Crickets and Cat Bellies

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 is 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 want 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?

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.

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 Star Trek episodes and whatever rare and occasional tidbit of fiction Bantam threw our way like scraps to starving cats. Because there was so very little 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 Star Trek novel ever published.  Rather than reiterating the saga here, if you're interested you can take a gander at a previous blog entry entitled "Once Upon A Mad, Mad Time."

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 Star Trek 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!

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.)

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, Alexis Fegan Black. In fact, I couldn't write fast enough to satisfy the hunger of my fans - and for those days I am profoundly grateful! 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!

And yet, I have to wonder... where are those people now? 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 other 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.

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 this 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 is 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.

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?"

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.

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 more technology becomes available every day, less 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.

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 (Prince of Umberlight), 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 love the thing itself.  Me? I like that old saying, loosely paraphrased... "I don't like writing, but I love having-written." But even so...

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 is 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 is human nature.

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 very bad writers having very good success on Amazon and elsewhere. And I see some very good 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.

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.
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May 14, 2015

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Eye Scry Publications

Dangerous Playthings

Just released!

Dangerous Playthings 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.

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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.

Told is a poetic and literary voice, DANGEROUS PLAYTHINGS is a story that will haunt you for centuries to come.

____________

Available from Amazon - and only 99 cents to buy!

Also available directly from the publisher
Eye Scry Publications

______________

   The cracks in Merkinder’s window fractured Willow’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?

   The others had all gone.

   Earth.

   Air.

   Fire.

   Water.

   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.

   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.  

   It was no coincidence that Willow 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.

   But Willow wasn’t like the others. She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She wasn’t afraid.

Instead, she sang. Not in a particularly beautiful voice, but with an undeniable connection to... something.

   That something, 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.

   Eternity...  

   The word rolled over in his mind, faithful companion and savage trickster. The yin and yang of his tumultuous essence.

   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 that 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...

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Sorry I Sat On Your Rose-Colored Glasses

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 (Once Upon A Mad, Mad Time), 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.

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.
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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.

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 tired of the whole absurd syndrome!"

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... life. 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 weary of jumping through hurdles and hoops (most of them blazing), only to end up two more steps behind at the end of the day.

Yes, I'm whining. And if you're any sort of serious writer, you can probably understand why. 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.

1.  Life gets in the way of writing.  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 (Eye Scry Designs) 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.

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.

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.

2. I stole this book from you, but could you read it to me? 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."

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!

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.

And if you don't have the decency, you may want to consider the consequences - 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 will drive you to drink. And if you don't, aren't you just sweeping it under the rug?

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 you for my 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.

And if you are dumb enough to download one of my books from a pirate site, don't ask me to explain it to you.

3. Use your head - just once. 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 anything 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.

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 some 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."

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).

4.  Banished to the Island of Obscurity.  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 Game of Thrones and World of Warcraft 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 really do to have even a small chance that the one book they do 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 that entails).

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 want to write, but after awhile, it becomes disheartening to think I am writing them only for myself.  If 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.

5. Where have all the readers gone? (sung in the key of E-minor) 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 Star Trek fan fic to AO3, and with each story I include a mention of my works on Amazon, much of which is in the exact same vein (male/male romance), and near as I can tell, there is incredible interest in the old fan fic, but virtually no cross-over interest into my professional works. Is it only because the fan fic is free?

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 only the characters of Will Holloway and Jim Nightshade. I read the author - 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.

It is a strange world in which we live. That's the only thing I really know anymore.

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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 wish that were possible, but that genie climbed out of her bottle and escaped long ago.

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:

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. 

Of course, the "problem" (is it a problem?) is that when we see writing in today's world for what it is, it can be so overwhelming that it begins to seem that the only winning move is not to play. Or, simply, "Why bother?"

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.)

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So... why did I bother to write this?

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.  

Stay sane... if you can.

________________

My latest work of fiction, written under my
long-standing brand - "Alexis Fegan Black."
Available on Amazon or
Eye Scry Publications

E for Effort, EF for Epic Fail

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."

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.

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."

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 get 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 do break the rules, it will be obvious to your readers that it was intentional rather than just a blunder of unparalleled ignorance.

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 might 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.

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 any 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.

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 before 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 all of these blunders are fixable.

And this raises another point. Whatever happened to having a good story and good writing? Let's talk about Ray Bradbury, who wrote some of the most lyrical stories ever written, and 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.

But here's the rub: if you're a writer who wants to have any chance of success in this brave new world of indy publishing, the very first thing you have to do is to produce a book that is readable, and as close to perfect as it can 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 if you have done your job as the writer.

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 life through a thorough understanding of who they are - in other words, think before you write. As a reader, I'm much more interested in knowing why 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...)

And finally... if you are going to invest a lot of time, energy and money in your book, if you are going to rent an expensive billboard, please do yourself the service of having your book properly edited before you put it up on Amazon. It's the only way that billboard is ever going to earn its keep.

...and, no, I am not 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.  :)

Carry on.

Remembering Leonard Nimoy

Someone suggested sharing "Your Favorite Leonard Nimoy Moments." Here's one of mine.

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").

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?"

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."

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.

3 Out of 4 Voices In My Head...

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 (Prince of Umberlight) and am in the process of writing the second in the same series, I'm starting to remember why I gave it all up for so many years.

Aside from the obvious reasons (not the least of which is that my dogs and cats like to eat, and writing is not 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 their 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.

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 really 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)...

And there are vampires in my head asking - nay, demanding - 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.

But be that as it may... (they will be on me again as soon as they realize I've deceived them!)...

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, "Getting Found In the 'Other' World," 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.

Did you know that most of the Star Trek
writers don't get a single cent from the
digital sales of their books? One more
reason I have come to favor
 indy publishing.

When I initially released Sons of Neverland 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.

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.

 I could go into an entire diatribe about that, but two things are stopping me:

1.  The vampires have found me again and insist I must stop this foolishness and get back to telling their tales; and...

2.  It would 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.

      

Year of the Ram - Available on Amazon!

Erotica: A Return to My Roots

Prince of Umberlight 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.

One advance reader said, "If Prince of Umberlight 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.

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 human beings, so I make no apologies for what I've written, nor for who and what I-Am.

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 Prince of Umberlight under my long-established pseudonym (which I've never kept secret), Alexis Fegan Black. 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.

If you want to get a feel for the book, please check out the "Look Inside" on Amazon or proceed to the excerpt below.

Yes, it is erotica. Yes, it is explicit. It is even very, very naughty.

And no, I will not apologize
_________________

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! 

_________________

Prince of Umberlight
(abridged excerpt)

PROLOGUE

Now I lay me down to dream

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.

There can be no when in a land where there is no time.

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.

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.

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.

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 any 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 that.

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.

But as to the question of when...

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.

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 believe 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.

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.

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.

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.

Love?

Excuse my blasphemy, but does that make any measure of sense to any rational creature?

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.

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.

To dispel the distasteful myths...

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.

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?

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.

I am the paradox incarnate. All that I say is truth. And every truth is a lie.

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.

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.

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 all constructs of energy. This is, of course, the ultimate contradiction to one such as myself.

I-Am, when all is said and done, a being of light.

I have no qualms with such irony. In fact, I embrace it completely.

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.

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.

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.

But I have strayed somewhere to the north of the point.

It wasn't only the death of another mortal lover that caused me such despair. It was fully seeing that the being I had known as Emily was gone. Into the nothing that is the marriage bed of eternity and infinity. Knowing there was no God, I knew equally there was no heaven.

And so I set for myself the task of creating one.

I set for myself the task of dreaming into being a world where death and time have no dominion.

So perhaps it could be said that Umberlight was sung into existence just Then, on the cusp of the Sorrowday and Hollownight.

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.

But even those words are demons of deception. What is... simply is.

Umberlight did not exist before that long night of my grief, but now it has always been there and always will be.

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.

I needed somewhere to direct all of those feelings that otherwise dissipate and vanish into the curse of forgetting.

Love.

Rage.

Hope.

Sorrow.

Emptiness.

Winter's memories.

The poetry of fireflies.

The spidersilk of dreams.

These are the ingredients of Umberlight.

NEITHER CHAPTER NOR VERSE

The dream before the Dreaming

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.

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.

"Vampyre, father, incubus, lover," I intoned as I had done each night for several months. "Come to me now, make me yours forever."

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.

"Vampyre, father, incubus, lover... come to me now, make me yours forever."

I murmured the incantation for the second time, my breath coming faster as the fire in my belly burned higher.

The trick was to go slow. To focus on my intent. To tease the pleasure without indulging it too soon.

My hand slowed, though it wanted to move faster. My heart pounded, a summoning drum.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

"Yes," I whispered. "Yes – it's what I want!"

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.

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.

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.

I froze.

I could not breathe, did not dare to move.

"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.

Vampyre. Father. Incubus. Lover.

"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."

 Words of the summoning

 Words of madness.

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.

"My name is Ambrose," the man said, "and I am the destroyer of your world."

Words I had imagined.

A name I had learned in my dreams.

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.

"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.

There was no discussion, no polite dance prior to the act.

He simply did it before I could say another word.

 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.

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.

It was the most horrific moment of my life.

It was the most shameful moment of my life.

And it was, without a doubt, the most strikingly intimate moment of my life.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I belonged to Ambrose now.

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.

I wanted it to be over.

I wanted it to never end.

I raised myself higher.

"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."

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.

"Vampyre, father, incubus, lover," I wept as his hand tightened and released around my throbbing phallus. "Come to me now, make me yours forever."

His flame burned inside me for another hour while we lay together in the aftermath, his vampyre body resting heavily on my back.

"Come find me, Mikal," he commanded me. "When you do, it will be time to begin."

The wind went still.

The lantern had gone dark.

Ambrose was gone, but I knew without a doubt that I had met my maker.

________________

Copyright © 2015, by Della Van Hise, Alexis Fegan Black and Eye Scry Publications

All Rights Reserved

Prince of Umberlight is available through Amazon or directly from the author at Eye Scry Publications. To read other works under the name, Alexis Fegan Black, consider Fanzines Plus.