The Oceans Wept

The ocean wept for you when the sands ran out
The ocean wept
And the gulls screeched and the rocks wailed
When you left the world was hollow
And the rain couldn’t fill the empty spaces
Dark and cold and alone
The ocean wept
And the melodies were silenced
The words ceased to flow and the images faded
Without you there was nothing
And without you there was only ache
A deep resonating loss nothing could overcome
The ocean wept
And I thought to die when you were gone
Gone by my own doing when I pushed
Because I feared the ferocity of my belief
My belief in you withered and crumbled
I made myself cold in your absence
The ocean wept
And you came back to me
You came back and filled me up with purity
Washing the grime from my insides with sea-foam tears
My beautiful memory and precious love
I could never forget
The oceans wept
And still you came back to me

Noctu Requiem

Found this little thing while I was cleaning out my desk. I don’t hate it, so I figured I’d let it see the light of day again. Edited, of course. Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Bells.”

Noctu Requiem

Hear now the bells toll,
Ding, dong, bohm.

Hear now, the starling sings
Melodies on splintered wings
Star falls softly as it rings
Hear now the bells toll,
Ding, dong, bohm.

Moon floats high, the glowing ball
Catch the diamonds as they fall
Win them here or ne’er at all
Hear now the bells toll,
Ding, dong, bohm.

Summer fading on the morn
Winter waits beyond with scorn
Autumn ready to be born
Hear now the bells toll,
Ding, dong, bohm.

White glow fading, now the light
Sound emerge from dead of night
Wind’s soft whisper now take flight
Hear now the bells toll,
Ding, dong, bohm.

Silent now, but softer then
In the dark we hear again
Starlings sing Night’s Requiem
Hear now the bells toll,
Ding, dong, bohm.

Hear now the bells toll,
Ding, dong, bohm.

Breaking My Own Contracts

I said I was going to write 13 new horror stories to post in the 13 days leading up to Halloween, and I managed two. Life happens, and if I’m not feeling the stories I’m not going to try to force them. They suck when that happens. I know that right now, I can’t handle a new short story every night. Hell, I’m lucky if I can manage one a week that’s fit for an audience to read. There’s just too much happening. Between overtime at my job, trying to figure out these grown-up things like health insurance and taxes, and personal garbage, I’m just not up for it. I don’t have a whole lot left in the down time department, and I need that for myself because I can start to feel myself slipping back to that bad place I was in last year. Maybe it’s seasonal. Maybe it’s too much time away from school (who’d have thought?), or maybe it’s something else entirely. I don’t really know. All I know is that with the amount of crap in my head and in my heart, I just can’t do it. I’m not doing NaNoWriMo, I’m not doing anymore writing contests, and I’m not producing anything creative on demand.

I need to set limits for myself, even when that means setting limits on myself. I only have so much that I can share. Right now I’m tapped out. My writing partner is going to see more writing than anybody, and some people have been given access to my novel as I’m editing it, but I can’t even promise that those two avenues of creativity are going to keep happening with any regularity. I’m just tired. I’m physically, mentally, and emotionally tired. Because I recognize this, I can cut myself off from the things that are too much for me at this point in time, and I can understand that rationally, I’m doing the right thing. If I seem bummed out now and again, it’s because I don’t give a damn what this is rationally, I still sometimes feel like I’m letting people down, like you guys reading my stuff (all four of you), my writing partner, my muses, and myself. Irrational? Yeah. But it is what it is.

My fuse is shorter in pretty much every area of my life these days. I get more upset lately than usual, and over things that shouldn’t really bug me. I just know that I need to reorganize my life, and that means that my writing gets put on hold, then as painful as that is for me, so be it.

All I know is that I’m doing what I need to do, and while I’m explaining this to you all so you can understand a little bit better, I’m not apologizing.

In Stasis

Writing on lunch breaks is easy if you happen to be caught in the throes of passionate story-making, but if you’re currently between stories and not really sure if long-term narrative commitment is right for you at this point of your life, it’s a pain in the ass. I’m at the point where I don’t want to even read anymore, because it would be taking energy away from the stories I should be telling but am not, or because nothing seems to hold my interest anymore. I have the attention span of a goldfish, so it’s not really working out.

Thing is, once I get into a story, I’m committed…for a time. Until something better comes along. Until I can…dear god. I’m one of THOSE people.

Okay, okay, fine. I’ll admit it. I want to get serious with a story again but I’m afraid of commitment. I want the thrill back, but I’m afraid to tie myself down.

I am the writing equivalent of a highschool boy. *headdesk*

Irritating

My Muse was quite vocal this morning with a fun little story about an instance at a shipyard when she was still working as the internationally wanted Lady Unpleasantries. Enjoy.

The guns were empty. I had somehow managed to use sixty-six bullets, and they were still shooting at me. I had one clip left for each gun, for all the good that would do me. If sixty-six bullets hadn’t put so much as a dent in my enemies’ hides, another batch wasn’t going to do much more. I needed a bloody cannon. Or a nuclear warhead.

The metal was cool against my back, the wicked howl of the winter wind piercing my skin to run icy fingers along my bones. I shivered and kept my head down as the firefight continued around me, the criminal syndicate and international police officers releasing death into the air with as much concern for innocent bystanders as the clouds show for people caught in the rain.

I reloaded the Berettas at my hips first, fifteen bullets apiece for the near military-grade weapons, and then slammed clips into the Brownings in the double shoulder holster for another twenty-six, and finally ten for the little Smith & Wesson at the small of my back. All excellent pistols, with black matte finish and the maximum capacity for ammunition possible for their sizes, 9mm weapons to fit my smaller hands at the ready, and a .357 as a weapon of last resort kept holstered at my back. I should not be running out of ammunition. I should be on the bloody boat with the cargo I’d come for, and that should be the end of it.

At once the gunfire ceased, and I held my breath, watching innocent people sobbing and clinging to each other as they hid behind crates and beams like I was. The shipyard had become a war-zone, bodies of people who had never crossed any of us before littering the ground. I felt no remorse for them; they had died quickly, for the most part, and that was a good way to die. Some of them may have agonized for years with cancers that ate away at their insides, or lingered on beeping machines with tubes down their throats. They had enviable swift ends.

“Come out with your fucking hands on your head!” American. Of course.

“Yes, that will happen,” I muttered, glancing at the ship to my right. I needed to get on board without getting myself killed.

“Lady Unpleasantries, this is your final warning!”

I snorted. “I do not respond well to demands,” I called, drawing the Brownings and flexing my fingers around the familiar handles as my accent became more sharply British. “You must be polite.”

There was disbelieving laughter, then another voice called out. “Please come out with your fucking hands on your head.”

“No, thank you, I don’t believe I will.” I cursed in French as another volley of bullets rained down on the metal crate I’d hid behind.

“We can stay here all fucking night until you decide to move,” the American voice came again, “up to you if you want to get out of here alive.”

“Do you Americans not have bigger fish to fry, as the saying goes?”

“Rather get my hands on your pretty ass than Jakowicz.”

“Jakowicz is more likely to reciprocate,” I called, laughing as a blast from a submachine gun greeted my jab at the crime lord.

“The Americans have nothing to do with this,” another voice called, distinctly Londoner. MI6. Brilliant. “Come in for questioning and we’ll see about getting some of those charges eased off, yeah?”

“Is there a reason you insist upon working with the CIA, gentlemen?” I shifted to my knees and rose to a crouch, easing toward the edge of the crate. “It isn’t as though they’ve anything to offer besides a butchering of your language.”

“We’ll ask you once more, Lady Unpleasantries. Come out with your hands on your head, and we can talk.”

“I have no desire to be shot today, thank you.” Another crate, just a meter away, and that much closer to the ship. I dove, and they fired, bullets whizzing past as I landed on the ground and pressed my back to the crate, forcing my breathing to slow.

“We know who you are,” Jakowicz said, sneering.

“Of course you do.”

“Delacroix.”

I laughed loudly, watching the side of the boat as my mind raced. “A little diamond heiress from Paris. Yes, of course, brilliant. That is exactly who I am.” No one here could leave alive if they even speculated. I holstered one of the guns and reached into my pocket for my mobile phone and dialed, sliding it back into my pocket and drawing the gun again when I was through. I had twenty seconds.

There was a ring, and then half of the dock went up in flames as I sprinted toward the boat. The CIA and MI6 agents were too busy avoiding shrapnel to shoot, but Jakowicz was ready for the bomb and caught my upper arm with a bullet as I darted onto the ship. The second bomb was triggered, and the entire dock was gone in a plume of smoke and fire. I landed hard on my side and dropped the guns with a cry, gripping my arm as blood seeped between my fingers. My men started the ship and we pulled away from the harbor with half of what we’d come for. The other half now floated in smoldering pieces to the water’s surface to sink below and drift down where it would never be found.

Someone handed me an open flask, and I downed a swallow of something strong and disgusting before coughing and rolling onto my back, staring up at the smoke-filled sky as my shirt was torn and long metal objects were inserted into my arm to dig the bullet out. I grit my teeth and made no further sound while the bullet was extracted and antiseptic was poured over the broken flesh. Someone put the flask to my lips again and I drank another swallow, letting the liquor burn all the way down while I seethed. MI6 and the CIA were truly beginning to irritate me.

Accidental Poem

We Monsters

Taste me, starlight burst of horror when your tongue ties and your eyes bleed, revere me and I will love you to death. I am Siren.

Open for me, I will transform inside you and fill you up with the darkness that germinates within and curdles. I am Incubus.

Listen for me, I will wail until your eardrums shatter, and I will return bloody garments as you slip away. I am Banshee.

Smell me, I am the rotting stink that sticks to your lungs and coats your insides while you vomit blood and I feed. I am Undead.

Desire me, I am silken shadows weaving between your fingers and wrapping around your flesh to collect your life. I am Succubus.

See me, I am the shapeless shadow pressing needlepoints into your eyes to bore inside you and hollow out your mind. I am Death.

Love me, I am the wicked throbbing under your skin that rubs like silk and velvet and makes you shriek and writhe. I am Sin.

Fear me, I am the light that blinds and burns and consumes until you are nothing but a pile of dust, helpless and weak. I am Hope.

Know me, I am the primal pounding in your veins, dragging dirty nails under your ribs and infecting your heart. I am the Devil.

Forget me, I am the empty space you seek to fill with dreams and wishes that leave you alone, because I am not there. I am God.

Kill me, I am the drifting void in eyes glazed over while limbs stiffen and blood settles to the bottom of the vessel. I am You.

We are with you every waking moment when you seek the safety of loving arms, knowing they are temporary. We are nothing. We ARE.

And then the voices stop, the visions end, and all fades to an empty space neither black nor white, living or dead. It is Time.

We are inside you, we are around you, and we are nothing as we consume you. Fade, and live, for it is all the same.

I’m at that point again.

This isn’t a fiction piece, or anything fun, so you have been warned. Right now I feel like I’ve hit a brick wall. My job is requiring some crazy hours that aren’t leaving me a whole lot of time for the whole “life” thing, a lot of negative stuff has been happening in my personal life, and I just feel like I did at that point last year where I wanted to give up on everything and hide away for a while. Nothing seems worth it anymore, and the more I try to make things okay again the more mind-numbingly wretched they seem. I know nothing is that bad, and that I’m very lucky to have everything that I have, and there’s far more good than bad in my personal universe. I know these things. That doesn’t negate how I feel.

Lately I feel like I just don’t want to be here anymore. I keep trying to escape into my characters, and even though my muse recently showed herself to me in all of her exquisite glory, she’s not talking much. In fact, she’s giving me little snippets here and there to try to fool us both into thinking something will come from it all. Brief little glimpses into a story that isn’t getting told, at a character who’s stagnating because I can’t bring myself to write the story she deserves. I’ve tried working on older pieces that need editing, I’ve tried reworking existing plots, I’ve tried coming up with something new, and I’ve got nothing. I get something minuscule done and then it’s gone again, like trying to grip sand.

As I said, I know there’s no reason to be, but I’m profoundly unhappy these days more often than not. I can’t write anything substantial, whether I try to just sit back and allow something to happen or whether I try to force it.  The stories are there, taunting me, but I can’t write them. I’m just tired. I’m so damned tired. It doesn’t matter how much I sleep or what movies I watch or what music I listen to. My inklings are brief and fleeting, and I feel like such a failure because writing is all I know. This is my life. This is the only thing that should matter right now aside from saving up for school and doing well at my job, but nothing’s happening. I feel like I’m letting my muse down. Amelia deserves better than this. I feel like I’m letting myself down, because this is everything to me. I feel like I’m nothing these days, because aside from a short flash fiction here and there I just can’t make anything happen.

I don’t want to be like this. I want to be able to write again. I want to feel good again. I just forgot how.

Amelia, I’m sorry.

My Amelia – #fridayflash

I will never forget the way she looks tonight, not until I’m long dead and my ashes mingle with the dust beneath her feet. She stands in front of the window while lightning flashes tear open the sky with the kind of electrical violence that rips her apart. Shadows dance and coil around her skin, cloaking her sinuous curves but never quite touching that glistening flesh still slick with rainwater. She’s peeled her soaking clothes off long ago, only the flowing river of her inky hair curling against her back and the moving darkness covering her precious body. She’s untouchable, but her eyelashes hold onto water droplets you can’t help but want to kiss away.

I’m more than a little in love with her, the glittering eyes so heavy and sharp as they watch the midnight sky roaring the defiance she keeps close inside her chest, nestled somewhere beyond and below her numbing heart. I notice for the first time that she has dimples in her back, on either side of her spine just above her hips. They catch the shadows the way her eyes catch the flashing light, drawing the smooth shadows across a body that forgot how to shiver.

Someone told me once that she’s like Snow White, while I always thought she was the Wicked Queen. Maybe she became something in between while I was aching to touch that skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and hair as black as ebony. I never believed that she would find her happily ever after, with her viper’s smile and spider silk laughter spinning sorrow and exquisite suffering into her every liquid movement, but whether for herself or someone else I never really knew.

Now she looks down, that faraway dream of pleasure taunting the curl of her full lips while she crosses slender arms over a flat belly. A swan’s neck tilts to one side as she regards the windowsill with an almost devout concentration, smoothing porcelain features into the vainglorious untouchable once more.

Her footfalls mimic a cat in fresh snow, feather’s brush of longing pulling her attention back to the open window once more. Nimble fingers drag the glass reluctantly along the open air connecting her private little world with the brewing tempest boiling to life beyond her room. My siren. My great and terrible beauty. She plucks a thin blanket from the foot of the bed to drape over her shoulders and cover the battered body that reveals neither cut nor bruise. My dark lady. My sea nymph drifting across the foam of dream waves to lap at my every waking moment.

I hear her sighing, barest murmur of breath as her skin whispers against the cold sheets. She piles the blanket and duvet over the slender form she cuts against the sheets only slightly paler than she, subtle hints of rose and winter storms scenting her flesh without the aid of anything beyond her natural state. Her eyes flicker to the raging maelstrom beyond her window, and I ache to wrap her in my useless words and fevered dreaming. My inspiration. My life. My muse. My dear precious one. My Amelia.

#fridayflash My Muses

My head hit the desk for the umpteenth time. “Seriously. That’s not okay. At all.”

“I don’t recall asking your opinion, writer. I simply recall whispering in your ear. Now, your job is to write what I whisper. You aren’t going to make me angry, are you?”

“Go to hell.”

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

“I keep myself amused.”

You guys reading this know exactly what this is like. They talk, and they talk, and they talk, but usually when you’re too tired or too drained to do them justice, and then… oh, then you get an earful. Then it’s all: You know what I do for you. You know how important I am to you. Do you want me to just leave? Would that make you happy? Greedy bastards.

Of course, since one of my muses happens to be the Devil, I tend to get a hard time more often than not.

“Stop writing me as ‘Lou,’ I don’t go by Lucifer anymore.”

“Whiny little son of a bitch, aren’t you?”

“I could fill your head with some very nasty thoughts, little girl.”

“Yes, you could. And you do. All the time. I’m not writing this one.”

“And why not? Squeamish?”

“About some things, yeah, you better believe it.”

“Here I thought I was dealing with a horror writer.”

“You are, but even I have lines, Lou.”

“Satan. It’s Satan. I hate that name.”

“Yeah, and I hate getting woken up in the middle of the night because I had a dream about somebody being ripped open. Sucks.”

“You’re trying my patience.”

“And you’re making me feel pretty schizophrenic right about now. How about you go back to sleep, you let me go back to sleep, and I’ll think about possibly writing something nasty for you in the morning. After, you know… sleep.”

“I want you to write this now.”

“Tough cookies. I’m not writing this, and I’m not writing now.”

“I could just leave you.”

Oh, here we go.

“Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out, buddy.”

“What would you do without me, writer?”

“Oh, gosh, I dunno, sleep at night? Write pleasant things?”

“That would be boring.”

“Yes, but probably healthier.”

“Health and mental stability have never been high on your list of priorities, little girl. You love the craft too much for that.”

Head. Desk. Again. “Yes, I do, and I’ll put up with your evil up to a point, but enough is enough. I’m tired, and you’re pissing me off. Either go to sleep or I’m watching a chick flick. Seriously. You want me to put Bridget Jones in? I’ll do it, asshole.”

He hisses and fades into the back of my consciousness, and I bury my face in my hands. A fascination with demons is probably not the best way to go if you’re hoping for calm and tranquility in your life, in case you’re wondering. They’re demanding muses, and kind of irritating.

“That is because they have no finesse, ma coquette.”

French. Soft, deep purr of a voice. “Amelia. I’m surprised you’re over here with me.”

“Where else would I be?”

“Across the country with my writing partner. It’s her turn.”

“Oui, but I belong to you, ma coquette.”

“Stop calling me that, Frenchie.”

“You designed me to be unpleasant.”

“Ah, yes, how silly of me.”

Criminals: also pains in the ass. Not as deadly as demons, but usually just as annoying. Particularly when you don’t speak their native language.

Don’t ask.

“I have an idea, writer. Something to keep your Devil at bay and maintain some semblance of sanity in your life.”

Okay, I admit it. I perk up. “You going to blow something up?”

“Oui, but more than that. I want you to write my story.”

A groan. “Get in line, sister.”

“My story is not the same as your others, ma coquette. I don’t want you to focus on my tragedy. I want you to write my rise in the criminal underworld. My ascension to power. All of the wicked, selfish, immoral things that I’ve done simply because I wanted to.”

I take a sip of water and stare at the blank notebook in front of me. “Adventure, huh? Excitement. Car chases, explosions, gun fights, the whole nine yards.”

“And then some. Exactement.”

“You’re like James Bond, but a chick.”

“Oui. And without that pesky conscience.”

A slow smile eases the last traces of sleep from my brain. “Amelia, I’m really glad I didn’t kill you off.”

“As am I.”

“And I’m really, really glad you came home.”

I swear I can feel her smiling. “Oui. I am, as well.”

***

Thanks for reading this little peek into my personal insanity. I hope you enjoyed it! If you want to see what these pain in the butt muses have got me up to, you can find Amelia’s story in progress here and one of the most recent pieces my sweet Devil had me work on here. Please feel free to browse those blogs. There isn’t a lot there yet, but there’s a lot of work being done behind the scenes, so there will be more up very soon! Again, thank you for reading.

The Violin

My usually wicked muse Amelia Delacroix seems to have a softer side, and she was kind enough to share that with me this morning. In turn, I’d like to share it with you.

The violin eased between my shoulder and chin as though it had been made to fit there, as if I had been born just so that I could have a place for the instrument to rest. The bow was a careful, smooth weight in my hand that sliced through the air once, twice before I lowered it gently onto the strings and it moved of its own volition. My eyes slid closed, the gentle throbbing in my temples beginning to ease as the instrument unzipped the silence and let the music out.

I felt my body rocking and swaying slightly to keep time with the sounds, and a small smile played on my lips. Here was peace, away from the solace of my laboratory and even from my lover’s arms. Here there were no demands or expectations, no problems to solve or personal justice to deal out. Here there was only sound, and for once in my life I was more than happy to relinquish control and allow myself to be merely the conduit for something greater.

Each note was pulled honey, stretching the warm sticky sweetness through the room, but at the same time it was cool water flowing through a glacier, not cold enough yet to freeze as it cleansed the surfaces it slid across. It was the purest gold cupping a rare diamond and enveloping it in that protective casing, holding it firm and steady against the stimuli pressing upon it from all angles.

Everything else was gone. There was only this, only my body existing as a mere stand and instrument for the violin to use. I was the tool for the wooden body and smooth strings to unleash this magnificent sound into the atmosphere, where it waited silent and invisible until the strings sang for its release.

The air around me hummed with the joy of the motion, each molecule resonating in tune with the careful measures and deliberate tempo that would spin suddenly out of my hands and race my furious fingers to greater volume, impossible speed, only to pull back without warning and bleed slowly from the instrument with soothing tones.

I was nothing without this strange living thing that possessed me, teaching my arms and fingers how to move in order to produce something so pure and beautiful. Every note, every beat, resounded with my own heart. Tears collected in the corners of my eyes with the exquisite joy of it, but they would not fall. No one would see how deeply this touched me, how much this possession was necessary for my very survival. My eyes closed tighter around the welling saline, and the music continued to allow me to release it.