Darkness Falls

The world grew dimmer, light extinguishing in the periphery, darkness rapidly closing around him. He could barely hear the fighting, muted, hushed, though moments ago it seemed cacophonous. Everything dulled except the pain, the one thing he wished would diminish as his body grew numb and cold. He struggled to keep his eyes open, never wanting to tear his gaze away from his sobbing wife, but his body was no longer obeying him as it systematically shut down. He struggled to get in a breath and held it as if that would somehow buy him precious seconds, furtively grasping for a life he didn’t want to leave behind. Besides the pain, all that registered in his fading consciousness was dampness against his skin where her tears fell. He panicked as his body chided his feeble attempts to override the inevitable. He was a doctor. He’d worked among life and death his whole career. It was simple biology; the body understood what it had the ability to heal and what it did not. The body had no qualms about the outcome, it was the spirit caught in the struggle. All he could think was he was too young, it was too soon. He wanted to be an old man, live happily with his wife, see his children blossom into adults with families of their own. He wanted to die peacefully in his sleep, but knew that was never in the cards. He'd never glance in the mirror and see a winkled, silver haired figure staring back. He'd never walk his daughters down the aisle on their wedding day, never play in the park with his grandchildren, never again awake in bed to feel his wife in his arms. He was dying and there was no turning back. A last, rattling gasp broke from his chest as the breath he was holding onto so valiantly escaped him. He thought it would be more gradual, but the world around him disappeared as if someone flicked off a television set. He couldn’t feel anything, not the pain, not himself, nothing as darkness consumed him.

Midnight Musings

May 4th

I don't know you'll ever find this. Likely, I'll have burnt it long before you're tasked with traipsing through what remains of my belongings after my premature demise. If you do lay eyes on these pages, know that I envy you. I envy the solace you find in words. My feeble attempts prove pitiful in comparison, yet I need such solace now. I fear I've done something terrible. Something for which there is no absolution. You would call it selfish at best, horrific at worst. I put pen to paper to explain my logic in the hopes you'd understand why, but my explanation rings hollow. I am bored. Terribly, endlessly bored. Four times in the year since I rid the world of one of its most evil inhabitants I stared at my revolver weighing death versus mental stagnation. I couldn't carry on as I had. It was a sad sense of relief when my failure became apparent. I hadn't realized how desperately I wanted to fail at this one enterprise. But it came at a high price. Time may prove it to be an exorbitant price. I am hardly given to flights of religiosity, but I feel the weight of my sin upon me nonetheless. I struck a deal with the devil himself. May heaven have pity on us all.

-Except from Unmarked Journal

Solitude of the Season

A moment of silence passed as soft flakes began leisurely drifting down from the inky blackness, the first of the Christmas snow. The knight knew this grief all too well, the grief of being forced to lose everything before you were old enough to comprehend precisely what you'd given up. To be turned over to the order when you were barely old enough to walk. Raised by strangers, taught to read, write, fight. Never allowed to laugh or cry much less play like a normal child. Leaving ones family behind along with the possibility of ever having a family. Being told comfort would be found in faith and books, but never in the arms of another. Being forced to live and die for a God you had no choice but to follow because to deny him would mean disgrace to yourself and all your kin. Maybe he had seen more than a promise to a dying friend in the platinum haired child he agreed to mentor. Perhaps he had seen more of himself than he cared to admit.

Curses!

I think I've been cursed. And no I don't think I am being melodramatic with this assertion. I have no other way to explain the run of luck I've been having lately. And oddly enough it appears to be spreading to those around me. Don't get me wrong, I come from a Greek family. I was in high school before I realized not every crucifix came with an evil eye pendant hanging next to it. Superstitious? Yes, sir, I am. It's part of why I isolate. If you don't annoy anyone or provoke anyone's jealousy, then maybe you can dodge a bullet. I am, I think, more susceptible than most. Murphy's Law has a little too much fun with me. So I am going to keep my head down for awhile and try not to provoke the wrath of the whatever from high atop the thing anymore than I have. That and it's time to dust off the evil eye pendant again.

Is that mimosa I smell?

Like the dork I am, I wait all year for TCM to play one of my favorite ghost movies of all time: The Uninvited. Not those sad looking modern ones of the same name. I am talking the 1944 black and white classic. Come October, I religiously check the schedule and sure enough last night it graced my TV screen. If only they would put the darn thing on DVD, I wouldn't have to stalk the channel, but such is life. There's something charming about the tale. Maybe it's the creepy looking house on the cliff setting the mood (and yes, I ignore the occasional fake looking backdrops). Maybe it's the way the shadows creep steadily towards you at just the right time. Maybe its the psychotic way the lady who runs the asylum talks to the painting of her dead friend. Whatever the reason, I find myself tuning in year after year to be enchanted by the smell of mimosa, the crash of the waves along the rocks, and the wispy ghost which used to scare the pants off me as a kid. All I know is if I chase my dog into a house like that some day, I am buying it. Thanks to the movie, now I'll know what to do.      

The Darkest Hour

It was only ten-thirty at night, but the narrow cobblestone streets around him were deserted. There were few residences here. Mostly offices and scant museums standing sentry along the road as he made his way to the oldest and most deserted building in the vicinity. The hulking structure took up a a ridiculous amount of space considering Rosetta was a comparatively small town. Empty windows stared like vacant eyes, moon glinting off the sandstone spire of the building's minaret. He kept telling himself he was just going here to clear his head. Deep down he knew that was a creative bit of fiction. He was exhausted living this lie. Exhausted forcing himself to blend in when he knew he was a freak of nature. He was tired of the endless onslaught of images and emotions he couldn't control every time he made direct eye contact with someone. It was nearly impossible to get through sophomore year of high school this way. For the better part of the year he descended into the realization he was utterly trapped in this cursed existence. No way out. No way to make it stop. No means of escape. He couldn't live like this. He didn't want to live like this anymore. 

All the world is a stage...

Switching gears and writing in a new genre is difficult. I really had the supernatural fiction thing down. Mystery is trickier for me. This is compounded by the fact that I am getting to know a whole new cast of characters. I feel like I write in reverse. I have an idea in my head about how I want these characters or plots to be and I sit down to write. Then a funny thing happens. The characters take on a life of their own growing more complex, springing to life off the page like they're tangible. Plots develop as these characters practically write themselves, demanding I keep up with them. The problem is while I am writing I tend to take on the persona of the strongest personality. When I wrote the Lost Devil's Throne series, my husband could always tell when I was writing an Aakarshan heavy section. I'd be irritable and aggressive in a way I am normally not. I think in some ways that's half the fun (although I am sure loved ones could do without it from time to time). Much like an actor, I get to be something or someone different. Something totally disparate from who I really am. I get to travel without leaving home. Endlessly entertained by the voices in my head.