Moonlight 

A moonlight serenade,
A chance to hold you.
A kiss,
A promise denied.
The freedom of the moment overpowering,
Intoxicating.
An enchanted song
as fairies watch.
A fleeting moment,
A kiss,
A tear,
A hushed goodbye,
A promise to return.

Art of Dorian Cleavneger

Time drains and the clock of life withers,

Madness chokes empty words from the mouth of the Fool,

Useless words left lifeless on the floor,

Left there to rot in the darkness.

Love, Hate, Truth, Lies,

they are all the same when forged on a silver tongue.

The demon,

my familiar friend,

stretches out his hand and I take it.

I take it WILLINGLY.

I take it GRATEFULLY.

“Payment” he demands,

as a smile stretches across his

parched putrid lips.

“You are me and I am you” we both say in unison,

as the last light is extinguished from my soul.

No more to give.

Too weak to take. 

I am nothing.

I am… no more.

I teach, and keeping SilverthornPress.com running the way I want it to run, gets difficult during the 9 months that I’m in school.  Then the summer months are spent catching up with many things, so again, I can’t give it the attention it needs.  I no longer have the help I had when I first began the Press, so I considered shutting it down.  My wife is starting a teaching job in the fall, so, she can’t help me at all.  She’s also got commissions to work on for her artwork.   SilverthornPress used to issue a weekly newsletter featuring a writer, an artist, and articles on the paranormal.  I had to change it to a monthly newsletter, then eventually shut it down completely.  This saddened me.

But!  Where one door closes, a window opens.  God, the Universe, our inner force, whatever you want to call it, shows us the way.  Right?  Our brains figure out possibilities that will keep us on the path to obtaining our goals and our dreams.  My dream is to make SilverthornPress.com a place where writers and artists, established, and new, will come to for inspiration and connection with others who also have a passion and vision for creating.  So, no more talk about shutting down the Press.  Instead, I have enlisted people who will help me carry out this dream.  People who are also fellow creatives and care about advancing the arts.

The first person I have asked to join the staff of SilverthornPress.com is Allison Claire.  If you are on Twitter, you know Ally as @Allykiss.  I’ve known Ally for a long while and I trust her COMPLETELY.  She is educated, organized, and artistic.  Ally is a graduate from the University of Utah (health field, specializing in education).  For almost two years she traveled Europe, learning the culture from places like France, Belgium, and Luxembourg.  Here’s a funny side note: She DOES speak French and she’s been helping me brush up on mine.  It’s great fun really .

Aaaaanyway… Ally’s original major, for two years, was  Art specializing in Art History, which she dropped in order to go into the Health Field.  She is refined, smart, and lovely…all laced with a seriously dark edge. I believe she is a perfect fit for the Press.  Woot! So excited.

Ok, what does this mean?

It means, writers and artists can now email Ally with any questions about submissions, interviews, and anything related to the Press.  Her email address is SPwriteart@gmail.com.  She will also help research for the Press.  Research what?

Well, she will send out requests for interviews to writers and artists, and will scout for talent online and in galleries around the world.  Yes! SilverthornPress is looking for writers and artists all over the world!

Ally will also keep an eye out for paranormal/horror/magical realism/fantasy/sci-fi articles that would fit the content of SilverthornPress.  In other words, she will be a MAJOR part of the Press.  The best part of it?  The cam conferences!  Woot!  Haha ok, the best part is that SilverthornPress will grow and help the creative community the way it was originally intended to do.

You can view Ally’s blog at ALLISON CLAIRE .

My wife, will help the Press, by letting us use her artwork.  Also, she and I are working on a few original pieces specifically for the website, including the two projects we are slowly bringing along.  I will tell you about that at a later date in another blog post.

So, if you are a writer or an artist, new or established, please contact us.  We are always looking for new content.

NOTE: Please never feel that you are not good enough to send your work out.  Artist or Writer.  Send it!  We will be honest with you.  

For new artists we have OUTSIDE The Frame.  And for new writers we have The Bleeding Pen.

Alright, I think that’s it for now dear readers.  Thank you for taking time to read the blog!

Photographic Art by Nina Petrovskaya

First, I would like to thank Jinxie for taking the time to write this article for The Raven’s Beak and SilverthornPress.com .  The subject of the article, the 4^th wall in writing, is always an interesting and controversial topic.  We live in a society ruled by technology, and although technology has made the world smaller, it has isolated us from each other, and sometimes from reality.

Social networking is an incredible and convenient tool to promote our businesses, writing, artwork, and anything else we create.  However, there are pitfalls to social networking sites, such as Twitter.

Now, I am not one to talk, because I used to be on Twitter 24/7, and I would tweet and tweet and tweet, in-between getting work done. I interacted with writers and characters alike (still do, but I limit myself). All was well, until I started socializing more and more and suddenly productivity decreased.  At least, I procrastinated to a point where I was staying up all night meeting deadlines.  Working feverishly on projects that should have been completed earlier in the week.  My personal relationships suffered because I was staying up late.  I was irritable, yes, more than usual, and I could not understand why my wife was upset with me, almost all the time.  Anyway, glad that’s over now and things are back to normal for me.

So, what does this have to do with crossing the fourth wall? AND, most importantly, what is wrong with crossing the fourth wall? Well… nothing, and … everything.  I will give you my opinion, and you do not have to agree with it.  I welcome all comments, as long as they are respectful to the writer and the website.  If you send in an anonymous comment, that’s fine, and as long as it sticks to the subject at hand, then I will publish it.  The article is not meant to offend anyone.  If you are paranoid, then you probably will take it personally, as an attack.  Let us all be mature and not sink into the “high school” mentality.  I believe the opinions from all points of view are valid.  I do.

So, here is my opinion…

Personally, I believe, putting a character on twitter and letting him/her interact with people and other characters, has the potential of killing that character’s storyline, IF that character already has a storyline.  For instance, I have been asked, and have considered, creating a twitter account for my vampire Nick.  I end up asking myself, “Would Nick waste time tweeting?” just chit chatting and goofing off with others online?  Would he have a Facebook account?   Nah, I don’t think he would.  I just can’t picture Nick turning on a computer, going to his Facebook account, and suppressing an “awwwwyeah!” over the five or six friend requests he has waiting.  He is a vampire.  I know if I were a vampire, I would not spend my time on a computer.  BUT, you never know!  I may bring him out, just for fun… just for trouble.  Because you know, that’s what I’m all about… trouble.

I say, to each his own.  If it works for you then that’s great. But, when online character-play begins to interfere with your writing and with your personal relationships, then I believe it is time to put the character back behind the wall.  But that’s just my opinion.  Writers and artists MUST express their creativity and MUST allow their imaginations to roam, just remember to keep that rope tethered securely.

Here is the article, written by N.L. Gervasio, a better read than my diatribe above.  She has firsthand experience with crossing the fourth wall, the ups, the downs and the ugly in-betweens.

When Fiction Meets Reality

First, I’d like to thank Corb for having me as a guest on this wonderful little blog of his during my Birthday Book Blog Tour. He has a nice place here, so I’m going to kick up my feet and stay awhile. I’ll have an Italian margarita, Corb. *winks* And since I’m here, perhaps we can discuss some writerly things. Yes? Good, because have I got a topic for you!

Breaking the Fourth Wall

Some of you may know this term, others may not. You may have even read it on my blog when it posted two years ago, or you may have “heard” me talk about it in the last three years on Twitter. Either way, I’m going to explain it to you, give you the link to the original post where I discuss the benefits of breaking the fourth wall, and then, my dear readers, I’m going to talk about its pitfalls. Oh yes, there are disadvantages, to put it nicely, to breaking down this invisible barrier.

The term originated in theatre and is an “imaginary wall” through which the audience watches the events taking place onstage. Breaking the fourth wall is used for dramatic or comedic effect, but also “reveals to the audience that the characters know they are fictional” (Wikipedia, Fourth Wall).

For instance, in movies, when Ferris Bueller talks to the camera in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (I know I’m dating myself here), that act is breaking the fourth wall. Even when a character just looks at the camera, and I’m going to date myself again by using Sixteen Candles as an example, like in the scene where Anthony Michael Hall does so after he’s driven a Rolls Royce over a curb, that mere gesture is breaking the fourth wall. To give a more recent film, I believe Jason Statham briefly looks at the camera in Snatch, which is one of my favorite movies. I love just about anything Guy Ritchie makes.

*side note: Anthony Michael Hall is now a First Lieutenant on the Zombie Survival Crew and it’s just weird that I used him as an example when I started writing this post the day before said event happened. *cue Twilight Zone music*

*ahem* Sorry, I got sidetracked. By the way, I’m a co-captain on the Zombie Survival Crew if you’d care to join. We even have cookies. Okay, maybe not, but we do have some kick-ass gear designed by someone named Jinxie G. =) That crazy bitch designed the website too.

In my upcoming book Nemesis, which will be released on June 15^th through Running Ink Press, the main character (MC) Nemy is its narrator, and she narrates in first person point-of-view (POV) present tense. And there are times throughout the novel where she will talk directly to you, the reader. That’s breaking the fourth wall, regardless of whether or not you can respond to her. It’s quite similar to a blog, really.

So now that you know what the term means go take a look at my original post here, if you haven’t read it, and come back when you’re finished. Then we’ll talk about the pitfalls of breaking the fourth wall.

When Fiction Affects Reality

By now, you likely think I’m insane, which may or may not be true. As I said in the original post I wrote nearly two years ago, all writers have some level of schizophrenia. Writing is our outlet for all those crazy voices. It’s when the crazy voices start to affect your reality that you may have an issue (I never say ‘problem’, by the way. It’s a bad word). You’re probably curious as to how this could happen. Well, as I pointed out in the original post, the characters would play around on Twitter. It’s fun having them interact with readers. This play turned into role playing, which wasn’t entirely bad because a group of us built a nice little storyline for a series of books. Characters from several different books became involved in this storyline, but the original characters for the story didn’t change and neither did the storyline. We gathered some great material for the books during these sessions and really, truly figured out who our characters were. Plus, it was fun!

Unfortunately, that series will never happen now because things got a little . . . weird.

As a writer for many years, the one lesson I have learned over all others is to never allow the character total control or let their emotions become my own. I control the character; he or she does not control me. This is important for the simple fact that if you allow the character to have control, especially during role play with other people, real emotions become involved. That’s a damn dangerous game to play on the web. If you can’t separate yourself from your character and your writing, you shouldn’t role play.

While role playing can allow you to get to know your characters and all their little idiosyncrasies, and show you how they handle certain situations and whatnot, if it gets out of hand, it’s no longer “play” and can damage much more than your relationship with others. You really will look insane to the majority.

When you’re a writer, there’s a very thin line between reality and fiction. We writers always have a story or two or three running around in our minds, even while we’re at work or working out or driving or whatever. I know I do, since it is Life and the events around me that influence and inspire my writing. At present, I have about seven storylines flitting about in my mind. Yes, I said seven. I’ve had about half of the characters from those storylines on Twitter at one time or another. But, they haven’t surfaced in a good long time, with exception to my vampire Shawn. That’s mostly because I don’t have web access at home, but it’s partly due to the “things got a little weird” bit as I mentioned above. It only takes one person to ruin a good thing. And I’ll leave it at that.

If you decide to break the fourth wall and put your characters out there, please be careful. You never know what will happen once you set them loose. While you may or may not be insane, your characters most definitely will be if you allow them to taste freedom. *winks*

If you’d like to experience a story that breaks the fourth wall, check out my book Nemesis on June 18^th from Running Ink Press.

Prince Charming was a putz.

Prince Charming number two was even worse.

After the last prince ran off without any notice, breaking her heart and their engagement along the way, Nemesis Mussolini swore off men and passed the time kicking ass and slinging drinks, something her mafia father would never approve of. But, when her boss Clancy ups his flirtations, it’s difficult to remember she’s not interested, especially when he gets that delicious evil glint in his eye that has her melting. Just when Nemy starts to think all men might not be bad, she hears whispers about Clancy’s less than legal past, and wants to run like hell from the idea that he could be just like her father.

Great . . . Prince Charming number three may possibly be on FBI’s Most Wanted.

While Nemy and Clancy tumble down the romance road, hitting potholes every step of the way, Nemy discovers how much of her heart already belongs to Clancy, and how much of a Don’s daughter she really is. When Clancy’s daughter is kidnapped, they must work together to use every talent and connection they have to get her back, which means Nemy must learn to trust again. If they fail, Clancy could lose his daughter forever. Can Nemy surrender in time to get her happily ever after, or is she hell-bent on letting her past keep her from the one man who could be her true Prince Charming?

N.L. “Jinxie” Gervasio was born on Friday the thirteenth. Her dad wanted to call her Jinx. Her mom said no. It took thirty-four years for her to discover the nickname, and she’s grown quite attached to it. She lives in Tempe, Arizona with Umi (her mother) and Moon (her Alaskan malamute). She enjoys riding her beach cruiser “The Betty” around downtown Tempe, loves a good pub crawl, and has had the pleasure and the heartache of experiencing a love far greater than she could have ever imagined.

She welcomes you to her world.

Twitter │ Facebook │ Email

Do you believe in Angels?  How about demons?  To many, in fact the majority of people in the world, these creatures not only exist, but have a great influence on worldly events.  They can cause catastrophes all over the earth as well as cause misery and heartache in our daily lives.  They can also intervene when danger strikes and save us from ourselves.  It is believed they can only operate within the power alloted to them by God.  But who’s to say?  Our interactions with these mysterious creatures are vastly different and our experiences span from fear to worship to ecstasy.  Whatever it is you believe, I know you will enjoy reading author Sharon Gerlach’s new book, Malakh.  An incredibly strong tale about angels and demons and the things they make us humans do and wish we hadn’t.  I always profess my love for character driven books, and in this one, Sharon Gerlach delivers above and beyond my expectations.  

Here is an excerpt from my interview with her on SilverthornPress.com .

Let’s talk a little about your book.  What is the meaning of the title?

Malakh–or mal’akh, as it’s properly formatted–is the word for “angel” in Aramaic, Ethiopic, and Arabic. In modern Hebrew, it takes the expanded meaning of “messenger of God.” Although the story deals with two angels (plural of malakh is malakhim), Icarus is the only one introduced until the very end of the story. So the title is actually referring to him. And despite the fact that the story is narrated by Suzanne, Icarus is actually the focus of the story.

Your characters have a strong voice, and they are what drive the storyline; how do you come up with these wonderful characters?  Is it difficult to keep their voices straight in your head?

One thing I’ve never had any trouble doing is keeping my characters’ voices straight. Characterization is where I excel in writing, and my stories are almost always character-driven rather than action-driven. While writing action is challenging and can be fun, I’m more fascinated by the workings of the inner self, the motivations that make people do the things they do. When I conceive a story idea and begin to cast the characters, they generally spring into being with personalities intact. I simply attempt to capture it on page. I have a very personal relationship with each of my characters, which makes me able to write their flaws as well as their triumphs.

I do write most of them with a strong voice–I’m a strong person myself, and I have little patience for weak or codependent characters, which is why I had trouble reading that I-will-not-mention-the-name vampire series. I don’t understand codependency, and have trouble accepting characters with that trait.

The only time I’ve had to be very careful with my character’s voices was while writing my third novel (my second women’s fiction novel), The Secret Dreams of Sarah-Jane Quinn. Both it and its predecessor, Office Politics, are written in first-person present tense, and giving Sarah-Jane a unique voice after penning a character like Frannie Freeman (the main character in Office Politics) was pretty challenging.

YOU CAN READ THE ENTIRE INTERVIEW AT SILVERTHORNPRESS.COM     

Sharon’s book can be purchased at the following websites:

Smashwords

Amazon.com

Amazon UK  

Running Ink Press  is the brain child of Sharon Gerlach and NL Gervasio.

Go check it out!

Follow these authors on Twitter:

@Sharongerlach

@NLGervasio

@RunningInkPress 

@ForeverNocturne

As I tweeted earlier….

Childhood Magic by Beatriz Martin Vidal

I was thinking.  Yes, yes I know, it is a very dangerous thing to do.  Don’t worry, I didn’t burst any arteries.

We adults are idiots and hypocrites.  We are mean spirited.  We are not nice.  We lie to each other.  We cheat.  We hold grudges.  We complain.  We whine.  We are never satisfied.  We laugh at those who dare to dream.  We are jealous.  We seek retribution when we feel we’ve been wronged.  We hate.   And we not only act like this around strangers, but we act like this around those we love.

We say children are silly in the things they do and the things they say and we encourage them–no–we demand they “grow up”.

Here’s what’s interesting about children… (learned as I watch my 5yr old)…

They don’t brag and find it necessary to constantly remind those around them how awesome they are.

They are adventurous and are unaware of their own limits.

They give love freely without expecting anything in return, and when we disappoint them, they are willing to forgive, in an instant!

They believe in all things magick.  They laugh without restraint.  They are not critical, yet they are brutally honest.

They are amazing.

So, from now on, when someone tells me I’m acting like a child, then I’ll just smile, nod, and thank them.  I’m tired of the bullshit and the pettiness and the worries.  I say we all resign our ridiculous adult attitudes and head on over to Wonderland, or take a boat ride to where the wild things are, and maybe believe in cats playing fiddles and cows who jump over the moon.

I know we all have responsibilities and I’m not advocating failing in our responsibilities.  I’m just asking you to take a moment and believe…. laugh… let go… stop being so “adult”.

If you want to wallow in petty behavior and hate, then go ahead.  You have every right to do so; I will not deny you your “adult” right…. as for me, I’m choosing something else… :: extending hand:: won’t you join me?

Here is the poem I stumbled across.  I don’t know who wrote it as it was listed under Anonymous.

I Resign

Unknown

I am hereby officially tendering my resignation as an adult.

I have decided I would like to accept the responsibilities of an 8-year-old again.

I want to go to McDonald’s and think that it’s a four star restaurant.

I want to sail sticks across a fresh mud puddle and make ripples with rocks.

I want to think M&Ms are better than money because you can eat them.

I want to lie under a big oak tree and run a lemonade stand with my friends on a hot summer day.

I want to return to a time when life was simple.

When all you knew were colors, multiplication tables, and nursery rhymes, but that didn’t bother you, because you didn’t know what you didn’t know and you didn’t care.

All you knew was to be happy because you were blissfully unaware of all the things that should make you worried or upset.

I want to think the world is fair.

That everyone is honest and good.

I want to believe that anything is possible.

I want to be oblivious to the complexities of life and be overly excited by the little things again.

I want to live simple again.

I don’t want my day to consist of computer crashes, mountains of paperwork, depressing news,

how to survive more days in the month than there is money in the bank, doctor bills, gossip,illness, and loss of loved ones.

I want to believe in the power of smiles, hugs, a kind word, truth, justice, peace, dreams, the imagination, mankind, and making angels in the snow.

So…here’s my checkbook and my car keys, my credit cards and all my responsibility.

I am officially resigning from adulthood.

And if you want to discuss this further, you’ll have to catch me first, ’cause,

“Tag! You’re it.”

Painting by Lawrence Alma-Tadema

You are the Whited Sepulcher

Full of animosity

Perhaps some curiosity,

Is that why you’ve come back

to trouble me?

The lady doth protest too much

claiming innocence and such.

She drowns in her iniquity,

losing sight of any possibility

Of saving her from choking

on the bitterness of life.

Your words,

No longer my Achilles’ heel,

As you try to make me feel,

emotion gone so long ago.

Please believe me

As I say with great sincerity,

Your words, they comfort me,

Surreptitiously,

As indifference occupies the space, you left.

I’ve reconciled my heart

My soul

My mind,

As I acquiesce to the mistakes, I have made.

But do not mistake, my expression

of confession,

As some silly weakness

for I remain UNSWAYED.

You have shown me who you are,

No longer hidden,

Although others may be bidden

To worship at your throne.

You are the Whited Sepulture

Lacking character

Full of self-importance,

Rotting from within,

Not caring who you hurt or

Whom you destroy.

Did you think,

I was the knight in shining armor?

There to free you from your loveless hell?

How you clung to me and whispered sweet

Revealing all the secrets deep,

Secrets I will keep

Encased in wood and chains,

Never to reveal,

Ever to conceal,

your deception and your hypocrisy.

I’ve made mistakes that’s true

And I’ve apologized and paid my dues,

But you seem unsatisfied indeed.

No matter how you beg and plead

It has already been decreed

I’m sure someone is there to take my place.

Can you see?  I’m no longer interested.

I cannot give you absolution,

And so I search for the solution

One that will take me far away from you.

There is no love.

There is no hate.

There is only the inconsequence

of your words.

I have played my part

As good as any actor

On any given stage,

And it is finished.

Therefore, I say to you

No matter what you do,

You cannot cut me,

through and through.

You hold no power

You are the Whited Sepulcher,

And so, without a further word,

I will bid you

Adieu, adieu, adieu.

Art by Avelina De Moray

Days passed. I had not seen Deirdre or Isabella’s cousin in my many wanderings through the halls of the big house.  There had been no sun for ten days, and the first snow had fallen.  Often I ventured out into the cold to walk the grounds, never seeing anyone else.  Not even footprints in the snow allowed me to believe there were others there.  An empty shell with no connection to my surroundings, I slowly sunk into a dark mood I could not shake.  It hung about my shoulders like a cloak, with no warmth for my soul.

Fatigue gnawed away my ability to think.  I remained nameless, and I did not care.  All logic told me I should leave this horrid place, yet I stayed.  I stayed while the Mistress—Isabella, my Isabella—drained me of my life’s blood.

I no longer dreamed, or if I did, I did not remember.  There were no visits to my subconscious by the mysterious dark haired woman, carrying messages of cryptic books and symbols from the great beyond.   I had no appetite.  The emptiness of the dining room emphasized my aloneness, so I no longer took my meals there.  The food brought to my room remained on the tray, cold and congealed when the timid chambermaids scuttled in to take it away.  No longer did I react to the sound of the heavy door opening in hopes of seeing Deirdre walk in.  My heart no longer hurt.  I was numb, dying.  No, I was dead.  A ghost.

I tried to decipher my surroundings, the furniture and such in order to know where I was.  Isabella had refused to answer any of my questions, guiding our conversations to other subjects; when I insisted on answers, she would smile gently, almost pitifully, and say “Another time my love”.

My patience slowly died, and I grew irritated.  Anger and hate for her filled me, yet my desire was strong and at times obsessive.  I felt out of control when she was near.  A force beyond me made me desire only to be with her, pushing Deirdre from my mind.  Afterwards I felt shame and guilt.  I desired Deirdre, longed to hold her, but only when the Mistress was not near.  I loved Deirdre.

Love…

It had been days since I had seen Deirdre.  Our last moments together haunted me.  Things had been so awkward.  Why had I not reached for her?  Why had I not forced her to tell me what was wrong?  Why had I not told her, in that moment, that I loved her and that she meant more to me than the Mistress ever would?

I feared it was too late.

The library, a spacious room with high, narrow windows of stained glass, became my haven.  Colorful renderings of battle scenes from wars long forgotten and saints whose names I did not remember filled each pane.  Paintings of cherubs and clouds covered the high vaulted ceiling; directly below, in the center of the room, was a mosaic of hell.

Majestic tapestries, which I took my time studying, hung along the great walls.  A strange one hung by the great table near the windows.  What I first thought to be a unicorn was actually a goat, sitting on a throne, whose left horn had been broken off and now rested at its feet.  A nymph in a green gown reached for the horn, great concern on her face.  Men, women, and children danced around the throne, wearing manic expressions.  Absolute dread filled me as I studied the tapestry.  My breath caught in my throat as I took note of the background.  In the distance were a churchyard and a fire.  I stepped closer and peered at the scene above me, my soul draining from me as I stared at my dream.  The dark haired woman, my mother, pled to the heavens as flames licked at her garments.  Shaking my head, I took several steps back.

“No… impossible,” I shut my eyes and prayed this was not so.  “No!”

Another look at the tapestry showed me the macabre scene of the man-goat surrounded by the manic dancers; the church and fire were absent.

The candle flames flickered as a breeze blew through the room.  A shadow passed over me and my heart skipped several beats.

“Isabella,” I whispered.

Her hand fell on my shoulder, her breath fanning the back of my neck.

“My love” she purred.

I cursed my body for its instant reaction to the touch of her tongue on my skin.  Stepping away from her, I walked around the table, using it as a barrier.  Turning to face her, I opened my mouth to speak, but her expression made me swallow my words.

Was that concern? Pity?

“You are weak, my love.”

Yes, I was weak.  I nodded.

She took a step forward reaching for me. I took two steps backwards, bumping awkwardly into the windowsill behind me. Her deep-set saphire eyes penetrated my very soul.  For one moment I felt a sincere tenderness I had never recognized before; Isabella truly wanted to give to me.

Slowly she walked towards me in that deliberate manner, allowing me to see every movement of her lovely body through her dress.

I remained motionless.

God help me but I wanted her touch.

“I will give to you, and you must take.  And I will give to you because I love you.”  Her voice was barely a whisper; the rhythm in her words pulsated in my head and within my veins, and I found myself responding with a slow nod and a murmur of “Yes, I will take”.

Confusion clouded my thoughts, then, in a lightning-fast moment, as her cold hands touched the sides of my face I knew what she meant.  Holding me, she ran her tongue beneath fangs that now grew sharp.  Beads of blood welled and she moved to kiss me.

Horrified, I tried to push away from her, but she held me tight. Her voice, in my head, told me to be calm.  My heart threatened to beat out of my chest.

“No,” I said shaking my head. Her mouth closed over mine, and she forced me to take of her.  My mouth filled with her blood; it was sweet and left a sting. I fought the urge to swallow.

“Drink!” her voice again in my head.  I gagged; warm blood spilled from the sides of my mouth and down my chin.

“Drink my love.  Take of me,” she urged.

I drank.

The warm thick liquid coated my throat, warmed my chest and belly, and spread through my limbs.

My thirst grew and I craved more.

My arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer, and I drank, losing all sense of time. I cannot say how long we stood there.  My mind swam as if I had drunk several cups of wine and body pulsed with an energy I had never known before.

My hand tangled in her hair; pressing her face closer to mine, I pushed my body against hers.  Sucking on her tongue with animalistic desire, I could not get enough. I wanted more!  Her hands were on my chest and she struggled against me, but I held her tight.

“Enough, my love!” She pushed at my chest.  Nevertheless, I drank.

“More,” I pleaded.

“Enough!” her mind cried out in mine.

I did not care.  Digging my fingers into the cold skin of her back, tearing the delicate fabric of her dress, I pressed her to me.

She screamed then, a guttural primal sound, pushing me hard, sending me reeling backwards towards the stained glass window.  My arm shattered the glass as I tried to stop myself.  Jagged shards imbedded themselves deep within my skin; I cried out and tumbled to the floor.

She came at me, her face distorted by fury, her lips twisted and curled in a bloodstained sneer, reaching out with claw-like hands.  I tried to scramble backwards to escape her, but my bloody hand slipped from under me and my head hit the stone floor.  The world spun.  And then she was upon me, straddling me, her hands at my throat.

“Fool!” she roared.

Pulling at her hands, gasping for air, I was no match for her animal strength.

“You dare disobey me? Fool!”  Her hands tightened and little bursts of colors exploded before my eyes.  “Fool!” Her arms shook and she sobbed.  Darkness flooded my vision, a violent pain crushed my lungs and chest.

“You are killing me!” I howled in my mind, desperately reaching out to her.

Her eyes opened wide and her lips trembled, as if she suddenly became conscious of what she was doing.  She released me and pushed herself away.

I sucked in a ragged and painful breath; my lungs and chest were on fire as I rolled on to my side, gagging and coughing up blood, the wound in my hand forgotten.  Not knowing what she would do next, I desperately tried to push myself on to my knees. My body shook violently; I did not know if it was because of her attempt to murder me or if it was from the amount of blood, I had taken from her.

I willed my fear and anxiety to subside, but my anger remained.

Where was Isabella?

Looking around I found her sitting on the edge of the desk, unmoving as a stone statue, her eyes fixed on me.  There was no expression on her face.  An involuntary groan escaped me as I sucked in another breath.

“Forgive me,” she said, breaking the long silence.

My hands shook with rage and indignation, on dripping blood, and I could not answer.  A thousand distinct emotions washed over me.

After some time she stood.  “My love, forgive me.  Why did you not release me?”

Deep emotion reflected in her eyes, and her voice was woeful.  I tried to look on her with compassion, but I felt only fury.  The silence ran several beats too long before I answered with a slow shake of my head, “I—do not know.”

Repulsion twisted my stomach into a knot as she knelt beside me, reaching to stroke my cheek.  She knew my thoughts and she stopped suddenly.  Without a word she stood.

“Isabella—“ I began in a small whisper but she interrupted me.

“Tomorrow evening you will dine with my cousin and two other guests.  Deirdre will accompany him.  I hope that will not disturb you.”

My anger burned bright because I knew she purposely spoke of Deirdre to antagonize and hurt me.  Gritting my teeth, I swallowed hard and kept my mouth shut; my hate for her was bitter bile in my throat.

“I shall not return for several days.”  Her tone was cold and harsh.  She was gone suddenly, and I was glad. In the distance, thunder echoed, a warning of the storm to come.

I remained on the floor, contemplating my escape from this hell.

I am your temptation…

the desire of your soul.

One touch, one kiss, will undo you.

I am the secret that you breathe.

In your moments of solitude and loneliness,

You think of me.  Yes, you yearn for me.

Come, take my hand,

And I will bring you closer to the edge of life.

All mysteries I will reveal.

There upon the precipice you will whisper my name

and I will embrace you.

I will love you.

I will claim you.

Who am I?

I am Death my darling.

I am Death.