Tag Archives: vampires

Rave On (A Short Story)

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Ten minutes till.

The clock beside my mattress flings every spent second into my lap, nudging me so much closer to whatever is about to happen. Mom can’t be bothered with it; she’s passed out in the next room, oblivious to my escape into night. And even though I’m certain I’ll be home long before sunlight splits the dark, my body still bristles with something akin to static electricity, a tight anxiety over knowing I’ll surely be found out. And it really doesn’t matter; I’ve been caught before.

Shadows engorged with blackness lurk like thugs in the corners of our backyard; delicate dew blankets the grass like the blood of others foolish enough to go before me.

Blood.

That’s what it’s really all about, isn’t it?

Life?

My mind sports with competing scenarios of what I hope might happen and what I pray will not—Lord knows I don’t need any more lectures regarding proper behavior for a young lady.

Five minutes till.

What if they don’t show? Suppose this is all just a well-played joke, with me as its shiny white butt?

But this is Molly we’re talking about—faithful Molly.

Mom’s old sneakers swallow my feet in a comforting fit. The back door whines protest against my departure. Nobody steps forward to quash my moment. I’m all alone.

A lustful breeze plays peekaboo with my nightshirt and soothes my heat. I’m bare underneath. That’s the part that excites me most: knowing the only thing standing between me and the real world is a thin scrap of white cotton.

The street out front offers neither light nor sound, as if nothing decent dares occupy such a miserable piece of earth but Donnington Trailer Park and the white-trash misfits it spawns. That’s what kids at school call me: white trash. That, and Icky Nicky.

My given name is Nicole—Nicole Lynn Robishawl. I can’t quite peg the origins of a name like Robishawl, but I’d bet a hundred bucks its roots lie buried someplace in Europe—the far northern part. I own a headful of blond tangles and uncomplicated blue eyes to prove that theory. And there’s another of those curious little oddities assholes around here like to whisper about when they’re certain I’m not listening: Mom and Dad are both dark-haired and dark-eyed.

Two minutes till.

I reach the crumbling sidewalk and crouch low beside a naked mess of annuals meant to spruce up the front of our trailer. A word like hatred doesn’t begin to tell of my feelings for a shithole like Donnington. We aren’t even supposed to be here, Mom and me. Dad promised to take us in, giving me back my old room, if only there’d be no more drinking. But mom prefers vodka to a husband.

Lightning spatters a silvery web across the sky right above Lincoln High School, and my silent prayer for a direct hit goes unanswered. Dull rumbles chase the flashes, but even thunder can’t match the wicked growl of Tommy Mizvinski’s engine.

He’s early!

A full sixty seconds early!

My frantic dash launches me recklessly toward the corner at the end of my street. Tommy won’t wait. If I’m not there under that lonely streetlight, forget about it. No rave for me.

I’m there before he is, though, quick enough to spy that single headlight slicing open the night—our night. Sweat jogs the course of my spine. My heart swears an oath to knock a hole through my middle. I’ve waited all month to have this moment.

Tommy’s door yawns wide; his lanky body leans forward, offering me the back seat. “Get in, Sped,” he huffs. “They won’t wait around if we’re late.”

Sped. That’s short for special ed. Tommy’s the only one who calls me that—even though I’ve never ridden the short bus.

The lure of this moment sucks me in, puts me close to Molly. Our bodies bump in the darkened back seat, tossing up loose sparks of anxiety. Nervous giggles supply our greetings.

I’m the one who suggested we go to this thing. Faithful Molly, she even tried to talk me out of it. And truth be told, I’d have laid odds on her just staying home. But here she sits, dressed like me—only her nightshirt is pink. I hate pink.

Dale Harvitz rides shotgun. That lazy eye of his gets all hung up on me the entire trip—as if I’d even consider the likes of him. Dale is the true sped in this car, not me. But he’s also Tommy’s best friend, which makes him more welcome on this ride than me, so I won’t call him a sped to his zit-covered face.

Still, I’m the one who set this up. “Where are your pajamas?” I ask.

Jeans and T-shirts, that’s what both boys are sporting.

Dale’s the defensive one. “Fuck that noise,” he spits. “I’m not wearing pajamas to a rave.”

I produce the flier, wave it in his pizza face. “That’s the theme. It says so right here.”

“They won’t turn us away, Nicole,” Dale argues. “They hold raves to make money. I’ve got my twenty bucks.”

Tommy has his say, lays down his own law. It’s me and Molly that has him spooked—our ages, that is. “Just don’t go acting like a pair of babies,” he tells us, “and they’ll probably let you two inside.”

Dale lights a Marlboro and eyes Moll and me like he’s starving and we’re medium-rare fresh-off-the-grill. You can just tell his mind is stuck in the muck and sinking fast. “Got twenty bucks says they’re both still bald,” he wagers.

Call it a natural reflex, that way my knees squeeze together. He’ll never know what’s what where those sorts of things are concerned.

Tommy, though—he finds me in the rearview, holds my gaze the way I wish he’d hold my hand, before returning to the road ahead. “Thing like that doesn’t concern me,” is all he says of the matter.

But then he finds me again and goes back to his law. “Either of you girls get pinched,” he orders, “don’t you dare mention my name. Cops raid these things all the time. If they snatch you, tell ’em you snuck out on your own, let ’em take you home.”

I have no intention of getting caught. I’ve waited too long for a night like this one. If we are among the chosen, well, then it’s meant to be; it’s already been tossed up to fate. That’s called providence or something. Anyway, Tommy’s been to half a dozen raves, and none of those were ever raided.

Tommy’s one-eyed Cutlass angles hard onto the shoulder, finds that service road leading away from Summitt Highway. You never drive directly to a rave; there’s a proper etiquette involved. Besides, they won’t let you in if you just show up. Not even for a hundred dollars.

The designated pickup point calls to mind a crop circle at the center of Hatcher Field. A lonely pair of white minivans promise travel to other worlds.

It’s the swirling crowd that yanks at my attention, puts me up on the little secret nobody else in the car has deciphered just yet.

“Let us out,” I demand, kicking at the back of Tommy’s seat. It’s mostly guys doing all that swirling, which means girls are the priority to board those vans. And if Tommy catches on, none of us are going.

Pizza-face Dale pops his door open.

Moll and I spill into the night like twist-cap wine from an overturned Dixie cup. We bolt toward the closest van and ignore Tommy’s orders to wait for him and Dale. But they’re not coming along with us—at least not on this trip. Any fool with eyes can read a scene like the one we’ve tumbled into. Moll and I—we’ll be welcomed on this go-round. And a ride home, well, what did that matter at this moment?

A black guy spies us, waves us over; he lures me and Moll into a void between those white minivans. I recognize him from school, though I doubt if I could come up with a name to match his face if given a dozen guesses.

Dark eyes roll over Molly first, then me. A grin parts his lips, shows off teeth like fine white porcelain. “Freshmen, huh?” he asks.

Neither Moll nor I acknowledge his question; we both offer him our twenty dollars instead.

“Awful eager, ain’t you?” he asks, drifting between us like lazy smoke. “Suppose it ain’t money gonna get you on one of them rides? How bad you wanna go?”

I hear Molly’s voice before words have a chance to form on my own tongue. “Whatever it takes,” she promises.

That’s not the Molly I know.

The Molly I know is far too shy to undress even in front of her own shadow.

That dark gaze of his attaches itself to me. “How about you, Robishawl?” he wonders. “How far are you willing to go?”

Hesitation nearly steals my words—but only for a moment. “I’m with Molly,” I inform him. Just leave it open, let him interpret the meaning.

His grin softens into a familiar thing—almost friendly. “Go on and get in line for communion,” he says.

Communion?

I’m not even Catholic.

And neither is Molly.

The black guy snatches our money, straps red bracelets around our right wrists, and warns against us taking them off for any reason at all. “That’s the only thing gonna get you inside once you get there.”

This is the part I love most about raves: all that secrecy, the feeling of being someone special, a chosen one.

Moll and I join a small congregation behind those vans, out of sight of Tommy and Dale and every other guy getting left back tonight.

“Kneel for the rites,” orders a skinny white guy sporting stringy black hair down to his shoulders.

The grass, wet with dew, is cool beneath my knees. My head tips back, my mouth falls open, awaiting the chemical sacraments about to be administered.

“Ecstasy,” says our high priest, placing a tablet on my tongue.

I swallow before I can chicken out.

Moll swallows too.

Midnight’s moon splits the clouds just for a moment; it’s large and swollen, shiny as a new dime.

Molly’s lips brush against my ear. “Are you gonna, you know . . . ?” she whispers. Bubblegum-sweetened breath warms my neck.

“I have to do it,” I assure her. “I’m gone past due.”

“We can’t have that,” she says, snatching hold on my hand, yanking me into the van.

*      *      *

The pull of freedom lures us an hour south of town, out where the old Piven Industrial Park crouches low among tangled weeds and ancient willows long past weeping, forgotten by all but a few hundred ravers.

The van door slides a wide yawn and, like an overfed bulimic, vomits us in front of the warehouse. Familiarity like a scent fills my head. I know some of them, these other girls; upper-class types, mostly; the very sort who’d normally call me Icky Nicky.

But not tonight.

Tonight, everybody’s equal.

Molly’s the eager one. Those small hands of hers clasp my shoulders from behind; she gives me a push inside the oversized building, into a swirl of underdressed boys and girls bumping and rubbing against a thumping beat intent on recalibrating my heart’s natural rhythm.

Lights of yellow and red, blue and green, flash from above like stalking nymphs bent on finding us out.

I pull Molly closer. “Find the water station,” I yell over the din. “Keep hydrated.”

That smile of hers—that’s what makes her Molly. “You picked one already?” she hollers, her small body becoming entangled with that steady beat.

A nod bobbles my head; I leave her there at the edge of a makeshift dance floor alive with hope and boys.

Molly likes boys.

A nameless guy hovers near the door, blue eyes clouded over with that familiar euphoria only a thing like Ecstasy can conjure.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” I tell him, mixing promise with potential.

His fingers find his chest, a gesture meant to convey a Who, me? tone. But words fail the boy’s lips; he’s too far along for conversation.

My hand fits snugly into his. It falls to me to find a private place for us to get through what has to be done. Fine by me; I’ve been this way before, done this sort of thing innumerable times. But there’s never much chase, not like there was when it first started. Back then, well, it was usually the older ones, the perverts, that went for the chase.

“There’s a place around back,” I tell him, pulling the guy into night.

“I wanna touch your hair,” he says, stumbling behind me like a freak on a leash.

Overhead, the spring sky opens wide, clouds flee, leaving us to our shared intimacy.

Beneath the loading docks is where I take the boy, in full view of a witches’ moon—if you’re so inclined to believe in such things.

My lips find his; a sneaky gesture meant only to settle any loose nerves.

Clammy, clumsy hands grope me beneath my nightshirt, finding my body bare and eager—maybe even hungry for such a touch. Had this one been in the car with us to take the bet, he’d have easily taken twenty bucks off Dale.

But tonight isn’t his night.

A quick nip with my incisors opens the skin just below his jaw, exposing the plump jugular. Barely a flinch, is all he offers. Ecstasy makes our moment easy; there’s no room for a fuss.

It’s instinctual, that urge pushing me to rip into that purple vein. His salty rush fills my mouth, stirs a familiar frenzy inside my soul. The boy’s struggles come cheap, a thing most fraudulent. I hold his body tight against the crumbling concrete, draw long and deep on his life until there’s nothing left to take.

They’re beautiful when they fade, so pale and blue, like a years-old rose pressed between the pages of a lost lover’s book of poems.

*      *      *

Molly is bare beneath her nightshirt. I can tell by the way the pink fabric clings to her sweat-dampened body.

That smile of hers ignites a heated rush through my blood no drug could ever challenge.

“Did you drink any water?” I holler, stepping between her and the Asian kid she’s dancing with.

That’s the thing with Ecstasy: it’ll keep a person moving for hours, without a thought toward maintaining hydration.

And Moll, she won’t stop dancing—not even for necessity. “You’ve fed already?” she yells, keeping pace with that relentless beat.

To tell the truth, I hate dancing. But it’s Molly’s urging that has me folding myself in with her and the Asian boy.

Moll’s hand finds mine, yanks me closer. “Can we take him home with us?” she asks, hopeful in this bold change of plans.

He’s not bad to look at, I suppose—if you’re into that sort of thing.

My head tips a subtle nod. “Gonna have to be quiet, though; can’t wake my mom.”

Yeah, Molly likes boys.

And so do I, I guess.

Just in a different sort of way.

© 2012 Beem Weeks

This story, along with 19 others, is available in Slivers of Life: A Collection of Short Stories. Find it at all online booksellers.

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“Slivers of Life: A Collection of Short Stories” Now Just .99!

Sliver of Life: A Collection of Short Stories is now available for just .99 on Kindle for a limited time. Grab a copy before it’s over!

“There is no time to lose when crafting a short story. In order to hook the reader, the author must instantly bring the narrator’s voice to life and create a compelling drama. In each of the Slivers, Beem Weeks plunges us into an intimate emotional encounter faster than Alice down the rabbit hole.” –S. Rose, author of Bridge Ices Before Road

These twenty short stories are a peek into individual lives caught up in spectacular moments in time. Children, teens, mothers, and the elderly each have stories to share. Readers witness tragedy and fulfillment, love and hate, loss and renewal. Historical events become backdrops in the lives of ordinary people, those souls forgotten with the passage of time. Beem Weeks tackles diverse issues running the gamut from Alzheimer’s disease to civil rights, abandonment to abuse, from young love to the death of a child. Long-hidden secrets and notions of revenge unfold at the promptings of rich and realistic characters; plot lines often lead readers into strange and dark corners. Within Slivers of Life, Weeks proves that everybody has a story to tell—and no two are ever exactly alike.

 Slivers of Life

Sharing Slivers of Life on the Holiday Train Book Trailer Block Party!

With the 2017 RRBC Holiday Train Book Trailer Block Party in full swing, today is one of my stops. All you have to do is follow the link to the video, leave a comment on YouTube, and you’ll be entered to win a signed copy Slivers of Life and a $10 iTunes gift card.

And don’t forget to follow the tour each day for great trailers and more chances to win fantastic prizes. Just click HERE to follow the tour!

To see the video on YouTube, click HERE!

Paranormal Fantasy Author A. M. Manay Offers Her Take On Vampires

Hello, dear readers! It is my pleasure to introduce to you indie author A. M. Manay. She writes vampire novels meant to be the anti-Twilight stories. So have a read and discover the new voice of the vampires! Take it away, Ms. Manay…

 

In the world of vampire fiction, there are several names that loom large.  There’s Dracula.  There’s Anne Rice.  There’s Sookie Stackhouse.  And, of course, there’s Twilight.

In writing She Dies at the End, one of my goals was for it to be the anti-Twilight.  Now, don’t get me wrong.  I read all the Twilight books.  They are page turners.  There’s no denying that they’re fun.  But there are some things about them that really bother me.

First, I shall complain about the romance.  Edward emotionally abuses Bella.  He’s incredibly controlling, and her worship of him is disturbing.  Her total nervous breakdown after he leaves her paints a terrible picture to young girls of what it means love someone and of how you process your feelings after it goes bad.  This is one reason that November goes through a failed romance in She Dies at the End, Book 1 of my series.  I wanted to show that a girl can be sad about a first love gone wrong but still stand up for herself and move on.  I also wanted to acknowledge the fundamental creep factor of an ancient vampire going after a teenage girl.  The power dynamics of that are really unacceptable, no matter how much you try to gloss it over by saying that he’s a virgin or that she’s his one true love.  The romances in my book are portrayed as sketchy because they are, in fact, sketchy.

Another thing that irritates me about Twilight is the lack of diversity in the main cast.  You do have Native American werewolves, but otherwise, it’s white people as far as the eye can see.  The only Black dude has a handful of pages and then dies.  Why are all the Cullens white?  There is no reason for that.  They’re pretending to be a family formed by adoption, after all.  Representation matters.  When the default race for every character is white, that sends a strong, negative message to people of color, especially young people.  I deliberately create my characters to reflect the diversity of the world around me, here in the San Francisco Bay Area.  I think that makes my books more interesting and sends a positive message to all readers, not just readers of color.

Finally, there’s the total lack of any consequences for bad decisions.  In the Twilight series, Bella knows that if she becomes a vampire, she is likely to kill someone.  Her vampire friends tell her this over and over again.  Some of the Cullens even take bets on how high the body count will be.  And yet, Bella wants to become one anyway, so she can be with Edward forever and never get old.  And instead of having to face the consequences of what is fundamentally a selfish decision, she’s conveniently such a special vampire snowflake that she can resist her urge for human blood with no mistakes.  I find that to be an unsatisfying cop-out, one I try to avoid in She Lights Up the Dark (November Snow Book 2).

My severely mixed feelings about Twilight have certainly informed my writing, and they serve as an example of how helpful it can be to read within your genre.  It helps you to see the elements you love as well as those that are more problematic.  I will likely never have the level of success achieved by Stephanie Meyer, but I’m proud of the story I’ve created.  I think my series is enjoyable, intelligent, interesting, and socially conscious, partly because I read Twilight with a critical eye.  I hope you’ll agree.

Read more about my vampires, fairies, and werewolves in She Dies at the End, She Lights Up the Dark, and She Sees in Her Sleep, all available this weekend for only $0.99 each!

Book blurb for She Lights Up the Dark (November Snow Book 2)

A frightening vision stalks November, even in her grave . . . and things go severely sideways just as soon as she claws her way out of it. 


Continuing the story begun in the well-received paranormal romp She Dies at the End, She Lights Up the Dark finds November Snow struggling to adjust to her new life as a vampire with none of the support she’d expected. Her nemesis Luka has plotted to isolate November and scatter her allies as he executes his plan to bring human society under his control. Her loneliness leads her to become emotionally entangled with a charming but likely untrustworthy fellow vampire.
 

 

When danger flares, November discovers that her psychic gift has expanded in a powerful and perilous fashion. Coerced into close company with her enemy, she fights to master her power and to uncover the secrets that may help her to save both her friends and the human world from being crushed under Luka’s boot. November is determined to stop Luka as his plan builds toward an unknown and deadly climax, but she may find that lighting up the dark comes with a high price to pay. 

This books contains violence, some sexual content, and occasional profanity.

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Short Excerpt from Chapter 1 of She Lights Up the Dark (November Snow Book 2)

She knew only one thing after she clawed her way out of the ground:  she had to eat.  Two sheep and a billy goat gave their lives for November’s first meal of her new one.  She required no persuasion or instruction, falling upon them instinctively when she’d emerged from the earth, filthy and ravenous.  She tore into them, a gleeful savage.  

When she was full and they were empty, she knelt next to them, stunned, reaching up a tentative finger to touch the fangs protruding from her bloodstained mouth.  The animals had tasted of grass and sunshine and milk.  For a few moments, she had lived their bucolic lives, now over.  She felt warm, fuzzy with pleasure.  Her head spun.  

November wasn’t quite sure where she was, or even who she was, but then it all came back in a rush.

As she walks among her friends, a sniper’s bullet finds her belly.  She falls to the dirt as she takes the death meant for another.  Ilyn carries her inside, eyes burning.  She lies in front of a fireplace, her life bleeding away, but there is no pain on her face.  Her friends surround her.  She agrees to live to fight another day.  He takes her blood and gives her his own.  Now there is fear and struggle and rejection, but it is too late, far too late.  They watch her die  They watch her die because of them.

November returned to the present, the ground solid beneath her knees once again.

I died.  I’m a vampire.

For a moment, she wasn’t certain if she would laugh or weep.  The amazed cackle that escaped between her fingers settled that question.  It was only after the glow of feeding had faded that she noticed the pandemonium that had erupted around her.

They were looking for something.  Zinnia was on the ground.  She looked completely undone.  And Ilyn . . . Ilyn looked terrible.  It took November a long, confused moment to realize that what they were looking for . . . was her. 

She looked down at her own body, and it was perfectly visible and solid to her.  

“Zinnia?  Ilyn?”  

She tried to touch her maker, reaching out a hand to toward his arm.  Her blood-stained fingers passed right through him.

“It’s no use, kitten.  They cannot hear you.”  

November closed her eyes, willing that familiar voice to disappear, praying she’d imagined it.  When she got up the nerve to turn around, rage filled her, and she tackled Luka to the ground, fangs bared, screaming like a madwoman, “What have you done?”

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In addition to her work as an indie author of paranormal fantasy, A.M. Manay is a former inner-city chemistry teacher, a singer, a yoga enthusiast, a Clerk of Session in the Presbyterian Church (USA), and a mother through domestic open adoption.  She has a passion for increasing diversity in popular culture and for strong heroines who stand up for themselves, make their own decisions, and don’t depend on romance as their reason for being.

Be the first to know about the release of the upcoming sequel as well as bonus material about your favorite characters by

Checking out her website: www.ammanay.net

Signing up for the fan email list: November’s News

Following the author on Facebook: facebook.com/ammanaywrites

Following the author on Twitter: @ammanay

Following the author on Instagram: instagram.com/a.m.manay

Following her Amazon author page: amazon.com/author/ammanay

Author Links for A.M. Manay

She Dies at the End: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0112S00KI

She Sees in Her Sleep: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B019EG1NWE

She Lights Up the Dark: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01BQGGBMW

Website: www.ammanay.net

Fan email list: November’s News

Facebook: facebook.com/ammanaywrites

Twitter: @ammanay

Instagram: instagram.com/a.m.manay

Amazon author page: amazon.com/author/ammanay

“The tour sponsored by 4WillsPublishing.wordpress.com.”

Lilith’s Dominion

There’s always an excitement in announcing a new book release. Be sure to get your copy of Lilith’s Dominion by the talented Y. Correa! 

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Blurb:

When Lilith fails to comply with the plans of Man and The Creator, she is punished to an existence that costs her the fruits of humanity. Every moment becomes a never ending spin cycle of memories mirroring profound loss, recalcitrant rage, and immeasurable suffering.

During a Halloween party at the Arcadia Chateau, the blue-green eyed brunette Jet leaves an impression which shatters the equilibrium of Lilith’s cloud of darkness. Is this a temporary aggravation or the start of a much needed resurrection—the fire of love in a heart iced with hurt?

Excerpt:

It is believed that before the Genesis of the human age, Adam had a wife … a first wife; Lilith.

Created from the same ground from which Adam was molded, Lilith proved to be a bit more than his subordinate.

She was his equal.

Legend has it that Lilith was strong willed, independent and unyielding. All of the things that Adam did not want in a wife.

Red hair, sensual curves and red-brown eyes, Lilith was voluptuousness in the form of a woman. Passion, ardent and burning vitality. Lilith considered herself Adam’s compeer in every way—second to none and nothing.

What Adam hated to admit was that Lilith was his weakness, his burning desire, and his fierce, iniquitous poison. As much as he wanted her, he also hated her. It was her authority that continually dominated him, and her lasciviousness that seduced him. He was less of a man when he was around her, yet he also could not feel more empowered.

Adam realized that his obsession with Lilith was a lecherous enthrallment and nothing more, for he could not love her. Neither could he be her master. This was the problem. Adam’s job was to be in control, to be the head. The leader of Lilith and all of their descendants. For this, the Creator had made him.

Yet, around her—Lilith—he was nothing more than a groveling, dribbling, insecure excuse for a man. She had him wrapped around her little finger, and this suited her just fine.

Adam, not so much.

This was not what the Creator had mandated. Not what he intended when making them both. He needed Adam—level headed and trustworthy—to be in charge. However, with the ever present seduction of Lilith, this wouldn’t be possible.

 

Something must be done.

 

++++

 

The sound of a single long nail clicking against a hardwood table was all that could be heard in the room. Why? Because all of the noise and commotion was in her head.

Voices, memories, flashing thoughts. Chaos! Nothing more and nothing less.

The upsurge of rampant thoughts caused her mouth to slap with thirst—suck her teeth in upheaval. Lilith’s thirst was soon to be quenched, she was certain. She’d already made the preparations. Yet, the riot that was Lilith’s unending trail of assaulting musings would probably never be quelled.

 

The light of night poked through the monumental stained glass windows. One ray in particular beamed across the room, perpendicular to its point of origin, then ricocheted from a mirror to shine a slender bright stream of yellow-orange light on the table. The thin beacon glowed not too far from where her hand tapped an agitated finger.

The room was enormous and regal, yet devoid of any exuberance. Filled with scarce furnishings—the mammoth hardwood table and the innumerable chairs that surrounded it. Old, decrepit paintings adorned the walls.

The air was stifling, consumed by the scent of mothballs, molded and aged wood.

 

How did I get here? Lilith’s thought, although in her mind, seemed to echo through the stretch of the empty room.

 

“Madam, your supper is ready,” squealed Lilith’s faithful attendant, though indubitably pitiful as he was, whilst walking in. The aged, wooden double doors screeched upon his opening them. Then, he closed them, without as much as a glimpse back. His skin had not seen the light of day in so long that it had lost its color. A peculiar shade of tan-gray, wrinkled and rough, was all that remained.

Throughout the years, Demetrius had become an old, dilapidated, fragile corpse of a man—feeble and haggard, yet faithful. Lilith considered that while his situation was different than hers, at least they shared the apathetic hue of their skin color, albeit not her extraordinary good looks.

“Bring it in, Demetrius. Leave it,” replied Lilith as she waved a hand in the air, with little to no regard whatsoever. Completely detached from human emotion and void of fascination. She couldn’t help herself. All her vitality had been lost eons ago.

“Yes, Madam,” responded Demetrius, then nodded his head and bowed out of the room. Seconds later he pulled in a frightened brunette, who was so dismayed that she’d lost all fight and merely shivered and sobbed uncontrollably. Demetrius, grabbed a handful of the girl’s hair and tossed her on the ground in front of Lilith. “Your supper my lady.” he said subserviently, then bowed out of the room once more.

Lilith wasted no time whatsoever and with the blink of an eye had the girl trapped, her fangs sunk into the girl’s main artery. The one located between the thighs—Lilith had long since grown tired of the neck. It was too convenient and she craved a bit of excitement, rare as it was.

Moments later, the girl’s life blood had been drained and all that remained was a naked, pale carcass.

Lilith stood to her feet uneventfully, sighed deeply, dusted her hands and then took a seat once again in her favorite chair.

With that, her mind whirled into its turbulent incongruity yet again.

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Author Bio: 

Y. Correa is a literary seductress, luring one in with her talent of Romancing the Words, keeping one hypnotized with dynamic characters, and stimulating one with engaging narrative voices, strong plots, and epic conflicts. Her writes are as complex and as distinct as her person; a delightful combination of eclectic and antiquated. Therefore, the mere mention of fitting into one set genre is laughable. The multi-genre decadence is where she showcases her magnificence.

Some of Y. Correa’s works include Historical Fiction “MarcoAntonio & Amaryllis”, Sci-Fi Mashup “Earth 8-8-2: The Genesis Project”, Sci-Fi Fiction series “A.L.O.M” and short stories such as “Ryan”, “Loving … them!” and “The G. Particle”.

Ms. Correa has also been in several short story anthologies and is the Founder/Creator of All Authors Publications and Promotions whose subsidiaries are:

  • All Authors Magazine
  • All Authors Graphic Design
  • All Authors Publishing House
    and
  • All Authors Certificate of Excellence

Links:

Pre-Order Lilith’s Dominionhttp://www.amazon.com/Liliths-Dominion-Novelette-Y-Correa-ebook/dp/B01D0I845G/

“Lilith’s Dominion” on Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5129204.Y_Correa

Author Website: http://ycorrea.net

Book Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AsXZQbWzFcY