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It’s All Relative

“My old friend, how have you been?” he asked me.

I shrugged. “I saved a fae. That’s about it.”

We laughed. Charly took my hand and kissed my fingers. He was always a sweet gentleman. “And how goes the world?”

I smiled at the kindness, but shook my head at the question. “The world is a mess,” I replied. “It’s different and devolving, but what can you do? They’re just mere mortals.” He nodded in agreement. “Besides, I’m more interested in how you have been. How are things here?”

He drank his tea the same as he has always taken it, a lot of grey with a bit of Earl, just a sprinkle of a fingernail or a hair to add flavor to the cup. “You’ve been gone a long while,” Charly said to me. “It’s been quiet. There hasn’t been much that has changed.”

“I think it’s good not much has changed.” I drank my tea, sweetened with a bit of honey. I didn’t drink tea like how I used to. Everything tasted better sweeter. “Even I haven’t changed that much. I’m still running away from things.”

We laughed and he shook his head. “Is it always so hard for you?” he asked me. “You deserve some bit of happiness in your life.”

“I’m working on it,” I replied. “I’m just impatient for things to get to where I want it to be. It’ll get there, eventually. The hardest things are the kinks,” I told him. He leaned in to listen. “There’s just a bit of annoyance.”

“What annoyance?” he asked. “It’s hard to imagine things irking you.”

I laughed. “Try becoming human. Everything is an annoyance then.” He chuckled. I wasn’t sure if he was ever human. From the moment I met him, he had never been to that world. “I think I’m stuck,” I began again. “It’s like a loop that keeps playing over and over again.”

“Tell me more,” Charly inquired.

“Remember Anna?”

He nodded. “How could I forget?” he asked me. “She’s still married to our best friend.”

“Yes, him.” I paused for a moment. “When they met, the three of us were dark and corrupted, terrible and horrid in our ways.” Charly grinned. He knew exactly how we were. We weren’t kind by any means. We killed and plundered and did such evil things, it was a wonder as to why we all were able to retire quite peacefully and safely in this world. “Well, when Demonico met Anna, she was sweet and innocent and unblemished. A spoiled princess she was. He was smitten from the moment he met her and he wooed her with words I’ve never heard from him ever.”

“Are you still upset about that?” His cheery brows twisted with concern.

I smiled and shook my head. “It was long ago. I’ve long moved past that now.” He nodded and I continued. “Well, the annoyance was exactly that and them and how it just replays even now. Must we all be sweet and innocent and unblemished to be protected? Sometimes I yearn for that, just someone to say they’d save me, even if I never required rescuing. It’s just the comfort of being loved enough that someone would that makes it good to hear.”

“I would save you,” Charly said.

“You did,” I replied. “And I thank you for it.”

He gave me a smile and I smiled back. He saved me long ago when my home was burned to the ground. There was nothing left but ashes and a trail of slime which led into the waters, back to from where they came out of the deep. They were beautiful with their jellied bodies and flashing blue and red lights, bio luminescent in the darkness of the night. I should’ve said something. I should’ve warned someone. I was a helpless brain dead fool who couldn’t remember herself, let alone the generations she lived in that small coastal town where everyone she grew to love grew old and died, leaving her behind.

“Anyhow, it’s different this time. The annoyances aren’t much now, only sometimes when my mind becomes frantic with frustrations and fears. I will wait to hear him say the things I want to hear when he’s ready, when he means it, and when it comes from him and from his heart. It might actually work this time, this happiness thing that eludes me so much. I might have it and I hope I do.”

“I hope you do too,” Charly told me. His expression was the same, a bit soft and sharp at the same time, but he was happy for me. “I am glad it is working out.”

I nodded. “It is working.” I was happy about it working too. Another thought came to mind. “About the fae,” I said. “She is mine. I don’t think any harm would come to her and she should very well stay out of trouble, but the moment something happens, please give me a call. I am keeping one here following her in twilight, but you know how faes are. She understands that the moment she disobeys, she will be under lock and key and a prisoner. I doubt she wants that as faes love their freedom all too much, even if it’s only an illusion.”

“There hasn’t been any accidents,” he assured me. “Mayfel will be fine.”

“And if you ever need gold, you know where I stash mine.”

He laughed. Charly didn’t need gold, ever. We all retired handsomely with enough to last us until the end of the world and beyond. “Thanks,” he answered with a smile. He paused for a moment. “Must you go so soon?”

I nodded. “If I stay longer, you know what will happen.”

“You eat the food in my fridge?” He grinned and I laughed.

“Yes! But no, really. My mind will drift and I wouldn’t be able to hold consciousness in the other place.”

“So lose consciousness,” Charly said to me. “It’s okay for you to relax a little.”

“You don’t know my life,” I replied. “Relaxing is an understatement. Losing consciousness is an understatement.” I laughed. “I have to go. There are many, many things I should do that I’m not doing. There are things I need to find again, old gods I need to be friends again with and so forth.”

“Old gods?” He wasn’t sure if I meant what he thought I meant or if I meant something else entirely. The latter was the correct one.

“The ones that can’t kill us,” I told him. “We let them be what they are. They don’t know what we are and I like it that way.”

He nodded in agreement. There was something freeing about not being noticed. “I’m sorry about not being there for you,” he told me.

I smiled and shook my head. “It’s past,” I said. “We already spoke of it.”

“I didn’t hear you.” He felt pained.

“I know,” I comforted him. “I don’t hold it against you. When I died, I didn’t die, I simply faded into the ether. He thought I died. Silly old gods and all.”

“I’m sorry you were alone.”

“Don’t be.” I got up and walked over and hugged him. “I was lonely then. I wasn’t alone.”

I despaired at the time. I was foolish and hurt at the time. I was suicidal at the time. But nothing happened. I died. He believed I died. And I sat there watching him turn back to his millions of constructs and all his human subjects whose potential apparently was greater than mine. I was glad he didn’t see me cry. I don’t remember how long I was crying. Through blurry eyes, there was a hand and I reached out for it. The man with the green eyes. He came to me when no other heard my cries.

“I’m not losing consciousness anymore,” I informed Charly with a laugh.

“Does that mean I’ll get to keep you longer?” he asked with a smile.

I shook my head. “No, it just means I have other things to do. I’ll see you soon.”

“Come again, Chao,” Charly said to me. I nodded and made a mental note to come again soonish.

 
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Posted by on November 30, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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The End of All Things

“It’s been a long time since I’ve held a sword, Charly.”

“Then you shouldn’t keep your sword waiting,” he replied.

Chao shook her head. A sword was the end of all things. A taste of blood required more blood and Chao was no longer the same. She didn’t thirst for blood nor mischievous fun. She was mild in manner and always had been, but without Charly and Demonico to slay by her side, there was no point in slaying at all. A game was only a game when there were players to be playing.

“Do you remember what it was like, that first night?” Charly asked her. “I remembered I took you from that forsaken port town and gave you a life of your own. You held that sword in your hand and it danced with you, slicing elegant patterns in its wake. You were great at the game, even much better than Demonico.”

She ignored the mention of the other. She had seen him recently and had used nonviolent ways to set him free from some sort of entrapment. Surely it wasn’t any of Charly’s fault. Demonico had probably been wandering realms when he was caught. The creatures who caught him were ferocious hunters. It took Chao, Angelus, the second Angelus, Shaar, Six, and Five to take down a single entity. Demonico was trapped underground with a horde of them.

Where was Demonico now? Probably home safe with his wife, Anna.

“I don’t live by the sword anymore,” Chao told him. “I live by kindness and goodness and all the things hoped for that are unseen.”

Charly laughed. Kindness and goodness? What was Chao now, a saint? The thought lingered in his throat as a deep chuckle that he couldn’t resist holding down. “Did you forget what we were?” he asked her. He cocked his head to the side and stared into her deep cherry eyes. She had forgotten, or have tried to forget. It was there, her old self, a fading light like a dying star. He held her upper arms and laid his chin against her left shoulder. “We are the darkness that creeps, silent and still, choking all life in our path. We are the heroes that heroes only dreamed to be like.”

His whispers made her shudder. “You don’t even make sense,” she told him. “You and Demonico may be darkness, but I am not and I will refuse to become that which I once was.”

He lifted his head to look at her and frowned. “You loved the blood.”

She nodded. “I did. I relished it.”

“And not now?”

“I loved it too much. The killing. The torture. The fun. If I started again, I wouldn’t stop.”

“You’re afraid,” he said with a smile, confident that he had found out why she changed. “You’re afraid of who you really are.”

Chao shook her head. “A sword is the end of all things. I’m not afraid for myself or of what I might do. I’m afraid of all the ones in my path and that also means you.”

He bit his tongue and released her. “I’m not in your path,” Charly asserted. “Demonico and I are the closest of your friends. You would not hurt us.”

She reached out and touched his cheek. “You and Demonico are indeed the closest of friends that I have.” She paused. “But I have hurt you both and I will again without regard because that’s my true nature. I hurt worse the ones I love.”

Charly resigned his imploration with a smile. “Then perhaps it is best that you do not wield a sword again.”

“I resist the temptations,” Chao said. “When I give in, I normally sleep it off instead. I’ve been good.”

“So I won’t see you again?” Charly asked. It had been too long and she never came by often enough as it was.

“Oh, you will,” she told him. “It’s hard to resist temptations.”

 
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Posted by on May 14, 2015 in Ongoing Story Progression

 

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Silver Shackles Cover Reveal!

 

Silver Shackles

Revelations Trilogy: Book Two

by Fiona Skye

silver shackles cover

Cover image by Rachel Bostwick

Available on Amazon and in print June 15, 2015!

When you steal from faerie queens, the consequences are painful and sometimes deadly.

Were-jaguar and TV personality, Riley O’Rourke, has been looking over her shoulder ever since she stole from the Dark Queen of the Unseelie faeries. When Riley is contacted by an informant with knowledge that can blow the lid off the story of the year, she can’t pass up the opportunity to investigate. What she finds instead is something that puts her at the mercy of the Dark Queen, a creature not known for her compassion.

When Riley’s boyfriend, David, realizes she’s missing, he’ll do whatever it takes to get her back, including starting a war with the Unseelie. The balance of power among the Fae courts is shifting, and if David makes one wrong move, Riley could end up crushed in the struggle. But after being the subject of the Queens’s legendary cruelty, will there even be anything left of Riley to save?

Get Taming Shadows, Revelations Trilogy: Book One on Amazon now!


fiona skye - author photoFiona Skye is a fantasy and historical romance author, currently living in the deserts of Southern Arizona. She shares a home with her husband, two kids, three cats, and a Border Collie.

Fiona’s passion for story telling began early in life. She loved playing make-believe and inventing elaborate fantasy worlds for her friends and her to play in. At age twelve, she wrote her first short story, based on a song by a 1980s hair band. After giving it to her English teacher for editing and rewrites, she learned to love the entire writing process, and has dedicated her life since then to writing, only to be occasionally distracted by her insatiable love of yarn and crochet, and the dogged pursuit of the perfect plate of cheese enchiladas.

She counts Diana Gabaldon and Jim Butcher as her favorite authors and biggest influences. Joining these two on the list of people she would wait in queue for a week to have a coffee with are Neil Peart, Kevin Hearne, and Brandon Sanderson.

Find her at the following links:

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/fionaskyewriter
Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/fionaskyewriter
Website: http://fiona-skye.com/

 

 

 
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Posted by on May 4, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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A Thousand Years

There once was a beautiful princess who lived in a realm not seen by man. Every day, she watched the people of the Earth and wondered what it would be like to be one of them. The people of the Earth were always so busy moving to and fro with many things to do. She watched their short lives begin and end in hours for time moved very differently in the unseen realm.

One day, the princess noticed a man helping a stranger. She didn’t understand what was happening so she watched as he took the stranger into his home and cared for him. He gave the stranger clean clothes and warm food and a bed to sleep in. Intrigued by the man, she watched him for many lifetimes. He was always kind, always caring, and he helped all those around him with a smile. The princess eventually grew to love him and her desire to be human increased even more.

“Father,” the princess asked one day. “I’d like to spend a day on the earth.”

The King, great and wise that he was, looked at her with love. “The Earth isn’t like our world,” he told her. “You will know many things you do not know here, things that will cause you pain and sadness.”

The princess didn’t know what pain and sadness was. Where she lived, there was happiness and rainbows. “But Father, all I do is watch the people of the Earth from the outside. I would like to be on the inside as one of them.”

No matter what the King’s response was, the princess insisted until the King gave in to her desire. “One day, my darling. Then no more.”

The princess nodded. One day was more than enough time for her to find the man and live out a human life. “Thank you, Father!” The princess leaped for joy and hugged the King. “You will watch over me, won’t you?” she asked him. He nodded. “I can’t wait to go! I want to go now!”

In all her excitement, she had forgotten that in order to become one of the people of the Earth, she had to be born as one of them. She would no longer have her powers or her immortality. Nevertheless, the King granted her wish and gently sent the princess down to the Earth with love.

The princess was born to a very loving family with many siblings. From the beginning, being human was so strange that it was overwhelming. The poor princess cried daily at her troubles. She didn’t understand how the human body worked or why she was so lonely being separated from her father. She didn’t even remember that she was a princess. The desire to go home was so great that she had forgotten why she came to Earth in the first place.

The King, seeing his daughter’s distraught, sent her a vision in a dream. “You wanted this,” he reminded her. “One full day, no more and no less.”

Oh, how she cried her eyes out at her father’s words! She wanted to leave and she wanted to leave now, but the wise King didn’t allow her.
“You asked for this, my darling. You will have to be patient and wait it out. Remember why you wanted to come. Become human and live as one of them. Learn as one of them. Promise me.”

With a sigh, the princess conceded and said “I promise I will live and wait the day to be over.” The dream ended and the princess was very sad. She wanted to go home, but she had promised to stay.

With each passing lifetime, the princess remembered less and less of her real home. Her dreams were filled with fragments of memories. She remembered faintly of the man, but could never find him. In each life, she felt the strong desire that home wasn’t Earth. One day was the same as a thousand years. The poor princess has only lived a handful of lifetimes and must live through much more before she could return.

 
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Posted by on May 1, 2015 in Stories

 

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How the Man with the Long Hair Turned into Mr. Grey

Something I wrote back in 2008/02/04. It’s part of a story.

***

The day is clear and beautiful as dewdrops still clung to the blades of grass trampled underfoot by the man who walked carelessly along the unmarked path in the dark woods. He is tall and slim – not skinny but pale, as pale as the creamy surface of the moon that sometimes could be seen in the sky during such a beautiful day as this. His long hair fell right below his waist, tied in a ponytail braid without a source of a tie. Loose strands of hair framed his angular yet long face. His eyes are a dreamy deep chestnut tinged with goldenrod streaks. His thin lips curled into a grin as thoughts of joy danced through his head.

He walked towards the edge of the dark woods, towards the village but not close to it. His destination is somewhere different than neither the quaint shops of arcane and modern delicacies in the midst of the village nor the huge architectural wonders of the city. He took a turn and walked forward, up a grassy hill that sloped more like the side of a deep cliff instead of a small rounded bump. He soon reached a modest residence that stood alone at the top, its white columns holding together two stories of which were painted bright white but had aged to an almost dirty speckled white where some patches of the house were covered with more dirt than the rest. The house had no windows visible and no entrances or exits save a door that stood in between two post classical columns.

He stepped up to the door and slightly raped three times, pausing to speculate whether the owner is home or not before lifting his hand to rap again. Suddenly, the door opened and he peered into the dimly lit home as his hand paused in mid air, waiting to rap again at the door.

Another man, a taller man with blonde hair and flaming green eyes looked at him nervously while tapping an irritated foot against the hardwood floor. “Yes?” He asked, raising an eyebrow in question of the man on his doorstep.

The first man mumbled a few words audible only to those within an arm’s reach and the owner of the residence opened the door wider and allowed him entry. The door shut behind as the first man walked inside with a smile, his mouth chattering and continuing on the conversation.

It is nearly dusk now and all around is quiet. No noisy beetles or chirping crickets abounded. The very beginnings of stars appeared overhead along with the moon to light the way for travelers but the house stood motionless. Then the door opened and the man with the long hair walked out, a look of satisfaction plastered on his face as he dragged behind him a huge mahogany box. The door shut itself as the man past and it once more stood still, resembling a sleeping giant.

The man walked the same way he had come and through the dark woods he ventured. The night sky changed the shadows of the woods and an eerie dread replaced the look of happiness on the man’s face. He is nervous now, glancing around at every stir within the woods; beads of sweat started to form on his face as he walked forward. The soft click of a tree branch or an old tree limb that cracked underneath the weight of a passing critter stopped him in his tracks. He stood still and cold, with the passing of the breeze, as a statue in the middle of the dark woods. His eyes scanned his surroundings, terrified of what he should find. A moment passed. Then more and more time passed and no creepy shadow came to pester him. He moved slowly and walked, his pace quickening as if he is silently being chased by some unseen presence.

The edge of the box hit against an ancient tree as the man stopped and from behind the tree, pulled out a shovel. The moistness of the dirt made it easy to scoop out and pile beside the roots of the tree. The rain the night before drenched the earth and made it easier for the man to dig deep and fast. It didn’t take very long until he dug enough and seeing that, he laid the shovel against the side of the tree as he shoved the box into the hole. It hit the bottom of the hole with a thud, a soft sound that barely could be heard but was rather felt by the swaying of the contents inside.

Reaching down, his fingers gently clasp the silver chain and ran it through thumb and forefinger, feeling the smoothness of the chain. His fingers stopped momentarily to outline the detail of the charm before he caught a glimpse of green.

The man with the green eyes stared intently at him, those bright green eyes flaming with anger. The man with the long hair bent down over the box with a casual grin. He bent down closer into the box to unclasp the necklace and as he did so, the man with the green eyes whispered something into his ear. He shrieked back from the box as if in pain and the flames within the green eyes of the man in the box burned into the depths of his soul. He gripped his head in agony and fell onto the ground, gasping for air.

It was a moment before it all faded and the man with the long hair stood up once more. He took the necklace and stuffed it into his pocket, a silver necklace with a silver charm. He laughed at the man in the box. The man with the green eyes was tied at the wrists and ankles with heavy rope. Although his mouth was not gagged, he did not speak. He only stared with unblinking eyes.

The man with the long hair spat into the box three times, took the shovel and poured dirt back into the box, starting from the foot of the box and working his way up to the face of the man with the green eyes. As he lifted the shovel high in the air, heaping full of rich black earth, he grinned at the man with the green eyes – those flaming green eyes which were all bright and vibrant looked back a lifeless and dull green, cloudy and weary. The man hesitated before tipping the shovel over to pour dirt on top of the man in the box. He heaved dirt back and forth, filling up the box and soon, filling up the hole that he had dug. He patted the earth with the backside of the shovel once his task is finished and smiled to himself; a hand deep into the inner reaches of his pocket, fingers intertwined with chain and charm. He threw the shovel behind the tree and spat three more times on the freshly buried grave. Satisfied, he began to walk away from the grave, the box, the tree, and the memories of the man with the green eyes. He walked farther and farther until it all disappeared behind him, nothing more than a forgotten memory that is too forgotten to be remembered.

He walked until he reached the edge of the woods and saw the shadowed outline of the village ahead. Stepping forward, he is thrown back into the woods by unseen hands. His body throbbed and convulsed until he is so distorted that he did not know which arm was where and which foot was there. The pain spasms down his body from head to toe in great waves of anguish and he cried out horribly. His eyes burned and he longed to dig them out of the sockets if he could find a way to signal a hand to will itself towards his face. Tears ran down his cheeks and his endless screams of agony went unheard.

When it was all over, he laid in a heap in the woods, a meter from the edge of the village path. His head was bent underneath his back, broken oddly to one side while his legs twisted and curled here and there. His arms were twisted in unnatural positions and his eyes glistened with tears as the chain in his pocket is still clutched safely in one hand. Death is only a small thing but for him, the necklace had brought him more than death; it brought him the loss of his freedom.

Those big brown eyes rolled back into his head and as the whites appeared, his eyes closed on its own. His body stiffened and his mind ran away to dance with the nymphs of the distant waterfall. Death took him, in those clawed hands, and carried him away on threads of wispy blackness.

A moment later, the man with the long hair blinked. His fingers slowly – and painfully – lifted his legs from on top of his arms. He managed somehow to untwist himself, to bend into place what was bent out of place, and to snap his head back into its rightful position. He muttered as he sat on the cold earth; holding both his hands before his eyes, he tested each finger to see if they worked.

Cursing, he got up and walked towards the path again, towards the edge of the village. With one foot brushing the outside of the dark woods, in mid step, he is thrown back with such force that he landed somewhere that he did not recognize. He cringed at the sound of something broken as he hit the dirt floor. He found himself okay although he is not spared the pain from impacting the earth. He bent his foot back into place and reconnected his spine, muttering curses into the darkness. Somewhere in the night, he could hear the man with the green eyes laughing at him. He cursed the man with the green eyes and tried to find his way back to the edge of the dark woods. He began walking, only to find himself amongst moving shadows and nothing more. He came to the conclusion after several attempts that he is lost; not only lost but damned as well.

 ***

It is past dark now and she worried about him. She sat upon the white loveseat, her legs tucked neatly under he tiny frame. She sips freshly brewed hot tea made from the pink and purple tea flowers that bloomed on the top of the still lake, nestled in the woods, hidden behind rock and waterfall. She brought the teacup to her lips, two fingers resting on the tiny handle, and took a sip or two. The hot liquid warms her as it passed through her throat. She sat still; the only movement came from the steady lifting of the teacup.  Her eyes glance out the living room bay windows often as she hoped to catch sight of him walking towards her front door. Her long black hair hung down her shoulders and spread itself upon the brocaded loveseat.

This is not the first time that he has been late but he has never been this late before. She thought back to their last conversation and was lost deep in thought when there came a knock at the door. Time had passed and it is late morning when he arrived. She got up slowly, deliberately, and set her teacup upon the saucer that rested at the edge of a thick cherry oak table. She did not rush but glided towards the door with a smile on her face, thinking of how she would hug him instead of scold him for worrying her so. She is happy enough that he is safe and sound.

The door opened and she looked at him a moment, a bit confused and a bit bothered by the way he looked. His clothes carried dirt in almost every crevice and fold; somewhere along the way, he needed a shower badly. The smell of damp earth clung to him and she guided him upstairs to use her bathroom instead of turning him around to go home. When he finished and came downstairs with the new clothes that she had set out for him, she set out a second cup of tea for him on the table. He found her sitting on the sofa, her eyes smiling at him while she sips hot tea from her own cup.

He sat himself down beside her, not too close and not too far. He thanked her and took a big gulp of tea, a bit clumsily of manners, before whispering to her. He whispered of things unknown, things that made her eyes grow wide with fright. She caught herself before she screamed at his words. Her voice fell to into a broken whisper as she asked him where he had been and what he had been doing. He shook his head at her then fumbled with something in his pocket. She drew back from him, anticipating whether she should jump out of harm’s way or whether she would faint at what he brought forward.

With sad eyes, he withdrew a thing from his pocket, holding it in a closed hand; he held it out to her. She strained to see inside his hand but she could not see past his fingers and she longed to see what it is that he would show her. His fingers opened, palm up, and she saw a shiny thing in his grasp. Tears filled her eyes and she clasped the shiny object in her own palm and recognized it to be her own. She couldn’t stop the tears and she fell against the loveseat sobbing. Her hands still clutched the object, pulling it towards her heart as he leaned in to hold her and comfort her. Through tears, she drew away from him and bid him to leave. He hesitated before nodding his head low and showed himself out the door.

She lay on her side against the cushions of the sofa, her legs drawn up towards her chest, pressing against the hurt and pain. Her sobs softened to quiet whimpers. She could hear him leaving, walking away from her house back into the dark woods. She did not move. The day passed and morning came but she had neither gotten up from the sofa nor did her daily chores around the small house. She can hear the garden whisper and scream for her but she did not answer. She can hear him back again, on her doorstep, steadily knocking and she still did not answer. He left after seeing that she would not come. But the next day passed the same way. The same voices heard, the same knocking, the same screaming in her ears. She drowned the noise out with her own crying, coming from deep within her.

The house felt empty and she felt alone. Lying, she found herself escaping into dreams – dreams of now distant memories that faded too fast for her to grasp a hold of. Even in sleep, tears rolled down, wetting the expensive upholstery as she wandered away from reality into the space in between. She did not venture outside, nor did she venture into her garden where the weeds took root, overtaking her crops. Wild vines climbed and settled themselves over her house in tight overlapping rows. For a year, everything stayed the same. For two years, no one has seen a trace of her. The flowers that once grew in her garden and filled the yard with a sweet fragrance shriveled and died underneath the thick carpet of weeds and vines. Three years passed and she is forgotten; time passed and it continued until the dark woods swallowed her home and her garden. There is no presence of anything inhabitable as the woods reclaimed a part of itself that had once been infected but now healed.

***

Ameggo, that charming child with the curly brown hair, stared up at Maeroleez and grinned. His master is happy and as long as his master is happy, he too is content. They entered a home in the middle of the dark woods and as soon as the door shut, he could feel a change in the atmosphere. Ameggo stopped talking of his adventures with his only friend Keera and watched silently at his owner.

Maeroleez stood quiet by the door for a moment and when he turned around, Ameggo – frightened by the gleam in his eyes – backed into a corner of the house, crawling underneath the ragged quilted cover that he slept with. The man came swiftly and grabbed the child by the throat with one hand and held him up against the wall. The child struggled but he could not free himself from the tight grasp. He dared not try to claw his master’s hands if he valued his life.

Those big amber brown eyes welled up with tears as Maeroleez tightened his grip around the child’s neck. Ameggo pleaded and begged but the man only lifted him higher, laughing, watching the child struggle to no avail. Ameggo watched as his master’s other hand balled into a fist and struck hard against his own left cheek. Pain swept through him and Maeroleez, watching him in pain, the big teardrops streaming down his face, only made his want to hurt the child increase. The man felt stronger, more powerful than the child who desperately tried to free himself from his owner’s clutches. He hit Ameggo again and again, each time, the child cried out in pain, satisfying the man’s twisted lust.

He slammed the child into the far corner. Ameggo hit the wall with a thud, sliding down, hitting the wooden floor with another loud thud. He watched as the child whimpered and curled himself into a ball in that corner of the house; soft choking sobs came as he walked towards the child.

His hand touched Ameggo’s shoulder and the child jumped back afraid. In a pleasing voice, he coaxed the child into his arms. He gently rocked the patted the child’s head.

“Hush now.” He whispered as Ameggo clutched tightly to him, still sobbing. “It hurts me so much more to hurt you. I have told you before not to destroy her things. Please listen dear Ameggo. Hurting you hurts me so much more and I don’t even want to hurt you to begin with.”

He held the child and rocked him until he stopped sobbing.

“You’ll behave this time, won’t you?”

Ameggo stared into those deep brown eyes, a different color from his own. He nodded his head in agreement.

“Good.” Maeroleez smiled a wide smile at the child. “I’m hungry. Let’s eat!”

 Ameggo smiled too and swallowed the last of his tears. He believed every word that was said to him. He forgot the pain and the hurt; he traded the hatred for happiness as he followed Maeroleez into the kitchen. All the while, Maeroleez chattered in laughter and Ameggo laughed along too.

 

 
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Posted by on December 5, 2014 in Stories, Unfinished Stories

 

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The Reality of the Matrix and How it Affects the Author

I’ve done more thinking than I wanted to do in the past few days and I’m reminded of the movie, The Matrix. In the Matrix, reality is subjective to each individual, playing a part in a whole that is controlled from beyond the perception of the persons involved. And in a way, reality itself here is pretty similar. We are all subjected to our realities, unaware of the bigger scheme of things that are beyond our scope of understanding.

I’m not a big fan of authority or authoritative figures. Half of my behavioral problems stem from some sort of power play, where I’m being dictated in one way or form. I don’t respond well to authority, especially those that are corrupt in power or those who seek to control me. And upon reflection, there have been many things and people controlling me in the past.

The entire concept of the Matrix is based on control: control of the mind, control of the human being.

Of course there’s the usual suspects: my parents, my family, my friends, etc…but who actually controls a big portion of my life if not me and if not related by blood? God controls the majority of my life and despite a good bit of it being like the Matrix (false free will), I still have to comply. I can always choose to take the blue pill and wake up and that’s the end of the dream, but damn the little red pills which want to keep showing me how deep the rabbit hole goes.

Perhaps my rebellion isn’t really in response to people or authority, but in response to God. Sad, but I can name times where I deliberately disobeyed just to see what would happen and/or deliberately caused an event to test out a “theory”. I actually encountered the occult because of my rebellion. And isn’t it ironic that rebellion is the same as witchcraft? I certainly went from one straight into the other. *frowns*

The concept of the Matrix isn’t new. Not only do we have governmental Big Brother, but the Matrix takes it farther to say that there is something/someone greater than human beings who is controlling our entire reality and existence. And how do we normally respond? Eject ourselves from that control to a reality where we believe we can finally be in control of ourselves and our lives.

Why fight the Matrix?

As Cypher stated, reality in itself isn’t a grand thing. Even if it was all an illusion, the reality of the dream was sufficient because it felt real. True reality was way harsher: they were slaves to machines with holes in their bodies, there was very little food, they were always on the run from the machines they escaped from, everyone lived underground because the sky was scorched with perpetual dark clouds, etc, etc. Something that felt real was a much better alternative to what was real.

But to a writer, everything is real. Fantastic worlds filled with magic and sorcery, terrible worlds filled with barely any food and starving people, horrible worlds filled with viruses and zombies, and every other world that can be imagined. So do we writers have our own little Matrix going on?

I like playing the Sims because in a way, I can create worlds much like our own. In it, I can control situations and things that happen. It’s fun actually, especially when I’m feeling quite destructive. Even without the game, there are many worlds that are alive within the pages of the books that I’ve written, worlds that all desire to be explored and discovered.

Take the world of the Arromanovokzjas in The Turning vampire series for example. Much like our own modern world, theirs is filled with vampires. And magic. Witches. Mermaids (yes, there’s mermaids and it’s in the fourth and upcoming novel, Loose Ends). So imagine a world filled with fantasy creatures just hidden right in our own.

The Otherworld as described in Beyond the Gates: Otherworld is an incredible place filled with odd sorts of creatures, cities and villages much like our own earth, and a river that separates demons from the “more human” (which can’t even be counted as 100% human since there’s so many others that live there) side and a bridge that for one day out of the entire year, is blocked off to the demons. It’s kind of like…a strange fantasy.

The world of Drayden and the Eminentity in Legacy of the Guardians: The Iron Tower Maiden is a post apocalyptic world filled with nothing but sand everywhere and horrific monsters that feed on the last human survivors.

The earth that Ialae and Jacob and Peter finds themselves in in The Thirteen Keys is a post apocalyptic one, except only America was destroyed and with the large amount of Undesireables, the New World Peace Army has been cleaning up the planet and imprisoning the Undesireables to help return the economy back to how it used to be.

Alcone and the Rhiaddon exists in a world much like our own, except thousands of years in the past where archaic magic and sweat lodges and a gate exists that opens up a doorway to hell for them to shove the Damned into.

Are all of these false realities real?

If the Matrix is a false reality that seems to be real, but it isn’t, then are our stories and our writings, our books and our imaginative worlds that we create a Matrix in itself also?

One such as an author can only imagine the despair and sadness of the loss of a character and how that loss will ultimately affect the outcome of the world where that character once inhabited. We control those worlds, for the most part. At times, the characters themselves have their own free will and choose a different path from the ones we destined them to, so when that happens, we rewrite the story according to the change the character made, not according to our original draft of what we wanted to happen. If characters in our own stories have free will and the worlds we created are pretty much the equivalent of the Matrix, are we then, gods?

 
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Posted by on June 13, 2014 in Diary

 

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Illusions

I got a message from a friend today that had me thinking about a lot of things. Not sure how to put it down in words because it’s not anything bad, it’s that we’re all just different in our likes and dislikes and beliefs and stuff. And it’s not just that certain friend, it’s everyone. It’s about who we are and how we are.

I have another friend who pretty much wants me to accept him for how he is: mean, grumpy, somewhat unsatisfied with life, but it’s a double standard when he expects me to be and act a certain way. It’s worse when I care enough to try and compromise because friendship isn’t about changing who you are for someone else. I’m about to be sexist for a moment. It’s like the differences in men and women in relationships. You don’t often see any guy with a less than attractive girl. But you will often see an attractive girl totally in love with a not so desirable man.

I have friends who aren’t even really friends. I have a friend on Facebook who used to steal from me and my friends and twist our words to each other so that everyone would always be in constant battle with one another. I think the fact that she now lives at least half a dozen states away helps with us still having each other in “friend” reference just in case. If she needed help, would I ever help her? Yes. Would she do the same things again? More than likely. Am I stupid for keeping her around?  Probably so.

I haven’t even been a good friend to my friends. I hardly talk to anyone, I don’t participate in anything, and I’m awful at writing people.

Life would be easier if it was like in books and movies. I’d have a better time adjusting to my own characters’ lives instead of the one I live. If I spent less time avoiding certain things and more time focusing on turning all of this into an awesome adventure/fantasy, I’d be the most powerful wizard in all the wizardry world of Harry Potter! *hahaha* What’s funnier is how there’s some truth to that. I really do enjoy the Harry Potter movies.

Books and movies follow real life, and not the other way around. Even in complete absurd fantastic tales of weirdness and madness, real life intervenes because we as people, know only as much as ourselves. That’s because we are only ourselves. Who else could we be?

While it’s true that we could be some Spanish inquisitor during the 1500’s, a Wallachian prince during the 1400’s, travel the known seas in the 1300’s with a bunch of sweaty men and no indoor plumbing, conquer China in the 1200’s, and be a part of the Crusade in the 1100’s–we as human beings have a collective consciousness in a way. Our stories follow our lives. Our gods and goddesses are given human characteristics and emotions. No matter what time period we belong to or what life we’ve lived and are living now–we’re all people. We can’t escape that. We all still strive for fairly the same things–some, more than others and some, to more extremes than others. We all have the same basic needs: love, attention, belonging, appreciation…we’re all just humans. Most of us.

I don’t know. I’m not the dark and brooding type. Neither am I the happy and ignorantly blissful type. I’m just me–extremely weird and not very interesting. And my stories are a bit insane because I am. It’s what I can relate to. So yes, insanity and madness aren’t strangers to me or my life. I just don’t speak a lot about that part because it would scare some people and disgust others and get me those crazy she-should-be-locked-up-in-a-padded-room kind of looks.

As Curtis Armstrong says in TBS’ King of the Nerds, “nothing is nerdier than getting picked last”. The point of that saying isn’t getting picked last, it’s not belonging with the rest and all human beings have felt that way at least once in their lives–like they didn’t belong.

No wonder then why cults are so popular. It’s not about the charismatic speaker or the strict rules or the strange rituals. It’s about belonging somewhere where you matter, even if the part where you matter is only an illusion.

A long time ago, when I was part of a group called Project X, a friend dedicated this song to me. It was a great likeness to who I was, to who we all were, because we at PX, didn’t belong anywhere. We were a cult in a way, because we were like family. We were always together for the longest time. Fifteen years come my birthday in November. It was a few short days after my sixteenth birthday that I happened upon PX. What I missed most was having people who understood me no matter how crazy and foolish I sounded.

VNV Nation’s Illusion and Andy Huang’s Dollface

“Illusion”

I know it’s hard to tell how mixed up you feel
Hoping what you need is behind every door
Each time you get hurt, I don’t want you to change
Because everyone has hopes, you’re human after all
The feeling sometimes, wishing you were someone else
Feeling as though you never belong
This feeling is not sadness, this feeling is not joy
I truly understand. Please, don’t cry now

Please don’t go, I want you to stay
I’m begging you please, please don’t leave here
I don’t want you to hate;
For all the hurt that you feel,
The world is just illusion, trying to change you

Being like you are
Well this is something else, who would comprehend?
But some that do, lay claim
Divine purpose blesses them
That’s not what I believe, and it doesn’t matter anyway
A part of your soul ties you to the next world
Or maybe to the last, but I’m still not sure
But what I do know, is to us the world is different
As we are to the world but I guess you would know that

Please don’t go, I want you to stay
I’m begging you please, please don’t leave here
I don’t want you to hate for all the hurt that you feel
The world is just illusion trying to change you
Please don’t go, I want you to stay
I’m begging you please, oh please don’t leave here
I don’t want you to change;
For all the hurt that you feel,
This world is just illusion, always trying to change you

Please don’t go, I want you to stay
I’m begging you please, please don’t leave here
I don’t want you to hate for all the hurt that you feel
The world is just illusion trying to change you
Please don’t go, I want you to stay
I’m begging you please, oh please don’t leave here
I don’t want you to change;
For all the hurt that you feel,
This world is just illusion, always trying to change you

All my stories aren’t actually about belonging somewhere. The vampire series, yes. Marisa wants a family and she’ll do anything to keep the family she has, even if she has to suffer for them. Other stories, not so. But every story has some truth about basic human needs. Every story, including the vampire series, has to have love in it in one form or another. Love is the most basic desire of not only human beings, but every creature that has life on this planet. Even plants die without love. Don’t believe me? Try an experiment. Buy a plant. Buy two of the same plants. Take care of one. Neglect the other. One will wither and die. Every living thing needs love and every human being needs love.

There is a world, invisible to most. And even them there, they need love. I haven’t quite figured out if that’s just how it is, or if they’re all just playing on human sympathies. I guess I’m lucky in that I am safe. I have always been safe–safe enough that I haven’t personally come across all the things that have proven to be harmful for this reality.

For a Christian, I walk a very fine line in what I believe and how I have to handle my life. My past helps me to relate to others, but I find most Christians less than concerned about their own salvation while trying to save others. It’s a bit amusing, coming from me, but then again, I don’t pretend I’m going up when I’m going down. I’m actually not a very good person. And I’m really mean to Christians–for their own good, of course. I’m not a good person and I often reiterate that. People tend to feel surprised or betrayed when I am less than ideal. I’ve already told you so. You were just lying to yourself.

Which reminds me, I do need to write a certain church lady. And I have two letters to write to people I don’t even talk to, but people who need a friend. I don’t strive to matter in people’s lives. I strive to be a better person than the one that I am right now. And I strive for people’s lives to matter. How do I manage that last one? I don’t even know. It’s what I hope for.

And if I, being completely human, can blend in this much when I don’t belong, imagine all the other things blending in right now that truly don’t belong.

 
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Posted by on May 26, 2014 in Diary

 

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