invaded by Crusaders and I was about to be executed for
acts of sorcery.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Instead,
when I twisted my head around in a state of blind panic, I saw that there
really was a man at my back. Not just any average human being, but a man whose
face was so extraordinary he could not be a man at all. Hair darker than a
blackbird's wing. Eyes so bright they had to be lit from within.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">In
the dim flickering of the lantern, he actually appeared to glow, his features
so perfectly chiseled that I could only imagine him to be an angel – though
most likely a fallen one, judging by the fact that he was completely naked and
sporting a tremendous erection that could be easily classified as a weapon.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I
froze.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I
could not breathe, did not dare to move.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Do
you know who I am, boy?" the man asked. Even though I was 28 at the time,
I suspected that anyone under the age of at least a century or two would be a
boy to this being who was, without a doubt, the answer to my dangerous prayers.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Vampyre.
Father. Incubus. Lover.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"You
are the night incarnate," I barely managed to murmur, more words from
incantations I had written in my own blood onto the ragged papyrus of my
journal. "You are the father of my death, the bringer of my life."<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"> Words of the summoning<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"> Words of madness.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My
heart was threatening to explode, and had it done so in that moment, it may
well have turned out to be a blessing, compared to what lay ahead.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"My
name is Ambrose," the man said, "and I am the destroyer of your
world."<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Words
I had imagined.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">A
name I had learned in my dreams.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">As
he spoke, he had picked up the vial of oil and poured what little remained onto
the palm of his right hand, then began stroking himself with it until his evil
blade glistened ominously in the lantern's pale light.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Because
you have summoned me, and because I know you are a virgin to men, I will be
gentle with you this first time," he promised, though he was already
prying the trembling globes of my rump apart and had placed the broad head of
his saber against the tightly-clenched orifice and began to enter me.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">There
was no discussion, no polite dance prior to the act.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He
simply did it before I could say another word.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"> I was paralyzed with a sensation like nothing
I had experienced ever before – a devil's cocktail consisting of equal portions
of fear, dread, desire and a blinding phantasm of pain that came when my
"gentle" destroyer slid so hard and fast and
deep into me that I whimpered like a schoolboy and bit down on my own wrist to
keep from crying out, the result being that I tasted my own blood.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Whatever
sounds I made were not words – just the delirious groans and protests of a man
who suddenly finds himself filled beyond his capacity to bear by the quick and
merciless thrusts of another man.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">It
was the most horrific moment of my life.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">It
was the most shameful moment of my life.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And
it was, without a doubt, the most strikingly <u>intimate</u> moment of my life.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Ambrose
had his way with me for what must have been an hour, while I lay there on the
cushions alternating between unbearable agony and intolerable pleasure I did
not want to admit even though I could not deny it.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Perhaps
sensing that, he held me down the entire time so that I might later have the
luxury of claiming – if only to myself – that I was forced.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">When
his fangs cut into the tender flesh at the apex of neck and shoulder and he
began drawing the living essence of me into his mouth, I experienced a single
moment of true and absolute panic, for it is said that once a Creator drinks
from the veins of one who has summoned him, there is no undoing the spell, no
going back to the safe sanctuary of sanity and reason.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I
have often wondered if I would have gone back to being just a man, but the
crossroads had already been passed. The deed was done. The oath was sealed in
my blood.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I
belonged to Ambrose now.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He
continued sinking in again and again until I became delirious from the ride
and began lifting myself up to meet him when I sensed he was close to release.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I
wanted it to be over.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I
wanted it to never end.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I
raised myself higher.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"That's
a good boy," he murmured against my ear, reaching around my body to take
my tormented shaft in his hand. "Now come with me into this night that
never ends."<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">His
skilled hand milked the liquid pleasure out of me at the same time I felt a
searing burn filling me up inside, an evil fire cauterizing the lethal cut this
fiend had delivered to my very soul.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Vampyre,
father, incubus, lover," I wept as his hand tightened and released around
my throbbing phallus. "Come to me now, make me yours forever."<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">His
flame burned inside me for another hour while we lay together in the aftermath,
his vampyre body resting heavily on my back.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Come
find me, Mikal," he commanded me. "When you do, it will be time to
begin."<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The
wind went still.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The
lantern had gone dark.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Ambrose
was gone, but I knew without a doubt that I had met my maker.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">________________</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua';">Copyright </span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.3in;">©</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.3in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">2015, by Della Van Hise, Alexis Fegan Black and Eye Scry Publications</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua';"><span style="font-size: x-small;">All Rights Reserved</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua';"><i>Prince of Umberlight</i> is available through <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Prince-Umberlight-Tales-Book-ebook/dp/B00TRD2EHS/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1424366074&sr=1-1&keywords=prince+of+umberlight">Amazon</a> or directly from the author at <a href="http://www.eyescrypublications.com/">Eye Scry Publications.</a> To read other works under the name, Alexis Fegan Black, consider <a href="http://www.fanzinesplus.com/">Fanzines Plus</a>.</span></div>
<br />
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Della Van Hise / Quantum Shamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15981554252784274711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5483744569183531224.post-7478941930944086382015-02-16T07:42:00.000-08:002015-02-17T15:39:00.495-08:0050 Shades of Crazy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiNWSR4c81BJiKROmgVTvbLxlAht8hnxoy_KMu-3jE5oXu1-ZXyjWppztX5e3KueQDgUj3dBF2uXwxnXYTM6zJ0tD09ixMI3uxVSUwSykDYaxeP-so5JJ7eRdMsOJ_ZlwzGAH_3CoZvuBr/s1600/50+shades.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiNWSR4c81BJiKROmgVTvbLxlAht8hnxoy_KMu-3jE5oXu1-ZXyjWppztX5e3KueQDgUj3dBF2uXwxnXYTM6zJ0tD09ixMI3uxVSUwSykDYaxeP-so5JJ7eRdMsOJ_ZlwzGAH_3CoZvuBr/s1600/50+shades.jpg" /></a>My gripe with a lot of the crap I'm reading on the net about "50 SHADES OF GREY" these past few days (coinciding with the release of the movie) is that 95% of the commenters start out by saying - "I haven't read the books and I won't see the movie, BUT I think blah blah blah..." Kinda like saying... "I've never tasted asparagus, but I already KNOW I'm going to hate it, and therefore <i>you </i>should hate it, too!"<br />
<br />
Some of the outright militant reactions to this movie remind me of the insanity that erupted back in the early 80s when MAKING LOVE, one of the first "gay" films, came out. The line-up of protesters outside the theater was amazing - right wing political groups, Christian activists, "concerned" parents. It was like wading through the angry mob scene in some Frankenstein movie! Pitchforks and flaming torches all the way!<br />
<br />
And guess what... it was just a movie. Fiction. Pretty good movie as I recall, and Harry Hamlin always did look good with his shirt off. (Scandalous!) I don't think it turned anybody gay who wasn't already gay. I don't think it harmed anybody's psyche by trespassing into the realms of the taboo. Who knows? Maybe it gave a few people the idea that they really aren't the pariahs society makes them out to be? Maybe it actually opened a few minds? But either way... it was just a movie and nobody forced anybody to buy a ticket - although a LOT of people tried to force us NOT to buy tickets... so who's the real monster in that scene?<br />
<br />
Same thing happened when THE LAST TEMPTATION OF CHRIST came out. The hate groups were out in front of the theaters with picket signs, shouting all sorts of threats and hate slogans at those of us who DID bother to see the movie... and guess what? It was just a movie, too. Fiction. Worlds didn't end. Kingdoms didn't fall. Nobody turned into a pervert - except those who were out front shouting things like "You're going to hell if you see this movie!" "God hates fags!" "God knows where you live!" It was insane!<br />
<br />
Humans are insane.<br />
<br />
So when I read all of this pseudo-intellectual claptrap by a bunch of wanna be do-gooders (most of whom are only using the current hooplah to promote their own agendas), I just want to remind them that nobody is forcing them (or anyone else) to read a book or see a movie. But if you're not going to get up on your soapbox with an INFORMED perspective of at least having read half of one half of one of the books, why not keep your trap shut and find something you DO know something about to bitch about? Alarmist uninformed extremists have been the cause of far more harm than anything one could see in a movie.<br />
<br />
What is REALLY annoying are these "professional" women (shrinks, teachers and self-appointed gurus) trying to say that just seeing the movie or reading the books will "harm young women" by making them think this is normal, or it will make young women think this is what they want. Er... did your mother drop you on your head, Dr. Dumbwitch? Kinda like telling kids they'll go blind or grow hair on their palms if they masturbate! (My palms are completely clean, and I still have 20/20 vision in my late 50s - so like everything else, most of what they tell us in church is a lie.) ;)<br />
<br />
Unless someone is a completely vulnerable fool (which, admittedly, a lot of people may be) they aren't going to see 50 SHADES and then rush out into the street looking for a *real* Christian Grey. It's called FANTASY - and most of us know the difference between fantasy and reality. On the other hand, who's to say that some young woman who sees the movie might think for herself and decide this ISN'T what she wants? Who's to say that some young men who see the movie won't decide it's NOT who they want to be?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2UTDabj6gk6ihK6giJy9RvcYPHQAq4ceFQrkf5cdUZc0xLTn8cuo1y8d8wxPxpf1pcAOJypn_nIPFsOnNriL7eN3-1qm3OmHWkTMVibFMWT8tGGlLUzeGkj5y4kOdzz6R6PNkJfc8mxhd/s1600/gay+baby+whale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2UTDabj6gk6ihK6giJy9RvcYPHQAq4ceFQrkf5cdUZc0xLTn8cuo1y8d8wxPxpf1pcAOJypn_nIPFsOnNriL7eN3-1qm3OmHWkTMVibFMWT8tGGlLUzeGkj5y4kOdzz6R6PNkJfc8mxhd/s1600/gay+baby+whale.jpg" height="80" width="320" /></a></div>
And for that matter, whatever happened to the quaint idea of letting people think for themselves? So much of what I've seen in the social media these past few days has been downright horrific. "If you see this movie, I'll unfriend you!" "If you read these book, you're a pervert!" "Save the children!" "Nuke a gay baby whale for Jesus!"<br />
<br />
My god! The things humans can find to get upset about is unfuckingbelievable! If you have that much pent up energy, devote it to an animal rights movement or go build houses for the homeless or volunteer at a soup kitchen to help people who REALLY need your help. Sitting in your high tower telling other people what they *should* (a very dangerous word) think or do or feel is far more tyrannical than anything Christian Grey could ever do. After all - he's just a fictional character, confined to his role in a movie that will be forgotten in a month. YOU have a much broader responsibility to the world if you are at all *real* in any real sense of the word. Teach people how to think instead of encouraging them to cower in fear. Exemplify love instead of hate, acceptance instead of limitations and expectations.<br />
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And frankly, anybody who would be traumatized by 50 SHADES or almost any other work of fiction might want to spend a day or two in the real world where REAL problems actually do exist.<br />
<br />
Put it in perspective. Get over it. Move on.<br />
<br />
And most of all - think for yourself!<br />
<br />
___________________<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A return to my roots in erotica.<br />WARNING: you might like it...<br />but I promise not to tell.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Addendum: From a writer's perspective...<br />
<br />
I've been writing erotica for over 35 years, and not all of it has been girl-in-a-white-dress-on-her-wedding-night stuff. That isn't real life - never was, never will be. Books and movies allow us to explore possibilities without having to get our feet dirty or our wrists chained to a bedpost.<br />
<br />
To be honest, my erotica outsold my non-erotica by 10 to 1 back in the day. And guess what? The more "kinky" my erotica writings, the MORE they outsold the rest.<br />
<br />
<b><i>People enjoy feeling things they don't necessarily want to experience. It's why we have imaginations. It's why we write.</i></b><br />
<br />
If we all colored inside the lines, the pictures would always be the same and we'd live in a very black and white world with no shades of grey.<br />
<br />
Is that what we really want? Really?<br />
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Della Van Hise / Quantum Shamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15981554252784274711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5483744569183531224.post-56029036704413582722015-01-12T11:03:00.000-08:002015-01-12T11:24:12.234-08:00Free Novella! KISS OF THE BLACK ANGEL<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Book Antiqua;">I wanted to share this novella with my friends & followers. Even though it is already <a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/492902">free on Smashwords</a>, some readers have had difficulty downloading it. In addition, even though Amazon once did price-matching to remain competitive, this practice appears to have been discontinued. Therefore, even though it was my intent to have<i> Kiss of the Black Angel</i> also free on Amazon, that has not (yet) happened. So - as an introduction to my personal favorite novel (<b><i>Sons of Neverland</i></b>), I hope you will enjoy the novella which started the saga, and which was originally published in the prestigious <i>Tomorrow Magazine</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Book Antiqua;">A few words of warning... <i>Kiss of the Black Angel</i> is intended to titillate the senses and rattle the cornerstones of what we have been taught to believe. Proceed at your own risk.</span></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 22.0pt;">Kiss of the Black Angel</span></i></b><b><i><u><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></u></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 11.0pt;">by<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 22.0pt;">Della Van Hise<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 11.0pt;">Eye Scry Publications<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 11.0pt;"><a href="http://www.eyescrypublications.com/">http://www.eyescrypublications.com</a><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Kiss
of the Black Angel </span></i></b><b><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">was originally published in the prestigious
TOMORROW MAGAZINE. It was released as a
limited print first edition in 1997, as <i>Ragged
Angels</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">There is now a novel-length<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">version of this book entitled<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><i><u><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 28.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Sons
of Neverland<o:p></o:p></span></u></i></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 22.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Available in eBook or Print<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sons-Neverland-Della-Van-Hise-ebook/dp/B00O4GUH2W/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8"><img alt=" A Vampyre's Tale" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDdeIOLSTTlW9z0Kybu33Q9FP_RONA-sbYfdnbVccCT8tyBeg9bLPGMiDx5B76Ul2Sz0lap8N58v4-P3jjIFoubNbbhW5c4OkkPBQFfLSs8nPQLKF97Nd36V2-yLeJYlX7Myi002_XhB6l/s1600/front+cover.smaller.jpg" height="320" width="244" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 11.0pt;">Copyright © 1997,
2010, 2014 Eye Scry Publications & Della Van Hise. All rights reserved. No
part of this book may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any form or by
any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, internet upload, or
by any information storage/retrieval system, without permission in writing from
the publisher. Reviewers may quote brief passages.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> ~</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Set
against a background of contemporary culture, <i>Kiss of the Black Angel </i>explores
one man’s grief as it plunges him into the realms of the vampire. There, Stefan
encounters Dimitri and Miquel, one of whom is destined to become his maker, the
other his brother. But the price of immortality is high, and as the vampire
warns, “Through my blood you will learn a secret which will compel you to live
forever, yet a secret so profane it will haunt you for that same eternity.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The secret will haunt you, too.</span></i><b><u><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
<b><u><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This book is dedicated to the quest for immortality and human
evolution, to the muses who make the quest possible<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">…and most of all, to Wendy.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><u><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">PROLOGUE</span></u></b><b><i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Have you come to a decision in this
matter, Stefan?" he inquired in a voice so flawless and clear it could
have been the song of some mythical siren.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Dimitri was asking me to choose between life
and death, yet all I could do was sit there listening to the clink of glasses
and the din of meaningless conversation all around us. At a nearby table,
Batman and Robin shared an order of french fries, thick red catsup bleeding
toward the center of the plate in an erotic slow dance. In the buffet line,
Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock chatted about the "prejudicially Terran cuisine
here at Starbase One" as the Vulcan popped a fat black grape in his mouth.
Hotel employees strained to maintain polite expressions in the face of a 200
pound Catwoman and an overly talkative Jean-Luc Picard whose skullcap was
peeling away to reveal scraggly locks of auburn.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My head hurt from the wine. I was drunk on
illusion. I was sick on grief.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And the creature sitting across the table
just looked at me and smiled, revealing straight white teeth whose only
peculiarity was the two small fangs where incisors should have been. It was no <st1:place w:st="on">Hollywood</st1:place> make-up job, nor had this blond waif undergone
dental alterations in order to personify some macabre fantasy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">No, <i>this</i>
illusion was real.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Looking at the vampyre now, it was as if I'd
known him always, though we'd met less than 24 hours before...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">CHAPTER ONE</span></u></b><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The 15th Annual MystiCon was well underway,
but I didn't belong here among the starship troopers and the knights and ladies
in their Arthurian finery. The huckster's room writhed, undulating with milling
misfits and freelance vendors hawking everything from pointed ears to solid
gold chess sets cast in the likenesses of Tolkein's hobbits.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Money traded hands, coins jangling. A
bearded man broke into a raunchy folk song, strumming a battered mandolin. At
the booth next to mine, a lady with long gray hair and one blind eye gave Tarot
readings as a Celtic harp played <i><u>Greensleeves</u></i>
on a distorted cassette. Two aisles over, a young knave in a jester's hat
extolled the virtues of the swords he was selling, proudly proclaiming in an
affected English accent, "Guaranteed to sever the head of the nastiest
dragon or your money back!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">There were two things any science fiction
convention could guarantee: the
atmosphere was chaos, the majority of attendees not plugged in to the reality
most people would consider normal. So when I looked up to see a vampyre
standing in front of my table as if he'd appeared out of dusk's early vapor, it
never struck me as particularly unusual.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Dimitri was a face in a crowd of odd faces,
though paler and more gaunt, with straight blond hair that would have fanned
over his narrow shoulders had it not been gathered into a loose bundle tied
with black satin bows. And while his costume was striking—a black velvet tuxedo
and sable cape—his persona seemed nonetheless tame when compared to some of the
others wandering the drafty exhibition hall at the L.A. Airport Hilton.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He arrived just after sunset, not long
before the room was scheduled to close, and stood there looking at the <i><u>Star Trek</u></i> mementos, movie posters
and new age books which were all that remained of my daughter. Stephanie had
been buried almost two years now, and while I would have preferred to leave her
belongings enshrined in her room, the house had been sold to satisfy the terms
of the divorce, and I couldn't bring myself to toss her favorite possessions in
a plastic sack to be picked through by strangers at a thrift store.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">No, it had to be <i>here</i> that the ashes of her memory were scattered, here that her
spirit was returned to the other pilgrims who'd shared her visions of faeries
and far-flung civilizations, worlds more real to her than life in the suburbs
of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">San Diego</st1:city></st1:place>
had ever been. It had to be here, where she and I had come so often—I as a
bewildered guest to sign copies of my books, Stephanie as my guide and my
inspiration.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Ironically, had she been at the convention,
she would've recognized Dimitri for what he was. She would have skirted behind
me, whispering, "He's a vampyre, Daddy. Don't talk to him and don't look
in his eyes!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Wanting to indulge her as any father
indulges a daughter, I wouldn't have replied when Dimitri first spoke, and I
never would have known that he wore those mirrored shades to conceal more than
just his identity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But because Stephanie wasn't there, I was
vulnerable when the vampyre began to make small talk. Charming and expressive
in a manner not commensurate with his age—maybe 19 and tender at that—he tipped
his head in greeting, then said in a voice so clear it could shatter entire
realities, "I wish to thank you, sir, for making me believe in spirits and
sprites."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I stared blankly before I realized he was
referring to my first book, <i><u>Travelogue
of the Underworld</u></i>, rumored to be a factual account of the author's
adventures into a shadow reality existing at right angles to our own. At
gatherings such as these, it wasn't uncommon for people to believe my books <i>were</i> the truth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But those were stories I'd written to
entertain Stephanie when she was a little girl, and now the room shimmered,
more mist than substance, more past than present. Merlin walked by in a tall
purple hat, Xena and Gabrielle not far behind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">'The
world's not science, Daddy. The world's magic if you just look!'<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But the words were spoken by a ghost, and
any magic I'd ever known was buried in her grave.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"I wish I could tell you it's true, but
fairyland's closed. There's no such thing as elves or trolls, no sorcerers, no
magic. <i>Nothing</i>," I concluded,
sharper than I intended.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The vampyre gave a small smile, delicate and
birdlike. "Oh, but there <i>are</i>,"
he insisted with an expressive gesture of ashen hands. "They exist because
you made me <i>believe</i> they can, and
belief is the first principle of magic, just as the ability to create belief is
the mark of a true storyteller."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Oddly, his words didn't strike me as hollow
flattery. Though I was now just another face in the swarm, the fact that
Dimitri knew who I was after my two-year absence from the convention circuit
gave me an unexpected sense of comfort, leaving me embarrassed for the way I'd
spoken to him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Sorry, it's been a long day," I
muttered, a polite social lie to conceal the grief still consuming me whenever
I saw a girl in the crowd who looked like my Stephanie, whenever I looked at
the empty chair behind the table and remembered when she'd sat at my side.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I turned away from the memories.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"So you're a vampyre," I commented
numbly, hoping to lose myself for a moment in someone else's world. I motioned
toward the clothes he wore, the dark glasses hiding his eyes. "Am I to
assume you never drink—" here I paused for dramatic effect "—<i>wine</i>?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Ah, Dracula," he sighed, catching
my eclectic reference which would have been lost on any normal human being.
"A truly unfortunate stereotype that will haunt our kind for centuries to
come."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Maybe it shouldn't have surprised me that he
spoke as if from experience.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">An uneasy silence dropped between us as he
studied the articles on the table, the way one politely looks at something when
he's really looking for a reason to linger. Picking up a dusty copy of <i><u>The Lost Boys,</u></i> he slowly turned
it over in his hand until the harsh overhead lights glinted off the cellophane
wrapper and time did a backbend—<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">—in
my den, a prisoner to the clackety-rackety-click of a plastic keyboard as I
pounded out another chapter of <u>Lucas the Lizard</u>. But I was startled from
my thoughts when Stephanie burst through the door, excitement sparking in waves
that were all but visible. "Daddy, look!" she exclaimed, holding up
the spoils of her weekly allowance, a shiny new copy of <u>The Lost Boys</u>.
Sun streaming through the window flashed off the shrink-wrap and bounced around
the room, time taking a snapshot. "Watch it with me tonight? Okay, Daddy?
Please?"<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But I'd been too busy that night and every
other night, and now my throat tightened as Dimitri held that same old tape in
his hand, a ruthless reminder of what I'd lost. Ghosts were strange companions,
manifesting in the form of an old movie, an empty room, a song on the radio.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Oblivious to my grief, Dimitri set the box
down, fingertips barely brushing the soft peach tablecloth as he looked up from
his silence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"The portrayal of vampyres has become
quite an obsession in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Hollywood</st1:city></st1:place>,"
he murmured, clasping his hands together at his waist with an air of formality
that seemed somehow natural. "Still, it's unfortunate that no film has
ever captured the true essence of what it means to walk the Earth as a citizen
of the night."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Strangely nervous, I laughed, not for what
he said but for the manner in which he said it. After all, <i><u>I</u></i> was the word merchant—or had been before Stephanie
died—and Dimitri had stepped on the untended grave of my muse with his eloquent
manner of speaking and his aggrandized gestures that would have suited a
character in a very old book. He belonged in another world and time, right down
to the cloistering scent of his cologne, the brush of powder on his cheeks, the
old world propriety of his conduct.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"So what <i>does</i> it mean?" I asked, not sure if I expected an answer or
was only making fun of him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He didn't respond, just twitched his lips in
a smile that might have been real had I been able to see his eyes. Instead, I
saw only myself in duplicate, his glasses throwing my reflection back at me as
twins.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">For an instant, I thought the images were
tiny paintings on the lenses, for no mirror ever captured a man as he saw
himself. Momentarily disoriented, I gaped at the distorted stranger, this man
who always seemed too tall and too thin, this man who had peered back at me in
mirrors for 34 years, an eerie doppelganger wearing my face. Stefan London was
his name—<i>my</i> name—yet I knew nothing
of the man behind it. It was only a symbol for the face who wore it, four
syllables meaning absolutely nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Only when the scream of a plastic phaser
split the air did I jerk myself back to reality, embarrassed to be searching
for my lost identity in another man's glasses.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"I—uh—sorry. I'm Stefan London—please,
call me Stefan," I stammered, as if speaking the name out loud might cause
it to have meaning again. I thrust my hand toward him, a marionette going
through jerky social formalities.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He bowed slightly from the waist, far more
graceful than my clumsy handshake. "I am deeply honored to make your
acquaintance, Stefan. As for myself, I am called Dimitri, though it's only a
word, as you already realize, a label incapable of telling you anything about
me. Sad, really, that our entire lives are spent in such isolation from one
another. Don't you agree?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">How could I answer that? While verbalizing
the mental aloneness every human being experiences every moment of their lives,
he seemed to be reaching inside my mind, speaking my thoughts aloud in a way
that destroyed the isolation itself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And even if it were nothing more than some
inexplicable synchronicity, the confident aura with which Dimitri spoke sent a
chill down my spine. This kid hadn't just crawled into the tuxedo and the black
silk cape on a whim. He <i>fit</i> inside
them, for unlike most human beings, Dimitri was more than just his name.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He truly saw himself as a vampyre, and the
fact that <i>he</i> believed it intrigued me
utterly. Instead of automatically writing him off as just one more deluded
soul, a part of me I'd thought extinct broke free of its grief with a vengeance
that was exhilarating and at the same time absolutely terrifying. A voice
inside my mind burst alive, whispering, <i>'What
if he is? What if he could be? How did it happen and what <u>does</u> it
mean to be a vampyre? What if...? Oh, what if it could be real?<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">It was a voice I knew well, yet one that had
been silent so long I'd believed it mute. In short, Dimitri's very existence
made me want to write again—a reaction I could not have predicted under any
circumstances. I took a step away from him and would have bolted altogether had
the wall not halted my retreat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My words were no longer for sale. I had to
keep them locked up inside lest they, like Stephanie, leave me forever, for
although I might occasionally run across a ragged novel bearing my name in a
used book store, the man on the dust jacket was dead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Suddenly, I wanted to chase Dimitri away
before he disturbed my living death. I'd grown comfortable in my mourning and
was loathe to give it up. Yet it also occurred to me that perhaps Stephanie had
known him. Maybe she'd spoken to him or flirted with him at some other
convention years ago. Maybe he would remember her sad smile, her rare laughter.
With an effort, I controlled my panic, forcing an unnatural calm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"These things belonged to my
daughter—Stephanie," I said, gesturing toward the table as I spoke her
name.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Dimitri looked at me from behind his dark
glasses for a long time. "She was a beautiful girl," he said at last.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My heart beat faster. "You knew
her?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Another long silence followed, as if he
really did have eternity. Then he shook his head. "No, but because she
lives so strongly in your memories, it's as if she still stands by your side,
the stygian sprite of your early novels."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">His insight left me numb, its implications
chilling me through to the very bone. And yet, suddenly, it didn't matter <i>how</i> Dimitri knew these things. It only
mattered that he <i>did</i> know them. It
only mattered that, for one single moment, I no longer felt so completely
alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Finally, blurry-eyed, I managed in a
whisper: "Thank you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I wasn't sure what I meant, but perhaps I
was simply grateful to him for acknowledging my grief in a way most people
never could. It made friends ill at ease, made them find reason to be someplace
else.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But Dimitri didn't withdraw. Instead, he
studied me as if coming to some profound decision while the two of us stood
encapsulated together at a mystical crossroads existing apart from the rest of
the world. Finally, in a gesture that was curiously intimate, he smiled ever so
slightly and slowly removed his glasses, our eyes meeting for the first time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My initial reaction was that he must have
some medical condition which could account for the fact that his right eye was
cobalt blue and flecked with gold while the left was a shade of green like
summer grass. Animal eyes, predator sharp.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I should have known then that he wasn't
human, or perhaps I refused to acknowledge it because those terrible eyes were
penetrating the very core of my mind. But when he reached out and grasped my
hand, pressing it between both of his own with a strength I could never hope to
match, lightning flashed inside my head, obliterating whatever sovereign
thoughts made a man unique unto himself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The din of the convention was chopped off,
and before I could react, some supernatural force jerked me away to a place
where the stars were black and the sky white, where the silence was as shrill a
dying man's scream. I was falling then, plunging through infinite space and
timeless void, a disembodied consciousness hurtling toward oblivion through the
very nothingness which was both destination and annihilation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My only thought was that the city had been
struck by a nuclear blast and this was what it was like to die. But then,
through sheer intuition, I understood that I had been miraculously transported
into the alien environs of another man's mind, where I stood looking out
through his monstrous eyes, seeing myself through his strangely intensified
perceptions:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">A
man in the peak of his life with shaggy hair the shade of pine bark after a
cool rain and eyes blue as tropical waters. Though willow thin from too much
grief, he was also willow strong. And though he struggled to stress only the
mediocrity in himself, the strength of the long distance runner he had been in
his youth always crept past the nondescript clothes and downcast eyes. Stefan
London <u>was</u> beautiful, his soul a veil of black lace torn in spots by
sorrow, yet it was through those gashes that his crippled aura bled to draw
people to him as flame was attracted to wick—<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Yo!
Death Star to dealer! You okay,
buddy?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Darth Vader was shaking my shoulder, waving
one of Stephanie's books under my nose until the scent of printer's ink and
dust acted like smelling salts to shake me back to my senses. "How much
you want for this?" he rasped from inside a black plastic helmet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The jolt of being catapulted back into my
own body was like a rubber band snapping, the pain of it causing me to gasp. I
had no idea where I was, nor even <i>who</i>,
and the world had become a merry-go-round churning out of control.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Then I saw. Still standing in front of me as
if nothing were out of the ordinary, Dimitri just looked at me with those
omniscient eyes which seemed to be saying, <i>You
wanted to know what it's like to walk the night? Well, I can show you, my friend, things you
can't even begin to dream. Oh, the things I can show you with these eyes...<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Bathed in an icy sweat, suddenly sick to my
stomach, I yanked my hand away from him, yet before I could discover any
answers in his face, he slid those mirrored shades back on and reality righted
itself, not unlike an old film fluttering through the projector until the
picture and the soundtrack were once again in sync.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">In front of my table, a small crowd had
gathered to gawk at Stephanie's collection, yet their expressions were vacant,
their attention captured by plastic toys and paper worlds hidden inside
out-of-print books.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"How much?" Lord Vader asked
again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He might as well have spoken High Martian. I
could only stare into the distorted world the mask reflected back at me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"I—did you see—?" I stammered, fighting the vertigo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Dimitri placed a hand on my shoulder,
warning me to silence with a oddly erotic gesture of one long finger laid
discreetly over pale lips.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Each of us sees only those things we
allow ourselves to see, Stefan," he said in response to my thoughts. Then,
leaning nearer, he added, "What <i><u>I</u></i>
see is a man whose grief is an unrelenting master but also a powerful muse—one
that could serve us both well."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I pulled away, realizing in an awful flash
that his lips never moved when he spoke.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Who <i>are</i> you?" I demanded, struggling to shake myself free of a
dream that had turned dangerously real. "What do you want from me?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And suddenly we were alone again. Darth
Vader stormed off carrying his head under his arm and the others just drifted
away, extras milling about at the whim of some unseen director.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"It's not a question of what I want,
per se, but a matter of how we may be able to help one another," Dimitri
explained in that crystalline voice. "True vampirism isn't based on the
surreptitious control of your mind or the theft of your blood, but is instead a
matter of give and take." Here he
paused to give me an alluring smile, then concluded rather boldly, "I've
shown you a glimpse of yourself through my very own eyes, so now I ask you: are
you interested in seeing more? Are you
interested in discovering who you are, who you <i>can</i> be? Are you interested
in evolving beyond this mortal life and into eternity itself?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">His questions unnerved me deeply.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">It was hot in the room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My mouth went dry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">In a matter of minutes, with a minimum of
words, this willful fiend had seduced my senses and burned my sensibilities. He
had lured me to the very brink of madness and now I would be compelled to
follow him over the edge—not only because he was clearly a magical being, but
because he made me feel <i>alive</i> again,
so much that the sensation was not unlike physical arousal, and <i>that</i> was the worst of all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">As if understanding my dilemma, he reached
inside his jacket, pulling out a card which he handed to me with a flourish of
pallid hand and lace cuff.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana;">DIMITRI ALEXANDER KARROS</span></b><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">FREELANCE COMPUTER ANALYST<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">213-555-8267<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Graveyard shift only<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Dazed, I read it twice before he said,
"If you should choose to pursue these feelings, Miquel and I would welcome
you into our home this evening."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">His speech was so formal and succinct it was
altogether spellbinding. I had to blink to rid my mind of images I couldn't
have described had my life depended on it. Wine thoughts. Gravestone musings.
Mermaid etchings that flowed through my soul like black water and left me
hallucinating.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Stephanie
dancing with Mephistopheles high atop the Acropolis, spinning and seeming to
fly as her long black dress flew out from her on the wind. Then I was cutting
in—not to waltz with my beloved daughter, but to dance in the arms of the devil
himself because the idea was as erotic as it was absurd.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">These were the visions that came when
Dimitri touched my wrist in a gesture of intimate familiarity. His fingers
glistened with emeralds, rubies, a star sapphire that reminded me all too much
of his one blue eye. He was casket satin, moonlight on baptismal waters.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And then he was just a man-boy in a vampyre
get-up as my mind abruptly translated what he'd said. Mortified by the very
feelings he referred to—taboo curiosities I might have found intriguing years
before—I held out his card to return it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"I'm driving back to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">San Diego</st1:city></st1:place> tonight," I muttered, tripping
on my words. "Maybe some other time."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The room was shrinking, the air thin. In the
alley outside the building, dusk was luring night into the city.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But Dimitri leaned over the table and, in a
brazen gesture, folded his card into my palm and closed my fingers around it
until the stiffly laminated paper cut into me and drew blood. Our faces only
inches apart, he smiled again as a drop of red squeezed through my fist and
rolled down my wrist.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"A lie is a terrible way to begin
eternity, Stefan," he sang to me, his breath a cemetery breeze, cool and
eerie on my cheek. "Miquel will send a car for you at ten. It is best that
you come willingly."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He brought my hand to his lips, and though I
thought his intention was to kiss it in the fashion of a European gentleman
bidding farewell to a paramour, he flicked out his tongue and darted it between
my fingers to catch the flow of my blood. It happened so quickly I couldn't
twist free, and my heart cramped as I saw the lips of this dreadful cherub
stained red.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Before I could say another word, before I
could parade my wounded pride around the room or hurl accusations at the boy,
he was gone. A flash of burgundy, a sparkle of bejeweled hands, and he had
vanished into the crowd, disappearing altogether.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My hand smarted. Somebody giggled. I
couldn't breathe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Within an hour I was telling myself it was
all just a clever illusion by some trickster at a convention. I was afraid to
believe, and I wouldn't have known <i>what</i>
to believe even if I hadn't been afraid. From the sanctuary of my hotel room, I
called my best friend, but when Charlie answered, I had no idea what to say.
How does one describe being jerked out of body, propelled at indescribable
speeds through a photo-negative-world, then looking at oneself through the eyes
of another man?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But because Charlie had known me since we
were children, she did exactly what I wanted her to do: she listened, she didn't say she was too busy
to talk even when I heard her 4-year-old fussing in the background, and when I
was done babbling like some bewildered mental patient, she laughed out loud.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Damn, Stefan, nothing like that ever
happens to me. I'm jealous as hell," she said, robust and filled with
life. "So, are you going?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">That was Charlie's approach to the
world: meet it head on and beat it with
a stick. I envied her tenacity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Lying on the bed, I stared at the ceiling,
my emotions warring between amusement and the melancholy which had been my
constant companion since Stephanie's death.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Why would I?" I grunted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"You know, Stefan, it might do you some
good to make some new friends now that you and Laurie are split up," she
suggested without polite preamble. "What've you got to lose?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Charlie, this kid cut my hand and
licked away the blood!" I protested, indignant. "He really believes
he's a vampyre!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"So what do <i>you</i> believe?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I scoffed. "I believe he's a screwed-up
kid who should get some help before he gets arrested. Or worse."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">On the other end of the line, I heard
Charlie rolling her big brown eyes the way she always did whenever I said
something inane.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Men," she commented,
long-suffering. "Look, if you really thought so, you wouldn't have called
me in such a dither. Face it, something incredible happened to you tonight and
if you don't try to figure it out, you'll be crazy within a week. Regret's an
ugly bedfellow."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">A feeble smile crept up on me. "Chase
the muse again?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"<i>Catch</i>
the fucker," she corrected with a chuckle. "Isn't that what writers
are supposed to do?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Those who catch the muse die," I
reminded her. And though I intended the comment as lighthearted prattle, it brought
a sudden dread to the center of my chest. I wasn't ready to quest after
fantasies. I wasn't ready to write. I wasn't ready to live again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Without remembering how I fell in the
quicksand, I was over my head, wanting nothing more than to be alone with my
misery. Stephanie's face whispered across the blank screen of the television, a
different muse of a distant life I'd once lived.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"God help me, Charlie, I miss
her." <i>Why did I go up to the room while she was off with her friends? Why did she have to die?</i> "Why
couldn't it have been me instead?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I didn't realize I'd spoken out loud.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Charlie didn't answer for awhile, though I
could hear the comforting shush of her breathing. "I know, Stefan... I
know. But you have to stop blaming yourself. You have to go on with your
life." She paused, gave a soft
sigh. "God, that's a stupid thing to say. I'm sorry."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Don't be. It helps." It didn't. We both knew it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">We were silent for a few seconds.
"Maybe life doesn't make sense because we're missing the corner
pieces," she offered just before we hung up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Maybe she was right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">For a long time, I lay there staring at a
spot where the wallpaper didn't quite match up, listening to the distant
slamming of doors as other patrons on the 9th floor came and went. Where were
they going? I wondered. For what purpose did they move about inside this
skyscraper hotel, and what would happen if we all just stopped going through
motions that had long since lost any meaning?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">We scurried about like ants in a hive, but
what was the purpose of the hive itself? Worse:
<i>was</i> there a purpose, or was it
only random happenso that society had come together as it had, and that Man
served <i>it</i> far more than <i>it</i> served <i>him?</i> We worked at our varied
tasks, gathering riches like ravens collecting bright objects, but what did we
hope to accomplish when all was said and done? We raised our families and grew
old sitting on wooden porches, but in the end it would always end the same way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Why?</span></i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"> I caught myself wondering. What did any of
it mean, and if it really did mean nothing, why keep doing it? Why not just run
wild into the world and suckle from it what pleasure we could before death
finally caught up to us?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Where these thoughts came from, I do not
know, but they sent me tumbling into a maelstrom. And though I might have
believed reality-altering revelations should happen to pious monks on
mountaintops in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Tibet</st1:country-region></st1:place>,
my own came in a nondescript hotel room when I suddenly understood that my
entire existence had been nothing but a series of aimless movements, common gestures,
worn-out clichés.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I had to get on with life, Charlie said, but
what the hell <i>was</i> my life?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I'd spent years staring at a cyclopsian
monitor as if it were the Eye of Knowledge, transcribing the lies of my
imagination to trade for bread and butter, but surely there was more than
pushing paper, mowing the lawn and making sure the guy next door didn't get a
bigger tv. than the one in my den. We were so busy with the trappings and the
rituals that we'd forgotten they <i>were</i>
just trappings and rituals, yet I couldn't have ventured a guess as to what
might lie beyond the world we thought of as reality.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">What were we supposed to <i>Do</i> with life in all its briefness?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Every bit as troubling as this unwanted
apocalypse was the knowledge that my encounter with Dimitri had inadvertently
spawned it. Something inside me was torn free at the instant he walked up to
me, and now everything in the world somehow related to him, including the blue
and green stripes on the bedspread that were like his mismatched eyes and the
creamy flesh of the telephone that was the color of his sandstorm skin. And
though the tv. from the next room droned through the wall, I could hear only
his voice: <i>'Grief is an unrelenting master but also a powerful muse...'</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Like a lunatic possessed, I rose from the
bed, pacing and muttering to myself, rubbing at a spot between my eyes where my
head had begun to throb. Finally, finding no escape, I slumped into a chair by
the window, yet there was nothing redeeming in the world beyond.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Two strip joints with flashing neon lights,
an assortment of sleazy nightclubs, and the glittering runway of LAX luring the
newest victims down from heaven. A ribbon of headlights twisted toward the
horizon, an angry snake coiling around the city, choking it. The stars had
flown away long ago, the sky was yellowed and spoiled with smog. The night
which should have been black and seductive was instead grey and terminally ill.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">It was a world with a ruined soul.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Suddenly sickened by it all, I rose from my
chair and hurried into the bathroom, turning on the shower to drown out the
unrelenting noise in my head. While the mirrors fogged with steam, I hastily
removed my clothing, mesmerized by my own reflection as, for an instant, I saw
myself as I'd looked through Dimitri's inhuman eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Lithe. Strong. Masculinely beautiful.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">'Are
you interested in finding out who you are, who you <u>can</u> be?'</span></i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My hand was an ocean, my erection a serpent
gliding through it as I collapsed to my knees and uttered a choked cry into the
mist.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<b><u><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="page-break-before: always;" />
</span></u></b>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">CHAPTER TWO</span></u></b><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">When my head cleared, I made the decision <i>not</i> to leave my room that night.
Vampyres were nonsense! I wouldn't stand at the curb wringing my hands like
some bride at the altar while Dimitri hovered in hotel shadows and giggled at
the gullibility of a grieving fool.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Perhaps for that reason, it came as a shock
when I found myself in the elevator, surrounded by several other con-goers.
Their painted faces drifted by me, taffeta and lace costumes glittering in
scattered light thrown by flickering fluorescent tubes. Stephanie's ghost
danced in the shiny metal doors and spoke to me in a whisper that was only the
rustling of Superman's cape.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The world had become my dream, solid yet
not, molasses beneath my feet. A kid in Klingon garb pointed a plastic
disrupter at my chest, but I had lost my sense of humor in the fall between
floors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">When the elevator stopped, I could only
watch myself walking through the revolving glass door that led toward the night
and the darkness and the black stretch limo waiting in the portico. A somnambulist
unblinking, I approached the car as a skeletally thin man with a lyrical
Jamaican accent ushered me inside. It never seemed strange that he knew me on
sight or that he called me by name.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">As the door closed behind me, there was an
odd sense of finality, a feeling that one world had just ended and a new one
was about to begin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Ah,
but now <u>you</u> must make the choice, Stefan, for it's human perception that
determines the reality of any reality. Will you choose to see this brave new
world or stay stubbornly rooted in your own?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The thought was outlandish in that it wasn't
my own, yet the partition separating me from the driver was closed, the other
man only a silent silhouette as the car rolled forward. A chill fell
helter-skelter down my back, but as I rubbed my eyes to clear my vision, it
suddenly struck me that my first impression of a standard limousine was
altogether wrong. Reality shimmered and glittered, just so much fog.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Black leather seats had transformed to
crushed red velvet, the pile thick and soft beneath my curled fingers. Small
interior lights above the doors morphed into white tapered candles, orange
flames flickering inside fragile glass globes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Terror rose up within me, yet it was
accompanied by curiosity, too. A voice inside me whispered, <i>Quit fighting, just let go, let go.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And it was then that I found myself in
another world—a place that had been there all along, yet one I only began to
perceive when I allowed myself to see it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">It was a world of opulent luxury, where the
seats were littered with petals of a pallid pink rose and where a narrow bed
that took up the entire rear of the car had its crimson comforter turned down
in silent invitation. At first glance, it <i>was</i>
a bed, but when I blinked, it was plainly a coffin, custom-made of mahogany and
wide enough for two to share.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">On one of the plush white pillows sat a
plate of fruit—cherries, strawberries, raspberries, grapes—all things red, and
wet as if with dew. On the other pillow lay a bottle of fine merlot, and on the
seat at my side was a crystal wine glass bearing a folded note, written in
perfect calligraphy and completed with a bold signature.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My dearest Stefan,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">As the journey will take the
better part of an hour, please be comfortable and accept these modest gifts if
you find them pleasing. I have long admired your visionary work and look
forward to having you in my home this evening.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-pagination: none; text-align: right; text-indent: .3in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Miquel
Kaliq Constantine<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My heart hammered, but these macabre visions
didn't vanish to fulfill my wish to be back in the real world. Even if I'd had
the presence of mind to flee, the car was already racing through the city, a
sleek ebony projectile where all the troubles of the world were only paintings
playing on tinted glass.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I was a dazed prisoner in a speeding museum.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Nevertheless, I wanted to weep for the pain
captured in those life-size canvases—for the vagrant preaching at a deserted
public park and the tragedy in his life that had brought him to such
humiliation; for the hookers selling flesh to support their habit while Death
and Disease stalked them slowly; for the skinny yellow dog running wild-eyed
and headlong through traffic as if he were there to symbolize every misguided,
condemned soul on Earth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I thought of Stephanie, for I knew we must
be near the underpass where her body was found, and once again I blamed myself.
She was barely 13, yet I'd let her run with her friends at these gatherings
since she was 11.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Wanting to be her confidant as much as her
father, I created fantasy worlds for her to inhabit, and when she outgrew them,
I encouraged her to find her own or make them herself. But because my life was
complicated, too, I'd patted her on the head and only half listened when she
told me that the ability of the supernatural world to manifest was directly
related to man's willingness to perceive supernatural manifestations. Anything
was possible and the impossible was altogether likely, she said, and oh how
much she'd believed it!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My failure as a parent and as a man was that
I still didn't know <i>what</i> she'd
believed or what she'd been searching for other than belief itself. I didn't
know <i>her</i>, and never had.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Now I never would.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I stared at that truth in the limo's magical
windows, and for an instant I saw her blood on my hands. Impulsively, I pressed
them against the glass and gazed out, a lost child with my nose fogging the
window.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Stephanie," I cried, though no
sound came from my lips. "Stephanie..."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">What took my thoughts away from her right
then, I don't know, though the depth of that pain was suddenly replaced with an
equally profound separation from myself. A sign along the road announced we
were leaving <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Los Angeles</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype></st1:place>, though some
philosophical vagabond inside my head told me I'd left the city the instant I
entered the car.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">It all made sense in that none of it made
sense at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I held the wine glass and saw that I'd
drained it, though I had no recollection of opening the bottle nor any memory
of how my fingers came to be stained with the sweet red blood of ripe cherries.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And then I was completely entranced, a
participant in a waking dream as the limo thrust deeper into its night lover
and left the world behind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">When the car entered a long circular
driveway somewhere between <st1:city w:st="on">San Bernardino</st1:city> and
the <st1:place w:st="on">Mojave Desert</st1:place>, the sound of tires
transformed the whine of asphalt to the unique warble of cobblestone.
Tremendous evergreens yearned skyward, the scent of freshly mown grass creeping
through the vents to color the air green. By the dim light of a waning moon,
the wrought iron gates through which we passed created prison bars across the
constellation of Taurus, a cage to hold the stars themselves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Completely surrounding the estate—nearly 25
acres in all—a 12-foot hedge had been painstakingly pruned to resemble a
dragon, its countless spikes and ridges actually dappled ivy. On one side of
the gate, the terrible head stretched upward, jagged teeth ripping the sky, red
eyes really sensors on high-tech security cameras. On the other side, after
wrapping around the grounds, the forked tail formed a delicate curl which was
incongruously playful.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My face pressed to the window, I gazed out
over what appeared to be sepulchers, yet what sent shivers through me were the
humanesque statues atop those cold, grey markers. The entire front lawn was
strewn with these life-size figures, men and women frozen in pose as the breath
caught in my throat and the limo's lights split the darkness in two.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Atop one knoll, a wraith thin woman would
waltz forever with an invisible partner. Nearby, a young man was held in an
eternal pose of martial arts <i>kata</i>,
one stone arm and one stone leg extended in perfect balance. In a corner of
this eerie garden, twin brothers no more than 17 embraced, expressions of lust
forever preserved in identical faces as one boy's hand cupped the other's
buttocks in a gesture of incestuous foreplay.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But as the car cruised past this gathering
of stone ghosts—dozens in all—I caught a glimpse of the central courtyard and
the even more unnerving statue standing watch over all the others. A full 8
feet tall, it stood with outstretched arms and black wings that bent longingly
toward the garden of lifeless lovers. Instead of raw grey marble like the
others, it was intricately painted—raven hair that matched the sheltering
wings; lithe musculature shaded bronze and gold; full red lips parted in a
sardonic smile. Its head tilted slightly to one side, a pose reminiscent of the
Virgin Mother gazing with rapture at the infant Christ, yet the hunger caught
in those savage eyes was far from holy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">So spellbound had I become that I scarcely
noticed the car rolling to a stop. When the driver's shadow blocked the window,
I must've startled at seeing him there, for he gave a chuckle as the door
opened and the night rushed in to deliver me from my trance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I stepped out onto the cobblestone driveway,
dizzy and disoriented from the wine. A scent of jasmine filled the air, heady
perfume painting the sky of this surreal world. Completely surrounding the
drive and leading up the marble steps to the estate's double doors, tiny lights
glittered like thousands of fireflies. Water rushed through a manmade creek,
and frogs hidden within the lush gardens sang an off-key melody that was
reassuring and yet keenly sad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I do not recall being led up the cool stone
steps to the entrance, my mind overwhelmed instead with candles burning from
every multi-paned window, eyes of fire that threw my shadow behind me to create
an army of willowy ghouls. Nervous, I turned to make some comment to the
driver, but the Jamaican had disappeared and I caught only a glimpse of
blood-red taillights when the limo vanished into what must have been a
subterranean garage or the mouth of Hell itself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">With hesitation born of dread, I lifted my
hand to the bell, but the doors abruptly opened of their own accord. Startled,
I took a step back, confronted by a young man I imagined to be a servant.
Little more than a boy, he flourished an elaborate bow that caused the tails of
his coat to sweep the polished marble floor. His face was smooth and ashen, a
porcelain doll incarnate, with a hint of powder on his cheeks and a glimmer of
lipstick on his mouth. His gloved hands were inordinately fine, his movements
deliberately exaggerated like those of a diminutive mime.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Without a single utterance, he led me into
the foyer, closing the carved oak doors behind us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Unnerved, I started to speak, but he laid a
finger across his lips, then waved his hand like a magician conjuring a spell.
In response, music began to play—Beethoven's <i><u>Fur Elise</u></i>. The boy looked at me with his head tipped
dramatically to one side, then gave a frown which said the classical selection
wasn't to his liking. A wave of his hand transformed Beethoven to Pink Floyd,
and now the servant placed his hands together like a child praying homage to
God, and smiled a smile of sheer bliss.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Then, with the grace of a dancer, he
indicated I should wait while he turned sharply and retreated into the house,
his boot heels clicking sharply behind him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My heart beat faster, and for the first time
since I'd wandered like a spellbound zombie from my hotel room, I came to my
senses with a suddenness that caused me to gasp.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">All the world was mad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Suddenly alone in that high-ceilinged foyer
with its ice-cream-smooth white walls and its two curved arches leading off
left and right, I questioned the sanity of a man who would do the things I'd
done that night. I had no idea where I was. I knew nothing of the waifish youth
who had invited me here, less of the mysterious Miquel to whom Dimitri had
referred.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Their limo was a hearse, their wine a drug,
their servant a harlequin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">For all I knew, I had been brought here to
die in some ritualistic murder. The house exuded darkness despite its fiery
eyes. It smelled of decadence and the grave grim yearnings of the human soul
regardless of the fresh white roses on the flower table and the painting of
Botticelli angels hanging above them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">As the music abruptly stopped, a cuckoo
clock sang its tick tock dirge, causing my body to jerk. I cast a rapid glance
over my shoulder, and though I saw nothing, some eerie sixth sense warned me
someone was there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The air seemed to move, little currents
drafting through the room, silent breaths of an unseen audience. A hint of
cologne, faint yet undeniably masculine. And though I couldn't say I heard
anything at all, there was a sense of cloth brushing cloth, the barest rustling
that comes when a handkerchief drops to the floor or a cat rubs against one's
leg in a dark room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I felt him there. Waiting. Watching.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And then my mind was out of control,
conjuring images of maniacs and madness and my own blood spilling out to stain
the polished hardwood floor. With a rough breath that came out as a garbled
cry, I spun toward the door. I'd run back to the real world if need be. Or I
would crawl.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">When my fingers closed around the cold metal
knob, I experienced a profound moment of relief—a split second <i>before</i> a hand appeared from behind me to
press the door closed again. In that instant, I knew the dread of a man
strapped in the electric chair waiting for a governor's reprieve, and the
ironic sinking in the pit of the gut that came from a wrong number. I knew what
it was to die a thousand times in the span of a single moment. And I understood
what it meant to look death in the eye and come away with the knowledge that,
in the end, there is never a reprieve for any living thing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Frozen in time as an unnatural calm fell
over me, I stared at that graceful hand for an eternity. The fingers were long
and elegant, the nails carefully manicured. On the middle finger was a gold
band etched with the Greek symbols for alpha and omega, on the fourth finger an
oval cut emerald the size of a large almond.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">His skin was olive-hued and dark, and as my
head slowly turned, I saw on his wrist a band so smooth it shone like liquid
gold. He wore a simple white shirt with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows and
the three top buttons unfastened, and a pair of jeans so fashionably old they
were more patches-and-holes than anything else. The scent of Eternity clung to
his body—for he had a keen sense of humor about himself—and when I raised my
eyes and looked into his face, I was inundated with the profound realization
that Miquel wasn't human.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">That was the first thought which assaulted
me, though the assault was gentle and dangerously erotic. I knew his name. I
knew what he was. And I knew that he <i>was</i>
a vampyre.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He studied me with candid curiosity, keen
eyes raking from my face to my toes and back again, and then he gave an
unexpected smile that caused the color to drain from me completely. The front
teeth were normal enough; it was the incisors that formed the exquisitely sharp
fangs gleaming in his full, wet mouth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Such terrible anguish in such a lovely
bottle," he murmured in a voice rich with the faintest accent. His words
caused me embarrassment, though that was quickly forgotten when he extended his
hand in a gesture that seemed trite under the circumstances. "My name is
Miquel Kaliq Constantine," he said, his smile turning bolder. "At
least it is the name I've adopted for a lifetime or two."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Perhaps I was too shocked to do anything but
respond in the expected manner, or perhaps I was already so deep under his
spell there could be no hope left for me. I offered him my hand, and when he
grasped it in an embrace shocking for its strength as well as its chill, I
could only imagine what other names had followed him throughout history. Eros,
perhaps. And Pan. Don Juan. But I also considered Vlad the Impaler. Ivan the
Terrible. Belial, Zamiel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My breathing stopped. My heart tapped a
crazy rhythm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He stood at least six foot five, coal black
hair brushing the tops of his shoulders in ragged layers and spiked bangs that
would have suited a brooding model or a moody bass player in a rock and roll
band. His features were angular, sharp, and so perfectly chiseled that he might
really have been a Greek god or maybe a <st1:place w:st="on">Hollywood</st1:place>
special effect escaped from its creator. His lips were full and surprisingly
pink, his strong chin sporting a two-day shadow which imbued him with an
overall ominous look.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">His face and body called him 30. His aura
told a darker secret of his antiquity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But what held me captive were his eyes,
substantiating all myths of a vampyre's ability to mesmerize. Green as the
emerald on his hand and flecked with lighter shades of brown and gold, a
hundred flames reflected in those immortal mirrors—candlelight and history and
secrets so profound no human could have known them and lived.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">While Dimitri was alluring by virtue of his
ashen innocence and ballet dancer grace which could be misinterpreted as
fragile, Miquel wore his power in a far more imposing fashion, not the willowy
body of a youth but the finely honed sculpture which was the epitome of all
things male. If Dimitri were Gainsborough's <i>Blue
Boy</i>, Miquel was the model for David—yet he was the paradigm whose true
physical splendor couldn't be captured even by Michelangelo himself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He was life and death and pure carnal force,
and though I had always considered myself strong-natured, I knew I had
encountered a creature to whose will I would inevitably bend. I had never been
so drawn to another man, yet I stood before him practically swooning with the
knowledge that this was how he wanted me to feel and there was nothing
whatsoever I could do to change it. If Dimitri had briefly bewitched me, Miquel
had stolen all my reason, and I knew in that instant that my life would never
be the same again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Without question, he was a vampyre—a being
who could drain away physical defiance and moral inhibitions as easily as he
could drain the blood from my body. With God as my witness, I tried to fight
him. My fists clenched, fingernails digging in until my palms bled like the
wounds of Christ, but even that tangible pain was inadequate to break his
spell.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He made a motion that cautioned me not to
resist, then took my hand and gently uncurled my fingers. And though I struggled
to look away, I was paralyzed with sick fascination as he ran the pad of one
long finger over my self-inflicted wounds. Then, never taking his gaze off of
me, he touched fingertip to tongue tip, moist lips slowly closing over a single
drop of red.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He drew a slow breath, his eyes closing in
approval, and only then did I realize I had been droning incoherently.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"<i>Ohgod—ohmygod—godhelpme</i>!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He gave me a look that might have held
amusement or curiosity. Then, with a movement so graceful and quick I sensed
more than saw it, he placed one hand behind my head, the other on my ribs, and
drew me to him in an embrace as intimate as it was inescapable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"My dearest Stefan, stop talking to God
and yourself, for aren't they really the same?" he asked, his body a cage
surrounding me. Fairy-tale eyes darkened, and when he leaned closer I noticed
the gold cross he wore in one ear as if in defiance of his nature. "If
your Heavenly Father were such a benevolent old man, you and I never would have
met—and <i>that</i> would have been the real
tragedy, don't you agree?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Because he willed it, the strength had left
me until I was nothing but clay, the raw material of life that could offer no
resistance against the sheer potency of his magic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Please," I heard my voice saying,
and hated myself for begging. "Please—let me go!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He pinned me with those terrible eyes, and
for a moment I thought he might—not because I asked it, but because he detested
weakness and I was behaving like a child. But before I realized what was
happening, he brought me so tight against his chest I could feel the hard, slow
beat of his immortal heart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">A soft sigh came through his lips and,
shaking his head in a gesture of tender reassurance, he forced my body against
the cool white wall, compelling me with a thought not to look away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The sensation I cannot describe except to
say it felt as if the idea were mine rather than his. I wanted to look into his
eyes and never glance away. I wanted to feel the heady detachment of his trance
like a drug-induced euphoria. And I <i>wanted</i>
to collapse in his arms, a dead weight caught between the world of the living
and the world that belonged to the night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My head had fallen back, and only now did I
realize the ceiling was covered with mirrors through which I was compelled to
watch the obscene sight of my own seduction by a vampyre. Miquel's reflection
was remarkable, the mirror capturing the essence of him which couldn't be seen
by human eyes alone. A noncorporeal radiance engulfed him, a silvery
resplendence reminiscent of the ethereal glow attributed to the angels
themselves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But Lucifer was an angel, too, I thought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And I began to weep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Yet while I would have been loathe to give
him any credit for compassion, I felt he wanted to make this easy for me. His
arms went taut around me, the full length of his preternatural body pressing
against me as if to shield me from what was to come. With a tenderness that was
cruel somehow, he smoothed the hair away from my face, leaning in until his
lips were brushing the curve of my ear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Ssshh," he whispered, rocking me
back and forth. "It doesn't have to be like this, Stefan. It doesn't have
to be so terrible if you just let go of your fear."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I knew it was going to happen then. He
really would have me. A long feast of my blood. A little drink of my soul. Yes,
he would have me, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">As that unshakable understanding came to me,
his embrace loosened just enough to let me breathe. And as if he'd heard my
tortured thought, he said quite reasonably, "Yes, I'll have you, my
friend, but if you give in to me without a fight, you'll find my kiss far more
pleasure than pain."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Then, with that suggestion murmured against
my throat, I felt the rapid sting of his teeth and the blade sharp rush that
set my blood flowing. The pain of his bite was acute, that peculiar brand of
anguish which raises the hair on the back of the neck and causes the body to go
taut, then limp, then taut again, the pain that makes a man surrender instantly
in some misguided hope that his surrender might somehow ease the torment or
appease the tormentor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">His fierce fangs easily punctured my flesh
to bring a stream of warmth pouring down my neck, a torrent quickly diverted by
the vampyre's tongue, a crimson well tapped at the source with a ferocity that coaxed
a needful moaning from his chest. Separate from myself, yet mercilessly more
aware of my body than I had ever been, I became instantly weak as he began
drawing hard on the wound, his suckling so intense I could actually feel the
blood being pulled through my veins.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I must have tried to cry out, for a rush of
wind came from my lungs that carried no other sound. My arms thrashed at the
air. My legs were numb, and I would have fallen had he not held me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">It is impossible to say what went through my
mind as he took me there in the foyer while Dimitri looked on from
candle-carved shadows. Only then did I see the boy, a lanky blond waif leaning
against the wall with a jealous grin as his master drank from me in what was,
to vampyres, the most intimate of all experiences.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">At the time, I would have denied it. I would
have said the torment of Miquel's kiss was not something to be described as
sensual. I would have tried to convince you that I found no pleasure in the
eager suckling which drew the lifeblood out of me while feeding his wicked
thirst. I never would have admitted that the sensation of his arms constricting
around me as he fed was the most repulsive and yet the most comforting embrace
I had ever known.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And never—absolutely <i>never</i>—would I have confessed to being overwhelmed with a yearning
so excruciating that I fainted in his arms and became a believer in vampyres.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My squandered soul liquefied, flowing out of
me in twin rivers: one was red, the
other pale.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">CHAPTER THREE</span></u></b><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"You see, Stefan, the problem is that
we've been glorified, vilified and crucified throughout history, yet other than
brief glimpses ofhe truth by enlightened individuals, not a single work has
ever come close to defining what it means to <i>be</i> an immortal."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Those were the words Miquel spoke as I
regained consciousness in his bed, though their deeper meaning was lost on me
when my eyes snapped open and I began frantically struggling to reassemble the
pieces of my shattered world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Candles burned on the sills of wood-paned
windows, curtains thin and iridescent as butterfly wings rising and falling on
the cool October wind—surreal and yet oddly nostalgic in a way I couldn't have
named.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The room was awash with color, so brilliant
and rich as to be disorienting. Walls the shade of storm slate sky filled me
with longing for something I'd left behind in a childhood barely remembered—an
imagined fairyland where little boys lay on a bed of pure white mushrooms and
stared up at the heavens, blinking with wonder at every magical thing. In the
four corners of the room, potted trees stretched leaves of ash and elm toward a
cathedral ceiling covered with sunset purple clouds, a mural where painted
night had already fallen at the peak of the tall roof.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The bed on which I found myself was far
larger than any conventional bed. An antique that could have come from some
baroque plantation in the south, the headboard was openwork wrought iron,
filigreed with individual motifs representing the seasons—spring ivy climbing
crumbling columns; flowers bursting in the primary colors of summer; muted
autumn leaves falling from a skeletal tree; snowflake lace against obsidian
winter night sky.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Like a Technicolor hallucination, two walls
were painted with a moon dappled forest that seemed to extend into infinity;
and when the wind came stealing through again, I could have sworn I saw the
trees sway and bend.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My head swam. My pulse, rapid and shallow
from loss of blood, fluttered in my ears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I looked at the vampyre and wanted to
weep—not from fear or anger or any other tangible emotion, but because I was
overwhelmed with the notion that my blood now coursed through his veins and we
were inexorably linked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I had fed him from my heart and now that
heart belonged to him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The thought humbled me utterly. And yet,
still in a daze, it didn't seem so terrible, this sense of belonging somewhere
when I'd belonged nowhere in so long. At first, as I lay there with Miquel on
one side of me and Dimitri on the other, all I could do was record the fact
that they sat like mirror images of one another. Miquel was propped on his
right hand, Dimitri on his left, both looking down at me as if I were expected
to understand anything they were saying.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I groaned, my head thrashing, but as
awareness returned with a vengeance, I bolted up in the bed and backed away
from them until my shoulders were pressed against the cold iron headboard.
Looking at them now, I was appalled, and before the rational man inside me had
an opportunity to vote, the animal within my skin reacted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"You son of a bitch!" I snarled at
Dimitri, placing the blame squarely on his shoulders for luring me to this
place where vampyres were real and blood was sustenance and sanity was a word
without meaning. Clenching my fist, I was—<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">—six
years old when little Jason Haverhill yanked my pants down in front of the
whole first grade. Embarrassed, I cried, but that made it worse, especially
when Old Lady Marley scolded me to stop being such a baby. (But even she was
laughing behind her frilly flowered handkerchief). When my snuffling stopped, I
was filled with uncontrollable rage, a fury that could only be quelled as I
lashed out at that toe headed, freckle faced Haverhill brat and beat my fists
against his ugly mug until his shirt turned red and his bawling wail filled the
halls of Patrick Henry Elementary School—<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Now my face burned again, and I would have
struck Dimitri had Miquel not grabbed my wrists and wrestled them above my
head, pinning me with his unearthly strength.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Dimitri never even flinched, but he did
smile a little, and that only enraged me to thrash against Miquel in a battle I
had no chance of winning. His hands were steel belts around my wrists, his legs
scissoring my ankles, and yet his demeanor was one of complete nonchalance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"So much bolder you are after your
nap," he commented, amused. "But this foolish tussling won't change
your fate, nor will striking poor Dimitri right the wrong you feel you've
suffered."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I writhed, my body twisting on the bed until
the strength left me. Only when it was gone altogether—a casualty of blood loss
and vampyre magic—did I finally subside, falling back onto the white satin
comforter. My chest heaved with the exertion. My ears roared.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Humiliated by a vulnerability to which I was
unaccustomed, my eyes fixed on the
ceiling, where a tiny spider was building her web in the corner, oblivious to
the grim nature of these creatures with whom she shared the room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Then, suddenly, I was calm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"If you're going to kill me, get it
over with," I said, the reality of my situation stabilizing around me. It
would be all right. If I died then and there, I'd be with Stephanie again, the
struggle would be over, and it would be perfectly all right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Releasing my wrists, Miquel ran his fingers
through my hair, an unexpected gesture which had the effect of making me tremble
because it was so completely without inhibitions, and because I truly believed
I was about to die.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"If I wanted to kill you, I would have
drained your life away when I drank from you," he reminded me, though now
his tone was unforgivably tender. "No, I haven't brought you here to harm
you, Stefan, but to offer you a life that never ends."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I almost laughed at the absurdity of it all.
Vampyres! And yet, my gaze remaining fixed on Miquel, my fingers dug into the
comforter as I was again bombarded with the raw understanding of what he was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">This man—for he could have passed for a man
if one didn't look too closely—<i>was</i> a
vampyre, a being said to be only myth, yet a myth which sat at my side making a
very real indentation in the bed and soothing me with a hand that was
undeniably solid and alive, even if cool to the touch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The word beautiful had been penned just to
describe him, yet it was a word incapable of capturing the antiquity of him and
the totality that exceeded the sum of the individual parts. He was <i>more</i> than this man, more even than the
refulgent reflection I'd seen in his shiny mirror. He was an immortal with
power over life and death, a vampyre with my blood still warm in his belly, a
creature who could as easily destroy me as not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He was <i>real</i>
magic, and <i>that</i> meant the end of the
world as I'd always known it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">When I groaned in acknowledgement of that
awful truth, he attempted to placate me with a smile that was anything but
reassuring when I saw his teeth. My neck hurt where those fangs had stung me and,
stupefied, I raised a hand to the injury still moist from his lips.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"You—you bit me!" I blurted out,
an ineloquent accusation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Miquel's smile deepened and, running his
fingers down my cheek, he said matter-of-factly, "Bite is such an ugly
word, Stefan. I prefer to call it a kiss, and it seemed best to prove my
authenticity with such a gesture rather than waste time attempting to explain
with a thousand words what a single action could accomplish just as
well." His eyes glistened as he
leaned closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. "I meant you to find it
enjoyable, you realize, though I'll understand completely if you prefer to
pretend it wasn't."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">At this, Dimitri gave a hearty laugh, then
got up and moved to the window, where he stood with his back to us. Candles on
the sill silhouetted him against the night, painting a halo of smoky gold above
his head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But he was no angel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He'd approached me under the guise of a
human boy in a vampyre suit at a gathering where identities were put on with a
stroke of eyeliner or the donning of a Calvin Klein tux. I'd no more expected
him to <i>be</i> a vampyre than I'd expected
Superman to fly or Captain Kirk to whip out a communicator and beam up to the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on"><i>Enterprise</i></st1:city></st1:place>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Miquel sighed dramatically and gave me a
probing look that sent flocks of demons skittering through my soul when I
realized he really was reading my mind, when I understood he really <i>could</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Ah, poor Stefan, you need someone to <i>blame</i>," he surmised, psychically
drinking in my chaos. Then, altogether congenial, he added, "I suppose you
could blame <i>me</i>, though you realize I
can't force you to do anything you don't want to do. I can make suggestions in
your mind and soften your fears with my trance, but any decisions you make are
ultimately your own. The only salvation which exists is within <i>you</i>, my friend." His voice trailed off, his smile turning
suggestive as he spelled out a blasphemous truth. "Ah, but the only way <i>out</i> of your life that isn't a dead-end
is through <i>me</i>."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Saying this, he once again soothed my brow,
undoubtedly to soften the frightening implications of his words. And though I
struggled to push his hand away, he slipped one arm behind my head and gathered
me to his chest, where, like an infant, I was cradled. I tensed, distraught by
his physical closeness, but he put one long finger over my mouth to silence me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Hush now, Stefan. Look at what I'm
going to show you and try not to put up such a fuss," he said sternly,
rocking me as a father might rock a child and lulling me into some altered
state with the deep and metered cadence of his voice alone. "Just be still
and let me tell you a story that has no words and no end, yet a story that begs
to be told."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">His body was warm now, heated by <i>my</i> blood. Stretching out next to me, he
pulled my head down on his shoulder, and though I longed desperately to be
free, there is no defense against vampyre magic, no hiding from the trance. His
white cotton shirt pressed my cheek, bearing the scent of him that was muted
cologne and wildfire out of control, anesthesia and aphrodisiac all at once.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Terrified that he would kill me, perhaps
even more afraid that he wouldn't, I began to pray—for strength and detachment
as he ran his hands over my back to calm me; for some glimmer of hope when
there was no hope left; for salvation from knowing I was falling under his
spell because I <i>did</i> find him
altogether alluring. It was what he wanted, of course, the way I <i>had</i> to feel because it was his will.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But as an inexplicable telepathic union
opened between us and he whispered against my ear, "Ssshh," I
suddenly knew no one was listening to my prayers except the very devil in whose
arms I was held.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Hush now," he said again,
seductive and terribly calm. "Just close your eyes, Stefan, so you may
finally begin to see."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And my eyes closed as if I'd been drugged.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Perhaps Miquel's most terrible power was
that of Truth—the ability to strip away the lies humans tell themselves and
force them to look at reality for what it is. This seeing came as a tickle of
thought, a trickle of an idea, a drop of awareness that quickly swelled to a
rushing river. It came when he opened his immortal mind to me, pulling me
inside that somber sanctuary which was both Tartarus and Elysium.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And though I struggled fiercely not to look,
I beheld in his thoughts those higher truths humans could only imagine: the dreadful condition of mortal man, the
futility of old age, the emptiness of an afterlife consisting only of casket
satin and bone dust. I heard the wail of the void as the prayers of lost angels
and fallen souls were screamed out into the night, unheard and unanswered, and
I tasted the emptiness between galaxies which no words could ever describe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">It is one thing to acknowledge
intellectually that Man is alone in the universe. It is another matter
altogether to stand in the middle of that wilderness and <i>see</i> it for the wasteland it is. It encompasses no color, no sound.
It permeates everything, yet cannot be touched.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">It is a meaningless abyss in the center of
the chest where human awareness got caught in a permanent spin and drain cycle.
All of us have touched it at one time or another, yet for the first time I <i>knew</i> what it was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">That black hole at the heart of human
consciousness was the blind eye of our manmade God.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Assaulted with the sensation of knowing
rather than merely believing, I still <i>believed</i>
life had meaning. Yet I <i>knew</i> it had
none. Man had created God to create Man, and now the entire lot of them were
stuck in an endless loop.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">It was so simple it was blinding. This brief
life was all there was and it was a life that always came to the same fatal
end. The flaw in the program was that the program was irrevocably flawed,
contaminated with a self-destruct virus that was intrinsic to the program
itself. Death was death, certain and final, for although I had a human soul,
there was nowhere for it to go except back to the oblivion that spawned it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">God wasn't sitting behind the grave with a
catcher's mitt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Oh, we were immortal, yet it was an
immortality existing on a cellular level alone, the recycling of our atoms across
a universe so vast it was inconceivable that two molecules from the same human
body would ever find one another again. If we lived after death, it was as
fertilizer for the flowers on our grave or dinner for the worms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<st1:place w:st="on"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Valhalla</span></st1:place><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"> was a fallacy, reincarnation a lie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">When I looked up into Miquel's eyes and saw
my reflection captured there, I understood these things with a terrible and
dark sobriety. Heaven and hell were only ghost towns with crumbling altars and
unpaved streets. God and the devil were off playing cards for quarters and
could no longer be bothered with the snivellings of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Man.</st1:state></st1:place><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Worse than merely lost, we were a lost
cause, blasé.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">A cry of despair tore from my throat, for
though I had never been particularly religious, I had cultivated a firm belief
in God. I <i>needed</i> my God, as most men
did: someone to cry to with my suffering, some fanciful benefactor to pray to
for things I neither needed nor wanted. But most of all, as Miquel had already
noted, I needed someone to blame for the state of our wretched world and the
death of my beautiful daughter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But there was nothing out there—at least
that is how Miquel perceived it—and the reality of that profound abyss
devastated me utterly and sent me whiplashing back into my own body. I began to
shake uncontrollably, convulsing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"I'm sorry," the vampyre whispered
against my ear, rocking me until my body stopped its shuddering. "I <i>am</i> sorry to end your world so abruptly,
but isn't that how worlds always end, Stefan?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">What surprised me was his genuine sorrow, for
I knew then that he was as alone in the universe as I was myself. His eyes were
wet—wet with red tears that left a trail on his unshaven cheek, tears he cried
for me because I was too afraid and too proud to weep for myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Sometimes, knowing you <i>are</i> alone is worse than <i>being</i> alone," he barely whispered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Then why did you show me?" I
demanded, my heart an unlivable desert, broken in two by the things I'd seen.
"Why did you want me to know?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He bent over me, and for a moment I thought
his fangs would deliver me into death, but instead he placed his mouth close to
my ear and spoke so softly I barely heard him. "Because truth is all we
have, dearest Stefan, and the greatest truth of all is that I <i>could</i> be wrong, though I've no reason to
think so." He paused, then added
with a certainty that told me he'd already made up his mind: "I will show <i>you</i> some of these truths, and <i>you</i> will show them to the world."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">When I stiffened, afraid of what he was
asking me, his hand tightened on my shoulder. He tilted his head, the masculine
stubble of his chin a shocking contrast to the softness of his lips moving over
my neck as he spoke. "Humanity has lived in spiritual darkness and
religious fear too long. It's time their eyes were opened, and who better to do
it than you and I? My knowledge, your
words, yes?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He was seducing me with an opportunity to
say something which had perhaps never been said before, and surely he knew it
was a lure no writer could have refused. The ramifications caused me to bolt up
off the bed, for while I was adamantly telling myself I couldn't be enticed
into such a Machiavellian task, I had already begun falling into the mire of
that dark seduction.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">For that I hated him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">In a single evening, he'd torn down the
walls I'd spent a lifetime building, making me see what I didn't want to know,
and now there could be no going back to the sanctuary of writing children's
books and drinking cappuccino with Charlie and driving off to church on Sunday
to look for promises of salvation that were as hollow as my own heart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">'The
only salvation which exists is within you...'</span></i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Crying out as I tore away from him, I
staggered to the middle of the floor, disoriented and physically ill. What
little blood remained within me drained to my feet and dragged me to my knees,
and suddenly I was holding my entire life in my hands, looking at it for the
tiny microcosm it was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">It was finite. It <i>would</i> end.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">All I had held sacred was lost, reduced to
ash as I stood apart and watched, yet Dimitri turned from his station at the
window to regard me with a look which told me I was behaving inappropriately.
With long, delicate arms crossed over his boyish chest, he sighed heavily.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Really, Stefan," he chastised,
his songbird voice a desolate melody to my ears now. "Nothing has changed
except your perceptions. Life and death go on, but don't you think it best to
finally <i>tell</i> these secrets so that
men and women may live their lives honestly rather than on their knees? For after all, do you really believe nuns
would marry ghosts or priests wed the solitude of their own sinful hand if they
knew this book they've held sacred is only a myth written by ancient
politicians to control an unruly population?
Indeed, if people knew the truth about life and death, you'd see them
finally come alive!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"It's time for Man to take
responsibility for his own immortality, Stefan!
It's time he starts to use that dormant portion of his brain to create
his own heaven and destroy his cumulative hells so that—<i>perhaps</i>—he might find a way to transcend death on his own. As it
stands, Man goes through his life thinking he'll live <i>again</i>, so he consoles himself with believing death is only a
transition when, in reality, it is the end of his entire world."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">How does one answer that? I couldn't.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And the world spun out of focus all over
again, though for reasons altogether unclear to me at the time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Miquel shot a disapproving glance which
Dimitri met with a sultry stare and a subtle curling of his lip. Disapproval
and disagreement synapsed between them, as if the kid had said too much too
soon. Never speaking out loud, they argued, quarreled, tension crackling
between them like a violent storm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Something in their wordless exchange
contained more history than in all the world's encyclopedias, yet attempting to
translate it to language would be no easy task. It was, quite simply, an
exchange of passions dating back centuries—an exchange that caught me in the
crossfire, where the tempest in Dimitri's eyes revealed—<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">—<i>a
young boy alone on an foggy night shore, shrouded in heartfelt silence and sick
with the disease of unrequited love. <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Greece</st1:country-region></st1:place>, when tattered sailing
vessels brought visitors from faraway lands and the music of shepherds' flutes
carried down from rugged hills.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The
boy wept into the ocean's basin, depending on it to carry his tears away in
secret just as it had carried his love away to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Italy</st1:country-region></st1:place>. He never saw the shadows
unfold nor felt the unnatural wind against his neck until it was too late. And
he certainly never understood that it was his own melancholy which beckoned the
vampyre from the belly of some dismal ship where he had hidden seeking passage
out of the country.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">When
unrelenting arms closed around him and the cruel fangs found his throat, all
Dimitri felt was the puncture wound through which his soul was greedily drained.
As he lay dying, he thought of love and was glad to be released from it. And as
he drew his fatal breath while cradled in the vampyre's possessive embrace, he
smiled up into those rueful eyes and said in a diamond clear voice, "Thank
you, sir, for taking my life so gently."<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And
then the boy was dead.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My head pounded as I was inundated with
telepathic images so vivid it was as if I had <i>become</i> Dimitri, looking at the past through his perceptions just as
I'd looked at myself through his eyes earlier that evening at the convention. I
felt for him. I felt <i>with</i> him. I died
with him in Miquel's arms there on the warm, soft shores of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Piraeus</st1:city></st1:place>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But as I stared into Miquel's quicksilver
eyes, he just sat there on his bed with his lips drawn back to a vicious snarl
and shot me a look which catapulted me back through time itself, a vehement
thought that proclaimed:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The
boy <u>mustn't</u> die!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The
blood singing through Miquel's veins fed more than his thirst and the
outpouring of gratitude he felt while expecting the hatred reserved for one's
executioner was so acute he wept. 'Thank you, sir, for taking my life so
gently'.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">What
manner of creature was <u>this</u>?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He
gazed at the ragamuffin in his arms and longed to join him in death, yet that
was a voyage reserved for humans alone. Miquel could no longer remember when <u>he</u>
had been mortal. He could no longer recall when he'd walked in sunlight or
taken a lover to his bed.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He
could no longer remember when he had felt love, and though the One who Created
him had said he would never feel it again, he experienced that old stirring
return with a vengeance now. Love, he thought. And the word became an obsession
wearing Dimitri's face.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But
it was too late, that unique force of life gone from the universe when the
boy's mismatched eyes closed in death.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The
unfairness of it overwhelmed Miquel, the very <u>existence</u> of death
incensing him to the point of outrage, and it was that divine injustice which
caused him to tilt his head back and wail a wordless cry of bone-splitting
despair into the night. A keening shriek. A soul deep weeping to rival an angry
siren's screech or a banshee's scream.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And
then, looking down into the face of this mortal angel, he fell calm and coldly
determined as a sensation such as he'd never known gripped him, shaking his very
soul inside his body.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Though
he had no real idea of what he intended to do, he tore away his shirt, and with
a broken shell found in the sand, drew a wet line across his nipple until a
trickle of red bled from him. His body shuddered against the pain and rapture
of such a deep cut, and moving solely on instinct, he cupped the pale head and
lifted the still warm lips to the wound.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Intuitively
cradling child to breast, he watched those lips turn dark with his blood as the
river flowed into the dead boy's open mouth. Frantically, desperately, he
rocked the limp body in his arms, his only solace a far removed memory which
told him he had once been suckled at his Creator's breast in similar fashion.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Live
again and live forever," he whispered, exerting the sheer force of his
vampyre will to create the reality. A litany now, over and over: "Breathe because I bleed for you!
Breathe because I need for you! Breathe because I am the only god I know and
because I call on this immortal blood to make it so!"<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Though
he'd never spoken such words before, they fell naturally from him now. The
blasphemy tasted sweet on his lips, an honest hatred for death, for the pious
lies of a God who'd long ago forsaken him.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Breathe...
live... breathe..."<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And
because the blood was part of him, alive and vital as the paradox of those very
words, Miquel accompanied it on its magical voyage. No longer a single entity,
he was elaborately woven through the boy's empty veins. A caress of human
heart, unbeating but still warm. A burn of needful lips now beginning to suckle
on their own.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Though
he had never experienced this holy thing before, the instinct to create another
like himself was suddenly there as if it had been waiting for the sound of
Dimitri's voice to awaken it. And for the first time, he knew he was more than
just a vampyre. He was a Creator—one who could give life as well as take it. Of
all the preternatural powers, this was the most sacred. Maybe one vampyre in a
thousand possessed the gift of Creation. Maybe only one in a million.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The
implications flooded him, spilling from him in a cry of sheer wonder. He was a
Creator!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Waves
broke hard against the shore as dawn slaughtered another night. The first
sliver of silver tore the horizon at the same instant the boy's chest heaved
with an unearthly cry. Like a newborn babe—and that he was—the child knew only
its pain and its insatiable need. So with little regard for its
father/mother/sibling/progenitor, it attached its newly formed fangs to the
nurturing laceration and made known its demand for Life.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">For
years to come, all Miquel would remember was scooping the little progeny
beneath his cloak as dawn came looking for them with accusation burning in her
fiery eye. Running at full force, in awe of this fragile son of his blood, he
barely made it to the darkness of the old ship, and even then Helios singed the
ragged edges of his vampyre soul—.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Enough!" Miquel decided roughly,
breaking eye contact and shattering the spell. "<i>Enough</i>!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I must have cried out when I fell back to
Earth, back into my body, on my knees in the middle of the floor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Had I seen the visions only in Miquel's
eyes? Had I tasted a vampyre's hatred of death only on his tongue? The stench
of dead fish cloistered in my nostrils from a sailing vessel that hadn't
existed in hundreds of years said otherwise. The pale white sand dusting my
hands confirmed it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Suddenly, it no longer seemed important that
Miquel and Dimitri were vampyres. All that mattered was this transcendental
experience which defied explanation and would have shaken mere science to its
foundations. I had been there—on the shores of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Greece</st1:country-region></st1:place> in what I roughly imagined
to be the 17th century.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Suddenly, I wanted to crawl to Miquel—for I
was unable to walk—and beg him to show me more. How I craved this knowledge,
this feeling of wonder that had been dead and buried since Stephanie left me.
For the first time since I delivered her body and my soul to the care of worms,
I was alive again—ironic, considering that it was vampyres who brought me back
from the dead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Please!" I said to Miquel,
feeling as a junkie must feel surrounded by an ocean of morphine just out of
reach. I looked back and forth between the two of them, realizing I'd been
trapped in their private mental war. A taste of vampyre magic. Bait I couldn't
ignore. "<i>Please</i>!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Whatever became of <i>me</i> was irrelevant. For the first time, I truly <i>knew</i> there was a reality beyond the five senses, and for an
opportunity to photograph it with my words, I would do anything in all the
worlds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Miquel looked at me as if coming to some
private decision, then turned his eyes on Dimitri and quirked a smile beset
with those menacing teeth which now struck me as oddly attractive. An unspoken
communication passed between them, then Dimitri shrugged with seeming
indifference.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"If he plays with his food the way he
plays with his words, he might prove an interesting distraction for a century
or two," the boy said to his Creator, substantiating my suspicion that
they'd been reading my thoughts all evening. He turned his head to study me
with a fair amount of disdain, a twinge of jealousy. "But there are
thousands of scribes in the world, Miquel, and while this one is somewhat
intriguing, is he really worthy of the dark evolution? Is he worthy of being an immortal?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">What surprised me was my immediate and
profoundly emotional outburst. "I'm worthy, goddamn you!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But I had to ask: worthy of what? Of being a monster? A thief
of human blood? But as I looked at Miquel now and recalled his vulnerability
when he'd shown me how alone each of us is in the world, I could not attach the
label 'monster' to him whatsoever.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He was, quite simply, another species. Not
human. Not at all a "vampire" as mythology paints them. He was
something else entirely, and he had shown me more about myself in a single
evening than I'd learned in a lifetime.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">More than any monk or priest or doctor or
wizard, this creature despised death and had gone to war against it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Now he was offering me a chance to live
forever, yet I couldn't help feeling a bit like Adam pondering the outstretched
apple. He wanted my words, which meant he was asking for all I had. He wanted
me to tell the world vampyres were alive and God was dead, and it was a job I
didn't want in the least.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And yet, it was a job I had to take because
I needed—so desperately—to prove him wrong, and the only way I could do it was
to live long enough to make a thorough search of all the nooks and crannies of
the universe where the Almighty might have gone to hide.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Maybe that's why Miquel wanted me. He needed
a fool who could argue both sides of any coin with equal conviction, a bumbling
pilgrim obsessed as much with the journey as with the destination.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Oh, I wanted to find God, all right—but for
all the wrong reasons. I didn't want to worship the son of a bitch. I wanted to
slaughter Him for destroying my faith in Him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">In answer to that thought, Miquel gave a
melancholy smile. "Mortals feed themselves on faith because they have
little else to sustain them, Stefan," he said as if he really did feel
sorry for them. "Indeed, when I was still a man, it was easier to believe
in forbidden apples and a serpent in the garden as a means to explain Man's
mortality than to believe our entire existence was random chance. It was even
easier to believe the soul might exist forever in Hell's torment than to think
it would not exist in any capacity whatsoever."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Truth again. That's how he gave it to me—in
little doses of irony and pain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Immortality, then, existed not in
resurrection nor belief in any deity, but only in the tender mercy of a vampyre's
kiss—the kiss of the Creator, the kiss of the black angel. Eternal life was to
be found only in eternal death.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"You begin to understand, Stefan,"
Miquel told me as he got up off his bed and walked to where I still knelt.
"But is it a life you would want? Most men would prefer to die simply
because it's far, far easier than living forever, and this is not a choice to
be made lightly." He placed a hand on top of my head and looked at me with
an expression reminiscent of angels gazing on their mortal charges.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I knew then what the statue in the courtyard
symbolized, and why it watched over all the stone ghosts in a moonlit garden.
They were Miquel's human lovers, dead and buried and destined to be mourned
forever by their immortal beloved who had gone on without them. I envied them
such devotion. But I also envied him the eternity stretched out in front of
him, his patient mistress.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"I don't want to die," I told him,
realizing for the first time the truth behind those words. "I <i>don't</i> want to die!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I wanted to weep for all the souls already
lost throughout the scope of time, my Stephanie most of all. We were
throwaways: replaceable, recyclable. And I suddenly despised Nature for making
us in such a shoddy fashion. Perhaps, I thought deliriously, vampyres were more
thorough than God—better creators than the Creator. They made their children to
last, at least.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And so, in that moment of tumultuous
revelations, I added blasphemy to my list of unpardonable sins, though it never
occurred to me that such a sin or such a pardon would have required the
cooperative agreement of something which did not exist. How much we depended on
God. How much we depended on <i>nothing</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I trembled, in awe of this knowledge and yet
filled with dread at the thought of my <i>own</i>
death. Even Dimitri had died. Surely Miquel had, too. But why must it happen to
<i>me</i>?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My ethereal ponderings stopped cold, my
knees aching from kneeling so long on the floor. Outside, even the frogs had
given up their singing, and in his motionless silence, Dimitri had become a
still life portrait framed by the open window.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I blanched, holding my breath. And I lifted
my head to look the creature squarely in the eye, mentally asking the question
I didn't have the nerve to ask out loud. <i><u>Are</u>
you going to kill me?<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"No one gets out alive, Stefan, not
even us," Miquel warned aloud, oddly compassionate despite his threat.
"If you choose to live forever, it is true you must first die in my
arms."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I stiffened with anxiety, but he soothed me
by tangling his fingers in my hair and slipping a thought inside me that
transformed my worry to molten slag.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"It's just a small part of the
price," he said softly. "And look at it this way, my friend. You will
go to your death with <i>knowledge</i> of
it! You will die with the certainty that you will live again—a certainty not
dependent on hollow hope or fragile faith." He paused for a moment,
offering a wistful smile. "I cannot promise you heaven, Stefan, but I <i>can</i> give you eternity if you're willing
to accept it."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The cadence of his words was so hypnotic I
wanted to be lulled into that new life by the sound of his voice alone, and it
is my belief that had he simply told me to die I would have done it then and
there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"But—<i>why</i>?" I heard myself ask in a strangled, desperate whisper.
"Why would you offer this to me?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Miquel only looked at me, his unexpected
empathy a tangible presence in the room. "I offer it to you, my grieving
friend, because you burn with a thirst for life that will be reborn in your
vampyre skin, surviving even the barrier of death. The pain within you can make
the nature of life and death ugly enough and beautiful enough to peek through
the words you'll write. People will come to you—frightened and impassioned and
looking for answers—and <i>you</i> will
bring them to <i>me</i>."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I started to protest, but he shushed me to
silence. His voice softened to an awestruck whisper, and once again he caressed
my face to mute the blow of what he was telling me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Together, Stefan, we will build a new
garden with mortals who'll live forever because that's the way nature intended
it before Man lost his way and became a plaything of Death."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Now Dimitri turned from the window, locking
his gaze on his master. "But is he <i>worthy</i>?"
the boy repeated, sultry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Miquel's wicked smile was his only answer as
he knelt at my side and gathered me against his chest, an embrace so intimate I
could have refused him nothing. Had he asked for my life, I would have given
it. Had he taken it, I would not have resisted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But he merely held me in those illusory
black wings and rocked me back and forth as we knelt there in the center of his
deep green world. It was another reality—a place where trees grew out of the
floor and time was a forest painted on the walls and the sun was always setting
on the ceiling. <i>Forever sunset</i>, my
mind whispered, delirious. <i>Forever dusk
and dawn's a million years away.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Then, as if it really were a kiss, Miquel
bent his mouth to my throat and sank the sharp points of his teeth into the
wounds he'd left me with before. It hurt brilliantly, though I made no attempt
to pull away from the euphoria that instantly overcame me. This time, I did not
lose consciousness, and I can only describe the soft red suckling as a
libertine union of pain and pleasure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">It lasted only a few seconds before Miquel
drew back, and the additional loss of blood drained my strength entirely. My
head collapsed on his shoulder as the breath flew out of me, and then the black
angel brought his moist crimson lips to my pale dry ones and left a kiss on my
mouth that tasted of my own blood.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">It was a flavor both erotic and sweet, a
taste of copper pennies and a little boy whose face I'd once worn running by
the railroad tracks with autumn leaves and magic spells crumbled in his
pockets. It was a brief taste of knowing my life <i>could</i> go on forever, and a deeper drink of the realization that I
had a right to eternity. The dark evolution, Dimitri called it. Perhaps that's
what it really was, a willful parthenogenesis whereby a man passed through
death in order to evolve forever beyond its reach.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My head swimming as Miquel's mouth brushed
over mine and lingered there, I wondered if this were the forbidden kiss that
would forever transform me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Just a taste to whet your
thirst," he whispered in response to my thought, and I felt him nurture my
disappointment like preparing a complex cocktail. He was a vampyre all right,
whether he drank blood or sorrow, laughter or tears. "Tomorrow is soon
enough for eternity. For now, you must return to the dayshine world and make
your peace with your mirror."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">His proclamation stunned me utterly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I tried to protest, to tell him my peace was
made on my daughter's grave, yet he hushed me with a finger laid across my
lips.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"It isn't only a matter of manners that
I send you away to contemplate this grave choice," he said, so close I could
count the fires dancing in his eyes from the candles' myriad reflections,
"but this is how it is done, you see. You must offer me your life and your
death willingly and of sound mind, and this you cannot do while weak from loss
of blood and still half fainting from my spell."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I was afraid of thinking about it at all,
afraid I <i>would</i> change my mind or come
to my senses or simply give in to other responsibilities as I'd always done
before.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The thought caused him to smile—compassion
and darkness all rolled into a single paradoxical expression that embodied the
sheer essence of him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"If you survive the
transformation," he told me in a tone which said these were the most
important words I would ever hear, "you will learn a secret which will
give you the strength to live ten thousand years and beyond. But I am
constrained to warn you, the price each of us pays for immortality is high and
filled with irony. You would be wise to turn me down right now."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I'd already paid the highest price of all.
My daughter was dead. Eternity would never be long enough to mourn her. "I won't change my mind," I
insisted, and a terrible resolve caused me to add coarsely, "just do
it!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But he shook his head and fastened those
preternatural eyes on my soul. "You know I cannot, Stefan, for all of this
is nothing more than a dream within a dream."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And with a hypnotic gesture of one bejeweled
hand, he made it so.<b><u><o:p></o:p></u></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">CHAPTER FOUR</span></u></b><b><u><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I came to in my hotel room, my cheek resting
on the cold white tile of the bathroom floor. The water in the shower was still
running, steam so thick the wallpaper had peeled away at its seams and started
to curl.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My head ached horribly, and at first I
recalled nothing of Miquel. Groaning as I struggled to consciousness, the only
thing I remembered was Dimitri—the crazy kid from the dealer's room who'd
gotten under my skin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Clearly, I'd been masturbating and struck my
head on the sink when my climax dragged me to my knees with images of the
vampyre boy sneaking through my sick mind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I did not recall turning off the shower nor
crawling to bed, where I fell into a fitful sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Dreams of red fruit and painful kisses
haunted my dreams.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">It wasn't until I went down to the dealer's
room that the memories of the night before caught up to me. I was taking the
covering off the display when a fat guy with a green dragon perched on one
shoulder ogled me with a knowing grin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Looks like I'm not the only one who
scored last night," he said, though he obviously hadn't scored his entire
life. I recognized him as the vendor from the stall next to mine. The eyes of
the latex dragon blinked, tiny red LEDs that gave me a start for the
irretrievable image they stirred – a different kind of dragon and dappled ivy
and images I both feared and longed for simultaneously.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Strangely light-headed, I gaped at him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He just shrugged and pointed at my throat.
"Looke like your girlfriend took a nice bite out of you." Snickering, he elbowed his partner.
"Hey, Carl, get a load of this guy's hickey!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Another hollow-eyed ignoramus with a Big Mac
in his hand and a <i><u>Jurassic Park</u></i>
t-shirt stretched too tight over his belly stared at me and started to chuckle.
Hercules and Indiana Jones sidled up next to them, gawking now, too. The tarot
reader with the silver hair stood on her tiptoes and whispered in my ear,
"Don't think of the man in your dreams as the King of Swords but call him
the Magician. The path of least resistance always leads to the grave, so take
the higher road if you dare."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Under normal circumstances, with reasonably
normal human beings, I wouldn't have scrambled away so abruptly; but it was at
that moment the memories came flooding back as if injected deep inside my brain
with a dull needle and a hard, fast push.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">In a flash, all of the night before was
there—the limousine, the dragon hedge with its red eyes, Miquel and Dimitri and
the things they'd done—laid out before me like a feast of rich desserts that
left me nauseous until I fled the crowded room and burst through the emergency
exit onto the loading dock with a breathless gasp. It stank there—rotting
garbage and diesel and rat piss—but at least there was no hint of Eternity when
I sucked in the foul air in an effort to clear my head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I had to be alone and I had to be in the
real world, in a place where daylight had chased away the shadows, where
traffic and airplanes and sirens created a comforting uproar of human
existence. And yet, the thing that had happened the night before caused me to
suddenly wonder just how real any of it really was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">So
is your entire reality only an illusion held together by the glue of society's
consensual thoughts?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Strange ponderings again, uninvited cousins
from another universe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">As I looked at the 'real world' now, it
seemed an illusion, a thin shade pulled down to conceal an inconceivable
reality beneath, a transparent overlay of stages and actors in one of Mr.
Shakespeare's plays.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And though I'd never noticed it before, the
edges of the set were a bit rickety, the colors faded and dull; and when a
security guard walked by without asking what I was doing there, I realized some
of the extras had forgotten their lines. Indeed, it was as if I started to see
the world for the thing it was—a two-dimensional backdrop, a cheap painting on
black velvet hiding a masterpiece beneath, a <st1:place w:st="on">Hollywood</st1:place>
set that could fold in on itself at any moment like—<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"—a
carnival!" Stephanie exclaimed, her nose pressed to the window as we sped
down the freeway late at night. "Can't we stop, Daddy? Oh, please—just for a little while?"<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">At
the edge of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Del</st1:state></st1:place>
Mar's fluorescent sea, a double ferris wheel plummeted end-over-end through
whirligig darkness. A tumbledown roller coaster labored up unseen tracks to
plunge over the nothing into nothing more. The Tilt-a-Whirl spun, a magically
illumined eggbeater stirring up a potion in the night.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Maybe
tomorrow, honey," I told my little girl, exhausted from the long
convention weekend. Laurie would be waiting up at home, probably drinking
again, and perpetually annoyed because we were late.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Stephanie
just kept looking out the window, her head turning to stay with the lights as
we left the carnival behind. "It won't be there tomorrow," she said
with ethereal certainty. "It's only there for now because we see it,
because we're creating it. As soon as we look away, it'll be gone
forever."<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">She'd
either be a quantum physicist or a writer. "We'll go tomorrow, punkin. I
promise."<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But
as I looked in the rearview mirror, the carnival had already gone dark. When we
returned the next night, there was nothing to indicate it had ever been
there—not a drink cup blowing along the shore, not a half eaten corn dog
crawling with ants, not even a faded funhouse ticket torn in half.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">It
was a thing of the night and to the night it had returned. That's what
Stephanie said. I believed her just enough to begin fitfully scrawling notes
for my fourth book, <u>Tilt-A-Whirl Worlds</u>—the diary of a mental patient
who believed the key to other dimensions was a wobbly thrill ride at a phantom
carnival...<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Now I wondered what Stephanie had seen that
I never could.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I would have given anything for one chance
to do it over again, but there was no going back, and now I'd never know if
those distant lights had been real or just a special effect, courtesy of
Industrial Light & Magic. I sat down on the hotel's loading dock with my
legs dangling over the edge, staring at the metropolis which had sprung up out
of the earth just as that carnival had sprung up out of the ether.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Was <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">L.A.</st1:city></st1:place>
any more real, or if I turned my back would it disappear, too?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Engrossed in my troubling reverie, I barely
noticed the vagrant passing through the alley until his scuffling footsteps
caused me to look up. Wrinkled green army fatigues folded in on his frail body
as he caught my eye and shot me a mock salute accompanied by a toothless grin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"You'll drive yerself crazy tryin' to
figger it out," he slurred in my direction, clutching a paper sack with
the neck of a whiskey bottle peeking out. He took a swig of amber amnesia and
wiped at his scroungy beard with a dirty hand, tottering from side to side as
he stood there in a stupor and began urinating in his pants.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The wind stopped whipping the dandelions
that had fought their way up through a crack in the asphalt. The world went
still. And though it had once been my nature to look the other way in
circumstances such as these, I stared into the derelict's jaundiced eyes as if
they held all the secrets of the universe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And because I was already crazy, I said to
this vagabond who could as easily have been a wizard, "Was the carnival
ever there that night?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He looked at me and chuckled. "The
carnival's always there—'cept when it ain't."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">His words sent an icy rush shooting through
my veins, for I knew then he was as real as I was myself—not just some organic
prop going through the motions of a random life. But he was already staggering
away, as if he, too, had entire worlds to build before the sun went down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Wait!" I called after him,
jumping to my feet. I hurried down the loading ramp, but a gust of wind burst
around the corner and tossed a handful of grit in my eyes. Above the rushing
howl, I could have sworn I heard the giggling of mischievous munchkins and the
cackling of the wicked witch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">By the time my vision cleared, the dust
devil had swept the stage bare and the drunk was nowhere in sight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Trembling, lost, I clutched my arms to my
chest, leaning heavily against the dirty block wall for a long time. <i>'For now, you must return to the dayshine
world and make your peace with your mirror'.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Miquel's warning came back to me, though I
knew now he hadn't been referring to the looking glass above the sink. The
world was my mirror, reflecting back at me whatever I put into it, whether
carnivals from the phantasm or a hobo who was only a visiting zephyr.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The people and the dogs and the props <i>looked</i> real enough, but I was starting
to suspect they weren't as solid as I'd once believed, and, indeed, they were
probably hustled off at dusk to an abandoned factory where they slept a
dreamless sleep until some other isolated traveler thought them back into
existence. For when darkness came calling again, this whole vast stage would
fold in on itself to be reborn as a carnival that existed only at night,
complete with its own sun in the form of neon lights and kaleidoscope vampyre
eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">During the course of that day, I convinced
myself that the entire affair was nothing more than an hallucination brought on
by bad hotel food, or some bizarre experiment with virtual reality for which
I'd been the unwitting guinea pig. But in the end, when I felt that cold wall
at my back and saw the sun crawling toward its ocean bed, a strangely euphoric
calm came over me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The understanding came easily when I stopped
chasing after it—the realization that humans have little purpose on the Earth
other than learning, and what greater thing was there to learn than the way
out?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Like all men, I was afraid of death and I
was most certainly afraid of change, so it stood to reason I was terrified of
this thing Miquel had offered me, for it meant I would no longer have the
luxury of looking at the world the same way. It meant acknowledging a fourth
dimension of sorts, an underworld where vampyres walked the night and death was
the blink of an eye instead of an endless black sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">It meant turning my back on everything I'd
ever known, and <i>that</i> meant dancing a
dangerous tango with a designer label known as insanity. Still, I couldn't help
thinking that madness, like death, was a threat thrown in by the scriptwriter
to keep the stakes elevated.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">If we stripped away the social taboos and
could ever confess what we truly believe, I doubt there would be more than a
handful of souls who really believe in heaven, and those would be captured
within the pale green walls of asylums or cloistered inside dank monasteries.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">We all <i>pretended</i>
to believe in some nebulous afterlife, but no one really did. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">We hired gurus to search for our truths and
doctors to find cures for our ailments instead of eradicating the source of the
ailments themselves: the belief that we <i>would</i>
die. We trusted priests to show us the way to eternal life because we were far
too busy creating corporations and slinging hamburgers and raising our families
to look for ourselves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Death, therefore, had become an institution,
nursed at the breasts of undertakers and all complacent fools. But faith could
no more save my life than wine and wafers could raise me from the dead. There
was no miraculous snake oil on the 6 o'clock news which would cure me of my
mortality. There was no proof of reincarnation, no hint that even Harry Houdini
had survived that final disappearing trick.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">There was only Miquel and his red kiss. Take
it or leave it. Live or die. Now or never.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Eat
my body, drink my blood and you will never die.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">A chill passed through my heart and caused
my eyes to water. It was a sensation I'd known only rarely in the past, some
eerie confirmation of a deeply hidden truth clawing its way to the surface. A
niggling at first, an phantom itch, nagging.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">When the epiphany did come, it snowballed
into an assault, each realization more dangerous and soul shattering than the
last.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Oh, God," I whispered, and slid
down the wall until I was sitting on the ground hugging my knees to my chest.
"Oh, God!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Eat
my body, drink my blood and you will never die.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Had similar words once been intended
literally but became warped over the centuries into mere symbolic ritual that
had lost its meaning? Was this man Christ crucified in the noonday sun not
because of his claims of godliness, but for deeds that could only be explained
as witchcraft or vampyre magic? Was the wine really wine that night or were the
disciples already Princes of the Blood—emissaries of eternal life set loose on
the world to do battle with the brute with the scythe?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Had Jesus <i>really</i> been the submissive child come to do his Father's will, or
was he the rebel son in disguise, determined to steal the secret of immortality
from Daddy's blood and give that secret back to Man?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Eat
my body, drink my blood and you will never die...<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Was our entire Western society based on
vampirism?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Jesus
Christ!</span></i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";"> my mind protested,
appalled and imploding as it tore loose the bonds of decent moral restraint. <i>Jesus Holy Vampyre Christ!</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Clever boy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">A voice in my head screamed <i>Blasphemer</i>! to scare my thoughts into
obedient silence, but when I closed my eyes and took a peek beyond the veil,
the only thing shouting in my ear was me. That was the truth which came to me
while workers unloaded shredded lettuce as if it really mattered and two kids
from the kitchen stood smoking a joint as if knowing none of it mattered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But I had to ask myself, <i>Is it worth it, Stefan? Is it worth giving up your humanity to defeat
death?<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">We're expected to keep a stiff upper and
pray for an afterlife for some part of us that scientists can't find and
mystics can't define and surgeons can't transplant into a corpse to give it
life again. The ironic thing was this:
the only way I could avoid dying was to die trying and trust the
bloodthirsty devil to raise me up from the dead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Faith.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">There was that word again, that monosyllabic
abstraction which stated that humans were in control of nothing, including our
fate or even our faith.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But at least Miquel had held me in his arms
and offered me immortality in a body I already knew and a location right here
on Earth. God and his unmapped heaven had some catching up to do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The city shimmered in the distance, a mirage
in the corner of my mirror.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">If
this isn't your will, strike me dead now, God</span></i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">, I prayed in earnest, not because I expected an answer, but
because I desperately needed one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But the lightning didn't come. The building
didn't fall on me. No embolism ruptured to stop my lungs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I was almost disappointed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Blasphemer</span></i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">! the little voice cried again, louder and
more shrill as it took up the chant of well-worn clichés. <i>You'll burn in hell! All things die! God moves in mysterious ways!
Blasphemer! Blasphemer! Blasphemer!<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Shut up."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Imbued with total calm, I returned to the
dealer's room, packed up my dead daughter's belongings and left them in a box
for the cleaning crew to find. Inside the lid, I scrawled a note for Charlie,
asking her to take care of my cat and telling her I wouldn't be coming home
again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Then, not really sure where I was going, I
ambled into the lobby where the convention's din was at its loudest and the
bustle of chaos swam around me. It was there I saw Dimitri coming through the
revolving door just as the last dim watercolor bled from the sky. His coat
fluttered in brisk wind. His hair shone, a halo of pure light. He had come for
me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">It was night and would be forevermore.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">CHAPTER FIVE</span></u></b><b><u><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Stefan? Have you reached a decision in this matter,
Stefan?" Dimitri repeated, tapping a fingernail on the wine goblet from
which he never drank in an effort to regain my attention.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I snapped back to reality and tried to think
of at least one reason why I should refuse him. Eternity courted me in his eyes
as the world shrunk to hold us. Batman and Robin had gone away, leaving only an
empty plate at an empty table. Kirk and Spock were tucked safely in bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My heart screamed in my chest. "If you
had it to do over again, would you?" I asked at last. "Would you give
up your human life to embrace what you've become?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Oh, yes! <i>Yes</i>—I
would!" he whispered with a fervor that showed me a glimpse of the things
he'd seen in his lifetime. He'd stood on the battlefield at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Gettysburg</st1:city></st1:place>. He'd sailed on the <i>Titanic</i> and gone down with her in dark
waters. He'd danced with royalty and drunk from the veins of slumbering queens.
"Any fool can die, Stefan, but it takes a brave heart to beat
forever."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">His passion made me want it all—that
perfection, that dark evolution, that immortal life coursing through his body.
I leaned closer, unintentionally conspiratorial as my stomach knotted with
thoughts of Miquel, with details of what had to be done.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"What about you?" I asked,
nervously running my fingertip through a drop of wine spilt on the table.
"Why can't it be you who... why can't you be my... Creator?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He grinned at my uncharacteristic lack of
words. "You flatter me, Stefan, but I do not have the power to give life
back once it is taken." His little
fangs glittered as he smiled philosophically. "And besides, why would you
drink from a peasant's stone cup when the golden chalice of the prince is
pressed to your lips?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Dimitri was good, a cunning and patient
hunter who knew a net of pretty words would capture me faster and hold me
tighter than any cage. If he really had been jealous the night before, it
didn't show now, for he was open and casual in a way that put me at ease.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">There was only one thing left for me to
know, and that because I was still afraid of the dark. "Will it be
terrible?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">His blue eye winked. His green one sparkled,
reflecting the chandelier and all its little lights. "It will make you
whole and enable your spirit to fly."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">We left the restaurant together and, like
two little boys, raced across the lobby to the limo waiting beyond glass doors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My next awareness was of being in the great
room of their home, where candles burned on the sills and the scent of smoke
from the fireplace filled the air like pleasant anesthesia. Dimitri led me to
an overstuffed sofa of soft burgundy leather and had me wait while he went to
tell Miquel of my decision. He even told me not to be afraid, though he
confessed he was glad he'd never had to make the choice himself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">As I sat there listening to the irregular
pounding of my heart, it occurred to me to jump up and run. I was beginning to
think Dimitri and Miquel had forgotten about me entirely when I heard the
hushed padding of tennis shoes on the hardwood floor. I looked up, expecting to
find some monster looming over me, but instead it was the young servant from
the night before.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He stopped in the shadows of the stairwell,
peering at me from a distance. Tight bluejeans hugged his athletic legs, and a
green spandex top made it look as if he'd just come from the gym. His hair,
which had been tied back before, now hung almost to his waist in glassy waves
the shade of imported dark chocolate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He was a vision, unreal, an album cover.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">When I saw how exotic he truly was, I
thought I'd been mistaken and this wasn't the same boy at all. But when he emerged
into the light near the foot of the stairs, his porcelain doll skin and
graceful movements were trademarks that couldn't be forged or inadvertently
twinned in nature.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Seeing him better—firelight flickering over
pronounced cheekbones, narrow nose and defined chin—I realized he was older
than I'd first believed. Twenty, perhaps. No more than 22.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Hello," I said, sensing that any
quick movement would cause him to bolt. He was a shy animal, wild, and I could
only wonder what had happened to make him this way. I held one hand toward him.
"I'm Stefan—Stefan London."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He nodded a wary acknowledgement, looking at
me with wide brown eyes reminiscent of a deer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"You came back," he said, coming
no closer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I'd almost decided he was mute, but his
voice was even more clear and sharp than Dimitri's—not a human voice at all,
but the plaintive sound one might expect from a merman or some fabled he-wolf
crying to the moon. He cast a nervous glance toward the darker part of the
house, then inquired in a fervent tone that sent chills through me, "<i>Do you know what will happen if you stay?</i>"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I was too scared to be scared anymore, so I
sat there numbed to the bone by his voice, his extraordinary male beauty.
"Yes, I think I do." I didn't, of course. How could I?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He crept a step closer, and as our gazes
locked across the wide room, I felt sorry for him without understanding why.
Uncomfortable with the silence, I started to say something, but a sound from
the top of the stairs stopped me—a little bump, a soft thump, hushed male voices
that sent a rush of dread through my gut. My head jerked toward the source, but
the darkness sweeping down that curved stairwell revealed nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">There was a sensation of abrupt movement
nearby, yet when I cast my eyes toward the young man, he was nowhere to be
seen, the only thing that gave any hint to his whereabouts a curtain moving on
the far side of the room. The window was open, and as I leapt from the sofa and
hurried over to it, a shadow streaked through darker shadows at the farthest
edge of the lawn.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I opened my mouth to call out, but the
garden of statues and their watchful black angel stole my voice away
completely.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Perhaps I should have gone after him or run
away myself, but a writer's curse is to record events, often missing their
significance at the time, so that he might mull them over at some later date.
Returning to the sofa, I sat tentatively on the edge, struggling to quiet my
ragged nerves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The fire in the hearth was warm, a pleasant
crackling filling the room, comforting somehow. The smooth white walls which
stretched two stories high here in the great room were adorned with ornate
tapestries and the hardwood floor covered with Persian rugs perhaps as old as
Miquel himself. Overhead, a stained glass skylight depicted two enormous seraphim
in frantic flight, carrying between them a third comrade whose head hung limp
and whose broken wings trailed from his muscular back, lifeless.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Enthralled, I stared at it as the moon rose
to illumine its fragile beauty. Then, when I could no longer bear the grief
captured in the eyes of those stained glass angels, I drew my attention back to
Earth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">What brought a smile to my lips was the
large screen tv. and the elaborate stereo system with its 8-speaker surround
sound tied in to the home theater. Two DVDs in rental cases sat next to the
array, tagged with a common yellow sticky note which read: <i>Dimitri,
return these on Monday. ...M.....<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">For reasons I might never understand it was <i>that</i> silly detail which made Miquel
human to me—sticky notes and memberships at the local video shop and a note
written with plain black ink instead of blood.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">For all his eloquent speech and his Ming
vases gathering dust on a corner shelf and his undoubtedly authentic Van Gogh
leaning against the wall as if he hadn't yet decided where to hang it, Miquel
Kaliq Constantine was no Count Dracula imprisoned in a dreary castle. He could
be just as comfortable at a rock concert as at the Bolshoi, and that was the
thrill of him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My stomach leapt unexpectedly – a rare
premonition – and when I spun toward the
stairs, it was to see the vampyre descending in all his glory. Whereas the
night before had seen him in jeans and a plain white shirt, now he wore a
tuxedo that made him appear even taller and darker than I remembered. He hadn't
shaved—his scruffy countenance part of his vain self-portrait—and his glossy
black mane crept inside his collar to nuzzle his neck, a curious pet. His eyes
sparkled with mischief as he glided toward me and extended his hand in
greeting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I laughed nervously as we shook hands,
halfway expecting him to say, <i>'Smile, you
gullible fucking idiot, you're on Candid Camera!'<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Instead, completely at ease, he took my hand
and pressed it firmly between both of his own, meeting my eyes in a steady
emerald gaze that wasn't meant to mesmerize but nonetheless left me
light-headed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"You must forgive my protegé for not
offering you something to drink," he said with consummate poise, "but
I'm afraid he's run away into the night again. The act of creating a vampyre
still scares poor Donny, you see, for he was made against his will—a struggle
that almost destroyed us both." He
smiled a little, sharp fangs glistening in his mouth. "Tell me: did he try to talk you out of it?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I went cold to the bone when I saw his
teeth, when I thought of what he was going to do to me. "Uh—no. But
why—why did you—why against his will?" I stammered, taken off guard by the
realization that the boy <i>was</i> a
vampyre and the strong insinuation that Miquel wasn't above using force to get
what he wanted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He put an arm around my shoulder and led me
to the window, and though I'd never been accustomed to such familiarity with
another man, the strength of his embrace was reassuring. I tried to relax,
knowing the time was past for changing my mind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">For a few moments, he looked at me as if
trying to decide whether to answer my question. The creek gurgled, rushing
through the flower gardens. Glass windpipes hanging beneath the eaves began a
melodic chiming.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Donny was my blood lover, you
see," he explained in a voice that was barely audible despite our physical
closeness. "When he fell ill, I had to bring him into this life or lose
him forever." Taking his gaze from
the window and fastening it on me, he added darkly, "I do <i>not</i> like to lose, Stefan."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">These words he uttered with an arrogance
that was palpable in its intensity. I could think of no appropriate response as
he looked at me with a vulnerability which told me he really did want me to
understand why he did the things he did.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"I have been acquainted with death for
over a thousand years," he explained, and I knew then that the madness in
his eyes was history. "I've seen him steal friends, obliterate families at
a whim, annihilate entire civilizations. Normally I've looked the other way,
ignoring him as he's ignored me. But when he came for Donny and singled him out
of all the world, I took his audacity as a personal affront, and on that day
death and I went to war."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">His ardor chilled me. His passion moved me.
And because I <i>wanted</i> to understand, I
foolishly muttered, "I understand."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Miquel turned his head to me, his scrutiny
causing me to writhe inside. "Really?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Knowing he'd seen right through my bravado,
I gave him the truth instead. "I want to."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">This made him smile, though somewhat sadly.
"I believe you really do, Stefan."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Then, before I knew what was happening, he
reached out to run his fingertips over my hand, a gesture that wasn't intrusive
when I consciously lowered my walls in response to the telepathic presence of
his will. And without the bulky burden of words, I suddenly knew—<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">—the
April storm was unexpected, making the house damp and full of shadows even at
mid-afternoon. By the open window, Miquel danced, naked and frenzied, grateful
for the clouds yet resentful that the sun was hiding behind them, waiting to sneak
out again. The windows fogged, frosty ghosts peering in at the corners. Music
screamed—the same song playing over and over on speakers omnipotent enough to
render even a vampyre deaf to the world's din.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The
thirst aroused him, thoughts of drinking from his chosen blood lover causing
his lips to part and his eyes to roll slightly upward. How long had he known
Donny? A year? Or was it two? The kid shouldn't be dying. The kid shouldn't
have AIDS.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"I
shouldn't have to kill you just to make sure you will live." Though he said the words aloud, Miquel never
heard them above the music and the pounding of his own crazed heart. Death was
mocking him, challenging him to a duel for the soul of a dying man.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Donald
Anthony Carrera—lead vocalist in a rock band that played weekend gigs at the
local pub. The first time Miquel laid eyes on the kid he had to have him: a taste of his blood, a drink of his poetry.
The first time he heard him sing, he was lost.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">To
make it perfect, Donny loved the blood bite, his entire essence surging every
time Miquel drank from him. With this one, there was no need to hide the truth,
no need to resort to sorcery to make him forget. With Donny, Miquel could
openly enjoy being a vampyre again, partaking in the shared symbiosis as it was
meant to be.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">His
body quickened. Neither God nor Satan could have the kid and that was that!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He
visualized making it real: Donny
climbing into his arms as he'd always done, accepting without fear or fight the
sharp kiss that would end his life in order to chase away his death forever.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The
magic wouldn't be quite that easy, of course. It never was.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">From
the cold gray fabric of the storm, Miquel gathered strength, knowing he would
need every molecule of power he could conjure, and even then it might not be
enough. The sting of mortal death was sometimes fatal, defying even <u>his</u>
blood. Fear could destroy it all and plunge the kid into the sun, a failed
Icarus.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He
trembled, feeling terribly small. He had to be more than a man, more than even
a vampyre. Could he be the Creator now, when it mattered more than anything?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He
never knew, and that was the hell of it.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"You
<u>must</u> fly – beyond the ability of Death to undo!" Miquel said to the
empty room, the breath rushing out of him as he collapsed on the floor, his
chest heaving from hours of exertion. He touched his body for magic, for luck, and to bring forth the
power of Creation itself.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He
closed his eyes, hugged his arms to his chest, and he wept. Soon it would be
night—time to take the life of a love.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I was staring fixedly into Miquel's eyes
when the trance dissipated. A small sound escaped my throat, and though I
swayed dizzily in response to the clash of conflicting realities—what I'd
always believed possible and what I'd always thought of as myth—the myth
steadied me with a firm grip on my arm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"I will not lose you either, my
friend," he assured me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The sheer force behind those words caused me
to look away. Panic pressed close.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">If this thing had to be done at all, it
should be clinical, detached and quickly over, an awful thing to be gotten
through like a trip to the dentist. I didn't want to hear him talking about
mortal lovers and challenging death and making a man a vampyre against his
will—an act that sounded obscenely erotic despite its more sinister overtones.
I didn't want to watch the plays written in his memory, nor see him dancing
like some savage warlock, naked and crazed by a storm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">To my surprise, Miquel laughed, then reached
out a hand to tousle my hair. "But don't you see, Stefan?" he
murmured with a little grin that caused my heart to miss a beat. "I've
danced the day away for <i>you</i> this
time—to prove to Death that my will is stronger even than his."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I tried to speak, but no words came as I
took a step away from him. He had danced for <i>me</i>. He had danced a barbaric dance because it truly was his
intention to kill me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Suddenly it was all very real and sharply
focused, and I was no longer ready to give up my life even for the prospect of
living forever. Before, it had been an idle thought, a fantasy. Now, with him
standing in front of me as we finalized some unholy pact, it became
3-dimensional and far too detailed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Without volition, I stumbled another step
backward, glancing toward the tall double doors, knowing I would never reach
them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Oh, God," I whispered. "Oh,
God!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Instead of chastising me for my cowardice,
Miquel followed after me and slipped an arm around my waist in an attempt to
calm my fright. If I'd ever wondered how a prisoner felt on his way to the gas
chamber, I knew. My body was numb, my mind detached, and my life was far too
finite—measured in minutes and seconds rather than years. The air in my lungs
had turned to fire because I'd forgotten to breathe, and I was on the verge of
nausea when Miquel pulled me to his chest and forced my head down on his
shoulder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Without words, he held me there, swaying
easily back and forth with his fingers tangled in my hair and my cheek pressed
to the ruffled shirt of his tux. His chin rested against my forehead, his
shadowy stubble coarse and entirely too physical, his clean scent filling my
nostrils. Unable to bear the sight of our reflections in the mirror above the
mantle, I clenched my eyes tightly shut, dancing with the instrument of my
impending death.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">An hour passed, maybe more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Finally, when I could breathe again, he
placed his hands on my shoulders and held me at arms' length as the room came
back into focus. I do not know what our minds said to one another, but after a
minute or two, he led me to the sofa and sat down at my side.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"I know you're afraid, Stefan," he
told me with compassion, resting a steady hand on my shoulder. "But I've
done this thing before and I know you'll make it through. So we'll speak with
reverence of your death for a moment and then we'll simply do it. I think it
would be best that way—without so much angst and contemplation, yes?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">It was so easy for him, so natural to seduce
a mortal soul right out of the vessel that held it. All I could do was stare at
him, at those feral eyes framed by the most exquisite features I'd ever seen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He was both executioner and messiah. He was
my fate and undeniably he was my faith.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I tried to reply, but my stomach cramped and
my vision blurred. My heart went into an unearthly rhythm until I cried out in
pain, ashamed of myself for an anxiety so acute it reduced me to this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">In the face of eternal life, I was about to
die of a stroke.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Miquel squeezed my shoulder to calm me. When
he gave an unexpected smile at my predicament, I saw his teeth and once again
knew that special fear reserved for those who had looked their death squarely
in the face. Meeting my gaze with an expression of real empathy, the amusement
left him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">We were alone in the world then, and I
believe he planned it that way—for time to stop, for the lights in the distance
to dim, for the wind to stop stirring the chimes in the garden. All that
remained were the songs of the frogs and the gurgling of the little creek, a
miniature <st1:place w:st="on">Styx</st1:place> winding its way past the
window.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"All you need do is come to me
willingly, Stefan, and I will do the rest," he assured me, holding his
hands open as he spoke. Here he paused, fingertips brushing my cheek. "Can
you do it, my friend? Can you surrender
your life to me and trust me to make you whole again?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I hated him for the images his words
awakened—a savior offering me body and blood and telling me I would live
forever if I were first willing to die.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I began to weep, for there was only one
answer to his question, and with a gruesome effort that drained me, I whispered
it before I could change my mind:
"Yes."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">His entire self surged in response, a burst
of energy on my mind. "<i>Excellent</i>,"
he breathed darkly. "Perfect."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Then, meeting my eyes and compelling me not
to look away as his trance engulfed me, he began to speak in a voice that was
hypnotic and soothing unto itself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"When you feel my lips on you, draw a
deep breath and rejoice in knowing it will be your last as a mortal. You'll
think you're drowning, but remember I'm with you in the waters, driftwood at
your side. You'll want to fight me, but if you do, know you'll die the death
from which not even my blood can awaken you again."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move.
"I'm afraid."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue,
as enraptured by this insufferable act as I was horrified. "Then come to
me, Stefan, and let us take that fear away from you forever. Let me show you
the way out."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Our eyes locked, passing candlelight back
and forth in an endless hall of mirrors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">It <i>was</i>
the only way out, terrifying and terribly seductive because of that very
singularity. When I finally saw that, when I acknowledged that death was the
only chance I had for life, I fell into his outstretched arms because there was
nowhere else for me to go.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I believe I was speaking—whimpering and
crying and begging him to let me live, I suspect—though I could not tell you
for sure. It was a terror I would will on no other living soul, and had I known
I would experience such an all consuming dread when his arms closed around me,
I could not have gone through with it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My world was ending and I was going to my
death as if it were a lover.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My body surged in protest, survival instinct
making me resist even his pleasing trance. But when he seized my wrists and
forced me down with a strength I could never match, I could only look up into
his eyes and accept as fact that I was already dead.Releasing one wrist, he
touched my face as his weight pressed me deeper into the dream. Then, as if he
wanted to shield me from the hunger I read in his gaze, he brushed his
fingertips over my eyes, forcing them to close.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Driftwood, Stefan," he whispered
as my head began to spin and I knew he really was going to do it. "I am
driftwood."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I caught a shaky breath when he gathered me
to him and his lips fell quickly upon my throat. My heart pounded, wild drums.
My tears fell, a fatal storm. In a final act of resignation that begged for
mercy, I threw my arms around his back and pulled him roughly to me, burying my
face in the curve of his neck as I began to weep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Beautiful," the angel of death
whispered, his thirst a palpable force in the room. "Your surrender is
genuinely beautiful." His fingers
caressed my throat, luring the blood to the surface, and then I began falling
into a warm, sheltering faint. "Now let the world be gone, Stefan. Let the
world go away so the night can come in."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And with that, he seized me with his teeth
in a grip so fierce I felt the cramp of torment all the way through to my feet.
My eyes flashed open for an instant, but I clamped them tightly shut, afraid I
would see death in the room. Warmth poured down my neck, a rushing river caught
by the devil's lips.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I panicked, surrendered, panicked again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">At first, I fought to shove him away from
me, but when I remembered his final warning as my blood ran freely and I began
to suffocate, I grabbed the driftwood to me and rode that hellish tidal wave
straight on into the night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The world went still then, and I stood apart
from myself, a voyeur watching my own metamorphosis as I lay in the arms of a
vampyre who drank my dying soul. It was all I'd dared to think it might be—my
body conquered beneath him, my soul rising up to dance on the ceiling in a bid
to escape the terrible pain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The music of the spheres wasn't Lawrence
Welk or Andrew Lloyd Webber or even Enya. It was rock and roll, with my own
high-pitched scream wailing like an electric guitar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The suffering was indescribable. The
pleasure left me spent. I stopped breathing. And then, as Miquel suckled the
blood from my world, I knew the gruesome serenity of death itself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Though one might think it would be the most
enigmatic experience of man, the actuality of it was altogether dull. For a
moment, it seemed that whatever essence had made Stefan London a creature
unique unto himself would merely be absorbed into the spongy black cloth of the
cosmos, soaked up, finished.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The horror came with the realization that
even this disintegration of the Self would have been acceptable, because the
will to live was the first thing death stole away. In that way, it was an
altogether flawless mechanism. Annihilation wasn't a process of defeat or
surrender. It was, in the end, nothing more than nonexistence—a state of
non-being which would triumph by default because one could not do battle with a
vacuum while inside that very vacuum.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">In one moment, I had been alive and vital
and terrified that my life was going to end. Yet when that ending came, the
heavy <i>blankness</i> obliterated even the
realization that there had been a <i>me</i>
to be destroyed in the first place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">For the first time in all of time, I did not
exist and never had and never would, and that was the nature of death as I
perceived it. There was, if Nothing can be said to exist, Absolute Nothing
which could not even be perceived because the ability <i>to</i> perceive was lost in the Nowhere, swallowed whole. There was no
blinding white light, no line of dead relatives welcoming me to heaven, no
angelic choirs, and not a single deity or demon in sight. And yet, if there <i>was</i> a Hell, this was it: this profoundly empty and hollow void where
Stefan London had once existed, this hole death created in the very fabric of
space and time, this hole which was the annihilation of consciousness itself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Adrift in that nihilistic state, I didn't
see Miquel loosen his crisp black tie nor unfasten his ruffled shirt to reveal
his neck to me. And though I have no recollection of him making a small
incision below his ear, I was drawn to the scent of that scarlet milk as a baby
instinctively seeks its mother's breast—the only real thing in the midst of the
cold black mire.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Because I could not do it for myself, he
lifted my head to the wound and held it there as I was overcome by a hunger so
fierce it threatened to consume me. Abruptly, I was dragged back into my
lifeless body—<i>too heavy, so small, so
cold</i>—when I tasted the precious salts of his blood on my tongue.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Greedy for that flavor which I now
recognized as the only cure for death's nonexistence, and gifted with sharp
fangs that had replaced my own dull incisors, I bit down hard and sucked in my
first immortal breath: a choking,
gurgling reverse scream of vampyre evolution.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Miquel cried out when I was born, trembling
beneath the suffering I caused him even as his arms tightened around me and a
low groan of wicked bliss whispered across his lips. The anguish thrilled him
as it thrilled me. We were two of a kind, he and I. We were cloud and rain.
Pain and pleasure. We were flesh and bone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">At first, I knew only the security reserved
for a newborn first set to its mother's nipple. But then, as his blood began
threading its way through the veins and the capillaries of my death-still
heart, something happened I hadn't anticipated. It came as a flash at first, a
quick burst of images with no rational explanation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">A
male concubine, groomed as a consort to the emperor, but arrogant and defiant
in his youth, refusing to be subservient even to the highest lord of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Byzantium</st1:city></st1:place>. When he struck
the monarch and would not allow himself to be taken, his belly was cut open and
he was thrown out for the wild dogs to find.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But
it was the king's odd son who found the beautiful creature first, the pale
young prince who fed the dying man blood from his own body and nurtured him
back to health in secret.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">When
Miquel was well again, he stole the vampyre's sword and plunged it through his
heart—not because he believed it would kill Prince Leo, but because he
desperately hoped the prince would be driven to kill <u>him</u> in a fit of
rage and revenge. Leo, like his father Basil, had taken liberties with Miquel
against his will. A vampyre now himself, he would not be sodomized like some
common whore; and though he secretly wept when his maker cast him out into
streets, he never saw the prince again.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But he would not let me linger there, giving
me only the briefest glimpse of his past.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Centuries tumbled together in his mind, a
haze of lost memories made dim by the will to forget. Before Dimitri, there was
only the darkness. After Dimitri was born in his arms and he knew he was a
Creator capable of building a new world, he no longer mourned the loss of the
sun or cursed the thirst.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He was a vampyre, and now he held his head
high as he smiled at the moon and admired his own reflection in pools of still
water. Though barely 19 when Leo changed him, Miquel's magical body had settled
into the maturity of a man in his early 30s—the prime of mortal life, the peak
of strength and prowess, when a man was feared by powerful men and desired by
beautiful women.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The images came hard and fast, mixed in his
blood. The images <i>were</i> the blood, the
culmination of all Miquel. I drank of popes and soldiers, kings and fools. I
tasted Lord Byron on my tongue, and pressed the elixir of Shelley to my lips. I
sampled the soul sick sweetness of Norma Jean and the final breath of Jim
Morrison. There were the homeless urchins from the streets of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">L.A.</st1:city></st1:place>, whose blood ran strong and quick in
anonymity. And there were the willing victims who had sought out the vampyres
since the dawn of time in the hopes of finding immortality.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I suckled deep as his heart fed me, finally
encountering my own familiar flavor running fast through his veins. The taste
was narcissistically sweeter than all the rest, and I yearned for it so much
that I released my hold and re-sank my teeth to gain a better view.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Railroad
tracks slick with rain and tennis shoes pounding footprints into the mud. Wild
pumpkins growing in an empty city lot, still green. A finger sliced open and
the flood of blood in a little boy's mouth as he sucked it, secretly hungry
with the need to know himself better.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Again Miquel writhed, fingers twisting in my
hair as he held my head to him and encouraged me to feed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Yes, my child, take all you need and
take it deep," he whispered, though I heard the words in my mind more than
in my ears. He stroked my face, my throat. <i>The
instinct is strong with you because you were born to the Blood.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I floated in the soft, warm core of him and
let its red waves gently rock me. But as my feast continued and I indulged this
terrible hunger to the point of gluttony, something went skittering past my
lips that gave me sudden pause. It was a presence half remembered, a face in an
album of faded photographs, an old song playing on a distant radio.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Drink deeper, Stefan," Miquel
encouraged, though his voice had gone sad, resigned. "Drink it to the soul
so you may understand it."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Because he was my Creator and I was compelled
to obey his will, I drank deeper of this familiar essence. So perfect was the
flavor on my lips that I never wanted to let it go, so dulcet and trusting I
wanted to devour it as Miquel had once devoured it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">They
moved together on the dance floor at the costume ball—the vampyre in his
tuxedo, and the goth girl with the dyed black hair and skin paler even than
his. Enamored of his physical radiance, thrilled when he lifted her in his arms
and waltzed with her, she threw her head back and laughed with an abandon only
an adolescent girl can know.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Are
you <u>really</u> a vampyre?" They'd courted one another all evening,
covert glances across a crowded room. Finally, he'd asked her to dance.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"I
really am," Miquel told her, and captured her in the folds of his cape.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">She
rested her head on his chest, for she barely reached his shoulder. A strange
sensation such as she'd never known alighted in the pit of her stomach.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"I
believe you," she whispered, and she <u>did</u> believe. A soft sigh
pressed through lips painted red with her mother's borrowed lipstick. The calm
inside her grew. "Can you read my mind?"<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Yes."<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"What
am I thinking, then?" Her head was held high, chin beginning to tremble.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">He
drew her close, so close, caressed her hair. Emeralds snarled in ebony.
"You want to die," he barely whispered, sucking that ghastly
aloneness until her essence filled him. Other couples danced nearby, oblivious
to the pact being secretly sworn.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Her
eyes closed, cheeks suddenly wet. Her small hands clenched his back, shiny
black fingernails digging in. "Nobody understands," she told him, her
soul awash with the torment of growing up. "Nobody ever has."<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"<u>I</u>
understand, Stephanie."<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">God help me, I believe he did. He understood
something about her I never had. He understood her pain enough to acknowledge
it and, more, enough to make it stop.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">And though I tried to tear myself away from
him and run screaming into the night, I could never run far enough now. In a
horrible flash that came through the blood, I knew how she'd died—<i>kiss of death, soft and fine and without
fight or pain</i>—and I knew it had been as mystical for her as it had been for
me because it had come at Miquel's skilled hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">The bastard even made love to her before he
pressed his teeth to her throat and gave her the release she desperately
craved. As he stole her innocence, he liberated her from a life she'd never
wanted: a mother addicted to therapy and
booze, and a father more obsessed with trying to describe the color of her hair
than with questioning why that color came from a bottle when she was only 13.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">When I tore my mouth from his nurturing
throat, my lips wet with her blood, I could only look into Miquel's predatory
eyes and cry out when I saw my own iridescent reflection caught there. I would
have killed him if I could, yet there was no denying he was already dead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">In shock, my words came out cold and
ineloquent. "You godless, soulless bastard—you <i>murdered</i> her!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">But he shook his head and forced my head
down on his shoulder, knowing I was too weak to resist. Worse, he knew I <i>wouldn't</i> resist, for he was my Creator
whom I would love by nature, even in the face of a hatred equally profound.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">It was a paradox for which no reconciliation
existed, and by that very definition it was madness itself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">In defiance of nature, my body quickened as
he coddled me, and that was worse still. Shame overwhelmed me, and I wept in
denial as the river of arousal flowed from me in a rush that confirmed his
intolerable power over me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"You murdered her!" I shouted,
twisting and writhing. My fists flailed at his face, his neck, the air, but the
blows had no effect whatsoever. "You murdered her! You murdered my baby girl!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">With little effort, he stilled my protests,
placing one hand firmly over my mouth and the other in the center of my chest
until I fell back, unable to do anything more than stare up into his face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"No, my dearest Stefan," he said
with a degree of regret that astonished me, "<i>you</i> murdered her—you and your busy, busy world that had no time for
a little girl with a melancholy soul."
And as if I needed to hear it again, he leaned down close to my ear and
repeated, "<i>You</i> killed her. I
only gave her the ability to die."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">My mortal tears were drying as they fell,
though my chest still heaved. "Then kill me, too!" I begged, so frail
I could barely speak. I hadn't the strength to attack him again, yet I couldn't
imagine going on with him in the same world—wanting him, needing him as a
father, a friend, a teacher and more. Loving him more than I could have loved
hatred itself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">I vowed to destroy him. But at the same
moment, my immortal soul was swelling and shattering with the excruciating love
a man feels for someone who has just saved his life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">That was the price, that was the passion,
that was the motivation which would spur me to eternity itself. Damned to love
the creature who had murdered my daughter, it was his blood mingling with hers
in my veins that caused my vampyre heart to start beating.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">"Kill me!" I demanded, appalled at
the strengthening flutter in my hollow chest, yet secretly filled with a hunger
that horrified me with its intensity. "If you have any compassion in you,
kill me, Miquel!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">A jeweled hand stroked my head. "I
already have," he whispered, and gave an ironic smile.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Then, rising from the sofa, he lifted me
easily into his arms and, like a loving father, carried me up the stairs to his
white satin bed. There he lay me down to sleep, curling his body around me,
sheltering me in the down of his noble black wings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Perhaps there was no God, but I knew then
there was a devil. Not the Christian devil, to be sure, but colder still and
far more brutal. Marble hearted. Not a fallen angel, but one who had
deliberately flown away from the light because it offended him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .3in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Is
the coyote evil because he kills? No, he is only a hungry coyote, capable of
compassion.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">Because
he left me no other choice, I fell into a cold and bottomless sleep with the
kiss of the black angel on my lips and the blood of my Stephanie dancing The
Mephisto Waltz in my veins. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua";">~~~<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b>Copyright 2015, by Della Van Hise<br />All Rights Reserved</b></div>
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 18.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">If
you enjoyed <b><i>KISS OF THE BLACK ANGEL</i></b> and want to know what happens next,
please consider purchasing the novel, which is available under the title <b><i>SONS
OF NEVERLAND</i></b>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Available
through our website at <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><a href="http://www.eyescrypublications.com/">http://www.eyescrypublications.com</a><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">or
in print or e-book format on Amazon!<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sons-Neverland-Della-Van-Hise/dp/0989693880/">http://www.amazon.com/Sons-Neverland-Della-Van-Hise/dp/0989693880/</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 18.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; font-size: 18.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">~~~</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><u><span style="font-family: Verdana; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">SONS OF NEVERLAND</span></u></b><u><span style="font-family: Verdana; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .2in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">an erotic
vampyre novel by<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .2in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Della Van
Hise<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .2in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">"The virtuosity shown here is
only the beginning of a pyrotechnic talent unfolding into the hidden dimensions
of the human and nonhuman spirit." <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">-Jacqueline
Lichtenberg<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .2in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">"Sensual! Sexy!
Surreal!"</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
-<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">North</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype></st1:place>
Times<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .2in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">"A literary triumph where the
undead<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .2in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">have more heart & soul than
the living." <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">-</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">The Readers<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">"What Sons of Neverland resembled to me was the
creative hagiographies of Nikos Kazantzakis, where a few stylized characters
deliver a message that goes way beyond the parameter of the characters
themselves. And much like Kazantzakis, this book zones on the question of
immortality. However, this is not just the decadent historical immortality of
the long-lived vampire, it is immortality as a change in one's perception. This
is the story behind the story, delivered by characters that are hyper-real -
each one loaded with symbolism. Sons of Neverland will have you filled, even
brimming over with the sense of Mysterium Tremendum et Fascinans. Go there for
a full helping of the numinous." (A Reviewer on Amazon!)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">____________________<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Set against a backdrop of contemporary culture, SONS OF
NEVERLAND explores the universal questions of life & death, sex & love
- the most crucial challenges every human being faces - through the eyes of the
immortal vampire. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">_______________<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">Readers have compared SONS OF NEVERLAND to the works of
Anne Rice, Carlos Castaneda, and Anais Nin. One reader summed it up as follows:
"SONS OF NEVERLAND is one of the most erotic books I've ever read. I found
it totally uplifting regardless of the gritty story In the end, it made me
realize that light can't exist without darkness. Thank you for a truly
exceptional read!" (Charlene J.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">_______________<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .2in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .2in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">A shorter version of this book was published in TOMORROW MAGAZINE,
under the title "Kiss of the Black Angel." The novel in its entirety
was published as a limited first edition under the title "Ragged
Angels."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.eyescrypublications.com/"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt;">http://www.eyescrypublications.com</span></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>Kiss of the Black Angel </i>and <i>Sons of Neverland</i></b></div>
</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b>Copyright 2015, by Della Van Hise<br />All Rights Reserved</b><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
Della Van Hise / Quantum Shamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15981554252784274711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5483744569183531224.post-76524128690489261112014-12-31T14:15:00.001-08:002014-12-31T14:29:39.743-08:00Getting Found In the "Other" World<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrM9AdGQIBOYMgW4mFRlEToJ-4JwZg3aH_0d-FVKqzgtXZvzeelZdfw2Xux28uf4-YAw-CeUhJWziCmaJTgVOQGQVOQ0i9iVrwHf9rBfSes6XIWS-Bw2G9TW5qQA_MZ2PDoW9vrODxXpHR/s1600/other+category.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrM9AdGQIBOYMgW4mFRlEToJ-4JwZg3aH_0d-FVKqzgtXZvzeelZdfw2Xux28uf4-YAw-CeUhJWziCmaJTgVOQGQVOQ0i9iVrwHf9rBfSes6XIWS-Bw2G9TW5qQA_MZ2PDoW9vrODxXpHR/s1600/other+category.jpg" height="187" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">One huge problem writers face nowadays is being able to "Choose a BISAC Category". Or, in simple language - Where the hell does my book fit in this big long list of categories that don't fit my book?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My SO writes a lot of male/male romance. But there's no such category on most of the common publishers' lists. We have things like "Gay" but that doesn't really fit, because the stories may not be about "being gay" as much as they are about being <i>human</i>. Okay, so we move on to "Erotica." But that doesn't really work, because a large majority of the population automatically envisions a heterosexual pairing, and so your work will get panned by the uber-conservatives who still think love only exists between a man and a woman in the missionary position (and everyone else is going to hell, just ask 'em). Moving along, we come to "Romance." But again, that probably isn't going to work for the same reasons that "Erotica" isn't going to work. Preconceived prejudices and false belief systems to protect and all that. So then we come to the inevitable "Other" category - into which go things such as "Auntie Mae's Reviews on Maps" or "Things To Make Out of Rain." Put simply - placing your book in the "Other" category ensures its obscurity despite what your old professor in college may have told you. Truth is - he doesn't want the competition, so he's probably <i>not</i> your best friend when it comes to marketing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What to do?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG3kk8Dr14Et54jlRrqZtyVRwJkCLGEYGiqNbEIclJSXYBvlZLqah2nYORmDA2F0xJETMqx2xycEqlN0MXtpfaAGkB4e_tdY3c4flzvfr-QgW5GfV8avZNSUKtLlRbcxNTh_2mwRE_dekU/s1600/front+cover.smaller.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG3kk8Dr14Et54jlRrqZtyVRwJkCLGEYGiqNbEIclJSXYBvlZLqah2nYORmDA2F0xJETMqx2xycEqlN0MXtpfaAGkB4e_tdY3c4flzvfr-QgW5GfV8avZNSUKtLlRbcxNTh_2mwRE_dekU/s1600/front+cover.smaller.jpg" height="320" width="244" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sometimes we need to let go of our<br />
original idea and rebirth a book in a new<br />
format. Sons of Neverland was such an<br />
experiment.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What I've found in my own work is that categorizing it may not matter nearly as much as we think it does - at least not to the general readers, who tend to browse by keywords rather than trudging through pages upon endless cyberpages of a publisher's online catalog. I could be wrong. My SO tells me I often am. So take my comments with a large block of salt (iodized sea salt is generally best).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I finally got so annoyed with the whole idea of trying to label my writing (most of which fits into NO established category) that I listened to some "experts" who say that the category of "Literary" is the absolute WORST, as far as selling books is concerned. Hmmm. So as an experiment, being the rogue I am, I decided to list one of my books as "Literary > General" Just about as generic and nondescript as one can get.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: center;">Sold more copies of that book in the first month than I had sold in the 3+ years it had been listed as "Gay>Paranormal>Science Fiction>Romance>Naughty Naughty Naughty>Men With Aliens on Crack>Don't Read This Or You Will Go Blind" or whatever absurdly absurd category in which it had been previously listed. (Don't be too impressed. It had only sold maybe 10 copies in 3 years - largely </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: center;">because</i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: center;"> it couldn't be found, so selling that same amount in a month is no cause for balloons and cake.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm not saying that listing in the Literary category will help you sell your books. I'm just saying (just sayin'!) that stressing over what label to stick on your own butt is generally a waste of time and energy. One likes to HOPE (a lost art) that readers have the good sense to take a long, hard look at the "Look Inside" provided by many publishers and distributors. And if the obscure e-book site YOU use doesn't believe in a "Look Inside," then drag yourself over to Amazon despite your abject hatred of All Things Corporate, and use <i>their</i> "Look Inside" even if you never buy a single book from them. It's free to look, after all, and it will (maybe) save you a lot of grief down the road. Returning an ebook can be like trying to step in the same river twice. Good luck with that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Of course, another problem is that bad writers have gotten savvy to the fact that Amazon (and others) generally tend to offer the first 10-15% of the book as their "Look Inside." That being the case, writers who know they can't rub two words together to create an original thought have taken to working and re-working that first 10-15% so that admittedly readers can be fooled</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. Some writers even hire professional editors to revamp the opening chapter(s) of their book, so that when we buy it, we're impressed with the beginning, and </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">then</i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> we are treated to all the spelling errors, grammatical terrors, and complete inability to punctuate, paragraph, or otherwise create a single sentence that isn't full of glaring mistakes (as well as being full of another sticky brown substance we would all rather not step in). And, yes, I know that's improper grammar. But ya gotta </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">know</i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> the rules before you can take the liberty of breaking them, and far too many "writers" simply don't. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So that brings us to Keywords. And therein lies a whole <i>other</i> can o' worms, just waiting to gnaw at the crisp white pages of your brand new book. What the hell is a keyword anyway? And how do you decide what keywords actually fit your book? If you've written about your cat-on-a-long-journey-home through the ghettos of Los Angeles and the penthouses of San Francisco, you've got it somewhat easy - or so it seems at first. Keywords might include: cat story, ghetto cat, penthouse cat, treacherous cat journey, long journey home" and the usual boring things we might come up with just to get to the end of the prep work and finally get the book in print. But... a writer who wants to <i>sell</i> her books is going to consider not just the obvious list of "easy" keywords, but think how your customers might think.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">First of all, before you even <i>write</i> your book, <i>if</i> your goal is to sell it (and it may not be - some writers claim they write "strictly for fun" but I usually find writing about as much fun as a bucket of angry scorpions), you may want to stop and ask yourselves just <i>how many</i> people really want to read your cat-on-a-long-journey-home book. Sure, if you get struck by lightning (or your cat does) and your book goes viral and straight to the top of the New York Times Bestseller's List, then everyone on Planet Earth (and neighboring planets) will beat a path to your door despite your boring keywords. But if you're like most writers, you're not going to be the one struck by that lone bolt of lightning, and neither is your book about your cat. So - while I'm not discouraging writers from writing about <i>any</i> subject that interests them, it's important to define your own goals <i>before</i> you waste months or years writing a book that is going to languish in obscurity (trust me - I'm an expert on that!) What do <i>you</i> want from the book? Are you looking to be a <i>professional</i> writer and make a living at your craft? Is it a hobby, and you don't give a fat rat's shiny hiney if you sell a single copy? Is it something you're writing to impress your mother-in-law in lieu of getting a <i>real</i> job? Define your goals or don't be surprised when you are disappointed down the road. There's no right answer. The only "wrong" answer is to not have a clue.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But back to keywords and your heart-warming cat-on-a-long-journey-home story. What might <i>readers</i> search for if they wanted to read about your cat? How about... "cat hero, cat left behind, cat comes home, stranger in a strange land, fish out of water story, survival in the wild" and on down the line of infinite possibilities. And remember - most sites don't restrict keywords to <i>one</i> word. Phrases are generally acceptable, so for my vampire novel (for example), I realized that readers were searching for phrases such as "I want to be a vampire," or "I want to live forever," or "I want to be immortal." It's always about <i>them</i> - and knowing that can give you an advantage you might otherwise overlook. It's impossible to know what readers <i>really</i> think, but it's a good challenge for writers to at least consider it when working on keywords and fighting to keep their book <i>out</i> of that dreaded "Other" category. Use some of the obvious (because most people will go straight for the mundane) but think outside the litter box, too!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_7lPs_mYFDSH0mqR9iwSjEp_j3B1IwtKDQE73PASAGOHpQIrncZTr_JPYh6EP7fhkHMEDxE0VK7njV5HtLWZ7qu1ugFC9ddtufziKUk7Nr9szRic1ImQq-0PFR1xNFFxBiAL0f7hSeiH3/s1600/too-many-hats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_7lPs_mYFDSH0mqR9iwSjEp_j3B1IwtKDQE73PASAGOHpQIrncZTr_JPYh6EP7fhkHMEDxE0VK7njV5HtLWZ7qu1ugFC9ddtufziKUk7Nr9szRic1ImQq-0PFR1xNFFxBiAL0f7hSeiH3/s1600/too-many-hats.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first step is knowing <i>which</i> hat<br />
you actually <i>want</i> to wear...<br />
today.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The bottom line here is simple (and kinda scary). We now live in a digital age where the indy writer has to wear all the hats. Writer, editor, publisher, typesetter, cover artist, marketing director, publicist - and probably a dozen more I've forgotten (because my brain is addled from wearing too many hats). At present, the field is wide open - which is both good and bad. Good in that writers no longer have to be entirely dependent on a publisher in order to see their work in print. Bad in the sense that the market is glutted with a lot of books by a lot of bad writers, but even worse - that mountain of crap is often obscuring the gems and jewels hidden behind it. Readers have been burned too many times by too much flaming horse shit and are now wary - and who can blame them?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There's no easy answer, of course. The major indy distributors (such as Amazon, just for example) really can't afford to hire an army of editors to weed out the weeds, and so there is no quality control standard - not a standard to determine the social/cultural merit of books, but to determine whether or not the writer is in third grade writing bad porn in study hall and then publishing it as BDSM on the internet. That's another subject for another day, alas.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For now - start with this. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Ask yourself what you want from your work. Once you have the answer to <i>that</i> question, a lot of the other chaos sweeps itself up into a nice pile... only to get scattered to the four winds all over again when you ask yourself the <i>next</i> question.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Do you have the stamina, or even the <i>desire</i> to wade through snake-infested jungles just to get to the first sentence?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It really <i>is</i> a dark and stormy night. But don't forget - I told you that in the first post of this dark and stormy blog. You can shoot the messenger, but the message will still be all too true.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So go write. If you dare. And only if you care.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
_____________<br />
copyright 2014 by Della Van Hise<br />
All Rights Reserved<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.eyescrypublications.com/">Eye Scry Publications</a><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Della-Van-Hise/e/B003ZOK75G/ref=dp_byline_cont_book_1">My Books on Amazon</a><br />
<br />
<br />Della Van Hise / Quantum Shamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15981554252784274711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5483744569183531224.post-1434397791850112252014-12-20T18:11:00.002-08:002014-12-20T23:22:40.629-08:00Once Upon a Mad, Mad Time...<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Once upon a mad, mad time in my life, I wanted to be a writer. I was eleven years old, and had fallen deeply in love with Star Trek, much to the dismay of my mother, my friends, and just about everyone who knew me. It's called an obsession, and it's an ugly thing. Very. Very. Ugly. It turns an otherwise sane human being into wild-eyed fanatic who can think about nothing else, talk about nothing else, and eventually drives those around her so certifiably insane that they stop answering the phone and go the other way when they see you coming. At that point, the only remaining outlet is to finagle a way to get one's hands on some manner of writing device.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA_8rI8JArJyNZ7huId6MODcxytAwwqMDo4K_uzsAukDwpMH63WrxlwUDr6nqiWLjagBi9J0Eb6UG4WVQUMh7jt7ko41PEjppxhoj83JodY4krQmq8FD7Sps-IxQctaa07dYEiZbf3RHKk/s1600/obsolete.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA_8rI8JArJyNZ7huId6MODcxytAwwqMDo4K_uzsAukDwpMH63WrxlwUDr6nqiWLjagBi9J0Eb6UG4WVQUMh7jt7ko41PEjppxhoj83JodY4krQmq8FD7Sps-IxQctaa07dYEiZbf3RHKk/s1600/obsolete.jpg" height="292" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Back in <i>those</i> days (she said with a toothless, evil grin), that device happened to be an ancient typewriter, original equipment in the Parthenon, and guaranteed to slice through even the most determined little fingers as they banged out story after story about Kirk, Spock, McCoy and the crew of that awesome starship known as <i>Enterprise.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i>
My mother said it wouldn't last. "In ten years, you won't even remember this <i>Star Trek</i> thing," she said one fine Sunday morning when she was trying to convince me that church was a good thing. "It's a fad. A flash in the pan. A lark."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So I spent that morning in Sunday school taking notes for my next grand writing project, all the while pretending to be studiously jotting down the names of the eight tiny reindeer... or maybe it was the twelve disciples. Don't rightly remember because my mind was filled with Romulans and Klingons and wondering just how in all the scattered worlds I might actually <i>find</i> the Guardian of Forever and beg his holiness to transport me out of that church pew and drop me somewhere in the general vicinity of Spock's quarters.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was pathetic.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUDmSztIeis-k0YOBy-GNSCdAklPEQii2EBZEg5JEftjf9gSNxW43geGRReeM2jlvIyuP3BSdRJf4eGjRuwgfNx03UKAuJvi2_73an4sO9Lm6JnyiUCACmFgInserxHohGv4udKa69JUj0/s1600/killingtime2%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUDmSztIeis-k0YOBy-GNSCdAklPEQii2EBZEg5JEftjf9gSNxW43geGRReeM2jlvIyuP3BSdRJf4eGjRuwgfNx03UKAuJvi2_73an4sO9Lm6JnyiUCACmFgInserxHohGv4udKa69JUj0/s1600/killingtime2%5B1%5D.jpg" height="320" width="187" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But somehow I survived those initial years of obsession, though I can't say it ever completely wore off. To the contrary. even after <i>Star Trek</i> was taken off the air and disappeared into obscurity for many years, I remained deeply involved in the love affair I had going with it - through my writing. All of it was absolutely dreadful, you realize. Pure, steaming crap. I ran across a smattering of it stuffed far in the back of a closet not long ago, and was horrified to realize that I could have died and been subject to deep embarrassment at my own funeral. The only hope for it was to burn it, so that it might at least provide some small manner of warmth for the ravens who sit on top of the chimney and speak in tongues about things of great importance.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But here's the thing. It was that obsession which led to the writing of my first pro book, KILLING TIME. Now generally accepted as the most controversial <i>Star Trek</i> book ever published, it nonetheless <i>was</i> published, and at the age of 24, that felt like a major accomplishment. I was a published, professional writer, and damn proud of myself. Puffed out my chest. Spoke with a vague hint of a British accent for a few weeks (even though I was born and raised in the deep south of Crazyville, aka Central Florida). Considered smoking a pipe and getting one of those corduroy jackets with the funny leather patches on the elbows.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Of course, for anyone who already knows the story, my victory was short-lived, for it wasn't long before the book was recalled by the publisher, re-edited, and re-issued... all without so much as even explaining to me precisely what the hell was going on. Turns out, because I was a known writer of <a href="http://www.fanzinesplus.com/">K/S fan fiction</a>, it was an Absolute Fact that KILLING TIME was a professionally published book wherein Kirk and Spock were doing the nasty dance on every other page, while McCoy peered in from the sidelines with a twisted grin and Nurse Chapel mourned piteously because clearly Spock was spoken for by El Capitan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Horseshit.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That's what it really was. Yes, I wrote fan fiction. Yes, I wrote some of the most explicit K/S out there at the time, though it would probably be considered tame by today's standards, and I have no regrets. But I did NOT include any of that in KILLING TIME - and whoever chose to <i>see</i> it in there was just <i>choosing</i> to see it. So, for the record, there never was any "super secret version" of KILLING TIME. I've heard all the rumors. I've even been called a liar for daring to say that the rumor is as ludicrous as those who choose to believe it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But no matter. Despite all the infamy of KILLING TIME, anyone who read the book and later saw the first reboot <i>Star Trek</i> movie (2009) might just recognize the plot of the book on the great big screen. Captain Spock. Ensign Kirk. Time-tampering Romulans altering the past and therefore changing the future. Sound familiar? It did to me... but, hey, I'm just the black-listed writer of a very old book. KILLING TIME came out in 1984, and it is a fact that the contracts on those books were iron-clad. Bottom line - the writers of those books retain NO rights, receive NO royalties beyond a certain point, absolutely NO royalties on ebook sales (and KILLING TIME has sold a butt-load of e-books!), and, to top it all off with a bitter cherry, the powers that be can just take the books, plot and all, slam them up on the big screen... and the writer never sees a dime. Not. One. Dime.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Yes, I signed the contract. I write that one off to being young and stupid, and desperately wanting to be a writer. If I had it to do over again? I'd throw the manuscript in the deepest pit, damn the environmentalists, and light fire to the underbrush before I would <i>ever</i> sign another contract like that one!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Though I've told the story of what <i>really</i> happened with KILLING TIME many times in the past, I'll include it here in abbreviated form. Long story short, back in those days, there were at least 3 or 4 copies of the manuscript floating around the publisher's office. One copy was the original. Another copy went to the editor. Another went to the offices at Paramount. And still another (eventually) went to the typesetter. (For those too young to know what a typesetter is... look it up). So... what's supposed to happen is that Paramount does their editing changes, returns the manuscript to the publisher, at which point the editor makes any other necessary changes (copy editing, typos, etc), and then the twice-edited manuscript is sent on to the typesetter prior to publication. Well... somewhere in all that chaos, whatever copy Paramount edited got lost in the frazzle, and the <i>original manuscript</i> got sent straight to the typesetter. Not surprising, since there were at least 3 or 4 different editors on KILLING TIME from the time it was submitted until it was finally published over four years later. So... any relevant changes, deletions, alterations that had been made were not included in the version that eventually got published.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">All of this, of course, became <i>my</i> fault. (Isn't it always the writer's fault when the publisher who is 3000 miles away makes a drastic and irreversible error?) Writers make good scapegoats, as you will undoubtedly learn if you are a writer or hoping to become one. At any rate, my editor was on the phone literally <i>screaming</i> in my ear, and all I could think was - <i>What the hell was I thinking when I was thinking I wanted to be a writer?</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i>
</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLdSSTpTf4WJ9fbA8pAhJ5hlHdwoWvTXFKMCKzBwNSxIhmZOUxpAPp-1fuqR-tnmmgwythjnQOjq6N8E0SJerJwKb1LO8ibI_IG2CWjCIDXGBuCm9_HwTkY28a6ahHOUMbnuh6I1SB95up/s1600/Star-Trek-2009-1sheet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLdSSTpTf4WJ9fbA8pAhJ5hlHdwoWvTXFKMCKzBwNSxIhmZOUxpAPp-1fuqR-tnmmgwythjnQOjq6N8E0SJerJwKb1LO8ibI_IG2CWjCIDXGBuCm9_HwTkY28a6ahHOUMbnuh6I1SB95up/s1600/Star-Trek-2009-1sheet.jpg" height="320" width="216" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I should be absolutely clear that I have no regrets about writing KILLING TIME<i>. </i>I don't even really care that it was made into a movie (and I didn't even get a lousy t-shirt, let alone a screen credit!). What <i>really</i> annoys me with the whole shebang is that writers have always been treated like second class citizens, and probably always will be. Would it <i>really</i> be so much to ask for the publishers to throw even a small royalty for e-books in the writer's direction? After all, publishers have NO overhead where e-pubs are concerned, and just because they <i>can</i> get away with it doesn't mean they <i>should</i>. Then again... I was raised on <i>Star Trek</i> - a series that postulated the idea of good over evil, fairness above greed, and so on. But I tend to forget... that's still science fiction.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i>So for my first entry in my writer's blog, this is just one horror story among many. But it's enough for now. I will conclude by saying that I wish I had taken up brain surgery or advanced string theory. Either would be far more straightforward and far less painful than the absurd task of trying to be a writer.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Am I bitter? Sure, but what writer isn't? Did I have the good sense to quit and get my brain surgeon license? Of course not, but what writer has 'good sense'?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Am I still writing? That's debatable. The little voices in my head continue to whisper from time to time, telling me stories which they insist I should put to paper. Paper? Really? No such thing anymore.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So is it really <i>writing</i> if nothing is written down, but only scribbled on the transient fabric of cyberspace? Jury's still out.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This is the part where I'm supposed to put on a happy face and convince you that <i>your</i> experience will be different. You will be The One upon whom sunbeams shine brightly while fairies scatter glitter in your wake. But I'm not going to lie to you and I'm not going to pretend writing is easy. Maybe - if you're lucky enough or crazy enough - writing can be 'fun' on some level. But if you're a realist, you'll soon figure out that the <u style="font-style: italic;">business</u> of writing is about as much fun as hemorrhoids. There was a time when a writer wrote, a publisher published, an ad agency advertised, and consumers actually <i>bought</i> books instead of figuring out ways to steal them from 'free download' pirate sites.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Yup, those were the days (or so the story goes).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For what it's worth, my agenda with this blog is to tell you the truth about writing. It'll probably the best horror story ever written.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Copyright 2014 by Della Van Hise</span>Della Van Hise / Quantum Shamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15981554252784274711noreply@blogger.com0