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The Deeply Wretched

Trigger warning: This is a bit of a controversial write, and I don’t wish to upset anyone, so if anything about abortions makes you upset, turn away now. For the brave, venture forth!

The Wretched

In the darkness he waited, his breathing a strangled mewling, wet and thick. His malformed body was stretched out on its belly, under Theresa’s bed, waiting for the moment he could see her bare feet walk into the room. Her toenails would be painted of course, she was always doing little things like that to prettify herself. Looks mattered a lot to her. Perhaps it had been a reason why she had killed him. She had murdered him as he slept within her, innocent, dreaming, loving her with the perfect, effortless love only a child could give to its mother.


He remembered hearing the hateful words the doctor had told her. He would be horribly deformed should he be allowed to live. Though he was malformed, he could sense things better than most babies could at 20 weeks in the womb. He felt her terror, felt it seize her heart until it trickled into his own body, paralyzing him with fear. He could feel her tears running down her cheeks as if he were crying himself, and he shook with concern for her. For Theresa, his mother.


He wanted to comfort her, to tell her everything would be okay, but how could he? He was unborn, and though he could feel every emotion she went through as if it were his own, he couldn’t be sure she could feel his as well. He had to try. He sent out waves of love, and though he couldn’t sing, he thought of a comforting song that had no words, something to soothe her and let her know he loved her. This he emoted to her, trying to sync his heartbeat to hers. Their heartbeats were the rhythm of his ode to her, his wonderful, one and only mother.


She couldn’t have heard him, he knew that now. He fought the tears that threatened to burst forth, flowing like a storm of torment from his bulbous eyes. It made his strangled breathing louder, as if he were choking on sinews and clots of blood. Like the day she had killed him.


He had felt everything; The rising suction of one arm being severed from his body. The bright blast of light that followed the blinding pain was nothing next to knowing that his mother didn’t love him. Because he wouldn’t be pretty. Because he would be different. She had wanted a handsome son, not one with a curved spine and extra fingers, one who might be born without a nose, with only a couple of holes to draw breath from, always to make a horrible, clotted sound as he breathed. He would always be ugly. How could someone like her, who was always off to trips at the salon, or torturing herself in the name of beauty, ever love something that had come from herself that would always be repugnant?


Oh, how he had screamed as his legs were pulled from his body, his tiny mouth opened into a perfect O. But she couldn’t hear him. Not even when he sent out his pleading to her in his heartbeat, hoping that it would travel through the blood they shared and land in her heart. He prayed he could hear his tormented pleading to stop, stop, oh he would be a good boy! He might be deformed, he might need extra help in his life, but he still loved her, and he would always be a good boy for her.


Then everything went black. No more thudding heartbeat, no more broken, choking sobs from his mother.


He had been dead. For a while.


His mother’s grief had slowly pulled him back from oblivion. It fed him until his mangled body was reformed. It gave him a new life as something much more terrible that he would have been had he been allowed to be born. Now, he was something sinister, and he wanted revenge.


He couldn’t help but sob as he saw her feet walking into the room, her toenails a vivid shade of sparkling blue.




For a moment he wanted to go to her, to be held like any child would want to be held, to feel the comfort only she could give him. Then he remembered the pain, the sensation of dejection when he knew his own mother would rather kill him than love him. How could she?




The bed above him creaked as she sat on it, her weight pressing the mattress down until it was only a few inches from his face. It was time.


He began to crawl out from under the bed, slithering slowly inch by inch, leaving a trail of blood and grime behind him. He had no weapon, nor did he need one. He had a full set of teeth, several rows of them, all pointed and hooked like a shark’s.


Her foot was just before him now, and he reached for it with all the fingers of his right hand. He tried not to mewl as he his flesh met hers. For one wondrous second, as his skin pressed against hers, he felt happy.


“I forgive you mother,” he thought as he touched her. He felt the blood in her veins as his tiny fingers pressed against her artery, and thought, “This blood runs through me too, her blood is my own.”


Then the screaming began. She had looked down to see what was touching her and had seen him, and though he was no longer inside her, he could still feel the crippling fear, the horrible alarm that crushed the breath from her lungs as she looked down upon him. Her dead, malformed son.


“Please don’t scream mother,” he wanted to say, but he had no lips and his tongue was split in half like a snake’s. He hated that she was afraid, hated that the mere sight of him caused her to panic.


Then she kicked him, hard, across his face, sending him flying several feet across the room.


This time, there was no pain, no remorse for what could have been, only rage. Blinding and hot, boiling in his heart and erupting in him in a murderous flood that needed satisfaction. Tonight she would know what it was like to die.


The force of his anger gave him strength. Where before he could only crawl, now he could raise himself on his legs. Like a horse’s back legs, they were bowed backward, ending in cloven hooves.


He ran to her, and before she could get away, he used his claws to climb up her body, tearing into her flesh as he fought his way up her. He could feel her terror striking her heart like thunder, he sensed the adrenalin as it pumped through her veins. Like her grief, it gave him strength, and he used it to his advantage.


When she threw her head back in a panicked scream, he lunged for her throat. He caught her by the jugular and worked his teeth into it. Feeling the skin as it gave way in his mouth, he let out a sound of satisfaction. Blood rushed into his mouth in a metallic stream, hot and copious.


His mother no longer fought. Exhausted from shock and fatigued by the terror, she collapsed to the floor. To his surprise, she began to stroke his cheek, her terror now changed to remorse, confusion and affection.


“Oh my boy,” she gurgled, blood filling her mouth. “I deserve this. I’m so sorry.”


Her heartbeat was slowing, and the stream of blood filling his mouth was growing weaker. He unlatched his mouth from her throat and looked up at her, hope filling his dead heart. Could it be, in her final moments, that she was truly sorry? Could she even look upon him with affection?


He watched as his mother unfastened her blouse, and then took her breast out from her bra. With the last of her strength, she pressed him against her breast in a maternal effort to let him suckle.


….Mother….!! For one blessed moment, son and mother bonded, in one sacred, final moment of love.


There he would lay, cradled in her arms, nursing, until with the dawning of the day his flesh crumbled and turned to dust as the sunlight washed over him.


Love had finally come to him, in his final moments, and that’s all he had ever wanted.


After all, no one’s family is perfect.

Revelations Of the Damned


I wont let them get me. Not now, not ever. I had to run, you see, I had to get away from what they were doing to me, to all of us there, at the Corporation. The Kayden people are evil people, a corporation under the wing of some underground government sect. They took me, along with a few select others; we were to be their research “participants”. I think they chose people like us because no one would care if we went missing. We are a group of the wayward, a motley crew of thieves, military criminals, debauchers, and the transient. They took me off the streets, promised me warmth, food and shelter. I was in a bad way, and they knew it, they used me for it.


I got away from them, by the Gods, in a laundry cart, and now here I am, shuddering in the streets of Boston, trying not to be seen by anyone or anything. I know I’ll be destroyed if they catch me, they’d assume their plans had been exposed by me already. I would have to be silenced. I am not safe now.


There is a terrible pain in my gut, a wrenching, I know there’s something inside me that’s moving, part of the experiment I had to escape from. I cannot bear to remember what they have done, it causes me to retreat into a far away place, where they cannot touch me or inject me with serums. This thing within me steals my strength, my energy, and drains me of the nourishment I take in. It steals away into my mind at night, probing with its alien little hands, whispering words that make no sense. I try to tell myself it is a virus, some strange biochemical drug being tested out on me and the other unfortunate dregs of society. The thing inside me assures me it is not, it is something altogether different, something a lot more terrifying. I can sense its smugness, all safe and warm in its little cocoon of my flesh, reaching its unseen tentacles into my brain and bending me to its will. There is some form of thought that this entity contains which leaks out into my system, carrying messages and emotions in my blood, in my cells, to the receptors in my brain. Visions fire off on the back of my eyelids when I close my eyes, flashes of smoky images stealing a moment in the center of my mind. All of them are random, some are terrifying, others mundane and senseless.


There is pain bright and raw, a streak of lightning in my belly. The sensation is so intense, the color red floods my eyesight and makes me gasp for breath. Feed me, it says. Another searing pain begins to lacerate my insides, burning fire hot, bringing hot tears to my eyes. I tried to fight this in the Center, and I found it much less painful to give in to its wishes. I knew I would never get much nourishment, and the thing inside would become stronger every time I tried to feed. Eventually, it would kill me, and knowing this, I came to a certain conclusion. I formulated a plan before I ever broke free of the damned Center, and I had prayed long and hard that fate would bring me to the right place.


There is a way out of the threats and the pain that is being forced on me by this insidious thing. It seems my prayers have been answered, for there, right there across the street is what I seek. Over a glass and metal door hangs a pink sign flashing LIQUOR. It may not be mandrake root, but enough alcohol should do it. I’m going to have to block my mind from what I am about to do, as to not alert suspicion from the Other I carry. It is already awake, needing its nourishment, I’m going to have to be careful.


I begin to think of an old song I heard once, as I cross the street. “That’ll be the day-ay-ay that I die.” I smile at the irony of it, but focus on that thought to block the Other out. I imagine a hand in my mind, turning up the dial on a radio to full blast, and look straight at the neon pink sign. “THAT’LL BE THE DAY,” I am at the door, and gentle looking older woman is at the register, wearing a pink bath robe, her long gray hair smooth and flowing down her back. She smiles as I walk inside. I know I must look frightful, for her expression changes and she looks alarmed. I don’t want to scare her, I just want to ask her for help. She looks so frail to me, a little skeleton wrapped in skin and a furry robe, I wonder if she could help me at all.


“Excuse me, Miss?” her accent is foreign, and spoken with refinery. I try to speak, but my mouth is so dry, my tongue fat and useless. The edges of the room begin to fade, the thing within moves, and a ripple of flesh quivers across my abdomen in its wake. I try to put my arm over myself to hide it, but I know the old woman has seen, as her eyes have taken on a tarry look.


“What in God’s name is wrong with you, miss?” she said, clutching at her bath robe. I can’t even begin to think of the words to tell her, the room is going dim, and my hands wont stop shaking. I open my mouth to try to form words.


“Wu-uh” I choke forth, trying to get my words out. She starts across the room towards me, seeing now that I am trying to speak, her slipper clad feet move noiselessly as she rushes. She reaches her hands out before her as she walks, as if feeling the air before her will help her reach me more quickly.


“It’s alright, Dear, take your time. Let me help you.” She puts a soft hand on me, scented with lotions that made her smell of cinnamon or baked cookies. She hands me a bottle of water, which I take with eager gratitude, emptying half of it at once. My tongue loosens, I look her in the eye.


“Worm” I say. I don’t know what else to call it, this monstrosity implanted in my body. I don’t know what she will do or say, I just hope she does something before this whole room slips away into the void it’s disappearing into. She holds my eyes, hers now wide. I can see that although she looks at me, she is not seeing. I can almost hear her thoughts as she bites her lip in concentration.


“Come with me, ” she says. I am surprised when she puts her arm underneath me and neatly lifts me to my feet. I am escorted across the room, and seated on a red chair in what appears to be an office. I notice little jars and pills along most of the walls, books and herbs placed here and there. A pestle and grinder take up one shelf, with bags of strange items neatly tied off and labeled. One of these such bags she takes and hands to me.


“Take some of this and place it under your tongue.” She instructs me. “It will help you stay conscious when it gets into your system.” I don’t question her, doing as I am told. It is dry and bitter, with a numbing effect. I feel myself perk up a bit, the edges of blackness now stretching farther apart and out of sight. I feel myself begin to relax, no objections raised as of yet by the Other.


“You say you have a worm, ” She says to me, in her odd fancy accent. “I don’t know what sort of a worm is so big as to have caused what I saw move in your belly, but I think I may be able to help you. Do you want me to help you?” She is very close to me now, I can feel the body heat coming off her skin, wafting out that lotioned, bakery smell. I am not sure how she could possibly help me, but if she gave me enough alcohol, maybe I would pass on in a drunken stupor and not suffer terribly. I wondered grimly if that is what she too, had in mind.


“Yes. Please, Ma’am.” I reply, wondering when the Other would realize what we were speaking about. She nodded at me, gathering herself up, and busied herself looking around the room. She spoke to me with her back turned, hands searching as well as her eyes as she sought for something.


“When I was a younger lady, we had a drink in France that was popular for many things. It cured insomnia, writers used it for inspiration to court their muse, it was even used medicinally. It is a strong and rather potent drink, however, and has some strange effects, but I say it will help you with that worm you carry.” She looked excited as she spoke, the tarry look gone from her eyes, replaced with purpose. “I have not sold any of this, or indeed drank any of it myself, it’s not legal in these parts, but I keep it, just in case… ahhh, there it is.” She picks up an old dusty bottle, turning it in the light to be admired. A smile bloomed across her lips as she saw it was indeed the one she was looking for. “Here it is, then. Absinthe. Nectar of the Gods, they say, the Green Fairy. Sweetened with anise to take the edge off. We’ll use that to poison the worm.” She held forth the bottle to me, handing it over as if she were relinquishing a sacred object. I withdrew the cork and passed it under my nose, it smelled of wild black licorice, upturned earth, and something not so pleasant underneath it.


Flashes came then, behind my eyelids, followed by violent surge of pain. My insides felt as if a hand were clenching my intestines, eviscerating me. I saw visions of myself when I closed my eyes against the pain, hunched over, blood drooling from my mouth. I hear the Other scream in rage in the back of my head, twisting in knowledge of what was about to be done to it., so I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes, trying to wash the visions away. Still, I see myself vomit up blood, my body wracked by convulsions. It’s threatening me, trying to scare me off, trying to tell me I wasn’t even to dare, that I would die along with it….


“Drink it!” The older woman urges me, grabbing my arm and sitting me back. “Drink it now, who ever you are. For the love of God, drink it!” I move my arm to put the bottle to my mouth, but pain sears me, freezes my arm. I feel something warm and wet fall down my face, and it takes me a moment to realize that I’m crying again.


The bottle is pulled from my hand and placed to my lips, the old woman trying to pour it down my throat. It is sweet and bitter both at once, and it opens my lungs and chest, its taste shocking to my system. I work to swallow as much as I can, ignoring the thrashing in my abdomen, and the spillage down my neck and chest. I reach out with my mind, using my will and concentration to force myself to drink as much of it as I can.


I can feel the Absinthe going down my throat, into my body. It leaves a cooling trail that radiates from my chest, into my arms, into my mind. Time seems to slow down, measured only by my heartbeat…. it seems to echo and reverberate everywhere at once. In my head, from the air, from my skin. I can see my heartbeat in everything, and everything in my heartbeat. My vision changes, and my eyes no longer see things as I ever have before. I can feel the rushing of my blood, its escalation through my veins, the steady swish-swish, swish-swish of my heart pumping. Form and colors no longer make sense to me, all melt together at once. There is a humming noise in the back of it all, I think the worm is screaming.


“Let it happen” the woman says, her voice slowed down and heavy. Words form from her lips and float through the air, little white letters levitating in space against her lips after she spoke them. “There is a poison in you, the worm cant handle it, but you can. It will pass from your system into its own. You will still get some effects. Ride with it.”


I can feel the worm retaliating, it begins to thrash, and my world becomes one single musical note of pain drawn out on the endless bow of some chaotic string. The woman is screaming incoherently now, words in a language I can’t understand. Reality twists in a protean stream before me, and I can’t trust what my eyes and senses tell me. What I do not question is the severe pain, and the wrath of the creature inside me, whipping about and trying to crawl free of me in its death throws.


I feel my link to its conscious mind sever, the link broken as it withdraws its talons from my viscera, ending the synergy. There is more hysterical loquaciousness from the woman with this magical serum. I try to focus on her, but my eyes are not my own. My muscles jump and flex beyond my control, adrenaline pumping through me, my inner organs trying desperately to abort the foreign entity inside of me. I can still sense its desperation, its desire to make me suffer as it is suffering now.


The woman is saying something over and over, chanting rhythmically. I’m now at a point where I am piqued on pain, there can be nothing more horrendous than this! Through squinted eyes I see a pinhole through the darkness open. From her words, a doorway forms, what once was empty air now all a stir. Ripples like that through which form in water vibrates within it, spreading forwards to define its circumference. It seems to waver in the ether, a veil or portal of sorts being called forth from the woman’s incantations. From inside this swirling, forming mass, comes a bestial howl, a war cry of fury that squeezed fresh terror into my heart. Louder and louder the woman’s words, more elaborate her movements and gesticulations.


A single flash of a vision, of traveling at an extreme speed, of possessing a form so chimerical as to boggle the intellect, as well as the structure of reality itself. I sensed a rage in that form, an emotion strong and now building up to an explosive force. That rage is what is drawing it forward; that need to strike and destroy. I feel those jowls open, the great head thrown back in intensity, the issuing forth of howling screams so repulsive as to make me wish I were deaf… and then: Nothing. The vision was no more.


Back again I have found myself, on the floor, dizzy and confused, my midsection a fist of furious agony. The thing inside of me is trying to crawl out from my bowels, to dislodge and fight without a host for survival. To do that, it needs to get out of me first, and it pays no thought to the anguish its travel causes me. It creeps upward, meaning to crawl out of my mouth. It was going to choke me to death, I realized, in horror. It would be so easy now, to just let my sanity go, to be free of the ramifications of what I was experiencing.


“Open your mouth!” The woman is now yelling into my ear, over the humming of my mind’s cacophony. I open my mouth to gasp some air, as the thing from the nexus tears through the threshold. I feel my mind shrink back, not wanting to comprehend. I am not here, I tell myself. I am far away and safe. None of this is real. Yet, I know it is. This dying parasitic infection the Kayden Corporation rooted in me is real. I grit my teeth to chase the memories away. Yes, I know its real. Despite the poison this woman has seduced me into imbibing, I know something unnatural is taking place, some deep wound has been torn in the fabric of reality, and now it bleeds forth this emerging thing that is now borne of the portal the woman’s chanting has called forth.


The creature she has summoned stretches forth from the portal, its bulk is wide and solid, its taught muscles flexed under a leathery hide, which bristle with thick, thorn like hairs. It appears to have no neck, only a massive head with lupine jowls, teeth packed together, overlapping from its nonexistent lips. Broken bones and ligaments jut out from the creature’s shoulder blades, in a mockery of wings. Membranes stretch over torn cartilage, dried out muscles decaying and clotted against the bone, retarding the movements of flapping it tries to make. The legs upon which it stands are bent backward at the joint, resembling those of a bird, ending in cruel, hefty hooves. Yet it is the creature’s eyes that are most disturbing; those black, glistening boils of tar, shining and wet, moving. They seem to be pulsating within its head, two blackened blisters swelling with the force of its rage.


The dying thing within me inches its way up my esophagus, choking off my air, gagging me. Bile rises up as well, propelling it forwards. Dear God, its crawling into my mouth! I can taste the coppery burn of blood, feel the acidity of my juices sting me as I vomit forth a damned creature into the world. My eyes swim, I’m choking, I can’t breathe! I feel it squirming up, stronger now, a wet and violating muscle squeezing itself free of me to die alone. I feel my jaws expand, about to crack, as another spasm of bile slips from my mouth, dropping what was inside of me for so long to the floor.


The old woman drops to her hands and knees, eyes rabid and concentrated on the dying fiend that is flapping like a dying fish in a pool of bloodied bile. I cannot bear to look upon it, for knowing this thing was inside of me will damn me for sure. Yet I am compelled, and what I see sears my eyes and pierces my soul.


The hell thing resembled a black slug streaked with strings of scarlet, a bulbous mass devoid of form. It pulsates like the eyes of the Demon that stands watching, pulsating in rhythm with the death of the just born. The air hums with the sound of a heartbeat, the rhythm of blood pulsating, swish-swish, swish-swish. The eyes bulging and the hell creature swelling and deflating with each heart beat. Rhythm. Something breaks inside of me. Blackness swarms over me, its insect like fingers snapping consciousness out….


Light explodes into my vision. Time has been lost, spent in the deep void of limbo, safe and unthinking. I am exhausted, shaken, beaten. The light is etching itself onto my eyeballs; too bright. I smell ether and sickness, the aroma of scrubbed walls and bleached steel. The air feels numb and heavy, too full to move. My thoughts multiply in my head until they are insurmountable, feasting on themselves like little cannibals, morphing into more distraught and hellish convictions. My skull aches with the pressure, my thoughts telling me that my skull is about to implode.


“Well done, Laura.” My name. It’s the old woman speaking, that strange foreign voice. How does she know my name? I try to sit up, but I find that I cannot, for there are leather straps restraining me to the bed. In each arm, multiple plastic tubes feed an opalescent yellow liquid into my veins. Oh no, oh God, it’s not over yet.


“Did you really think we would let you get away, Laura? In a laundry cart, of all things? Silly girl.” The old woman throws her head back and laughs. The maniacal sound of her laughter echoes in my skull, and I pull on the leather restraints. It’s no use, I’m helpless.


“We knew you would try to get away from us, and we couldn’t let that happen. You’re smarter and so much easier on the eyes than the others here, and we used that on you.” She reaches out a doughy hand as she says this, and cups it to my breast, weighing its mound gingerly. “Your body made you the perfect choice, with the other factors considered. You are ripe and young. The drugs we have given you have made you fertile, your intestines a fecund womb to hold what we have worked so long to create.” She exposes my breast lovingly, working at the nipple. I try to scream, but choke instead, tears streaming down my face. She leans over me and places her mouth to my nipple and begins to suck, her tongue moving back and forth in little flicks. I strain against the leather straps, willing my body to break through them. Finally, I scream, the sound coming forth from me ripping my throat with its ferocity. My entire body begins to shake, the spasms throwing the woman off her sucking. She tilts her head back and smiles, yellowish green milk running out of her mouth.


“Your mothers milk is full of Absinthe. It was the missing link, you see. The Green Demon. You were the innocent one, we could never seduce you. We knew you played a pivotal part in this, with those lusty mammary glands of yours.” Again she laughed, and more milk ran down her chin. “You fit what we needed for a surrogate mother, but your innocence made you untouchable. So we convoluted things. Slid you drugs that robbed you of memories. Gave you desires by doing nightly rituals, which stripped the innocence off your soul. We let you see things that are forbidden to all mortals, we redeemed you to be something pivotal.” Here she paused, her eyes growing wider, her expression looking as if she were undergoing a deeply spiritual experience. “We gave you a chance to be the mother of a God, inseminated while drugged with the seed of a demon! It has grown in your bowels, for your womb is a useless sack. It is the Absinthe that binds it to you, it is the Green Blood Of Life that allows these demons to be born for use in our Armies! You will birth them, Laura. You are the chosen Mother of this Army, the first to be given such a privilege! You will suckle them at your breasts, feeding them your laced mothers milk so that they may flourish!” All the while she was speaking this, memories had begun to come back. The demon from the rippling void entwined in my flesh, it’s impossibly long phallus impaled in me. I recalled the iced black color of its semen as it filled me to overflowing; the way it froze my legs as it spilled out of me.


More memories come… chanting and dancing and naked bodies covered in exotic oils, the smell of sex musky and wild under the smoke of the burned offerings.


Laughter now, the woman was truly jovial over my discomfort. Her eyes are wide, holding a frightening, crazed look. She gazes at me for a moment, then turns to pick up a bundle wrapped in a blue, downy blanket. From this wrapped object comes a strange, strangulated mewling sound that fills my heart with terror. She holds it gingerly, looking down upon it as if it were a puppy, or even a human child. I know what it was that she holds, the fear driving me to the edge of insanity.


“You are the only one we have capable of this miracle. You will be heralded as the Mother of the Gods, each one precious and indestructible! Can you imagine a weapon, able to morph into both human and demon form? People will come from miles away to see you, the Mother of the Beasts. You can have anything you want, take your proper place in things. Defy us, and you will spend the remainder of your days strapped to this bed, drugged and used in any way we see fit.” She comes closer now, holding out the monstrosity for me to see, but I refuse, turning my head as far away as I can.


“This miracle that I hold, your son, has caused celebration. Its father has come to witness its birth, as it was borne from your mouth. You don’t need to be afraid, if you cooperate, you will have all the protection you could ever want.” From the blanket there came a frantic gurgling scream, the evil within the blue blanket wriggling about. She reached out with her free hand and tore my shirt in half, exposing my ruby nipples, now swollen and sore. “Your child hungers, you must feed him.” I pretended not to hear her, focused on the edges of blackness that try to seduce me back into the void.


I close my eyes and my mind to reality, trying to will myself away. I pray for Death, sweet and final, an endless cocoon of the Universe. I am away, away…


Something solid and wet falls across my chest, warm and mewling. If I get out of this, there will be nothing left of me alive. Forgive me, God, forgive me for what I have done, and for what I have become.


I am already dead. The Laura I was when I was born does not exist anymore. This bitch of a woman, as well as the evil Kayden Corporation, have stripped every bit of my true self away from me. I might as well not exist anymore, for what there is left of me is filled with rage and hatred. Every ounce of innocence is gone, and that is a wound that murders my soul. I am already past saving. Yet, I will have my revenge.


I call out to Him, Azrael, Angel Of Death, tears now leaving a salty trail down my cheeks. Words from somewhere deep and unknown issue from my lips. Uncensored and unafraid I speak them, my heart ripping apart with the tormenting weight of emotions that are swirling together like a tornado in my soul.


I’m startled when I hear singing in the room, and surprised that the sound is my own voice, reciting words that spring to me out of my desperation, delivered to me by the Collective Consciousness of our world and all that lies beyond it. I must close my sensations out, and force myself to be numb; I’m convincing myself to be what I am about to become. I block out the screams of the wretched woman, and the angry blows she strikes across my face, the blood that fills my nose and chokes me, making me gasp to breathe. I am beyond fear now, beyond pain, beyond the reach of the monstrosity that seeks to feed at my breast. I will not stop my singing, I cry out with the remains of all that I have left of me, the truth too powerful to live through. Hell exists, and I have seen it.


There are no more sounds of wet, obscene nursing now, gone are the cruelties of violated flesh, mind and soul. There is no mad woman trying to tear the lips from my face to quiet the words that have angered her so, the song, the Calling Song…


….And my eyes are made to open, my lips cease their movement and song, the air pauses its breath, and the whole world is still. From the stillness there comes a stir, a ripple of liquid smoke that starts as a wisp and grows into an inky form. Oh, how my heart rejoices, that even a fallen angel would hear my prayer, the song of the desperate and tortured. There are no more horrors left in me, only relief that this angel has come to bear that horrible old woman away, like a bride to her grave. I can smell the fear of the old woman, the wretched stink of waste she gives off as she realizes she knows that which she stands in the presence of. He is the most beautiful thing I have ever beheld. He is suspended and rippling through the air, he is formed of tendrils of smoke that move gracefully, although the atmosphere itself is totally motionless. His wings are fully fifteen feet, with oil black raven’s feathers that glisten with aether. Other than this, His form is erratic, moving within itself to form different shapes and images out of His dark essence.


The still air suddenly becomes heavy, too stagnated to breathe, my lungs feel full of metal. I watch Him as He glides to stand by the woman without noise or effort, an elongated strand of darkened haze twisting towards her, seeking. I will not turn away when Death’s wrath explodes.


What most do not know, as I now understand, is that Death has a certain right of Judgment. This Angel may be fallen, but He has the power to bring death in any way He deems fit. I know He smells the reek of fear that wafts from the screeching woman, and seeks to see into her heart. It is because of my song that he came, the passion for which I sang for Him. He has come to deliver me, of this I am well certain. I know the wickedness and terror of the old lady intrigues him, knowing that my hatred for her is part of the reason I sang for Him. Amazing to me, that she regains her composure, her fists held at her sides, her mouth drawn in a tight line across her face. Her fear is replaced by anger, and I am surprised that she has chosen to stand her ground, and does not back off as Death approaches her. Never taking her eyes from the oncoming, she speaks to me.


“Death can not save you, Laura. You are equal to Death, as esoteric as is He. When you were in your gestational period, because of the nature of that which you held inside you, you are immune to Death. You can not hold a God inside you and suffer death, we made certain of that. Funny, that Death would have answered your call, all-knowing being that He is. He must have been touched.” She sticks her head out towards me, her eyes gone mad, wide and full of insanity. She is hysterical, as giggles and gurgles issue forth from her in a twisted form of laughter. Though I wished for Death for myself earlier, does she really think I called to Death for myself?


I focus my blurred eyes on the mighty figure of Death, His back turned to me and wings gigantic, spread open in full, reminding my savaged senses of the hood of a cobra preparing for the Killing Strike. The tendrils continue their reach further, never faltering in their path. The air turns to static as worlds open and close before me, doorways rippling from countless other dimensions flashing before my eyes. From these cracks in the veil, scuttling, clacking sounds emerge, a massive wave of identical sounds magnifying into a crescendo. The aura around Death intensifies, growing darker and more severe, pooling as if he were made of both smoke and ink at once, billowing and twisting within Himself, expanding.


From the portals there comes a loud clicking sound, followed by the noise of an endless number of insects chirping in a crescendoing cacophony. It was the sound of mandibles rubbing together, the sound of carapaces moving together in numbers too many to comprehend. At first there was only one, and then many beetle like creatures running out from the portals, their mandibles working together, creating that mind penetrating clacking chirp that vibrates throughout the room. Some strengthened part of me, in a thin moment of conscious recognition, thought that they were scarabs, the Egyptian symbol of immortality, the beginning and the end.


“Death has not come for me, you nasty, filthy old hag,” I spit at her, “He has come for you.” I hear myself say this, my voice somehow reverberating and amplified above the thrum of the ravenous insects. They come now, swarming in a thick, moving rug, billions of legs that scuttle, millions of mandibles that clash. Like a plague, they swarm upon her, piercing her flesh, gouging her eyes, filling her mouth and eating their way into her stomach. She stands for only a brief moment, her flesh now gone, her body only supported by the mass of carapace armored scarabs stuck into the spaces between her bones. After the last sinew has been eaten, she falls to the ground, an empty husk, her soul delivered to Judgment. Mission completed, the insects withdraw, returning into the rippling gate. Death returns to me, not to claim me, but to look upon me, to understand my wishes.


Its all been washed away, it has, the Pain, the Fear, the Terror. I have ridden through the void of insanity, and I remain alive. Gone my thoughts of innocence, now obscured by ferocious intent. Absinthe running through my veins, the mixed seed and blood changing my cells and brain, clarifying the nature of the heart which is now beating in my breast. I have seen the zenith of torture, and once that point is reached, there is no return.


Death’s eyes gleam before me, drinking in the incoherent babblings of my mind. I must find some understanding in this place of horrors, this den of Hell. I know I will not escape, I am not fit for this world. The dying embers of my consciousness, my inner voice, flicker once before my eyes, before it is snuffed out by the rage magnetizing in my blood. I am becoming Mother Of the Damned. It is unavoidable, I am beyond the help of Death. His retreat is graceful, tendrils folded together in a prayer like clasp, head lowered, wings folded. The static that surrounds him fades out, until he is translucent as smoke. Through his transparent form, I see the opening of the ethereal cell. As Death retreats, another presence advances. He is coming forth for me, that which was once entwined with me.


How could I have recoiled from this magnificent being? Or from the son that I had helped to create, the elite Demi-God that suckles at my breast even now, taking in the Absinthe from my milk? I have mated with a powerful, otherworldly force, I am the Bride Of the Damned. Death has left, oh sweet, sweet Death! He is righteous in His actions, and Blessed by His presence was I! I shall scream no more, lest it be in rapture, my mental bonds broken and forever torn, body ravaged and changing, sexual organs modifying to allow the consummation of myself with the Demon.


Suddenly, the demon is beside me. His presence does not alarm me as it did before, but fills me with longing and acceptance. With a claw the size of a coffin nail, he shears through the leather restraints, His wings so gloriously decrepit spread wide to enfold me, his Bride, mother of His child. My loins glimmer in my desire, dew drops forming at their opening. I am where I am meant to be at last, I know, as the demon enters me violently, lovingly. The child at my breast flows in its form, human like eyes appearing, then melting back into sluggish flesh, to be replaced by bulbous eyes, like those of his Father. A nose and fingers appear and disappear, the absinthe charging his system. As the demon works to his purpose, I smile, knowing the infant which feeds eager at my bosom will not be the last, but the first of many…


… Many in the Army Of the Damned.

The Reclaiming Of Charlotte Moss

The Reclaiming of Charlotte Moss.indd

I’d love it if you do choose to read my book, if you would share with me what you thought of it with an Amazon review

With her divorce finally final, Charlotte Moss is determined to find the missing parts of herself that her oppressive marriage claimed. No longer chained to the demands of a cruel husband, a new found sense of freedom has filled her with hope. Mixed with the hope is the fear of letting go of her past, and the terror of being hurt again. Even with the fresh sense of freedom, Charlotte’s quiet demeanor and shyness make it hard for her to overcome her recent past.
Vincent, a local artist, has admired Charlotte from a distance since first meeting her at the restaurant where she worked.
When they become friends, it becomes evident each of them yearns for the other. Vincent wants to reassure her in the most primal, sensual and loving ways, but he worries that her shyness and fear of being hurt will keep her from giving him a chance.

About my book, “The Otherling”

The otherling 2016

Before I give you a synopsis of my novel, I’d like to tell you a little about what is means to me, and how it came to be.

Ever since I was a child, I’ve always had a beautiful love affair with the written word. Whole worlds can be created and lived in with words, reaching into the minds of readers and placing them in the middle of the action and emotion. Because of this, reading was a favorite past time for me. Through books I could live many lives and experience things that I had no other way to experience.

As a writer, I desperately wanted to be able to do that too, to inspire people, to help them out of the tediousness of their everyday lives, to bring them something exciting and worthwhile. I wanted to reach the most sacred depths of my readers and leave a footprint there. I craved leaving an emotional memory in their being, a memory lived through the written word.

I first began to get noticed for my writing when I lived in England and attended a traditional English school there. Stories I wrote would sometimes be read aloud by the teacher, encouraging me to write more often, and to write as well as I could.

In my teen years, I continued to write, mostly poetry. I had many notebooks I loved to fill with stanzas of emotional words. Occasionally I would get published in a magazine called Teen Ink that has now grown nation wide since my days of high school, when it was just a New England wide publication. Today high school students all over America can submit and enjoy poetry, stories, articles, photography and artwork.

Later, during my reading of mystical tomes, esoteric works and the like, I found a particular love for angels. I loved that they were beings of pure light, and I was fascinated when I learned that there were several different species of angels. The more I read about them, the more I knew I wanted to write about them. I wanted to make sure I represented them as accurately as possible, so I read everything I could get my hands on.

Happily, the more I read, them more ideas I came up with, until finally, I began the first few chapters of my novel, “The Otherling.” I wanted to write something unique, to put a twist on the whole idea of angels and present it in a way that you, the reader, would feel connected to what was happening, and anxious to turn the page to find out what would happen next.

It is my hope that my book will draw you into a wonderful new world, where the characters you meet will come to life before you and live in your heart long after the final page has been read.

Welcome to the world of The Otherling.

So here is my official blurb about “The Otherling.”

“After losing her mom at the age of four, delving into her mother’s religion of Wicca and eclectic witchcraft is one way Annaleah Grace had chosen to find herself and her own sense of integrity. Though this path had made her an outcast, it also opened up a world in which being so different might actually be the saving grace our world desperately needs for it’s own redemption from the Darkness.

For Annaleah, being true to herself has always been more important than fitting in with society’s expectations. Even if that meant waking up from a nightmare with Georgia red clay from the Hellish scene still wet on her feet. Or that she has to hold her own against the debonair and mysterious Professor Sebastian Bainbridge, the University’s mysterious, intimidating genius with whom she will be teaching World Religions.

As her dreams begin to be more than mere dreams, haunting her into the waking world, Annaleah knows something intense and powerful is going on.

When she is befriended by angels of the Light, and neutral angels who have fallen but not yet claimed the Darkness, she knows that there is something important she must do. She must stand and fight against the angels that have taken the Darkness and made it their own.

She must prepare for war.”

Advice for aspiring writers

It’s hard to stare at a blank screen, even when your heart is burning and you have the desire to pour your soul out onto the page before you. What if what comes out sounds crazy, doesn’t make sense, or is full or errors? Should you go over what you write as you write, reading it over for mistakes before you move on to the next portion of writing? What if what you write sounds good to you, but it gets rejected over and over, would it even be worth the time it takes to write it?

Here’s my two cents. JUST WRITE. It doesn’t have to be a masterpiece the first time around. It’s called a rough draft for a reason. There’s always time to go back, to edit and revise what you’ve written.

Here’s the thing, if you are afraid to get it wrong, you can restrict the flow or your creativity, and it can make it hard for anything to come out at all. Stop doubting yourself, get a pen and paper, sit behind your computer screen, get out that old family typewriter….however you choose to get the words out, just do it! Write until the screen is full of words, until your hands are smeared with ink, or until your pencil has been sharpened into a nub. Not all of it will be good, heck, some of it might be terrible, but at least you’ve gotten the words down on a page. The most important thing is to write, because then you have something to work with. Stop doubting yourself, being a perfectionist is not going to help you here, at least not in this stage of writing.

Once you have written yourself out, put it away. Do your best not to think about it for a few days. Do something else. If you have a craft or a hobby, take your free time to do this. Take an extra shift at work. Take your kids to the park. Keep yourself busy so you can keep what you’ve written out of your mind. Then, after several days, go back to what you’ve written earlier and look at it with fresh eyes. Go through it and edit or revise it now, fix spelling errors, strike out things that don’t work, change sentences into deeper, more free flowing ones. Develop the ideas that were raw into ones that have a stronger foundation, expand on your ideas, and tidy up what were rough ideas when you first wrote them.

The raw material you let flow freely from you earlier has given you material to work with, and that is the most important thing. Don’t let it be censored due to fear, the more you write, the more you have to work with.

Also know it’s ok to take a break from writing. Some people advise to be a writer you need to write every day. Maybe this is true for some writers, but for myself I don’t find this to be true. While I love to write, it is also important for me to wind down, relax and recharge. It’s important to find out what works for you, and to do that. Sometimes it takes a while to find out what works for you too, and that’s okay. This is your journey, travel it as only you can.

As far as being afraid of your writing being rejected, just accept it as inevitability. Every writer gets rejected; it’s going to happen. I saved all of my rejection slips in a folder. I use them to remind myself just how far I am willing to go to make my dreams of being a published author come true.

Each rejection should be treated as a badge of honor. It’s a right of passage all writers have to endure. Yes, some rejections were nice and gave me exceptional advice on how to better my story, on what I was doing correctly and what I was doing wrong. Others were downright vicious, and one even made me cry. I’ve had one editor tell me there wasn’t enough emotion from my characters to the point my story was dull and dry, and another tell me it was so over emotional to the point of being overly dramatic and unreadable. I’ve had responses all over the place in my journey to be an author, and the truth is, I almost gave up. After a year and a half of trying to find my novel a home, I was almost sure I had to at least stop for a while, let my manuscript cool off, and then try to revise it all over again one more time. Either that, or just let it go altogether.

I’m so glad I didn’t give up! Being a writer means you must be full of determination and perseverance, even when you don’t think there is a publisher left on the planet who would take your work. Don’t. Give. Up.

Of course, make sure you’re submitting your best work. Check and recheck your spelling and grammar. Edit, revise, and revise again. When you’re certain your manuscript is at it’s peak of perfection, then go for it, and don’t look back.

I’ll be looking for you on the best seller’s list! 😉

How to contact your angels

Beautiful blue sky background with clouds and sun

Beautiful blue sky background with clouds and sun

About the Angels
Right now, as you read this, you are surrounded by pure, unconditional love. Even though most of us most likely go about our daily lives completely unaware of it, this radiant, spiritual love flows to us from the angels. Their love is without judgment. This love sees past all our faults, all our weaknesses and focuses on our connection to Divinity. The angels desire to restore us, to uplift us, to keep us from harm and to work with us on our journey here on Earth.

Though they love to help us connect with our own inner spiritual realms, they are also here to help in our every day struggles, from things as simple as what to wear to an interview, to things much more dear to our hearts, such as the health issues we might be going through, or the safety of someone we love.

They wait on us to ask them for help, always willing and eager to aid us in any way they can. Though they can and will help us without asking them, their help is always more powerful when we communicate with them directly. They work with us the best when they have our permission.

It’s not as difficult as you might think to communicate with them. What you need most is an honest desire, and the willingness to ask them into your life. You can do this on a day when you’re feeling relaxed and at peace, when you have at least twenty minutes to yourself. It’s a good idea to wear something comfortable that won’t distract you while you’re trying to contact the angels. Turn off your phone, TV and anything else that might take your attention away from your meditation.

You can light a candle if you wish, and some incense in a scent that pleases you to help you focus and relax. You can bring special items with you as well, crystals, a crucifix, or anything that has a spiritual meaning to you. Sit in a comfortable position and clear your mind. Take some deep breaths in from your nose and exhale slowly from your mouth. Feel all the stress and tension in your mind and body lifting from you as you continue to breathe in slowly and deeply. Imagine yourself encompassed in a ball of pure, white, luminous light. Feel this light surrounding you with love and peace. Breathe the light in to your chest, and let the light glow in your heart.

When you are relaxed, ask the angels to come and be with you. You can say this out loud, or in your mind, whichever makes you feel more comfortable. You can ask them to give you signs that they are with you throughout your day, or to help you in any manner you wish. It does help to have a clear intention, so that your answer can come to you in a manner that you can easily understand.

You might not feel their presence with you right away, or the first time you call out to them. That’s alright. Just let your mind go blank and let the energy connection between you and the angels flow.

You might get images flashing through your mind, a scent, a certain emotion, or a line from a song. They might connect with you in a away that is totally personal and tailored just for you. As long as you are open to any signs from them, they will use what they think is best to work with you.

Personally, I find dreams to be a great meeting place to get signs from my angels. It’s a good idea to keep a journal specifically for angels so that you can keep track of what signs they might be leaving you, as well as what they mean.

So how can you know what signs they are giving you? Angels are superb messengers, it’s what they do. It’s up to you to be diligent and to look for ways they could be trying to get your attention. It could be a song on the radio answering something that you were just thinking about. Maybe you open a book or magazine and see a phrase that relates to something you need to know. Angels also love to send feathers in your path, just as a way to let you know they are around you.

Some things are bigger and more direct, but can just as easily be missed if you’re not looking for them. Maybe the bus you take to commute to work is late. Although you might get angry about being late for work, perhaps there was an accident on your route that might have involved your bus, had it come on time.

Maybe you have an audition for a role your heart has been pining over for months, and even after lots of practice, you don’t get the part. Later on, another role opens up, one that you are even better suited for, and it launches your career. Had you taken the first role, you wouldn’t have been free to accept the one better suited for you.

In whatever manner your message is delivered, the more you are open to them, the better you will become aware of them. In time, your personal relationship with the angels will become stronger, and it will be easier to spot when they are trying to get through to you and what they are trying to tell you.

Of course, always thank your angels. The best way to do this is to send them LOVE.

Good luck on your journey to meet the angels, let me know how it went in the comments section.