That Moment When…

That moment when working on finishing up your novel you realize that novels aren’t just something ‘they’ or ‘other people’ do, but YOU do, too.
The mild panic.
The realization hits you and hides, as if to protect you from freaking out;
It comes in waves.


Words for today…

And with the coldest blood, Azlanteca had almost overlaid my mind with a new, dark consciousness, a terrible superhuman logic. It was no wonder these… men had had an Adze puppet to so easily alter and manipulate. Because I had somehow resisted him, my mind had been left to its own devices, free. But I could easily have now been a stranger to myself.
“The old gods,” he pointed skywards, “up there, in space, where it is utterly cold, where there is no air… and me… see this world as full of so much… unripe fruit. You may call them humanity. But every so often one comes across a seed… with so much potential… a seed such as yourself.”
“Are you a god?” I asked him.
“A god regards me as I regard a mote of dust. No,” he said. “And that mote of dust is you.”
“A mote of dust that will not move,” Galibi added. “Stubborn.”
“You will stay in line, and I… we, Galibi and I, shall ensure that.”


So… snippet.

My protag has to go after someone she’s looking out for, Natasha, and that leads her to a curious establishment…


I was conscious of any number of unusual persons–supernatural, the very few who were not, and those on the liminal line in between–going about their business. The murmuring of voices, the clink of glasses. A goateed man walked past me with a suit vest, tattoos on his bare arms and on one hand, a do-rag with white trim, and eyes like pale glass. I wondered how he managed to get those eyes. I didn’t ask.

The establishment’s overhead lights dimmed; and a reverential hush fell over the crowd. I looked to the stage. Amethyst beams illuminated it, revealing at first three silhouettes. The lead singer, all twirled dreads piled up on her head, a mishmash of chunky necklaces and dangling bright bands, flared forearm bands, and white angel wings. One of the backing guitarists started off the set, all jacked – him all head and shoulders and shrieking vocals with a growly low end.

I was arrested. Who were they?

And then came the lead singer’s voice – wails descended into whispers and her voice, at once fiery and jarring. Her voice soared to incredible heights, plunging into deep, sensual growls,

Their bassist started in – Grace Jones legs—long, bare, lean–Grace Jones dark, Grace Jones bone structure, bleached white haircut, shades, faux fur jacket mostly for those long arms strumming away, and a white bodysuit whose v-neck slashed to her bellybutton.

A voice came to interrupt my thrall, the breath right at my ear. “It would seem I didn’t make my point quite clear.”

BallBraids. So they had seen me.

A strong hand eased itself up the back of my neck, tightened to a vice-like grip, and pulled my head back. “Perhaps another demonstration would be necessary…?”

Turning my head, I snarled, “Bring it.”

Laughter, throaty and laced with knives, this in my other ear—imposing upon my enjoying the performance, yet again—“Not here, sweetie pie.”

SkullScarf. The first time I’ve heard her speak.

Something sharp pricked the small of my back. A fingernail… a knife… I couldn’t be sure. A quick twist could probably end my mobility and sever my spine, however.

“She wants to see you.” This from SkullScarf. The prick prodded me forward.

BallBraids’ grip loosened. I started moving.

Celebratory snippet

I’ve passed 500 followers on Twitter.


The numbers seem stable, and in celebration of this–and also in light of the fact I thought I had posted a snippet about them–here’s a nasty twosome that shows up in my novel-in-progress.

I’ve written about them recently, in another scene in the novel, so this is a throwback for me.


In the shadows of a slight overhang, I didn’t so much see as sense someone.

Two figures resolved themselves from the shadows.

They stood for a moment, watching me with wide-eyed delight.

The white woman wore tight black leather pants, an open black leather jacket with extra zippers and nothing inside except a black bra on pale skin, and a necklace full of dangling metal points. A black scarf emblazoned with a white, fanged, skull covered the lower half of her face, leaving visible eyes with smoky eyeliner and a shock of black hair moussed upwards into a pseudo mohawk.

Her black partner was no less distinct. He went shirtless too–his chocolate skin emblazoned with celtic-pattern tattoos–but he wore a black blazer and pants to her leather. His own ‘mohawk’ of hair consisted of dreadlocks wrapped into round balls, successively going from large to small, front to back. Even his beard-—swinging, reaching almost to his large belt buckle, obscuring the tattoos when he walked out–was dreadlocks.

The woman’s hands lowered the scarf about her face. She smiled nastily at me, then lifted her lips in a snarl, exposing the twin points of her upper canines. She puckered her lips and kissed in my direction in mockery.

Normally threats to me remained–even if unmistakably so–in the background, so the fact that these particular two were upping the game made my hackles rise. They—the people who sent them–were bringing it to me.

My stiletto was in my hand – I didn’t remember drawing it, but I was already moving to face the threat.

The male moved then, a dark shape flashing across the floor. I leaped back, and the shape mirrored me. I had little time to place their positions among the pillars and doorways in shadow in the area.

A perhaps futile gesture, but at least I had my soucouyant’s strength to help me: I lunged at the female. She snapped the edge of her left hand against my descending arm, knocking my stiletto aside. I stumbled forward, off-balance after my lunge and miss.

Regaining my balance, I rushed at where the dark shape stopped, aiming to ram it hard, and it spun, hitting me in the back and knocking me forward into a waiting figure.

These creatures were my match; probably magically enhanced, and there were two of them and one of me.

My supernatural abilities didn’t bend toward preternatural speed – but theirs did; two hands yanked my arms painfully upwards behind my back, another implacable hand bowed my neck prone.

A cold, sharp blade teased its way along where my shoulders and the back of my neck united, a soft male voice going “Shh…”, tut-tutting me into stillness. “No no, no you don’t… There you go.” The cold edge lifted.

I breathed carefully through gritted teeth, acutely aware of the jagged edge over my neck. I couldn’t quite control it, but my soucouyant’s heat, to a degree, had begun to rise. The male chuckled in appreciation.

I had a pretty good idea how this would go.

SkullScarf was the gleeful, willful and most likely capricious brawn, apparently held in check by BallBraids, the talker.

And they were here to talk. All this, as dangerous as knifeplay, was for show; I was meant to listen.

And this may not be the last time I would encounter them. They would guarantee it.

“Your time is running out,” the male said. “What did we tell you, oh so long ago?” he asked.

I grimaced.

“It wasn’t so long ago,” the female said.

“Poetic license. Say it.” I could hear the smile in his voice, the fangs.

“There is no choosing, only accepting.”

“And what is there to accept?” I felt the knife’s edge graze along my skin.

“That I will join you.”

“Have you accepted?”

“Fuck you.”

Snippet time

This novel snippet may have tongues a-wagging… as it were.


It would seem that I have a visitor.

Through the part my fingers make in the curtains, I noticed a black luxury car rolling up. I stepped away from the window.

Outside, in the parking lot in the midst of repairs, tires crunched over gravel. A car door slammed.

I went to the phone. Leroy picked up.

“I have a visitor. Where are you?”

“Watching you.”

“Ah. What see you?”

“A peculiar small procession heading your way.”

“Keep your eye on them. See where they go.”

I put the phone down and stood there, waiting for the wards guarding the door to go off.

One did. And it wasn’t a sure sound, the tinkling of the bell saying neither friend or foe. They have confounded my wards.

Still, if they intended to come crashing in, all pell-mell and intent with harm, I’m sure they would have done it.

So down I went to the door.

A man stood, distinct, between two others who were obviously there to guard and accompany him by their dress.

Magical wards were sewn into his fine crimson suit; from them I can feel a palpable aura of magic.

His hair was a chilly gold, gelled hard enough to stop a bullet. I looked into his eyes. They were the blue of deadly patience, the blue of the light off the sharp edge of a blade. Eyes that said, “I will wait to kill you.”

And he oozed a genteel menace.

He seemed quite sure in his power and physical autonomy as he idly removed a black glove from one hand and put it out to one of his guards. The guard lifted a decorated wooden box into view. From it too, I could sense magic. The guard opened it, taking out a human tongue. He placed the moist, pink object in the man’s waiting hand.

The man placed it in his mouth, the muscles of his pale, firm jaw working under the light of my doorway, his gaze inward. When he was satisfied he took in a deep breath, focusing his attention back to me, seemingly energized as he replaced his glove, bestowing me a smile with ashen, taut lips.

What was this?


My Main character is a naughty creature. So is Deepon. But there are things out there Naughtier. Badder. More powerful. More resourceful. Here, they are being reminded of that.


Something tickled along my ivories. In a spectacularly bad way.

Then I realized what it was. It was the old woman’s singing.

I didn’t know quite what she was, but with the inflections of her humming, she was weaving. Weaving music magic.

Something about the way the old woman spinned her notes gave rise to the notion in my mind of someone walking over my grave.

I knew Deepon felt it too. It was all over her face.

Then her singing, humming, weaving, suddenly stopped. Her head snapped right round, and she stared at us. And we both knew. She was not there by accident. She was there for us. Like previous others who’d made their presence known, she was there to send us a message. We both knew what it was, and it’d been driven home harder than a nail under a hammer.

The old woman stared at us for a long while.

Deepon and I headed home.


Teaser snippet

Remember Natasha from previous snippets? Well, she’s starting to rub shoulders with persons that make the main character of my novel get chills.

My breath hitched involuntarily in my throat; my fears for Natasha rose sharply. I was wary of their unabashed, obvious beauty. That did not come without a caveat in my sort of existence; there lay—and I was yet to determine what sort of—danger.

Back, and snippet time

It’s been a long time; far, too long, and to come back again, I have a snippet. A really short snippet this time.

The main character of my novel-in-progress is in a strange place, where haunts roam and don’t hide. She’s looking for someone she’s sworn to protect. She spies people, some good, some… bad. Some are baddies she’s tousled with before.


A goateed man walked past me with only a suit vest, tattoos on his bare arms and one hand, a do-rag with white trim, and eyes like pale glass. I wonder how he managed to get those eyes. I didn’t ask.


The twins were here. SkullScarf and BallBraids.

On my writing Non-Western horror

Western horror aestehetic seems to evoke images of persons wearing a lot of black, being goth, black and shadows, monotone colour schemes, and the morose bleached tones in between.

But I don’t dress like that. Yet I seem to be predominantly writing about vampires. I write dark fiction.

My aesthetic leans heavily towards what one would see in films like The Cell; narrative aesthetics like The Caveman’s Valentine. And those draw from non Western, non white things (Caveman’s Valentine may be a fusion with the seraphs that lie in his head, but you get where I’m coming from).

There’s colour. There’s vibrancy. Even if there’s horror, unlife. Like in my writing.

I want to write and have it be as vibrant as The Cell.

That make sense?

Just a thought.

Interesting point of view…

Even if it doesn’t quite describe me. I don’t fly from project to project as she describes here, but, this describes where I’m at novel-wise, minus the “restless,” “painful” and the mind “betraying me”:-

When I begin working on a project, I am so passionate about it at the beginning – I write like the paper is on fire. Somewhere along the way it becomes a chore and then the hard work begins. The words don’t flow, I get restless, the writing becomes painful and then my mind betrays me.

This is the part where people will tell you writing’s work.

It is.

The rub starts where you have to keep from getting discouraged. You wanna know your stuff’s good. Solid. Worthwhile. Etc.

Then you wonder, doubt, wonder, get some words, doubt, put it down, pick it up, ponder plot, wonder about if you can finish the sonofabitch.

‘Skuze mah Francais.

(I may have inadvertently slipped some current info on my state of mind..)

I’d ask forgiveness, but this is my blog…. rite?