Friday, November 26, 2010


     There is a new world evolving in the bottom of my coffee cup. I have been watching it for a week now. It is dry, arid. Lifeless. The cracked plane of dried coffee crystals is coated with an oil slick. A chocolate coloured snowflake spreading outwards and upwards. Each day I look at it, and then put it back on the universe of my desk. It seems as though it belongs there, a china and acrylic paint star in orbit around the white-lit Flatron sun.

     If I drowned the coffee cup world, tried to erase it from existence, it would eventually release itself from its porcelain crust. It would not dissolve; it would float to the surface, still a perfect flat disc. I allay the thoughts of ruin. I allow the world another day. Tomorrow I will look at it again. Contemplate its future. Return it to its universe next to the spent pen satellites and the single-serve milk-portion asteroid belt.

     I am here but I am not here. Mostly I am not here. My body is here, I am an expert at multi-tasking. My brain and body types, carries, sorts, files and collates. My heart and soul explores, creates, wonders and longs. There I am, and yet, there I am not.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Wicked Prayer

Oh please, slow this ride a little. I haven't had the time to make my time, to take my mind...away.

I haven't had the chance to bleed this out, to pick this wound clean. To force the poison through my teeth.

My shoulders slump, my breath escapes, I fold, I gave in long ago.

If it weren't for the blood in my veins I would have laid down long ago, I would have said 'enough's enough'. I would have dragged this solemn corpse into the sun and left it there to rot.

But this worming parasite resides, and it's claws dig deep. Stimuli, oh brazen warmonger, burrowing, plotting, scheming. You want me. I cannot resist you.

A paper aeroplane in a wind tunnel has no choice, has no will, no fate but to be buffeted and forced. But what if it wants more? What if it wills more?

Do I stand against the wind? Or am I merely the folded paper...with no greater fate than to be flattened against the wall?

Heavy eyes, heavy heart. I tire of this game.

Sunday, May 30, 2010

Lessons from Olvar Wood - Why do I write?

My fingertips are a conduit for the intangible. This network of live-wires busily weaving thoughts like a city grid. Clarity is rare here. It is more common that a super-charged electrode of passion explodes in front of me and I am compelled to write.

Each letter calls out in it's own way, and a mere word is never just that. Such a finite list of letters with infinite possibility. Words have the power to make me rethink, question, rebel and escape. Two dimensional and inanimate, yet they form a harmonious orchestra.

Friday, May 28, 2010

Suicidal Ballet - Fuck it, I'm not saying anything you have not before....

I am careful not to tip the balance, though I am curious as to the consequence.

Peel back the covers, make sure the bed is safe, for if I do not, would I feel the tight pinch of fangs in my toe?

Maybe...maybe it would not be a mortal wound. Maybe it would awaken me.

Stop trying so hard.

Stop being so lazy.

Wake up, stop lying, practise what you preach silly girl.

I am, I'm not, I think, I observe, I am shamed, I am humbled. I want. I wish. I need. I love...I hate.

I have the power but I also have the pain, and it steers me, it feeds me. Blind is the fool who cannot see truth from lie, but who can blame them if the motivation is pure?

Who will cast judgement when a mirror is seen?

Who will fight? You? Me? Maybe...

Is it easier to scream, or to whisper? To throw a glance over a turned shoulder, and long for courage, but know that it is easier to walk away. All the while, inside we scream.

All the while, we wonder. We wish we knew.

We are the same...and in the end...we feed the earth with the same filth...and the same mystery.

Make this easy. I see the light but I am lost.

Forever loses me in the rituals of similarity. I have walked this path before. I always wanted to take the left turn, but I wondered where it went, and if I turned, would it have been my biggest mistake? Or my greatest test? My fate? My dream come true? Oh, that is my greatest longing, my vice, my little tauntng whisperer..what if? What if?

WHAT FUCKING IF???? What if I didn't? What if they didn't?

You are my enemy. my nemesis, my downfall, my defeat. You are the only one that tears at me.

I am strong without you, but I am nothing without you.

My tears well, I am familiar and I like it here. You think this is bad for me? I LIKE THIS. I like it. I need it. I feel alive here. My heart pulses, my tendons stretch.

Without this I am...well I don't rightly know do I?

...and that is my curse.

 Why a curse? Because I want it as much as I hate it.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Atrophy likes the sinful ones... Part Two!

In the crisp cool night air she stood, sucking deeply on her designer ciggarette. She loved the tingle in her veins and flesh, as the oxygen level in her blood became saturated with the chemicals from the smoke. Atrophy held the knife blade up to the moonlight and matched the street number with the house in front of her. She knew it would be one and the same, for the house seemed to radiate malevolence. The grass outside this house was all but dead - with nought but a few paper daisies and thistles poking up through the cracked earth.

Even the trees lining the sidewalk seemed to lean away from whatever, or whoever, lurked inside. She slipped the open blade between her breasts, and felt a flood of desire at the feel of the cool blade on her hot skin. With every breath she felt a scratching sensation, and she could easily imagine the red raw scrapes of it gnawing at her flesh as she walked. Atrophy flicked the butt of the ciggarette over her shoulder and stalked up to the door. It was a warped old wooden door with a large brass ring knocker. Everything about the house was unkempt and weathered, and Atrophy thought that she could smell a musty scent. The clicking of cockroach feet made her curl her lip upwards in a sneer at the disgusting habits of even the most sexually exciting men.

A footstep behind her made her heart leap and she felt a sharp jolt as the blade nicked her skin. She did not turn, for she knew who it was. He was trying to spook her, but she was not in the mood to play the naive vixen. She lifted her chin and pulled her hair over he shoulder to expose her bare neck, as if mocking his brazen attempt.

"So, you big bad bull...You think you can scare me?"

She purred each word with a playful pout, and was not surprised at all to feel his hands creep around her throat...

They were strong and purposeful, and he lingered there, halting the air from reaching her lungs. His head leaned in close to hers and he sniffed at her hair. His exhale was loud in her ear, and she found it both enticing and repulsive. They had not yet discussed who was going to play the dominant role, and she was slightly insulted by his assertion. She was a good submissive, but she was on fire when she had full control. This petty man was not choosing her best side.

She moaned as though she was feeling dizzy, and his hands squeezed more tightly. His breathing increased, and he pushed her body forward so that she was pressed up against the wall, with the force of his body behind her.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

Atrophy likes the sinful ones...*Updated!*

Gloom dominated the bedroom. Lumpy black candles spilled onto pewter gargoyles. Atrophy indulged in herself and welcomed a night of temptation. Ghoulish themed rooms full of nasty boys eagerly awaited her presence...which was always after the clock struck midnight. She was mean, she was cold, and they lapped up every spiteful word uttered from her blood red lips.

Spineless office Johnnies dripped nervous sweat all over the bar, and she batted them away like pesky flies. Atrophy wanted a man much more vile than they could ever be. Next to her statuesque, voluptuous frame, they seemed to be not much more than a skinny, spotty boy of fourteen. Of course they were men, they were respected in their daily lives, but they were chasing the unattainable.

The last touch to her blistering outfit was a pair of killer kitten heels. She caught sight of herself in her antique mirror, as she gathered up her victorian style ankle length black flowing coat. Satisfied that she was a flawless image of desire, she picked up her theatre length cigarette holder and flipped open her pewter cigarette case. The short walk - or in Atrophy's case, the short stalk - to the club was long enough for one ethereal encounter with her coffin nail obsession.

The doorman met her with an unabashed lick of his lips. It was as though he knew the taste of her, and indeed he did, but Atrophy was not interested in a man that wept from the pain of Kali's teeth bracelet. The snide half smile she gave him as she stepped past dripped with mockery. He wished again that he had been able to bear the brunt of her will. On the other hand, he was somewhat thankful she was no longer interested, for hers was a brutal passion, with a boundless imagination for the macabre.

Once inside the heartbeat of the music pulsed in time with the lights. They were not coloured lights, it was a simple flashing from pitch black to ghoulish shadows. The highlights of the crowd were lit for just long enough for Atrophy to be disinterested in their disgusting faces. She lit another one of her Black Devil Specials and narrowed her eyes at an approaching fiend. He was trembling, and she smelt the fetid stink of his eagerness. In one flash of the dancefloor lights, a large man who seemed to move much faster than he was capable of, stepped in between Atrophy and the boy. She could not see his face and he did not appear to even speak, but something caused the kid to lose his lunch. His head magnetised to the floor and altered his trajectory, not daring to take a sidewards glance at Atrophy.

"What are you? A noble protector?"

Though she was excited by his presence, she would not admit it. There were tests to pass first.

"Not a protector - a hunter." His answer resonated through her body. His face was illuminated by another flicker of the lights, so that his features burned into the lingering smoke.

'Good answer', she thought as she tried to identify his unusual coppery scent.

"So what do they call you?"

"They don't call me anything. But if you wish to place a label on me, how about Brazen Bull."

His bold move to sniff her neck gave Atrophy a tremor of desire. She tried again to identify his aroma, then she sniggered as she realised.

"Have you been in a scrap tonight? You smell like blood."

He stared into her eyes, boldly swallowing her bait. The gruff baritone of his voice entranced her to linger upon the sound moreso than the meaning.

"Would that disturb you? The thought of me drawing blood from another?"

He waited patiently for her answer, for there was a lot riding on how she would react to his behaviour...and time was running out...

She chuckled lightly, and drew out another fine black ciggarette. His eyes flickered with lust as she placed the elegant ciggarette holder between her lips. She took a long moment to light it, and draw in a deep breath before she answered him. He was waiting for her to speak, which was precisely why she did not. With the ciggarette holder trailing a fine film of smoke up past her heavily made up eyes, she placed her thumb under her chin. She used her two remaining fingers she traced the curve of her bottom lip, then she turned her gaze away from him.

"I would rather draw blood from you..."

His lip curled upward, and Atrophy thought perhaps this "Brazen Bull" would prove worth the effort. However, she was all too familiar with men who could talk the talk. He would have to prove himself, and she was always ready to push a man to his limits. He removed a small object from his back pocket and offered it to her. Atrophy furrowed her perfectly groomed vixen eyebrows and stared through the flashes of the nightclub lights. She heard a soft click and the lights reflected off the shiny object. The glistening in his eyes matched the glistening of the metal and she recognised the shape of the knife. Lingering with it pointed at her torso for a few moments, he then spun it around in his hand so that he was grasping the blade and handing it to her.

Atrophy was intrigued and she took the knife from him. As soon as her fingers closed around the handle he gripped tighter on the blade and pulled her arm in close to him. He pulled the blade up to his cheek and traced the point over his face and lip, without ever breaking her gaze. Then without another word he turned and stalked off into the crowd, towards the door. A warm wetness spread over her fingers and she jumped in shock. She looked at her hand and saw that the blade was covered in blood. She ran her finger over the blade to wipe off the blood, trying to decide if he really had just sliced himself open before her. It felt like real blood, and she felt something else too...engraving on the blade. Holding it up to the lights Atrophy smiled.

43 Devil Hills Lane

"Well this is a first."

She bit her bottom lip as she pondered her next move. A strangers house was no nightmare, Atrophy was capable of dominating any situation. The thought of danger lit a fire in her. This strange man had piqued her interest. He wasn't feeding her a line. He was serious, and she had been longing for such a man...a man that would enjoy the torture as much as she did. It only took her a few minutes to decide that she would follow him. She ran her bloodsoaked hand over the doormans chest on the way out. He grinned at her, she smiled at the thought of him noticing the bloodstain later, wondering what the hell had happened.

...To be continued...

Friday, April 2, 2010

Come into my's cold sometimes...but I've made room for you

'Why am I doing this? Who even cares...I bet I look like a joke.'

She makes my finger hover over the delete key...Sometimes she wins, sometimes she does not. Sometimes she makes me stare at my image, to make sense of it, to validate the existence of it.

Am I like you? I think maybe I am, and that is the reason I am not deleting this one...because I think you might know of what I speak.

"  You fucking IDIOT! Can't you see how untalented you really are???"

I don't like her at all. She is the one who knows when I am down, she takes great pleasure in revelling. She points out my flaws, compares me to everyone who might make me feel insecure at the best of times.

'You might inspire somebody one day. Somebody who really needed it. Maybe not now, maybe you will be long dead, but that's not the point now is it?'

She is the one I long for, the one who makes up for all of the others. She makes me remember the real words spoken to me, by friends and by strangers. It helps me to live with the others, and really I do need them all. What depth can I have if I feel nothing but joy? No, I need this turmoil. I am nowhere near as deep without it. One day it may be my end, but that is my war to wage. They make me question my world and my life. I hate them and I love them, but in the end it is always me.

Why does it scare me so, why does it torment me? Why does it bring me to tears? These words, these little sentences are pulled from the very core of me. My blood flows through each line as though they were my veins. I leave a piece of myself everwhere I post, like an offering from my very soul. I want the eyes that read them to see what I see.

Saturday, March 20, 2010

They are only words

'What are you waiting for? They are only words after all...'


The cavern seemed to echo with her thoughts, and her heartbeat resonated louder than she thought physically possible.

'They are not only words. You cannot convince me otherwise.'

Her heartbeat quickened because she knew the response even before the icy words taunted her with their venom.

'But it is not me that you need to convice.'

Her pale skinned face flushed red with a prickling rage, and she fell to her knees, begging for some other way. The prickles turned to a heavy pounding within her skull. She was laden with guilt, and utter hopelessness. Running somewhere deep and dark through Lady Elesaira's mind were desperate pleas, the likes of which she would never say. Could not ever say. Even thinking them was dangerous.

'I don't have the strength to fight you. I cannot win this, I am too weak inside. Please forgive me Deinah, your blood will forever be on my hands.'

Instead she swallowed hard and quieted the rogue voice inside her. However, the reviled Overlord might have already heard her. For all she knew, it might already be too late. Staring at the billowing red mass before her, she decided to stand her ground, she knew that she was dead either way...and so was the boy...

"I will not bow to your will, no matter the cost."

...To be continued

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Morbid fascinations

When I look at a shiny crystal wine glass, or a bell bottomed decanter, my thoughts trace the sparkling lip and I think about biting into the glass. The most tempting are the whisper thin ones, the ones that feel like they would shatter if you merely toasted them too hard. Sometimes I wrap my hand around them and wonder how much pressure I could exert on it, before it shattered in my hand.

After I smell the sulphur trail from a freshly lit match, I toy with the idea of letting it burn right down to my fingers. When I look at the ember after the flame has gone, I feel like pressing the tiny cinder into my palm.

The sight of a desk fan draws my attention to my finger, and I picture myself halting its whizzing motion with my flesh. You might think that an industrial fan might not interest me, but those ones compel me to lose a whole arm.

I lose all sense of reality for a moment upon sighting a meat grinder. I ponder the sight of a horrific mess, if I had somehow gotten myself trapped inside. The little flecks of mince and fat look not unlike what my own would resemble, if I were not able to get out.

Feeling the rush of air from a truck or a bus, brings my thoughts to my lost footing, and the bone splintering smash that would result in falling under the wheels. A vortex of oncoming headlights blinds me, even though I know it isn't really there. The nightmarish and panicked face of the driver, burned into my retinas, as the last thing I see.

Driving along a dark highway with only the streetlights for companions, I think about a sneaky embolism. It srikes without warning, causing me to careen over the edge of an eerily lit length of overpass. Or perhaps simply a haunting seisure, freezing my movements until just before I hit the pillar...

Monday, March 15, 2010

Blood from a stone

Click, click, click, the old familiar sound.

Thump, thump, thump, the rhythmic heartbeat quickened. The top of her throat closed up tightly, as though trying to keep the bile from its will to purge.

Click, click, click, loud enough so that she was well aware of the purpose. Each click conjured an image of a tiny hammer within the lock, settling in its tiny brass groove. One click closer to unlocked.


The arc of light spread as the door creaked open, and the click of the key was replaced with the click of the boot heel.

"My oh my, you have been waiting up for me, my love."

Hot needles prickled under the skin on her face, in a rush of anger and fear.

'Don't speak, don't say anything. Don't encourage it.'

A long audible breath inhaled as the next words were pondered. No encouragement was needed for tonight there was dire intent.

"My Lady, my love, my dark sorceress...Elsbeth."

The sparkling glint from the dagger tip only caused a brief moments dalliance, before the rage slithered forth in a hiss.

"That's not my name."

The intruder clenched a sinewy fist around the dagger, and the boot heel ground itself into the dusty concrete. Sandra knew that she should not have spoken. Especially not those words. Those four words were always so tempting to speak, but they provoked the worst encounters from her captor.

"You dare defy me still? How many times must I punish you for your insolence?"

Sandra began to tremble in fear as her captor trembled with excitement. As the footsteps drew nearer to her chained body in the dark corner, she wished that one of these nights her tongue would be cut out to save her from trying to oppose the onslaught.

...To be continued...

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Lessons from Olvar Wood.

Lesson one asks me to "Make some notes about something you have seen, heard, tasted, smelt, touched or felt this week".

Ok here goes...Darkened street, empty, no cars but us and a taxi. A stumbling young man, cradling head. Blood. Leaning shadows from traffic lights. Large intersection, four lanes each way. Noisy pub on the corner. Scattered drunks and burly security guards. Spitting rain. Someone yelling in the distance "HEY YOU!!" Us tired from the concert. Late. 1:30am.

Now to turn it into a short story...

The familiar smells inside my helmet were a warm reminder of the preceeding events. Old perfume and foundation mixed with the faint scent of partially rubbed off lipstick. I was tired, starting to allow my eyelids to droop, and I didn't care that I could smell the acidic tang of sweat. Breathing in sharply through my nostrils, I felt the cool, crisp one am air rejuvenate me like a shot of coffee. I had to stay awake just long enough to get home, then I could lay my tired body down and relax my aching muscles.

The concert had been incredible, the band a powerhouse of crunching guitars and empowering vocals. As my ears rang from the noise, I shook my head, disappointed that I had yet again, forgotten my earplugs. Coming up to the traffic lights, I smiled at the fact that it was red. On a four lane each way intersection there was just us and a taxi, and the taxi was right beside us.

"Oi, you!"

The yell drew my attention from the glow of the sreetlights on the ashphalt and I turned my head instinctively towards the noise. A kid was holding his head and stumbling like he had been drinking since midday, and I shook my head at his stupidity. He wobbled across the road and I thought about how lucky he was that there was no oncoming traffic, and that we were stopped on the red.

He stumbled right past the motorbike as the lights turned green and we began to take off. Thats when i saw the blood. I leaned forward and yelled.

"Jay, he doesn't look alright."

Instead of accelerating, he eased off and looked at the boy. Something was wrong. His stumbles turned to great arcing staggers, and his head fell further forward in his hands.

"He's not ok. We should stop and see if he needs help."

Hearing the panic in my voice, Jay steered the bike up on the pavement as the taxi veered past us, and i jumped off the back and began to tear off my gloves and helmet, as I ran up to the kid.

"Hey mate!"

He didn't stop.

"Hey mate! Are you ok?"

I placed my hand on his shoulder, and he turned to face me. My eyes widened and my stomach sank as I saw his face. His eyes lolled and he tried to focus on me, to register who I was that stopped him. There was a large streak of blood across his forehead that caked in large globules on his eyebrow. His ear was covered, and his hair was matted with the sticky crimson and he had smears and splats on his chest and hands. Another gruff yell from the sidestreet beside the pub, gave me a sinking feeling that the perpetrators were still on his tail.

"What happened to you?"

He sighed and shrugged his shoulders but did not speak. I looked closely at his wounds and tried to gauge how badly he was hurt. When he did speak, it was the voice of a nonchalant teen, unable to conceive the severity of his situation.

"Oh, I've just been hit in the head with a baseball bat."

I stayed with him for a while, trying to make him look me in the eye as he answered my questions. He refused all help, and in the end I had to let him stumble away. He had angered the boyfriend of a pretty girl, and this was his punishment for disturbing the sacred bonds of young lust.

"Silly boy."

I thought aloud to myself as we continued our journey home, though there was a niggling that stayed with me for days. Concussion and shock can manifest themselves in a victim with symptoms akin to drunkenness, and if left untreated, can kill...

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

What the heart wants...

Theres a chill in my heart, and it stings of loss and longing. I so detest a grand portion of the world in which I live, my history and inevitable future. What has dragged me to this crossroad, and, more to the point, why do I press on?

I think that it's going to get better, or perhaps I simply hope. The rain pours in under the foundations and I wait, and watch, to see if my feet will get wet. I wonder what it would be like to live inside the mind of another. Would I be happier? Would my thoughts be the same? A half smile blooms, replacing my furrowed brow, as I ponder that it could be worse still.

I feel the water rising and I close my eyes. It's cold, and my breath falters, but I know that I like it better here. Within the maelstrom, churning with fervour, dwells the boundless core of creation...the phantasm.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

The journey from 'Writer' to 'Author'.

I have received an offer of publication, which is fantastic, however I was impatient and submitted to quite a few and have not yet heard back from most of them. I have since learnt that this is a common thing for 'green' authors to do. The recommended process is to submit to one or two and wait to hear back but I was just bursting and could not bear to wait six weeks for a rejection before sending another submission out.

On one hand my heart is telling me, 'just go for it, you may only get one acceptance package.' On the other hand I am sceptical because it is a pay for publishing company. They do not appear to be a vanity publisher but it is still less desirable in the eyes of some. The internet is rife with people voicing opinions about things that they disagree on. Fortunately they do not voice particular issues with this publisher - just annoyance at subsidy publishing in general. So when I did find reviews on the publisher the news was favourable.

I suppose that is the curse of being a newbie to the scene, and perhaps there will be many confusing situations before I get it right. For now, I am consumed by the choice, to pay to publish or not to pay to publish. I still do not know, and for the moment I think I am just going to keep learning and hoping that my dream offer will come in the mail and I can publish my dream special edition the way I want it to be...(but aren't we all?)

Love Kitty

Monday, January 4, 2010

The compelling force of our minds and our dreams

If I had to ask myself where did it all start for me, I would have to remember a time that I do not ever wish to revisit. However, I am old enough now to accept that if I didn't endure that time, I would not be who I am today.

From a very early age I witnessed things a child should never see, and dealt with a barrage of mental, physical and sexual abuse. The who's, why's and wherefore's are not important to delve into. What is important is where it all sent me.

I paid no heed to the life around me, instead sinking into a fantasy world. Sometimes it enveloped me and sometimes it terrified me, but it was mine, I made it, and there I stayed.

So at the age of about 10, I began to write things. I won awards at school and I was encouraged to pursue my talent. The things I wrote at school were quite trivial and usually happy, but the things I wrote at home were much different. They were abstract and surreal, and altogether confusing to anyone but me. On the odd occasion I would attempt to pen the true story of my life but I could never do it justice to the memories and the pain. And so, I stopped writing, because I began to confuse even myself. Plus there was a part of me that did not want those things to be documented for it might give them a life that I did not want those demons to have.

Instead I started singing. I was good, very good. With a little tuition I could have been fantastic. It was an outlet that both thrilled and tortured me. I would sing harrowing songs from artists that I felt complimented my pain and my own past. In my room alone I would sob and I would sing, and I would feel somehow purged and yet still never complete. I was yearning to be noticed, for my inner fire to be seen by someone, by anyone.

There is much, much more but that is just the beginning. Please feel free to comment or to add your own beginnings. I think that there is much depth to humanity that is never spoken for fear of mockery. There will be no mockery here, you are all welcome!

Love Kitty...

Sunday, January 3, 2010

Greetings from the other side...


I am starting this site to bring together those of us in the fantasy world that like things a little bit darker. Feel free to post your thoughts and discussions on all things with talons, wings, demonic souls and other worldly heritage.

My only request is that you not hold back. Fantasy is the perfect genre for a writer to experiment with landscapes, fight scenes and magic. More often than not however the focus is on the lighter side.

Welcome to the dark side!

Here we toy with sorcery, lust, betrayal, ritual sacrifice and making our heroes go through hell before vindication!!

Love from Kitty