More

More, she said.

More, more, give it all.

Keep giving.

More, when the silence falls.

More, when the cracks begin to show.

More, to quiet the never-ending screaming. 

More. 

When there is nothing left to give, still more. 

More, because the void swallows the broken places inside, 

and the nothing beyond is still more palatable than what was left behind. 

More. 

Outgrown, the vessel shatters and falls away. 

More. 

Lacking form, density, space, time, 

there is nothing. 

There is everything. 

More. 

When the long miles behind you echo with your ghosts, 

more. 

Always moving, always forward. 

More, as the future slips further and further from your vision. 

More, as you fall. 

More, as you crawl. 

More, with the bloodied stumps grinding into asphalt, 

still more. 

Bones rattling against one another

in a disjointed rhythm 

as you finally still. 

More. 

Always more.

Dreaming Big

If you've taken a passing glance at my bio, you will have seen that I study Nutrition as well as write. Food and words are my two great loves for many reasons, more than I really have space for in this one blog post. I have a Why I Write post in the works, but my brain has been a bit here and there, so I'm waiting until I have the right mindset to tackle that one properly. So, that will have to wait for now.

Recently, I've been thinking of ways I can combine them so I can do both the things I love at once. As much as I do enjoy science, it's less important to me if I can turn the other two into Real Jobs somehow.

Cafe culture in Australia is generally pretty great, because as a country we are obsessed with both amazing coffee and delicious brunch food. Still, during the week, cafes cater to the work crowd, so they'll be open very early for breakfast and through early afternoon for lunch, but that's it. On the weekend it's no better, because while we love our brunches, most dinners are left under the purview of 'real' restaurants. So, cafe hours are often quite limited, and fair enough, as that's what they can make a business catering to. There are a few exceptions to this rule, though very few, and it's possible that Melbourne with its strong artsy leanings caters to the writer better than Sydney often can.

Still, I've sort of latched on to this idea of a very writing-focused cafe, with much longer and much later hours overall. Someplace with super cozy chairs and tables to encourage you to spend time there, and a courtyard that's easily covered so that you can take advantage of fresh air and sunny days as they come. Perhaps there would even be a super quiet zone upstairs with proper desks instead of cafe tables that worked more as a hot-seat writing space, but you could still order up coffees and snacks as needed. There'd be books all over the walls, of course, in case you want to take a break from work and just want to lounge about for a while reading. The hours would cater to writers and students and freelancers, those of us who don't adhere to those strange 'office hours'. There'd still be morning hours for the weirdos that do wake up before noon, but breakfast and brunch would be served all day and we'd stay open until late, till just about all those more sensible people have gone to bed.

Honestly, that sounds like heaven to me. And I'd probably go for it too, if I ever made enough money from writing or other work to invest in its start up.

I'm pretty ok with others stealing this idea and going for it, cause I think places like this should exist! Although, maybe not if you live in Sydney, cause I want to do it here? Maybe? Some day?

On Never Reading Enough: A Personal Challenge

I've been thinking recently about why I don't read more. My reading list is endless and ever-growing, as I'm sure is true of all book lovers. I don't really lack for time or energy to do so among all my other commitments. I could certainly prioritise reading more over catching up on my TV shows or playing video games, which is how I often otherwise spend my down time. But I often find myself choosing not to read over other forms of relaxation, because I often simply want to turn my brain off for a while.

And as both a lover of stories and a writer, this makes me feel, well... guilty. I know reading is as important to good writing as much as the practise of writing. You see it mentioned in nearly every piece of writing advice out there: to write well you must also read, a lot and often. It's not that I don't read for pleasure at all, because I definitely do... but I don't do it as much as I'd like or feel that I should. I've been making a concerted effort to fix that, because my reading list is beginning to get out of control.

Still, the idea that I'd choose not to read over other entertainment is strange to me. I read voraciously as a child. I preferred books to people (and still do, quite honestly), and I lived in the library growing up. I spent most summers there. I'd check out a huge stack of books, hungrily read through them all, and then go back for another round week after week.

But that was before the internet, before adult responsibilities, before a lot of things which now make me pick and choose carefully how I must spend my time. Not that that has ever stopped me from having many sleepless nights where I just had to get to the end of whatever book I was engrossed with at the time. I haven't had nearly as many of those in a long while, though.

I think what I've come to realise is that I do read all the time, just not in the same way. The more my life has revolved around the internet, social media, endless blogs and news articles, etc. the more I find the thought of reading for pure pleasure a task as opposed to simple relaxation. I spend all day reading words on a screen, so much that the thought of reading for fun seems like effort. How depressing is that?

As I'm ironically complain about reading blogs on a blog, I'm going to challenge myself now to read a lot more books instead of other forms of entertainment. And instead of some of my sometimes wandering internet time, for sure. I'll never be at my childhood levels of reading again, obviously, but I'm wondering if I can do a book a week. Maybe every two weeks to start and see how I go. So let's say 12 books over six months.

I'll post progress and mini-reviews on my Facebook and Twitter to keep things accountable under the hashtag #12book6.

The list as it stands, maybe kind of in order:

1) The Name of the Wind - Patrick Rothfuss
2) The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath
3) The Ocean at the End of the Lane - Neil Gaiman
4) Blackbirds - Chuck Wendig
5) The Time Traveler's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
6) Daughter of the Forest - Juliet Marillier
7) The First Man in Rome - Colleen McCollough
8) Banewreaker - Jacqueline Carey
9) The Paying Guests - Sarah Waters
10) The Gunslinger - Stephen King
11) God's War - Kameron Hurley
12) The Killing Moon - N.K. Jemisin

Wish me luck!

Updates!

Sorry, things have been far too quiet on this blog. Mostly because I've been busy with writing related things but not in ways that I can show you yet! It's frustrating! And I've had a blog post on the back burner for a while, but between uni and taking on writing projects it's fallen through the cracks. Hopefully, I'll post stuff a bit more often when I need a break from the craziness.

But the good news is that by the end of the year, there will be a couple ways for you to get your hands on my writing that is Not This Blog. And probably far better than what is on this blog, since there will be editing and feedback and stuff. You can trust I'll be pimping the heck out of it once everything takes shape, but for now it's nose to the grindstone to get all the writing done.

I'm really excited about the subject matter of the projects I'm a part of. If you have any interest in mental illness or modern takes on fairy tales, you will love them too. (Unsubtle tease is unsubtle.)

Okay, back to work. Whee!

Flash Fiction: Sub-Genre Mashup

Here's a fun unpolished and unfinished bit of flash fiction I did a while back. I was using a prompt from Chuck Wendig's blog to randomly mash two genres together. I got Weird West and Shapeshifters. Anyway, it was meant to be 2,000 words but I got close without being near finished... it reads as the start of something much longer. Then I never went back to it because.. life. Anyway, it was a great little challenge to play with.

As for me, I'm back hard at work on the novel, so I don't know if I'll have much to publish here. Depends on time demands between uni and writing, but I want to do more flash fiction or other writing challenges if I can. I'm also finally brave enough to start workshopping my writing, which is terrifying and very exciting. But what I can learn definitely outweighs the terror. I am pretty determined to keep growing and improving as a writer.

~ ~ ~

     Dust kicked up at my heels as I walked along the edge of the deserted main street, creamy orange rays of sunshine peeking above the horizon. I took in a deep breath of the cool spring air, savouring this quiet moment to myself. On the boundaries of the small town lay the brand new schoolhouse, unpainted wood still bright and fresh. I moved to the frontier to teach just four weeks ago, lured by generous pay and solitude. The steam trains connecting the far reaches of the continent with the capital city were still months away at best, so we relied on a fortnightly courier to carry our mail, replenish supplies, etc. It was all very old fashioned, and my family scoffed when I’d announced my plans to leave the familiar comforts of the city behind, but it suited me just fine.
     I was about to bounce up the front steps of the building when I noticed a trail of small, dark splashes on the ground. Curious, I followed them around back to find a figure slumped in the grass against the school’s foundations. I gasped and ran over, dropping my small lunch basket in the process. My gaze was immediately drawn to the blood soaking through their rough spun shirt, their face hidden by a worn broad-brimmed hat. Their breathing was shallow and laboured, but I was relieved to see they were still alive. I thrust my hands over the wound to put pressure on it and stem the bleeding. Slowly, the stranger roused and looked up at me in response.
     I managed to keep my hands steady and on task, but my eyes went wide. The hat may have rested on what you’d recognise as a head, but the face was like nothing I’d ever seen. The eyes seemed to contain only grey wispy clouds, no other colour or pupil. The opalescent skin surrounding them was nearly devoid of features entirely, though there were the faint shadows of a nose and mouth. As I studied them, it felt as if my eyes couldn’t focus, everything about the creature constantly shifting.
     “Thank… you…” I wasn’t sure if the mouth had even moved at all, but I could clearly hear a voice come from it, though it was weak. It snapped me out of my shock.
     “Y—you’re pretty badly injured. We need to get you to the doctor right away.”
     It shook its head. “No… no doctor. They…” it paused, taking in an obviously painful breath, “They couldn’t help.”
     I glanced down at my hands, now bright red. The wound was very deep, the pressure I was applying not actually doing much to slow the flow of blood.
     “It—it is too late. But I thank you… for your kindness…”
     They were obviously fading quickly. They were right. They wouldn’t last long. My mind raced. There was one thing, a last resort— No!, I thought. I swore I wouldn’t. Never again. Last time… last time…

     But they weren’t human, that much was obvious. It might not affect them the same way, and it was their only chance. They were dying already, so wasn’t it worth trying? If it did go wrong, though— no, I couldn’t think about that now.
     I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I concentrated on the feel of them beneath my fingers, on the blood I felt pulsing out of them with every heartbeat. Heat began to radiate outward, flowing from my core through my palms and into the wound. In my mind, I could see the damage within, body ragged and torn nearly all the way through. The heat intensified and slowly, so slowly, I began to mend the flesh and organs as if sewing them back together again. I’m uncertain how much time passed while in my trance, but it was a while later when I finally finished and fell forward heavily onto my hands, exhausted.
     Healing always drained me, and this wound was particularly bad. I trembled and gasped for breath, weak from the effort. I felt the creature shift beneath me. Turning my head to look up at him, I was surprised to see the rugged face of a human man staring back. He appeared the same as any frontiersman you’d see in town, a solid build and a little rough around the edges, but he had very kind blue eyes framed by thick, brown waves of hair.
     His mouth was agape. “You’re… I didn’t think there were any of your kind left.”
     I knitted my brows. “My kind? Am I like you?”
     “Ah.” He smiled softly. “You’ve saved my life. The least I can do is explain what you are. Though, let’s get you inside somewhere. You’ve obviously exhausted yourself with your magics.”
     I had no energy to protest as he gently extricated himself from beneath me and helped me to my feet. Neither of us were going to make it back to my little house on the other side of town in this shape, so I directed him up and into the schoolhouse. I wrote a quick note on a chalkboard tablet on the door, there for that purpose, stating I was ill and there would be no school today, and then locked us securely inside.
     The stranger sat me down on one of the benches the students normally used, and I gratefully leaned against the nearby desk. Sitting at the other end of the bench and facing me, I still couldn’t get over his change in appearance. I wondered if I hadn’t somehow hallucinated the vague face I saw at first.
     He reached out a hand towards me. “I suppose it’s only polite I introduce myself. I’m Cailan.”
     His grin was infectious, and I was surprised he seemed so chipper though he must still be weak from loss of blood. My healing mended flesh, but it still took time to recover. Still, I took up his hand and he shook it firmly, but gently. “My name is Evelyn Padstow.”
     His face formed a look that was all too familiar to me. “The Padstows?”
     Even this far away from the capital, I could never quite escape them. My great-grandfather was the first great industrialist, having invented the steam technology that now ran the backbone of our great nation. The pride, of course, was the steam trains which allowed the expansion out west, ever furthering our borders. If I never heard again about how wonderful and important my family was, it would be too soon.
     I nodded a bit curtly at Cailan.
     “Sorry. Sore subject, huh? I’ve just never met anyone—“ he paused, thinking carefully, “well, anyone so highbrow. I guess.”
     I raised an eyebrow. “I’m just a teacher, nothing more, Mr.—“ I realised he never gave me a family name.
     “Just Cailan, Miss Padstow.” He tipped his hat as he said this.
     I laughed. “Then call me Evelyn. Now, I believe you owe me some sort of explanation for saving your life. Was I imagining that you looked different before?”
     “No. You saw what I truly look like. I’m a Shifter. We can take many forms, but what you see now is the one I use to blend in.”
     Unthinking, I reached out to touch his arm, reassuring myself he was actually real. He smiled at me. “There are more like you out there?”
     “A few, yes. Not nearly as many as there used to be, sadly. You, however, are truly rare. I haven’t heard of one of your kind having existed for the better part of a century.”
     I looked down at my hands, almost afraid of what he was going to say next. For years I hid my magics, and not just at the behest of my family, though they were certainly frightened of my abilities. No, I’d sworn never to use them again after— I shook my mind clear. It didn’t matter now. I was simply relieved nothing had gone wrong this morning.
     Cailan must have sensed my conflict, softly putting his hands over mine. “Let me guess, you and that steam technology your family invented don’t get along so well.”
     “No, definitely not. That’s part of why I moved so far away. How did you know?”
     “Magics and tech are two sides of the same coin. They don’t live in the same space well. As tech has taken over our society, magic has been slowly dying out. To put it bluntly, you shouldn’t really exist.”
     “That doesn’t really explain what I am.”
     He gave a lopsided grin. “You’re a Witch, and I’m guessing quite a pure one, at that. The healing you performed on me is some very powerful magics. It’s no wonder it drained you so thoroughly, untrained as you are.”
     “A witch? With the green skin and broomsticks and black cats?”
     Cailan laughed heartily. “You have looked in a mirror recently, haven’t you? Obviously, none of that is true.”

~ ~ ~

If you got this far and actually would like to see where this goes, comment below. I wouldn't mind continuing to expand on this. :)

That Day (Edited)

I have reworked this piece a couple times now for submission, and I thought it might be interesting to compare to the unedited version that appeared on this blog earlier. Most notably, this version is about 125 words lighter. The edits have mostly taken the form of paring things down for style or flow, as opposed to any major changes to the story.

     We sat in a cafe courtyard on a grey, rainy day, a steady rhythm beating down on the corrugated plastic above our heads. My hands caressed a nearly empty mug, nothing but beige foam as a dim reminder of the cappuccino it once held. The air was damp and refreshing, the spring rain filtering through the leafy trees surrounding us. We were alone among half a dozen empty tables, the silence between the raindrops deafening. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine I was sitting alone in a forest meadow, far away from the urban hell in which I found myself. Instead, you broke my reverie with a heavy sigh, eyes barely meeting mine.

     I wanted to look away, but couldn’t, the intense blue drawing me in. What I saw there was the truth you found so difficult to say, and the pain it caused you. Yet I refused to accept it, so I concentrated instead on the black waves falling upon your forehead. As my gaze dropped slowly to the rough stubble along your sharp, strong jawline, my thoughts wandered; the feel of it beneath my fingers, how the thick, short hairs tickled me as we kissed…

     “Dina,” you said, snapping me back into reality.

     I caught your eyes again and began chewing on my lip, unsure what to say or if I should say anything at all.

     You ran a hand through the dark tousles of your hair, buying time by staring down at your own untouched coffee. I waited, heart pounding desperately in my chest, a seeming attempt to will itself free from the impending devastation. The moments that passed felt endless. I went to take a sip from my cold cup, disappointed when the dregs of foam slid slowly towards my lips. In embarrassment, I set it down again a bit too quickly, the loud thump as it hit the table startling us both.

     As if it were a signal, you spoke again. “I… I can’t do this anymore. Things haven’t been going well between us for a while, and…”

     You trailed off. It was my turn to let loose a sigh. I knew it was too much to ask that you make the killing blow quickly and cleanly. My heart caught in my throat, tears I was desperate to hide welling in my eyes. I swallowed and blinked hard, looking away to the wooden fence surrounding the courtyard. Concentrating on the patterns of the lattice, shadowed and intertwined beneath the dripping tree branches, the sound of the rain echoed my racing heartbeat. Despite knowing that you were lost to me long before this moment, pain stabbed its way down through my breast. I wished that I could exist in any time, in any place, but this one.

     To add insult to injury, I felt the warmth of your fingers gently encompass mine, my grip on the cup tightening in response. “Dina,” you said quietly, “I’m sorry.”

     That was the moment everything snapped, broken shards of my heart crumbling away inside me to nothing. Through the tears I could no longer contain, I glared steadily, unafraid. Anger grew in place of the hurt I refused to feel any more. I could see your confusion, unsure what to make of my reaction, but the dam was burst now; I was beyond caring, yanking my hands away from yours so violently that my cup toppled over onto the table with a loud clatter.

     “You think I haven’t known? You’ve been pulling away for months. Things were already over between us. Now you finally have the strength to tell me the truth, and that’s all you have to say for yourself? That you’re sorry?”

     “Dina…”

     “No, Grant. I deserve better. I deserve an explanation after giving you five years of my life.”

     Your head dropped into your hands, as if the thick wavy strands of your hair could protect you. Still crying, I looked down at my spilled cup, foam slowly draining into the crevices of the table’s wood grain. My eyes followed the trail with morbid curiosity, the viscous liquid reminding me of blood wending its way down my arm as it oozed from a shallow wound. The thought roused deep, dark impulses within me, and I bit down hard on my lip without thinking. The sensation brought me back to myself, and I looked up to see you staring down at your coffee, mindlessly stirring it with a small spoon as if that would bring it back up to a drinkable temperature.

     “Well?” I crossed my arms, attempting to keep my voice steady.

     When you finally raised your eyes to me, I saw the stain of your own tears glistening upon your cheeks and my anger failed me. Cruel barbs pierced my chest once again. My hands dropped into my lap and I fidgeted uncomfortably, berating myself for pushing you so hard as a familiar sense of guilt washed over me.

     “I just… I can’t deal with this anymore. With you. I love you, Dina, more than I’ve loved anyone, but it’s too much and I’ve been feeling overwhelmed for so long now.” You paused to take a deep breath. “I can’t fix you, and I can’t help you anymore. I don’t blame you for your illnesses, but they are dragging us both down, and… and I have to do what is best for me.”

     I felt dizzy, my thoughts spiralling into chaos. I nodded slowly, your words skidding off the surface of my mind. My stomach lurched, waves of nausea washing over me. Despite dreading this moment for so long now, it still hit me like a brick wall. Only one thing was clear: it was truly over, unsalvageable. This was the end of us, and there was nothing I could do to change it. I realised that part of me had been harbouring some minute hope that I could talk my way out of this, out of whatever reasons you threw at me, but this wasn’t something that I could resolve with mere words. The finality of the situation drained all the fight out of me.

     Unable to form any sort of coherent response, you took my silence for acceptance. “I am sorry, love. I didn’t want things to end this way. Please take care of yourself.” You stood, your metal chair scraping painfully on the stones of the courtyard as it was forced backwards. In slow motion, I watched you reach into your back pocket and pull out your wallet, flipping it open and throwing a five dollar note down onto the table with an incongruous casualness. You grabbed your damp umbrella from the ground and started to move away, then paused, as if thinking better of it. My heart skipped a beat and I was unable to breathe, my chest tightening.

     “Goodbye.” Your voice trailed into nothingness as this time you walked away with purpose, not looking back. Numb, I couldn’t force my gaze away as I watched you go back inside and disappear beyond the counter, out of the cafe and out of my life.

     I sat unmoving for some time before I finally came to my senses, the chill of the cloudy and wet late afternoon becoming unbearable. Your nearly pristine latte sat across from me as if waiting for you to return, the reminder of your absence reflecting the emptiness I felt. Without realising, tears fell from my eyes again, splashing down onto the wooden table to mingle with the remnants of my coffee. In movie-perfect timing, a cloud burst exploded overhead and the rain came pelting down twice as fast, striking the plastic above me with a particular violence. I dropped my head heavily into my arms, sobs reflecting the turbulent storm raging around and within me.

     It was nearly dark when the mirrored tempests finally eased. The silence rang in my ears as I choked to catch my breath, exhausted and drained. I found some comfort from the irregular patter as the sky squeezed the dregs from its temper tantrum, the last few drops of spiteful rain before the clouds finally moved on. With what little strength I had, I pushed myself upright, wiping my face clean of mess and emotions both. The worst of the weather was over and all seemed to be clear and calm.

     In a numb daze, I gathered myself as best I could and grabbed the money you left behind, paying for the coffees back inside. The barista politely averted her stare from my own puffy, red-rimmed eyes and smiled kindly as I thanked her quietly.

     Stepping outside into the cool humidity, I paused and took a deep breath. Observing the glittering rain-soaked city street I found myself on, I felt renewed, reborn. I was a different person than the one who entered the cafe with you hours ago. Hurt still ached deep beneath the surface, but I knew that would ease with time. Not long ago I might have wallowed in the misery, allowing my emotions to overwhelm and control me, self-destructing bit by bit. But what I realised then, and what you would never know, was that the strength to move on and move forward was already within me; Strength built up from years of succumbing to my mental illness with failure after failure, picking myself back up every single time.

     For the first time I could remember, a small smile crept over my lips as I walked towards the train station, unbothered by the chilly mist settling over the city. And I never once looked back.

Thoughts and Updates: A Blog

One of the hardest things sometimes is to force yourself to sit down and simply keep writing. My novel is one of the longest, most difficult projects I've ever worked on, but I feel that it's worth it. There's a story in my head that I know could be really good if I just keep working at it. I assume that's how a lot of writers feel, that there's something inside them that is worth telling? Obviously there's some false sense of becoming rich and famous if you get really lucky and sell something super popular, but although I intend to at least try to sell my work, I can't imagine that as a goal. I wouldn't complain if I were the next J.K. Rowling or something, but the chances of that are so slim as to be pretty much impossible. I will be insanely thrilled if I ever write something someone feels worthy of publishing someday.

I guess it helps that I have no intentions of doing this as a career. I have other goals to pursue, even if writing is something that has been and always will be important to me. It's always been a main outlet for my creativity, and I'm the sort that has to be creating something at nearly all times. I love writing simply because it requires nothing more than a pen, a piece of paper, and your imagination. Or, these days, some sort of tablet or computer, if that's more your speed. Sure, that's pretty much true of visual art, as well, but there's something just so simple about weaving words together in a pleasing manner. I've studied a lot of art and design over the years, and it's something I love to do, but I guess it also comes less naturally to me in some ways. They are pretty different skill sets, after all. Maybe it comes down to the fact that the book world can sometimes be a lot less complicated than that of fine art. Words don't always have to fit some vague notion of truly being 'art' to find a fairly broad appeal. They don't need to always be topping one another, or fulfil any sort of 'shock value' requirement to be taken seriously. There are probably a lot of arguments why this is or isn't purely true, but that's how it seems to me, and that's partially why I've chosen words to create the story I want to tell.

Anyway, I have been thinking about submitting some of the short works I have on this blog to competitions or something of that sort, mostly as an exercise in building up some confidence that I am actually any good at this. As with anything creative, what you make never really feels good enough or it seems like you just can't get enough space from it to evaluate it properly at all. So, I'm gonna see what other people think, outside of those few people I often ask specifically for feedback. It's kind of scary putting your writing out there into the wild, so to speak, but it's probably time to see where I'm at and what I can learn to apply to the big project. I found a couple good places to attempt submitting some of my recent short stories on here, so I'm going to polish them up a bit and then keep my fingers crossed. I'll keep you all updated on how it goes.

In the meantime, I keep poking away at my novel as often as my concentration lets me. Progress varies, and at the moment it's a bit slow, but I'm not going to get anywhere if I don't keep at it, either. Determination is often just as important as inspiration, after all. That and great music to listen to as you write.

Trust

     I let him in, to the deep dark places within me that no one else has ever been. Opening the door to my soul, I laid everything bare, naked demons squinting in the long-forgotten brightness. Twisting and exploring, his hands delved into my chest and didn’t stop until he held my wildly beating heart in his grasp. Too late, I realised it was a game to him, and I was merely a doll; a marionette whose strings were tightly wound around his bloody fingers. At my most vulnerable, he clenched his fists, threads and flesh melding into a shapeless pulp within me. He laughed as I writhed around him in pain, savouring the salty tears falling from my eyes which he greedily lapped up off my skin with his soft, flickering tongue. My demons in the darkness screamed and wailed and desperately fought back, razor sharp teeth and claws sinking into the tips of his fingers. Yelping, he jerked his way out of me, my torn, dripping heart still between his hands.

     As I fell before him, I saw him raise the shredded remnants of my most vital organ to his mouth, sliding them down his throat as if it were a feast of the most exquisite sashimi, a rare delicacy the like of which could never be had again. Taking his time, he devoured every last scrap of flesh he had stolen from me, licking his fingers clean with a satisfied smack of his lips. With no more use for me, unsympathetic eyes glared down to meet mine as I lay on the floor at his feet, clutching at my empty chest in a vain attempt to staunch the profuse flow from within. A red grin slowly spread across his face, light fading from my eyes as I flailed about in a growing pool of blood and tears, gasping for air. Without a second thought, he turned and walked away from the site of my demise, leaving a trail of sticky, gory footsteps in his wake.

Novelly Tidbit: Reworking Chapter One

I've decided I need to spend time rewriting the very sad first chapters of my novel, as I've learned so much since then. It's very hard to balance introducing the world, main character, etc. while making it interesting at the get go and drawing you in to the story. Still dunno if I'm there yet, but it's definitely improved. Here's a bit of the new beginning I've written recently (caps denote things I put in to keep the flow going but will be addressed later. i.e. ignore the terrible Latin):

     Fear. It’s not so much my earliest memory as it is my earliest feeling. There are hazy shadows on the edges of my mind when I delve as deeply as I dare, but the terror that grips me is clear as day. As long as I can remember, it’s been a constant throughout my life. It’s formed the core of my entire existence so that I’m unsure how to live without it now. And, despite everything, I’m not sure I’d want to, either. It’s given me strength to face the trials that have been put before me, one after another. When you’re fearful, when you’re desperate, you find reserves within yourself that you never knew existed. I’m not certain I’d be here today without the challenges that have pushed me ever forward, persisting through sheer stubbornness. You could say I’m known for this trait.

     It’s not that my childhood was a particularly difficult one. I grew up in relative luxury compared to most children in our fair city. I come from the Imperial family of our Empire, clan Cassinii, the line of rulers unbroken since my ancient ancestor founded the capital city of Vetus. I was named Setina, for a winter flower that grows on the mountains some days outside our city and bloom despite the thin air and frigid temperatures. I can’t imagine my parents knew just how appropriate and well-suited a name it was at the time. I was also called Taleria, in honour of my mother, Talina, and her mother, Valeria, as was the custom in our family. So, in full, I was known as Setina Taleria Cassinia, daughter and eldest child of Tirenal Tipinius Cassinus, also called Imperator. As I grew, my father controlled our vast lands from our large, lavish palace atop the central hill of Vetus surrounded by the homes of all who were rich and influential, particularly the families who formed our empire’s Senate. From our perch above the city, the upper classes kept themselves aloof from the lowly plebians which made up the general population. In the palace, slaves and servants attended to all our needs and I can honestly say that I wanted for nothing. At least, that was true from a material sense.

     My family has always been just my father, my younger brother, and me living in the palace my entire life. My mother died while I was yet still too young to remember when giving birth to my brother. Other than that, I knew nearly nothing about her, as the loss was far too painful for my father to discuss. I only learned of how she died through my nursemaid when I was barely older than a toddler, asking her if she was my mother once I learned that children usually have two parents instead of just the one. Mallia looked down at me, heartache radiating from her dark eyes. Kneeling down to my level, for the one and only time in my childhood, she took a deep, slow breath with what seemed like her entire body. Then, she explained that, no, she wasn’t, though I did have one at one point. She didn’t seem keen to keep going, but one word kept swirling around in my mind, and I couldn’t keep my childish-self from pressing her further. Why? I already knew that we were different from many other families. It was literally written on our skin. Or, more importantly, it wasn’t.

     I’m uncertain when and where the tradition came from, but in Vetusian society, everyone wore a Mark upon their forehead denoting their clan or guild or some other allegiance. Once a citizen came of age, they would gain their Mark in the form of permanent scarification, a ritual shrouded in secret with techniques and ingredients closely guarded by the group performing it. For instance, the two largest clans by far were the opposing political groups and their associated families. One was the PLURES REPROBA, whose Mark was a series of interconnecting rings the length of the forehead in a gaudy red colour. How the colour was added and the scar healed so clearly, only the ritual keeper of the clan knew. The other was much more modest, the UNUS VERUM wearing a simple triangle several shades deeper than the wearer’s own skin colour. The variety of Marks was nearly endless, though everyone had one. Even slaves had a simple X carved into their skin, denoting their status. Only the Imperial family remained Markless and unblemished, no allegiance except that to our family and our empire. We were meant to be neutral in all things, and thus kept ourselves separate from the rest of society, as much its servants as its rulers.

     Still, I didn’t understand why we had to be different in this way, as well. I’d seen some of the fellow children around the palace with their mothers, usually servants of ours, and I became painfully aware that my life was missing something essential. Mallia sighed and tutted, obvious reluctance crinkling the X upon her brow. After thinking for a moment, she made some brief explanation that babies come from mothers, but it’s difficult, so sometimes the mothers don’t survive. I wasn’t entirely certain what she was trying to say. The thought that women somehow wielded the magic to create babies was a bit too strange to get my head around, but I knew who to blame now: my younger brother Sercinal. This was what my young mind clung to, and I doubt anything would have convinced me otherwise in that moment.

     I went to him in our shared quarters afterwards, barely a toddler himself, and wailed and cried, asking him why he had to kill our mother. Of course, this set him off as well, and once we both got going, nothing could calm us down. Mallia tried futilely for what felt like ages before finally giving in and sending a guard to fetch our father. He was never happy when we children were too difficult for the servants to handle without his interference, and this occasion was no exception. My father’s face was stern, lips turned down in a frown. Mallia hurriedly explained the situation, eyes downcast with guilt. Though I hadn’t imagined it possible, my father’s expression soured even further.

     “I will deal with you later,” he said to her, voice strained.

     Mallia nodded and hurriedly left us alone with him.

     I had ceased my tantrum long before that moment, too frightened of my father’s presence. Next to me on the stone floor, Sercinal was still whimpering uncontrollably. I nudged him with my elbow as my father walked towards us, the braziers in the room casting his long shadow over us. But what he did next surprised me.

Ooh, cliffhangery. I'm interested to hear thoughts and criticism on how it reads, how you see the world beginning to form, etc. if you got this far. Feedback will only help me improve!

Analogues

Swirling tempest within
Beyond all control
Hearts clashing
Minds in conflict
Duelling dualities

Flames of anger
Fuelled by cruelty
Casual apathy
Mired by immaturity
Equal inequality

Pain flash floods
Washing all away
Absence echoing hollow
Wound left bleeding
Avoid devoid

Waves churning
Tossed about freely
Disorienting blue surrounds
The horizon endless
Connection disconnect

That Day

     We were sitting in a cafe courtyard on a grey, rainy day, a steady rhythm beating down on the corrugated plastic above our heads. My hands caressed a nearly empty mug, nothing but beige foam as a dim reminder of the cappuccino it once held. The air was damp and refreshing, the spring rain permeating the trees surrounding us. We were alone together, the silence between the raindrops deafening. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine I was sitting alone in a forest meadow, far away from the urban hell I found myself in today. Instead, you broke my reverie with a heavy sigh, eyes barely meeting mine as I opened them once again.

     I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t, the deep blue colour drawing me into the depths of your soul. What I saw there was the truth you were finding so difficult to say to me, and the pain it was causing you. Still, I refused to accept it, shifting my gaze to the black waves falling upon your forehead, then down to the rough stubble along your sharp, strong jawline. My thoughts wandered to the feel of it beneath my fingers, how the thick, short hairs tickled me as we kissed…

     “Dina,” you said finally, snapping me back into reality.

     I caught your eyes once again and began chewing on my lip, unsure what to say, or if I should say anything at all.

     You ran a hand through the dark tousles of your hair, buying time by staring down at your own cup of coffee, barely touched.

     I waited, heart pounding desperately in my chest, a seeming attempt to will itself free from the impending devastation. The moments that passed in silence felt like days, maybe even weeks, that would never end. I went to take a sip from my cold cup, disappointed when the dregs of foam slowly slid towards my lips. In embarrassment, I set it down again a bit too quickly, the loud thump as it hit the table startling us both.

     As if it was a signal, you finally began to speak. “I… I can’t do this anymore. Things haven’t been going well between us for a while, and…”

     You trailed off. Now it was my turn to let loose a sigh. I knew it was too much to ask that you make the killing blow quickly and cleanly. My heart caught in my throat, tears I was desperate to hide welling in my eyes. I swallowed and blinked hard, averting my eyes to the wooden fence surrounding the courtyard. Concentrating on the patterns of the lattice, shadowed and twisting beneath the dripping tree branches, the sound of the rain echoed my still-racing heartbeat. Despite knowing that you were lost to me long before this moment, hurt stabbed its way through my chest, radiating down to my core. I wished that I could exist in any moment, in any place but the one I found myself in now.

     To add insult to injury, I felt the warmth of your fingers gently cradling mine, my grip on the cup tightening in response. “Dina,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

     That was the moment everything snapped, the broken pieces of my heart crumbling away inside me to nothing. Through the tears I could no longer contain, I glared at you, finally unafraid. Anger began to grow in place of the pain I refused to feel any more. Staring deep into the oceans of your eyes once again, I could see that you were confused, unsure what to make of my reaction. But the dam was burst now, and I was beyond caring, yanking my hands away from yours so violently that the cup toppled over onto the table with a loud clatter.

     “You think I haven’t known? You’ve been pulling away for months. You were lost to me long before you were able to admit it to either of us.” I paused, gasping for breath in between the sobs wracking my whole body. “Now you finally have the courage to tell me the truth, and that’s all you have to say for yourself? That you’re sorry?”

     “Dina…”

     “No, Grant. I deserve better. I at least deserve an explanation after giving you 5 years of my life.”

     Your head dropped into your hands, as if the thick wavy strands of your hair could protect you somehow. I grumbled impatiently, but said nothing. Sniffling and wiping my cheeks dry, I looked down at my spilled cup, foam slowly draining into the crevices of the table’s woodgrain. My eyes followed the trail with morbid curiosity, the viscous liquid reminding me of blood wending its way down my arm as it oozed slowly from a shallow wound. The thought roused deep, dark impulses within me, and I bit down hard on my lip, unthinking. The sensation brought me back to myself, and I looked up to see you staring down at your coffee, mindlessly stirring it with a small spoon as if that would bring it back up to a drinkable temperature.

     “Well?,” I asked, prompting you, arms crossed and attempting to keep my voice steady.

     When you finally looked up, I saw the stain of tears glistening upon your cheeks, and the pain in my chest stabbed cruelly once again, my anger failing me. My hands dropped into my lap as I fidgeted them uncomfortably, regretting pushing you so hard as a familiar sense of guilt took me over.

     “I just… I just can’t deal with this anymore. With you. I love you, Dina, so much, but… it’s too much and I’ve been feeling overwhelmed for so long now.” You paused to take a deep breath. “I can’t fix you, and I can’t help you anymore. I don’t blame you for your illnesses, but they are dragging us both down… and I have to do what is best for me.”

     Suddenly, I felt dizzy, my mind spiralling into chaos. I nodded slowly, your words barely sinking in. My stomach lurched, waves of nausea washing over me. Despite dreading this moment for months now, it still managed to hit me as if a brick wall appeared out of nowhere, and I struggled to comprehend exactly how I was feeling. One thing fully occupied my thoughts: it was truly over, unfixable. This was the end of us, and there was nothing I could do to salvage it. I realised that part of me had been harbouring some minute hope that I could talk my way out of whatever reasons you threw at me, but this wasn’t something that I could resolve with words. The finality of the situation drained all the fight out of me.

     Unable to form any sort of coherent response, you took my silence for acceptance. “I am sorry, love. I didn’t want things to end this way. Please… take care of yourself.” You stood then, your metal chair scraping almost unbearably loud on the stone floor of the courtyard as it was forced backwards. In slow motion, I watched you reach into your back pocket and pull out your wallet, flipping it open and throwing a bill from within down onto the table with an incongruous casualness. You grabbed your damp umbrella from the ground and began to move away, then paused, as if thinking better of it. My heart skipped a beat and I was unable to breathe, my chest tightening.

     “Goodbye…” Your voice trailed into nothingness as this time you walked away with purpose, not looking back. Numb, I couldn’t force myself to look away as I watched you walk back inside and disappear beyond the counter, out of the cafe and out of my life.

     I sat unmoving for what felt like hours before I finally came to my senses, the chill of the cloudy and wet late afternoon becoming unbearable. Your mostly untouched latte sat across from me still as if waiting for you to return, the reminder of your absence reflecting the emptiness I felt. Before I even realised it, tears began to fall from my eyes, splashing down onto the wooden table to mingle with the remnants of my coffee. In movie-perfect timing, a cloud burst exploded overhead and the rain came pelting down twice as fast, striking the plastic above me with a particular violence. I dropped my head heavily into my arms on the table, my wracking sobs mimicking the storm raging around and within me.

     Some time later, the mirrored tempests eased and began to quiet. The silence was nearly painful as my breathing finally slowed, and I was left feeling exhausted and drained. I found some comfort from the irregular patter as the sky squeezed the dregs from its temper tantrum, the last few drops of spiteful rain before the clouds finally moved on. With what little strength I had, I pushed myself upright, wiping my face clean of mess and emotions both. The worst of the weather was over, and my mind felt calm and clear.

     I gathered myself as best I could, and in a numb daze, I grabbed the money you left behind and went to pay for the coffees back inside the cafe. The barista politely averted her gaze from my own puffy, red-rimmed eyes and smiled kindly as I thanked her quietly.

     Stepping outside into the cool humidity, I paused and took a deep breath. Observing the rain-soaked city street I found myself on, I felt reborn and renewed. I was a different person than the one who entered the cafe with you some untold hours ago. Pain still ached beneath the surface in my breast, but I knew that would ease with time. In another life, I might have wallowed in my misery and allowed my emotions to overwhelm and control me. But what I realised then, and what you will never know, was that the strength to move on and move forward was already within me, built up from years of succumbing to my illness with failure after failure and picking myself back up every single time.

     For what felt like the first time in forever, a small smile crept over my lips as I walked towards the train station, unbothered by the the cool mist settling in over the city. And I never once looked back.

Novel Summary: Golden (working title)

     Setina Taleria Cassinia is the heir to the Vetusian Empire, though her family’s influence has waned significantly in recent years. She faces the challenge of fulfilling her role as the unprecedented first female heir in the history of the Empire, while the scheming Senate works directly to destroy her family’s last vestiges of power, if not the family itself. In a world where citizens literally wear a Mark of their allegiance on their skin, the neutral unmarked imperial family stands as an important balance of power against the two warring factions of the Senate. Setina’s father, worn down and desperate, plays the long game of shaping Setina into his perfect ideal of a successor, pinning all his hopes on her ability to restore their family to its rightful place.

     Among this political chaos, the young child Setina glimpses the Emperor receiving a mysterious visitor with an unrecognisable Mark who makes an indelible impression, creating a lifelong obsession to discover who or what he might be. Uncovering his identity takes her on a journey through the Empire's past history, delving into painful secrets about her family and her people that most feel are best left forgotten to the mists of time. As she comes of age, the Fates push her forward at an ever increasing pace towards violent conflict with the Senate and the stranger proves both an important relic of Vetus' past, as well as the key to its future...

Reunion

     The air in the dingy bar was thick with dust and cigarette smoke, creating a grey, stale haze that concealed the patrons from prying eyes. This was its main attraction to the clientele that frequented the ancient dive, along with the heavy-set middle-aged bartender who seemed to always be chewing on the same old cigar stub and only communicated through a series of grunts. It was a place where who you were or where you were from didn't matter, and no one asked any questions so long as you could afford to keep shelling out for your drinks. If you were looking to lay low or simply lose yourself for a while, there was no better place in the city, even one as chock full of back alley dive bars as Gotham.

     It was a damp, cool night, like nearly every night in the island city, when Lennon Johnson, District Attorney, found herself pausing at the entrance to this particular bar. She shook off the chill from outside as her eyes finally adjusted to the dim lighting. Scanning the room carefully, she hoped the information she'd acquired was accurate. Few could find someone so obviously attempting to hide themselves from the world, but Lennon had cultivated a vast network of useful connections over the years, as well as many friends in high places. There was rarely a tidbit of information she couldn't get her hands on.

     Finally, at the dark shadowy end of the bar furthest from the door, she spotted a familiar silhouette hunched lazily over a drink he was obviously nursing. Lennon gracefully wove her way through the tightly packed tables and chairs in the cramped establishment, her heels clicking loudly on the concrete floor, breaking the dense silence. She sat directly beside her target, who did not stir or react to her presence in any way. Unfazed, the attorney pulled off her gloves with a couple of casual tugs and shoved them into a coat pocket with one hand while waving for the bartender's attention with the other. The grey-haired man sidled over slowly, looking at Lennon with an expectant grimace.

     “I'll have whatever he's having,” she said, thumbing towards the man to her right. The bartender grunted with a nod, and, seemingly out of nowhere, produced a glass and a bottle of whisky. He poured her a generous shot, serving it neat. Lennon nodded her thanks before raising the glass to her lips, taking a healthy sip. After swallowing, she frowned slightly at her drink. “Even you can afford better liquor than this.”

     Her companion finally showed signs of life, turning carefully and looking her over. After a long pause, he replied, “You don't come here for the quality of the whiskey.”

     Lennon nodded. “True enough.”

     Silence fell between them as they drank, so Lennon seized the opportunity to take a good look at her old friend. Despite the streaks of grey at the temples of his sandy blonde hair and the lines caused by years of worry and stress, bright blue eyes still shone from under his weary brow. They lit up his face with a vibrancy that betrayed his aura of apathy. As she set down her glass, eyes glued to the familiar face, one corner of his thin lips curled up into the faintest smirk.

     “It's been a long time, Ms. Johnson.”

     “That it has, Capt. Di Iorio.”

     He huffed at the form of address. “I'm retired.”

     Lennon shrugged casually. “So I hear. Still, Mister never seemed quite adequate for you, Loren.”

     “Flatterer.”

     Lennon smiled. On impulse, she downed the rest of her drink in one go, signalling the bartender for more.

     Staring down at his own still-half-full glass, Loren said softly, “The years have been kind to you, Len.”

     She eyed him sideways. “Now who's flattering?”

     “You look as if you've barely aged a day and you know it. You're as beautiful as I remember. Perhaps more so.”

     The DA couldn't hide the pink tinge from her cheeks as she took on an appropriately demure expression. “Thank you. You're too kind, but it's nice to know I haven't lost my touch.”

     “Never. I knew that Adams character wouldn't be able to tame you. No one could.” He couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice as he mentioned Lennon's ex-husband, finally downing his drink in one go after speaking.

     Lennon followed suit, and the glasses magically refilled, no signal to the bartender needed. “Well...” she began, toying with her glass, “I wouldn't say no one.”

     The detective laughed dryly, emptying his entire glass of whiskey at once.

     “Whoa, slow down there, cowboy, or I won't be able to keep up.”

     Loren shook off the sting of the cheap whiskey before replying, “Sorry, I wasn't expecting--”

     “I know,” Lennon interrupted. She looked deeply into his blue eyes. “I guess I wasn't really, either.”

     He nodded, and an awkward silence fell once again. They both sipped at their drinks more reservedly now, though the glasses still were draining steadily. After a while, Lennon realised she never seemed to find it empty. She eyed the bartender suspiciously, but he stood a discreet distance away drying some glasses with a cloth, paying them no mind.

     Suddenly, she spoke, as if the conversation never halted. “I sure did make some stupid decisions when I was younger. You always think everything will go according to plan and scoff at the idea you'll have regrets later. But, inevitably, life has a way of throwing all that cockiness right back in your face.”

     Lennon paused to take a sip of whiskey, her glass surprisingly full again. Loren was listening patiently, waiting for her to continue. “Anyway, yes, everyone makes mistakes. Still, if I had known... if I had understood even a little what a mistake my marriage would be and what it would cost me...” She sighed heavily.

     Loren looked over at her, sympathetic. His voice was softer now when he spoke. “You only hear so much through the news, even of one of Gotham's most famous couples. But there were rumors...” He paused, unsure. “Was it really that bad?”

     Very slowly, Lennon nodded, unable to meet his eyes now.

     Clenching his fists tightly, Loren growled with anger. “I never liked him, but I never thought he'd sink so low. If I'd known... oh god, Len. When I find the bastard--”

     Lennon turned and put her hands over his as she spoke. “It's all done and over with now. Please leave it alone... for me.”

     Loren grimaced, but nodded. “Fine. For you.”

     “Thank you.”

     Removing his hands from hers gently, he turned back to his drink, downing another glass. She knew his anger was unlikely to subside any time soon. Leaning her head heavily on one hand, she swirled the whiskey slowly in her glass with the other, watching it intently. The liquor was hitting her harder than she expected, though she'd lost track of how much she'd had long ago. The blossoming haze in her head was comforting, so she didn't give it much thought, either.

     “How's the wife?” she asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

     Loren looked at his companion curiously. “She's well, thanks. But you know Babs. She takes things as they come.”

     Lennon gave an unconvincing smile and nodded. “How did you ever get her to go on a date with you anyway?”

     “You know, I simply asked her.”

     Giggling, Lennon finished another glass. “That's so unlike you.”

     “I know. Though, I guess I had learned my lesson.”

     “Yeah.” She paused. “So, you two are good?”

     “Yeah, Len. We're good.”

     Trying her best to plaster a smile on her face, she replied, “I'm really glad.”

     Loren's brow furrowed. “I think you've had enough, hon.”

     “I'm fine,” she said in an uncharacteristic sing-song voice as she emptied her glass yet again.

     Loren stood up suddenly, signalling to the bartender they'd had enough. “Come on, Len. I'll take you home.”

     She pouted slightly, but didn't argue. “I need to pay the thing for the stuff,” she slurred as Loren helped her off the barstool.

     “It's fine. Put it on my tab, Frank.”

     Lennon leaned heavily on Loren as the bartender grunted in reply. Propping her up with a shoulder, Loren cautiously led the way towards the door, stopping once when Lennon fell off her heels and decided to kick them off in frustration. After gathering up her shoes, he once again took up the DA and finally got them out the door and into the alleyway. Though it was a slow trek to the nearby street, it didn't take long to find a taxi cab even at that late hour. After gently helping her into the back seat, he got in round the other side.

     Realising he didn't know where Lennon was living these days, he turned to her to ask only to find her beginning to doze off. The taxi driver was staring at them patiently in his rear-view mirror as Loren gently shook her awake. “Len, what's your address?”

     She turned and looked at him groggily. “Huh?”

     “Your address? Where are you staying now?”

     “Oh. 'M back in the penthouse.”

     Loren couldn't help but smile to himself, memories both good and bad flooding back at the mention of Lennon's old digs. He let her rest as he directed the cabbie there, out of one of the dingiest neighbourhoods of Gotham to one of the most affluent.

     It didn't take long to reach Lennon's building on the empty late night streets. Loren paid the driver before prompting Lennon awake once again from the door on her side of the cab. She roused slowly and then he pulled her to her feet carefully. “C'mon, dear. Let's get you inside.”

     Lennon giggled softly to herself, flopping all of her weight into Loren when she was unable to steady herself. He grunted in reply, but managed to hold her upright.

     The doorman gave a respectful nod to the pair as he let them in. “'llo, David,” Lennon greeted cheerily. Loren quietly hoped David's job was worth more to him than the quick pay day he'd get spilling to the tabloids about Gotham's much-respected DA being dragged home very obviously drunk.

     The elevator pinged and opened nearly immediately. Once inside, Loren hit the button for the 28^th floor, expecting the doors to close and the lift to begin moving. Nothing happened, the light around the button having turned itself off. He hit it again, and again it went dim, the elevator not responding. Grumbling, he was beginning to tire under Lennon's weight and didn't have the patience to fight with a computerised box. Fortunately, he noticed that next to the buttons was a swipe pad for security cards, obviously installed in the many years since he'd visited the building.

     Turning, he softly shook the delirious DA to get her attention. “I need your security card, Len.” He paused to think. “And your keys while we're at it.”

     She stuck the tip of her tongue between her lips and her brow crinkled with intense concentration, the gears in her head obviously turning slowly. Loren couldn't help but smile, the mahogany-haired woman looking adorable even at her worst.

     “Oh!” she exclaimed suddenly, and then began digging around in her coat pockets. Gloves came flying out of nowhere, as did a stray slip of paper or two. Finally, Lennon tried an interior pocket, and there was a familiar jingle of keys. She pulled out her keychain, half a dozen keys of various sizes attached to it, and wiggled a round, black little fob in Loren's face. “Here, security thingy.”

     Taking it gratefully, he swiped it and hit the button for floor 28 one more time. This time, the elevator came to life, the doors closing before it moved swiftly towards Lennon's penthouse. Loren leaned his drunk companion very carefully against the wall of the lift as he gathered the gloves and things she'd thrown about earlier.

     As he did, Lennon spoke, chuckling. “Remember the first time we were here? You had a gun!”

     Loren stuffed the items back into her coat pockets, shaking his head. “How could I forget? Helena and I wanted to...” He trailed off.

     “Kill me! You two were going to kill me,” Lennon finished for him in a perky voice. “I'm pretty glad I talked you out of that.”

     “Me too, Len. I'm very glad.”

     The elevator dinged once again as they reached her floor, the doors sliding open. Lennon automatically began to move to exit the carriage, but lost her balance almost immediately. Loren acted quickly, thankful his reflexes were as good as ever as she landed in his arms.

     Giggling wildly, the DA said, “Nice catch, Di Iorio.”

     Loren grinned down at her, another ancient memory coming to mind, though back then their roles were perfectly reversed. He pushed the thought from his head as they straightened up so that he could support her as they walked the short way down the hall to her front door. Keys still in hand, he let them into the penthouse and flipped on the lights with a nearby switch.

     It looked much as he remembered it, as if Lennon had never moved out in the first place. Stacks of files sat haphazard on the coffee table in front of the same plush couch he'd sat on many years before. He dropped her keys on a table by the door, noticing the round, heavy paperweight that Lennon once threw at Helena in this very room. With a brief passing thought of how Helena might be doing now, Loren shut the door behind them and led Lennon to her bedroom. It, too, looked nearly unchanged, save for newer bedclothes and piles of boxes from her move many months ago which she hadn't bothered to unpack.

     Dropping her shoes to the floor, Loren said, “Let's get you out of this coat, hm?” Lennon was unsteady on her feet but managed to stay upright as Loren helped slip the thick winter coat off of her. It fell heavily to the floor, revealing that she was clad in her normal business attire of a well-tailored skirt suit with a buttoned blouse beneath. Loren helped her out of her suit jacket as well, unbuttoning it and laying it on a nearby chair once it was off. Unsure if he should go further, Lennon began fumbling at the clasp at the back of her skirt. Grabbing onto her before she lost her balance completely, he shrugged and then undid the skirt so that it dropped to the floor around her ankles. Then they worked together to free her of the many buttons of her silky collared shirt.

     Once Lennon was undressed, Loren led her around the side of the bed and pulled the covers back for her. She practically fell into bed, and he gently moved the blankets over her and tucked her in. As she settled in, he went to the kitchen and scrounged up a glass of water for her. He went back to her side and sat on the bed next to her, rousing her to make her drink the entire glass.

     Loren held it to her lips as she drank. “There you go. Good girl.” Once the glass was empty, he let her relax as he went to fill it up again, setting it on her bedside table. “That's for the morning. Trust me, you'll need it.”

     “Thank you,” she said softly, her eyelids obviously becoming heavy.

     Sitting beside her once again, Loren brushed a wavy lock of hair from her cheek. He stared deeply into her glittering green eyes until she could no longer keep them open. Holding one of her hands between his own, the retired detective sighed quietly to himself, watching the one who got away as she gradually fell into a deep sleep.

     Certain Lennon was resting peacefully, he finally tore himself away from her side, standing and readying to leave. Loren leaned over her carefully, planting a gentle kiss upon her smooth cheek. “I love you,” he whispered in her ear. “Always.”

     She turned towards him and a smile crossed her lips. He was worried he disturbed her sleep, but she immediately fell back into a deep, steady rhythm with her breathing. Relieved, Loren quietly tiptoed his way out of her bedroom. Just as he was about to close the door, he heard her mumble his name. It made him pause, though only momentarily.

     Hanging his head down low, hands shoved deep into his trench coat pockets, Loren silently exited Lennon's lavish penthouse. As the door clicked solidly behind him, he frowned to himself before making his way out of her building, and out of her life, for the last time.

Electric Church

     I’m blinded almost. Flashing, glaring, loud, and gaudy, this city never ceases to speak to me. As warm and inviting as it tries to be, loneliness seeps into the cracks of your soul. It calls you in with promises of riches and glory, but sucks dry whatever you have left of your life, tearing pride, respect, love and family away from you. And still the sheep will flock and graze, selling all they have to the highest bidder for some false hope of redemption.

     This is my home, this electric church, and I’ll never leave it. At the core of our existence, we’re exactly the same: bitter and empty. This is my Las Vegas.

     Following behind a discarded flyer blowing lazily down the Strip on this warm summer evening, I watch the thousands of tiny, flickering lights that the city is famous for slowly turn on. Tourists and regulars alike move en masse towards the casinos. Women clad only in feathers, colored in bright pinks, greens, and blues, stand at the entryways, handing out coupons and flyers with toothy grins. The electronic sounds of the slot and video poker machines emanate from all sides, mixing with that of coins falling into greedy plastic cups. The sun finally sinks below the distant horizon, but nothing dims. The real business is about to begin.

     I see my destination loom before me and join the crowd sidling in under the yellow flashing “The Golden Doubloon” sign. Pirates growl at me, though barely audible above the din, as I pass through the lobby into the casino, and I give them a warning glare. They uncomfortably move off to harass other guests, their fake eye patches not hiding their wariness. The cocktail waitresses in exaggeratedly small barmaid outfits know to keep away already. I go past the retired old men and women seated religiously at the one-arm bandits and the relatively younger, more social crowd at the blackjack tables. In a dark corner in the back, there is a well-concealed door, hinted at by only a faint outline in the golden wallpaper and pirate ship trim. I knock on it a few times lightly, and moments later it cracks open just enough for me to slip behind it.

     The quiet of the hall is a sharp contrast to the casino outside and I give my eyes and ears a minute to adjust. I note that everything seems to glow an eerie shade of red, from the walls to the lights to the carpet. Moving forward, there is nothing along the hallway, save for a door at the very end. The bare walls are almost as unnerving as their color. I approach the door, subconsciously double-checking that my gun is in its holster. Then I knock. And wait.

     A deep, gruff voice comes from behind the painted-red wood paneling. “Who’ssit?” he slurs.

     “I’m a friend. Marcella Beatrix. I’m expected.”

     The door creaked open, as the hidden one did before it, but this time a large, burly man stood behind it. I nod to him off-handedly, my attention immediately commanded by the figure seated at an ornate oak desk. I step into the vast and lavishly decorated office, everything still the same red hue as the hallway outside.

     “Hello, Marcella,” a medium-deep female voice greeted. “It’s been too long since we’ve seen each other, lover.”

     I smirk. She’s always been like this, for as long as I’ve known her. It’s seductive, her voice. It’s what drew me to her all those years ago in Sydney. Didn’t help that it’s such a damn romantic city. Must be why I left.

     “You’re right, Daisy. It has been too long,” I reply, unable to contain a bit of sarcasm. “It’s a wonder I stayed away like I did.”

     “Now now, darling, no need to be so harsh. You’ve always been welcome company, no matter our past. I was never one to carry a grudge.”

     “I never said you were the one who carried the grudge.”

     “Fair enough.” She gets up and moves out from behind her desk. Her plain black dress seems to cling in all the right places, making my breath catch in my throat. Half her face was cast in shadow by her long blonde hair, and her bright pouty red lips stand out against her fair skin. Memories flash through my mind of the first time I laid eyes on her, and she doesn’t look as if she’s aged a day.

     Daisy approaches me, her face too close to mine for comfort and her devilish grin looking so delicious. A stray passionate thought flutters wildly before me until I regain my composure a second later. I take a step backwards.

     “You might be exactly the same as the day I left, but I’m not the person you once knew and loved. My feelings for you are long gone and buried.”

     A look of disappointment and disgust flash over her face and she turns away suddenly. “You are so stubborn, Marcella. You always have been. If there’s one thing I always tried to get you to do, it was to loosen up. Have a little fun. Enjoy life. But you just let everything pass you by…” Her voice trails off.

     I sigh and slump into a nearby chair, as Daisy faces me once again, perching on the front end of her desk.      “I mean, look at you,” she continues. “You’re such a natural beauty… and you wear that?” She gestures emphatically at my black trench coat and loosely cut black pantsuit. “Plus, you have no make up on! And that gorgeous, thick black hair is going to waste in a plain ponytail. My good—“

     “I didn’t come here to get criticized on my life and my fashion sense,” I interrupt. “I’d appreciate it if we took care of business so that I could just leave.”

     She looks hurt. I know she’s feigning it. She doesn’t have a sensitive bone in her body. I stand up to show my impatience, and she finally moves back behind her desk to open a drawer. She pulls out a piece of paper.

     “That’s it?” I ask.

     “Yes. Signing that gives you rights to half the deed of this hotel and casino, since we founded it together.”

     “Half the deed! I thought I was only getting the fair share of the profits from my time here…”

     “You caught me in a generous mood.”

     “What’s the catch, Daisy?”

     “What catch…?”

     “Daisy…” I warn menacingly.

     “No, no, darling. Seriously, there is no catch. Really. Read the document.”

     I do so, from top to bottom, not missing a letter of the fine print. She’s right. There is no catch. But it still doesn’t feel right to me.

     “Why are you doing this?”

     She smiles politely. “It’s only fair, my dear. This is still our hotel, after all. Our relationship may have ended a long time ago, but this is our legacy.”

     I raise an eyebrow at her, still hesitating.

     “Please, Marcella…”

     I grit my teeth and sign the paper. Daisy could get anyone to sign their life away to her. All she had to do was ask.

Untitled

Only a fool can deny
That we pay for past sins
And though we may try
To cleanse our soul; to rinse
Away our guilt and fear
To ease the hurt and pain
The sun to shine ever clear
After a storm of rain
It eats away at our hearts
And racks our cluttered minds
Tearing out our inward parts
Leaving only, we find,
The mere dusty remains of our being
Scattered helpless on the floor
Till someone sweeps it away when cleaning
Carelessly losing us out the back door

Feathers and Stardust

Feathers and stardust,
that's all that remains
in the hollow shell of purity,
the broken shards of security,
invisible panes testament to what was lost.

Deep into the night,
silence pierced with cries,
shattered souls of the loveless,
in perfect harmony, her tears bless
the flocks huddled within her shadow.

In solitary homage, I bleed,
my veins fill her glass,
the patron saint of sinners,
in the end we're all hers,
from dust to flesh to ash: alone.

The Addiction

Release. Adrenaline. Pleasure. Sweet, delirious, numbing... hers was a drug so physically intoxicating, it called to her in all her waking hours, in her dreams, in her nightmares. She had built up a small resistance to it. For months at a time, even, she could push down the rising need in her and quell the screaming that reverberated in every fiber of her being. But, inevitably, she'd find herself weakened from the stresses that piled upon her, and the whispering of desire would fill the void in her soul with sweet nothings and empty promises.

Thoughtlessly, she would crawl into her bed and reach under her pillow to draw out that which haunted her so, close at hand as it ever was. She stared down at it blankly as she opened it, its viperous fangs revealed. Before she realized, it bit, poison flowing into her as crimson as the ichor that trickled down the length of her arm. Over and over, it tore at her flesh, her motions practiced, mechanical. She was past feeling, past caring, and certainly past knowing the damage she would have to contend with later. Eyes rolled back in her head, sighs of ecstasy passed through her lips. She was lost in a world that far too many knew, finding the only sublime release she could understand.

When she finally dropped the bloody knife to the ground, her arm throbbed with a painful reality. She observed the violence she had inflicted upon herself, and with disturbing satisfaction, her eyes lingered on the trails of red crisscrossing her skin. Reaching under her pillow again, she grabbed a towel, long ago stained by her addiction. She pressed it to her wounds, now all-too conscious of the mess she had made. She collapsed, suddenly exhausted. Caressing her arm with a zealous gentleness, still in its towel, she began to cry for the first time in months. All of her pain poured out into her pillow, soaking up the tears and emotions dammed up inside her for too long.

Soon after, she fell into a dreamless sleep, one night's reprieve from crimson-tinged nightmares that filled her days. The next morning she would awaken numbed and calmly clean her wounds from the night before. The smell of blood mixed with hydrogen peroxide never failed to sicken her, but it was a stench she learned to ignore. After a shower, she carefully chose clothing to conceal the fresh scars. And onward went her routine, for hours, days, and months at a time in seeming peacefulness. Yet, she was always at the beck and call of the ache within her, the voices in the dark that never let her rest. And she was the only one who ever knew that she wore her scars on her sleeve.

A Love Letter

Dear someone,

I’m not sure who you are yet or when and where we’ll meet, but I know you love the moonlight as much as I. It touches you in an ethereal way, its full glittering beams lighting the path to your soul. I know that your eyes twinkle like the stars on a crisp winter night, mist swirling soothingly like your breath as my name escapes your lips. Your smile is warmth, like sand on a beach just after sunset, still clinging to the day’s heat. Your touch is like ice slowly melting on my skin, electric, refreshing, and torturingly sweet. I will long for your kiss just like the ground weeps for the rain, your lips cascading upon me as graceful as a midnight storm. I know that you will whisper sweet nothings as refreshing as a cool summer breeze in my ear, and caress me as gently as the ocean waves that crash rhythmically on a still night. Our hearts will beat in time with one another, easing the ache when we’re apart. When we’re together, minutes will seem like days that can never be too long.

My love, I can already see us laughing wildly at each other’s ridiculous jokes and sharing soft glances over a candlelit dinner. Entirely too many nights will be whiled away talking until sunrise, and as many others will be spent clinging to each other in a frenzied passion. Moments of perfect silence will be passed in each other’s embrace, with all its sweet awkwardness.

I see all of these things, my darling, and know in my heart that they are true. So, patiently I wait for that fateful day when I finally find you, be it a stolen look or a spontaneous smile or some other slight twist of fate that brings you to me. Oh, how I yearn for that moment to come soon, but no… I must persevere, passing the long hours in calm, quiet, and solitude. Yes, love, no one could possibly be as enduring as I, for some day you will save me from these chains. And then, my love, my sweetheart, my one and only… then, years later, before our love wanes and you shatter my soul… then, I will devour your heart, fresh and beating still, and you will reside in me forever.

Your only true love