A story my husband wrote

I haven't updated in a while.  Sorry about that!  I've been busy, as per usual.  Updates will be more frequent as certain projects reach completion.  We're nearly done with book three and our live action book trailer only needs a few more shots and we're done with that too.  Whew!

I wanted, though, to share something someone else wrote.  My husband, Meriweather, wrote this story about himself, his transition, our meeting and how we fell in love.  It really moved me and it's so honest. I'm very proud of him.

So, I wanted to share it with you all.


How We Became Us by Meriweather A. Asterios

When I was little, I was pretty sure there was no god.

Which was strange, because I grew up with god as close as if he was my crazy uncle that lived in the rickety addition on an old house. He bumped around, disapproving of the things I did in private. He made up weird stories about pillars of salt and towers attempting to reach the heavens. God didn't trust your faith and unconditional love and randomly tested you just to keep you on your toes.

I grew up Roman Catholic, number six of seven children. My dad was a Polish immigrant with a bushy black mustache not unlike the stereotype of an Eastern European. Most of the time, I lived in my own head. My mother said that I had been drawing since I could hold a pencil. And then as soon as I knew how to make words, I had been adding stories to those pictures.

By all accounts, I was a pretty strange child. I told my sister I was gay at seventeen. I shaved my head and asked for a man's motorcycle jacket for my eighteenth birthday. But, you know, there were never signs that I was transgender. Wearing a fake beard to the coffee house probably didn't count. It was just a phase. We all experiment with things.

I was a little bitter in my twenties. I spent two or three years breaking off from my family and trying to trudge through the quagmire of college. I got accepted on scholarship to a school that was far away, but close enough that we weren't too close. There was a little secret inside of me that was something I knew I had to crush. I smashed it into a ball and locked it into the basement of my brain. 

It would be one thing to be gay. But, that didn't feel right. The corruption went a little deeper. I wasn't gay. It was actually a little worse.

The truth was, it was crazy. It was impossible. I didn't know the word 'transgender,' except in passing. I watched reality TV and Discovery Health. Transgender and gender identity disorder was so out of the realm of my reality, that it floated out of my head like a soap bubble. It was right up there with schizophrenia, the Black Death, and multiple personality disorder. Transgender was an abstract idea. 

It was something that didn't apply to me, it was something that happened to somebody else. It was rare, like an endangered species.

It was also really, super fucking expensive.

So, back in the dark it went. It couldn't happen to me. (It would be like winning the lotto-- whispered the little dark secret inside my mind.)

I just knew that I could never be a guy. Better luck next life. Game over. I'll try to make the best of what I have.

It didn't go so well.

I attended Kendall College of Art and Design. But, I never graduated. I was intimidated by the word, 'thesis.' At first, I didn't know what the word, 'thesis,' meant. This embarrassed me. I Googled the word and learned that it was supposed to be the culmination of our work. It was supposed to be the sound of our artistic voice. But, I didn't have a voice. The little dark secret was still silenced and I had absolutely nothing to say. I prayed to god and was still at a blank. His absence only affirmed that he was not there. There is no god therefor there is no point to a thesis. There was no point to anything. I just went to school to learn to be a better artist to make money. Money was the only thing I could think of-- I just wanted to get by. “What can I paint that would be -good?-” ...So I can sell it.

With that attitude, I was empty. I dropped out of college and worked for a call center. I wasn't good enough to be an artist. At best, I was a hobbyist. I became quietly numb and gained a lot of weight. It was easier to hide my secret under layers and layers. The secret seeded deep in the soil, smothered from sunlight and sky.

In art college, I learned the term, 'negative space.' It is the empty space between subjects or objects in the painting. Negative space helps direct the eye on a subconscious level. God isn't usually an active force, it is a passive force. God is in the negative spaces. It is not what it does, but what it doesn't do at times that directs our path.

World of Warcraft was like that; a quiet act of god. I played the game from 2006 to approx~ 2013. I started with a female night elf priest. Then, as I got into roleplaying, I played male characters. Kiaphus Sin'del was my favorite character. He was a Blood Elf with grit. I was a twenty two year old married straight woman that pulled the strings to an elvish marionette. My puppet became my costume I could slip into comfortably at night. Under the warm glow of my computer, I was living another life. Somewhere far away. I'd been a man for centuries in this life. I knew what it was like to fuck a woman and drink a beer. I knew what it was like to walk into a room and command respect. I had privilege. I had strength. I had confidence.

Then, I met her.

She was an elf, too. Normally, roleplay characters were fairly cookie-cutter. They were reminiscent of nerd pop culture's idea of femininity. Large breasts, waify, impossible waistlines. Angelic voices and flowing hair. They were perfect. They were what the player's dreamed to be. But, Rachel's characters were interesting. They were flawed and realistic. She created real people that you could feel. Rachel also knew how to write and carefully craft a story like an architect could build an innovative skyscraper. One that was efficient, yet beautiful. Her words even had classical flair. She had style and skill in her writing. She was an artist.

Celestial bodies clashed together. Galactic arms intertwined, wrapping and weaving together in a splatter of stars. Our words wrapped around each other. It wasn't a direct meeting of two people running into each other. It was something that had always been. It was just history repeating. Of course we found each other again. It was something that had been before. So, the words kept multiplying. In a matter of months, we had written over a million words together. Day and night, we roleplayed our characters. It was as if the stars were expanding and reproducing in a heated nebula. It was just the womb of what was to come.

In that time, I had created a character. She named him and had a basic idea. I was told he was needed for a story line and was allowed to take creative control. Merris was my new marionette and I liked him very much. But, Kiaphus was still my go-to doll when I wanted to be a guy. The stories were fun games--but they were still just games. World of Warcraft was mostly a place where I could have friends and socialize without the stigma of being a woman. It was a place that could also be real life, and not a game. I had tons of friends that referred to me as 'he' outside Kiaphus the character. I was myself as a man.

The secret inside of me festered and grew. It was a dark spot. It was a vortex, it expanded and spiraled the more I fed it. Then, there was actual life. I was depressed and lonely. At 5'4, I was 351 lbs. I had no emotions. I didn't like anything. I didn't feel, I just pretended I felt. I was a failed artist and never even gave my writing a chance. I was attracted to women, but only if I could be a man. There were some things that weren't meant to be-- and to me, that was to be happy.

I got married to my friend. I tried very, very hard. I knew if I could be a pretty girl, then I could be happy. So, I spent several thousand dollars to have my stomach stapled closed. I wanted to lose weight. I purchased a lot of pink clothes. I dyed my hair yellow. I had my scalp yanked hard and burned and scalded. I had hair extensions and high heeled shoes. I thought that I needed them to walk in on the road to happiness.

Things got real bad and then things got worse. God wasn't negative space this time. I felt like I was a fish suffocating on oxygen. For weeks and weeks, it was building up inside of me. I was tested for pneumonia, but it game up negative. Then, I collapsed and blacked out. My head hit the linoleum floor with a wet crack. My co-workers circled around me, but I didn't hear a word they said. 

Everything went black. And then I was floating, like a warm dream. I thought I saw a cartoon character on the screen of an old TV set from the eighties. I just thought I was asleep. They never found where the blood clot started, but it wound up in my lungs. I was in the hospital for months. The first night, they gave me a fifty-fifty chance that I would live. I was put on drugs and a breathing machine. It was probably due to my obesity in combination with birth control pills.

I knew I wasn't going to die like I knew that the sun would rise. I didn't know until years later that it was so bad. I was more concerned with the piled unpaid bills. I didn't get a paycheck for the time that I was laying around, struggling to live. I lost the house and the car.

In World of Warcraft, I didn't have much to worry about. I had people to talk to. I had a community of weirdos to take shelter in. I had my new toy, Merris, who I became more and more fond of. I had Rachel, a best friend. Our friendship was founded on a lie-- but she was funny and charming and our stories were blooming like a field of wildflowers in the spring.

Then, things got better. My husband got a good job and we moved out of the cardboard box. I was able to quit my job at the bank and dedicate my time to myself. I lost some weight, but was still on the chubby side. No matter what I did-- I was a steady 250 lbs. I was trying to be happy. I was trying to focus on me.

And the more I did the bigger my secret grew. It was a massive black hole. Merris was my Mary-Sue. He was my ideal me. He dressed like I would dress myself in my head. He was goth, and I had always wanted to be goth but couldn't pull off the fashions. But, oh—if I were only male! I knew how to be cool. I was never cool but I knew how to do it, if I only had the chance! But, fate is a fucking bastard and life was a joke set out to make fun of me.

Merris loved art and classical music. He loved science and things that were weird and creepy. He had a dry sense of humor. He decorated in skulls and bats. He wore a top hat and had long black hair. I grew up on classical music. I also sang in our church choir. I didn't sing in it because I had a love for god. I just liked Gothic architecture and loved the organ music.

When I lived as a woman, I mostly kept my hair short. I gave up. I knew I would never be pretty. But, if I were male, I knew I'd have long hair. I'd dye it black. I loved the Victorian goth look. I'd have a beard and wear tail coats. I love fashion and makeup, but I saw it as an art form.

Merris had a laboratory. Rachel and I had so much fun with our marionette puppets. We played with our little cut-out dollies and made them kiss (now keeth!) Our stories were about the same things, over and over again. They met, and fell in love, and lived happily ever after.

But, some shit happened along the way. When Merris met Lillandyr-- they met, they fell in love, and the universe imploded. Does life imitate art, or the other way around? Rachel said she was in love with me. I told her I loved her, too. But, I was married. And straight. So, the universes collided and some shit happened along the way.

I had a choice. I could stay and live in Michigan as Rose. Things wouldn't be so bad. I had financial stability and my friend. I knew what life would be like the next day. Or, I could move to Oklahoma and be a step-parent with a woman I had never met before. I'd have no job and not a dime in my bank account. I'd have no car and no family. I had no friends. I had never spoken to her children. I'd be a lesbian in the buckle of the bible belt-- even though I had never kissed a woman before.

I got on the plane and didn't look back.

I packed up the things that were important. My clothes and my watercolor paints. When it came down to it, the only things that mattered to me in life were my stories and illustrations. I left the photo albums and the memories behind. I only had two hundred dollars to live on for the rest of my life.

In my mind, we were sitting side by side in a convertible, driving through the desert on our way to chase the full moon. 

We were running away together. I wore a headscarf, sunglasses, pearls, and fire engine red lipstick. She had a pink Mohawk and fishnets. We met in person and exchanged gifts. She gave me a compass. “No matter what happens,” was engraved inside. She told me a charming story about how getting it engraved was a colossal disaster. In the end, it all worked out and cost her only thirty dollars. The compass is why I have my tattoo.

We fucked and we made love. We cried and I decided I indeed—was, very, very gay. I met her sweet children and fell in love three more times. I realized that I had made a good decision, despite the risk. I had a new life ahead of me. I wanted symbol to celebrate the change in taking control of my life again. So, I dyed my hair and hair extensions black. I had always wanted black hair. It was the first step to becoming me.

God shined in the negative spaces. The Books of Belshalara began as love letters written in code between Rachel and I. The passion from pen to person carried over exponentially. Immediately, we began to fight.

The fights were daily. When I was married to my friend, we never fought. I had never had an argument in any relationships I had been in. Merris the character was a deeply, deeply flawed man. 

He had social anxiety and wasn't good at talking to girls. While he excelled in such eccentric topics such as taxidermy and the occult, he wasn't at all the Casanova type.

Merris avoided conflict and arguments, and so did I. I didn't even meet eye-contact in conversation, actually. So, these fights flustered and baffled me. I felt frozen, a deer about to get smeared onto the pavement by a semi-truck. I was in love and I was drowning.

My new and only friend, a transgender woman by the name of Maddy, told me of her friend that had Aspberger's.

“It is a mild form of autism,” she said matter-of-factly.

“People with Aspberger's suck at arguments,” my fiance said. “And you really, really suck at arguing. You're doing everything wrong.”

And that was something I actually wasn't going to argue about.

It was a godsend. I found out people with Asperger's are obsessive and like weird things. They thrive in routine and sound exactly like me. Down to the letter. It almost seemed like my entire personality was a diagnosis. It just sort of meant that I was an uber nerd. It all made sense.

Halloween is my favorite holiday. I was goth in high school, but gave it up when I thought I could never, ever pull it off right. I mean, I knew that if I were a guy, I dreamed of wearing tail-coats and spats. I'd embellish it with polished, silver skulls. I'd be the most dapper gentleman in the world.

Meanwhile, the closest I could fly to the sun was written in the pages of fantasy. I tortured my gothic self to death appropriately. It was beautiful, dark, and dramatic. He almost gets the girl in the end. It was a tragedy Poe would be proud of. Ravens, gravestones and skeletons flew out of his butt. It was the gothiest thing in the world. And it was fun. It made me happy, which I knew I could never be.

So, on my first Halloween with Rachel, I thought I'd dress up as Merris.

“You look handsome.” She smiled.

I was handsome, and I just glowed like a little star.

We went out dressed as our book characters. She was so cute in her outfit. We were in love and the kids were happy. We never knew where we would get our next meal, but we didn't care. Then, we started arguing again.

She later told me that she was scared of the conversation.

“How do you tell your girlfriend that you think she's a man?”

“She left her husband for a woman, she wanted to be more feminine and be happy. Telling her she's a man won't make her feel more feminine.”

I could understand her fear. She worried about crushing my esteem. No woman wants to be told they are 'manly.'

Well, that's the crux.

She told me I looked handsome, and a feeling of relief washed over me. She could see a light in my eyes. I was handsome for once. Not pretty. I never wanted to be pretty. Not like that, anyway. I loved makeup, but I'm not a woman. I'm a pretty man. I'm a goth man.

Weirdly--I have a photo of 'Merris' six years before I met Rachel. God is found in weird places. I took a photography class in college. The assignment was to take a self-portrait. I took a picture of myself in a top hat and tailcoat. I angled my head in such a way to look androgynous. I wore a black and white striped scarf to give it a carnival feel. In the second photo, I wore my top hat and ducked behind an umbrella like a little sprite. I put a sepia filter over it, giving the picture an otherwordly look, like I was a ringmaster for a carnival of freaks. I think it was just the dark, black secret peeking out to say hello.

We talked for days and days. I worried about the children. I worried about things like losing custody. I worried her family would shun her. Then, we would be alone and no one would ever help us when we were starving. It would be my fault, our family's livelihood would be ruined because I wanted to be selfish and transition.

How would we afford it?

And we live in Oklahoma.

This was the second leap of insanity I had to take.

Ohgodohgodohgodohgod—who isn't even there.

We published The Dog and the Serpent and had mild success. I began selling my paintings and we quietly made a big decision. We already made a promise, “no matter what happens,” and had so far been keeping it.

We used all mighty Google again and found out that Tulsa has an Equality Center. Fate is a strange road. We didn't see it at first because it was a flicker in the corner of the eye. Sometimes, it was a shadow moving. Hand in hand, we began padding down an uncertain road. The wind howled and things seemed treacherous. Words like, “syringes,” and “one hundred and twenty dollars,” rattled around our heads. We weren't sure if we should jump. No matter what happens—I said. We knew that testosterone was going to change my body chemistry. It was possible it could change my sexuality, too.

What if I didn't find her attractive anymore? Would we break up? No, she promised me. We would be friends. She never would kick me out. We were too close-- and had come too far. No matter what happens, the compass shifted. No matter what happens, we will make it work. So, we did. We scraped and saved and slaved for money to pay for my appointments. Then, the first shot came.

I was excited. Chest hair. Beard hair. More hair. Hair hair. Hair was everywhere. I was carpeted in it. I have polycystic ovarian syndrome, so I have hirsutism along with it. I dyed my magnificent facial hair black. It was my step-daughter that said it first.

“You should be Merris because you're him.”

The transgender person's first right of passage. Choosing a name. That was easy.

And oh, the wisdom of a child!

She was just very right. Day by day, the drug built up in me. Every day, I looked a little bit more like my self. It was like water dripping against stone, wearing down the mask that was Rose. She began to melt away, and he began to burn for the world to see. Rose chipped away and Merris then emerged.

“But, you don't look like yourself anymore,” they said.

“That's because you've never seen what I looked like happy before,” I answered to the crowd.

I learned a lot about myself when I inadvertently wrote myself into a dark fantasy novel. I was divided in half as two people-- both male and female. And that's what the story of Merris and Lyri is all about in the Books of Belshalara. The struggle of some heroes isn't the battle against an outward force. Some heroes don't fight dragons and monsters. Some heroes are flawed human beings trying to overcome themselves. Even when everything is against you, you need to keep being yourself. Merris had to fall in order to grow. Because he kept following his path, he got the girl. In the end, he learned he needed the wisdom to see he had the love he wanted all along.

Rachel transitioned, too. She hated her name. In Hebrew, Rachel means, 'sheep.' Rachel is not is sheep. She is not a follower.

“Whenever I played games as a little kid, I pretended my name was 'Lillian.'”

“Really?” I asked, shuffling my feet against the November leaves.

“Yup, that's why Lillandyr's name is Lillandyr.”

“Makes sense,” I said.

“Would you care if I changed my name?” she wondered. In the Books of Belshalara, Merris' last name is Osterious. It was a surname Lillian made up. But, we Googled it randomly and found that there is an asterion bone in the skull. 'Asterion' sounded so close to 'Osterious.' The asterion bone is a small fragment right behind your ear. Approximately where someone would lean in and whisper secrets to you. Additionally, Google told us Asterion was a Greek river god. Asterion was one of three Greek river gods, the other two being Inachus and Cephisus. (Cephisus, a name very close to Kiaphus, my first roleplay character. Cephisus, in Greek methology, is the father of Narcissus, and narcisium is the downfall of Kiaphus.)

I thought that was a cool as fuck coincidence! A name we made up is both a Greek god (with weirdly similar ties to names that sound like our characters) and part of a skull! So, I did a little more digging on the god, Asterion and found out that he was a minotaur and a star god associated with Taurus. I am not sure if this is an issue with translations. I am not an expert in this subject. But, it is very beautiful and poetic, none the less.

The best I can find can be read here.

There is also a graphic novel called “Asterios Polyp” by David Mazzucchelli, but I have not read it.

It was the most beautiful name. Gods and stars. Lillian Asterios. She took my old name and, as a tribute, put it as her middle. Lillian Rose Asterios. It all seemed like it was written in an old, dusty book, a long long time ago.

Picture of Merris about four months before transitioning: 

Merris now:

 Edited to add the link to our book(s) and our book's fb page: https://www.facebook.com/belshalara?ref=bookmarks

http://www.amazon.com/Dog-Serpent-Books-Belshalara-ebook/dp/B00DTTEFNW/ref=sr_1_12?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1373310791&sr=1-12&keywords=the+dog+and+the+serpent

Book One

Wolves and Wine Submission Guidelines

Manuscript formatting requirements:

Open Office or Microsoft word document.  12 pt font.  Fonts accepted: Courier, Times New Roman, or Georgia.  Black font only.  Save my eyes, please!  I don't really care about margins but please put a space between paragraphs if you're not going to indent.  

NO:

No pictures.  No poetry in the prose. 

Genres accepted: 

Erotica:  I will take all heat levels.  Please take this genre seriously as you would any other genre.  It's going to be easier for this category for me to tell you what I -don't- want, followed by things that will -immediately- get my attention.

NO NO NO:

No incest/puesdo incest.  IE: No step brother porn, please.
No bestiality.  I will do shapeshifter erotica.  But if you start throwing werebears and were this and were that, I'm probably going to pass.  
No non-consent:  No rape.  Dubious consent will be -carefully- considered.  I don't recommend going that route unless the story is going to absolutely blow me away.
No misogyny.  
Alpha male erotica:  I don't mind an aggressive male lead, but if he's an utter asshole, I'm going to lose interest.
NO FIFTY SHADES OF ANYTHING:  NO.  BDSM is fine.  Encouraged.  But it has to be done properly. Please do your research on BDSM.  Light/Medium BDSM is going to interest me more than super heavy BDSM.
NO BILLIONAIRE erotica:  Why is this even a thing?
No violence.  Period.
No age play/underage.  Absolutely not.


Note about non-human love interests:  Aliens and other things like this should be human enough. They should have relatable qualities.  

What I'm looking for in particular:  No formulas.  No trends.  Historical erotica, paranormal erotica (think outside vampires, but I'm willing to give them a chance), horror erotica (no violence IN the sex scenes and tons of gore won't be appreciated), contentious relationships (love/hate, villain/heroine), fantasy erotica (all genres).

Word count:  Short stories are especially appreciated.  For this genre 3,500 to 75,000 words.  I will consider word counts under and over, but the stories need to be original and exceptional.

Fantasy: All sub genres accepted.  This is my favorite genre.  Thus, I'm probably going to be pickier. As with erotica, it will be easier to say what I'm not looking for and then what I'm especially looking for.


NO:

No Game of Thrones inspired stuff.  House this.  House that.  Murdering characters just to be edgy. No thanks.
In Sword and Board fantasy: Please try to think outside the box on this genre.  Medieval Europe as a backdrop?  Nah.  I'd have to be blown away.  Don't be discouraged, but the market is flooded with this. Think outside the box.
Male centric everything ever:  *sigh*  Nah.
Misogyny and if you tell me that it was like that for the time period?  I'm not going to be swayed.  It's fantasy. It can be -anything-.  I am done seeing women treated poorly in fiction.
Tolkien-esque fantasy: Elves in the woods. Halflings pursued by some ancient evil.  Etc.  It's been done to death. If I see any magical jewelry, I'm probably gonna pass.
Absent villains who rely too heavily on minions:  No.  No more, please.
Damsels in distress:  Let's just put that one away.  Forever.
Dragons:  I'm not saying NO to dragons, I'm saying be careful with cliches on this one. 
Everyone is white:  NO. NO.  Please.  It's not an insta-rejection, but I'm tired of white being the only color in fantasy land. More people of color, please.
NO UNDERAGE CHARACTERS GETTING RAPED/HAVING SEX:  It squicks me out.  I will not even read it.  I don't care if that makes me an asshole.

YES:

Other time periods as inspiration:  Victorian Era, Modern Era, WWI.  Something OTHER than Medieval Europe.  Please. 
Other cultures as inspiration:  Careful here, though. I don't want a bunch of horribad cultural appropriation.  INSPIRATION.  Not just slapping teepees and feather headdresses on manticores.
Magic:  Game of Thrones has started this trend where magic in fantasy is kind of gone.  Please no. Give me magic.
Female leads: But don't give me Buffy in chainmail.  Give me something REAL.
Other genders.
Homosexuality isn't a HORRIBLE offense.  That trope is old and tired and make it fuck off. I want to see something other than heteronormative.  Doesn't mean I won't accept fiction that is, I'm just really interested in other options.
BBW/other body types other than 'slender and willowy'.  Slender and willowy are fine, but god damn, other shapes of people, please.  And not as side characters.  Etc.

Lillian's favorite fantasy authors:  Michael Moorecock, Clive Barker, and Neil Gaiman.  I guess. I mean, I like aspects about these authors. 

Female authors:  I would love more fantasy written by women.  ALL women.  I would love to SEE these other perspectives.  Cisgender, trans, non binary authors are more than welcome.  

Steampunk, Afrofunk, Dieselpunk, cyberpunk, dark fantasy (and I mean dark), urban fantasy especially sought after.

Horror: One of my favorite genres.  Set up the same way as erotica and fantasy:

NO:

No slasher horror. Not interested.
NO trans characters as mentally unstable, serial killers.  We're real done with that shit.
No excessive gore.
Zombies:  I'm going to be extra picky on this.  Please be original.

YES:

Classic monsters with a fresh treatment.  Vampires that are really scary bastards.  Retellings of classic stories.  All good!
Female protags:  See a trend here?
Psychological horror.
Thrillers.
True Crime.
Paranormal.

Favorite authors/movies/tv:  Clive Barker, Stephen King (some of his stuff, anyway), Anne Rule (for True Crime), Poltergeist, Exorcist, High Tension, The Hills Have Eyes remake, The Descent, classic hollywood monster movies, Alfred Hitchcock. 

Sci Fi:  All of my no's listed below.

NO:

No hard sci fi.  No exceptions.  Stuff bores me to tears.
Male centric everything ever.  Stop.
Space battles with a lot of techno babble.  Uuugh.
Star Trek style aliens.  Basically human with green paint.  Nah.  Be original.


YES:

Female leads, alternate sexualities and genders.  
Space Opera.
Creativity!
Time travel.  Alien apocalypse.  
Speculative fiction.  I stuck it in Sci Fi because I feel it fits best here.

Favorite authors:  Philip K Dick, Kurt Vonnegut, Greg Bear
Favorite Sci Fi movies and shows:  Firefly, Battlestar Gallactica (new one), Event Horizon, Gravity, etc.

I'm looking for FUN in my sci fi. It can be a very dry genre.  Bleh, I'd rather not go there. Sci Fi is going to be held to very high standards here.  It's not my favorite genre, but I'm willing to have an open mind.  Just entertain me.

Romance: I love this genre.  I adore great love stories.  Throw in sexy times, but keep the heat level to moderate, otherwise I'm tossing it in the erotica basket.

NO:

Wilting flower ladies.  Give me sassy ladies!  Strong ladies.
Idiot protagonists.
Thin, nonsensical plots.
Boring, flat characters.
Historical romance with no history.
Formula romance.  I'm not Harlequin.  Please do not with that.
Love triangles:  Can be fun when done right. Rarely done right. I'm going to be extra picky with this one.


YES:

Pirates!  I love pirates.  
Something OTHER than just straight romance.  And no, I don't mean straight as in sexuality.  I'm really bored by stories that are just about a romance.  
Other sexualities.  Please.
Other genderse.  Please.
People of color. Please.
Female leads that are strong, but not in a cartoonish way.  Make them real.  
Historical romance!  But no regency.  That time period bores me to tears.  I want Vikings!  Medieval Europe.  Ancient Egypt!  Ancient world romance will really snag my attention.  
Paranormal romance:  Werewolves are an almost no for me.  I've never seen them done well. Surprise me.  Vampires:  No twilight vampires.  Make them the beautiful monsters they are. If you're inspired by the Anita Blake series?  Might not want to submit here. Ugh.  
Fantasy Romance: All of my yes.
Horror romance:  I like dark romance.
Sci Fi romance.  Love in spaaaaace.
Urban Fantasy Romance, Steampunk, etc.  Yes to all of those.
BBW/BBM

I want a GOOD love story.  I want it to be exciting, not overly sweet, but not so dark I need prozac after reading. I'm really interested in novels/books series here.  Focus on characters.  



Genres I don't want:  Mystery, hard Sci Fi, Self Help, New Age, Religious, etc.  NO poetry. NOT EVER. I don't like poetry.  I wouldn't know good poetry if it hit me in the ass. We will carefully consider literary fiction.  CAREFULLY.  But if I'm bored, I'm done.  



How to submit:

No attachments.  No unsolicited FULL novel manuscripts. 

Copy/paste your cover letter or short story up to 6,000 words in the body of the email.  

If submitting a book series:  In your cover letter, tell me the genre, how many books you have planned and give me a three paragraph summary.  

If submitting a novel:  Same as series.

For longer short stories, novellas and novelettes: Same as series.

Cover letters are scary, I get that.  So, I'm providing you with a template you will copy/paste and fill in the info.  Let's make this an easy process that's not scary!

Author name:

Author Bio:

Title of work:

Genre:

Word count:

Summary:

Sample/story: (here if it's 6,000 words or under, just put the whole story.  If it's a novel, include a chapter, preferably the first chapter.  Same for novellas and novelettes.  If it's a longer short, just include the first 6,000 words). 


Turn around time:  Right now, expect a response within one week. This is subject to change at any time.  If three weeks have gone by and you haven't heard from me, send me an email.  Politely.

Rejection:  I don't like form letters, but sometimes they happen.  I will try to give constructive feedback. If I reject a story but tell you what you can do to fix it so I will accept it?  You should probably do that!  Please don't expect a full line edit in your rejection letter.  You may get a sentence.  This is just the way things go and it's nothing personal. 

Where to Submit:

wolves.and.wine.press@gmail.com

If you have any questions/are unsure about something?  Feel free to email me.  I will do my best to answer in a timely fashion.  You can also reach me here by commenting on this post or if you're on my friend's list on FB, feel free to message me.

Magda the Mad, Chapter Two, Magda

Here is the first POV chapter I've written for the novel, Magda the Mad, a companion piece to the Books of Belshalara.  This tells the tale of Madgalline, a young noble girl who is plagued with seizures and terrifying visions.  Her parents and doctors decide to have her committed to the new asylum that is being built in the Artisian Quarter.  In order to escape her fate, she makes a deal with a devil.  

Magda

Magdaline drowned in the Gray River. The brackish, cold water filled her nose and mouth. Then her lungs, but it didn't hurt. The river bore her body, free from the bond of flesh, to the distant shore between breath and the infinite mystery of the beyond. Magda tumbled and fell because it wasn't really water. And she wasn't really dead.

It was a familiar place the river brought her to. She could feel the satin brush of raven's wings on her face as she woke in a room with ceilings so high they were swallowed in darkness. It was here and here only that her visions were born. In a world choked by gray, they played out in lurid, brilliant colors. She walked the halls of death and wore mortality as her mourning veil.

Death was another room. A gray place with endless stairs that never lead anywhere. Death was a nothing place. It was here, that angels and demons passed through the thin membrane that separated the dead and the living to whisper lies into the ears of mortals. It was here that things took the shapes of men though they had never been men before. Hungry things made of shadow that fed on fear while all around her crashed the sound of water.

Here, time was fluid and pooled together. Everything that would be and had been bled into one, dizzying blur. Death was the place of the old gods. The strange spirits that could not be appeased with sacrifice or worship. Animal totems. Goddesses of hearth and harvest. Forgotten, ancient things that no longer touched the world with their gifts.

In the great gray forever, luminous eyes watched her. Like the cold unblinking stars, or the circular patterns on moth wings. She wondered what would happen if they looked away. If something else caught their gaze. She was certain all that was would never be again. They could turn their all seeing eyes and everything would be nothing as it been before.

Magda never learned why she was brought here. She was shown things, both beautiful and terrible by gods and monsters and mortal spirits alike. Things that had been and things that were to be. She would wake and rant and weep, but it only alarmed her parents and eventually she kept her feverish visions to herself.

She stood on an empty shore where the wind whistled and moaned. Colorless water lapped at the pale gray sand and the tide rose and fell so quickly that she couldn't look at it without feeling dizzy and ill. Magdaline turned away from the water and before her stood a small man.

Or rather, a thing shaped like a man. It was a creature so black that it absorbed the light around it. It had no eyes or mouth, yet it whispered to her.

“Magdaline. Magda the Mad,” he said in a sing-song voice. “Do you know who we are?”

She shook her head. It was strange. Every movement felt as though she were moving underwater, every limb and muscle weighted down by a force unseen. “I don't know you, spirit,” she said.

“No? Oh, we suppose we're early then. Or too late.”

She turned to look back to the water. Often spirits spoke in nonsense or riddles. She'd learned long ago not to pay them much mind. When Magda turned towards the wildly churning and endless sea, the shadowy man was before her again as though she'd never turned at all.

The thing lunged at her, sinking ethereal fingers into her flesh. His touch was so cold it burned and she tried to scream. Salt water filled her mouth and nose and stung her eyes. The current was so strong. She couldn't fight it. The undertow tore her away from the shadowy spirit and drew her down into a primordial darkness that cradled her. Magda did not drown. She was an infant again, swimming safe inside her mother. The water was thick, viscous and so very warm. The waves rocked her to sleep and when the light broke through the cracks of her eyelids, she was born again.

When Magda woke, a wooden depressor was between her clenched teeth. She'd cracked it, nearly biting through it. She could taste the copper tang of blood as life tingled back into her limbs and skin. It hurt.

Groaning, she tried to spit the splintered wood from her mouth, but she couldn't. A man in silver wire framed spectacles pressed it ever harder between her lips. His face had skin as thin as crepe paper with bulging blue veins at the temples where his cottony white hair thinned. Her doctor. It took her several moments to recognize him. Doctor Tobias Copperworth. A grim little man, she'd never liked him much, but then, Magda never liked her doctors at all.

Her arms curled to her chest and her legs splayed, wildly akimbo. Something hot and wet leaked out of her and she could smell it, the acrid scent of her urine. Finally, her muscles went lax and she was able to breath again. Swallow. Think. The fit had passed.

Magda's sparse body was soaked with sweat and piss. Vomit stained her lovely, mint green frock. A new dress from her mother. It was fuzzy and hard to remember what had happened right before her fit and the frightening, wheeling gray visions. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't recall.

She made sure to lay still, trying to keep her panicked breathing steady. She met the doctor's gaze and unclenched her teeth. Finally, after a few more moments where he bruised her face from the force of him pressing the wooden rod between her teeth, he relented. Magda choked for breath and spat blood and splinters from her mouth. Her teeth hurt.

Her mother stood over her on the other side of the bed, her angular face pinched with disappointment. She pressed a cool dry hand to Magda's forehead. “Seems the fit has passed, Doctor Copperworth. It's the third one this month.”

The doctor hmm'd and pressed his spectacles up his hooked nose. “My recommendation remains the same, Lady Summerdale.”

Magda looked between her mother and the doctor. She didn't know what his recommendation was, but it was likely unpleasant. The treatments for her fits were always painful and frightening. She 

could feel her pulse start to race. Her mother nodded at the doctor, her brow pinched.

“Of course,” she said. “When do we begin the treatment?”

The doctor smiled. Magda thought it was the same kind of smile a wolf had right before it devoured the sheep. “You'll be pleased to know our new facility opens in two months. Yes, I realize that's quite some time to wait, but I'll be leaving you with a tincture and we can begin some of the treatments in my office in the Artisan Quarter.”

Facility? Magda shook her head and opened her mouth to protest, but one withering look from her mother silenced her. She snapped her mouth shut with a clack of her teeth. The doctor looked down at her like she was an insect trapped in a jar. He took the depressor and tapped on her chin. 

Dutifully, Magda opened her mouth.

He took a brown glass bottle from the breast pocket on his heavily starched, stiff white coat and uncorked it. With a dropper, he drew some of the tincture and placed it on her tongue. The medicine tasted very bitter and made her tongue go numb. She was used to taking unpleasant tasting things and of all the treatments they gave her, medicine was usually the most mild and least painful.

“That's fine,” Lady Summerdale said, moving away from the bed, her posture rigid. “I do hate to have her committed. It's such an embarrassment. And a disappointment. We'll owe the Rosewoods more than an apology, I'll wager.” Her mother's tone dripped with venom and spite.

The Rosewoods. Magda frowned, swallowing down the bitter medicine. Her tongue felt dry and shriveled. She wanted a glass of water, but decided against asking. Wilford Rosewood was the son of Marquis Rosewood of the Merchant Quarter. Her betrothed.

Doctor Copperworth nodded and hmm'd. “Indeed. But such afflictions are not uncommon among nobility.”

“It's going to be a scandal. I'm sure the Bugle will run their typical garbage. They were not kind in the marriage announcement. If you recall,” her mother snapped.

Copperworth didn't say anything, but she could feel the burn of his gaze as he appraised her. Magda closed her eyes. She didn't want to look at either of their faces. Part of her was strangely relieved and overjoyed. She wouldn't have to marry Wilford. He was three years younger than her, only fourteen, 

not even a man. He was a pudgy boy with splotchy red cheeks and thin, watery looking brown hair. 

He was also a dullard and a bore. Tea with him that afternoon...oh no. Tea. She'd had the fit during their tea.

Sudden embarrassment heated her cheeks and her pulse went back to fluttering wildly. Memory flooded back in a wave of humiliation.

“What are you babbling about, Magdalline?”

That's what he'd asked her. She could remember bits and pieces. She told him about the One with Many Voices. It was a demon from Venorith's infernal realm. She told Wilford because she saw him, standing right behind her tubby intended, licking his thin lips, drool sliding off sharp teeth that were as clear and shining as a pane of glass. His skin was black and his eyes were red, and he faded in and out of existence like smoke. Sometimes he looked beautiful, like a painting splashed with water, all running colors. His features were sharp and elvish. But other times, she could see through this glamour. When the illusion flickered, she saw the beast underneath.

“Tell the piglet we're right behind him!” the spirit tittered. “Oh yes, tell him! We do so love to see him squirm and squeal!”

Magda had let her fork drop from her tingling fingers. Her ears began to ring so loudly she couldn't hear what Wilford was saying. Her vision tunneled and sparked. She knew it was coming. She could always feel the fits right before they happened. She might have said something else, but her voice was drowned by the whining drone, the boom of thunder as the seizures stole her away.

She didn't want to remember. Magda saw things before she slipped away. More than that, she felt afraid. Like something chased and hunted her and that she should run. But there wasn't anywhere to hide from spirits, she knew that.

“She terrorized poor Wilford Rosewood. He never wants to see her again. Not that I blame him,” Lady Summerdale said.

Magda flinched, squeezing her eyes shut. She wished they would leave so she could bathe and change her bedding. She wanted to take off her curled, white powdered wig, it was hot and itchy. She wanted out of her dress and corset. Most of all, she wanted to sleep for a hundred years. After her fits she was always so tired, every muscle in her body sore. She'd hurt herself this time too. Her tongue, sore and swollen, kept filling her mouth with blood. I must have bitten it, Magda thought, just letting it pass between her lips to stain her pillow. Drool and blood slicked her cheek, but she didn't care. If she had to swallow anymore blood, she feared she would vomit again.

Her mother made a 'tch' noise and she could hear her pointed shoes click out of the room. The doctor didn't speak to her, he merely fussed with his bag. His papery, dry fingers were at her throat again, feeling for her pulse. It took every ounce of her willpower not to turn her head and bite his finger off. Instead, she sagged into her bed and felt it rock under her while her heart stuttered along. 

She always felt so strange after her fits. This had been a bad one, she could tell. One of her back molars was loose.

Magda was only seventeen, but many of her teeth were chipped or missing. Her mother and father told her that she couldn't have false ones until she learned to control herself. No amount of begging and pleading convinced them that she couldn't help or prevent these fits. They were wholly beyond her control.

A sharp sting at her arm jolted her into opening her eyes. The doctor was injecting her with something. It was thick, like oil and burned in her veins. It hurt, but she didn't dare even whimper. No matter what she did, everyone assumed it was because she was having a fit.

The end of her huge, four poster bed creaked as though weight were settling on it. Magda raised up off the pillow a little to look over the pile of brocade blankets that covered her. There, sitting on the elaborately carved, gilded foot board was Many Voices. He sat on his haunches, boney knees drawn up to his chin. His thin, spindly arms wound around his legs. He smiled at her.

Magda shrank back and squeezed her eyes shut again. She took deep, steady breaths. Easy, she told herself. Relax. Sometimes, if she watched her breathing and rested, she could fend off an attack.

She didn't feel dizzy and her head wasn't swimming. She merely felt sore and tired from the previous episode. The doctor didn't see Many Voices, she was certain of that. He snapped his leather bag shut and left her alone without even a parting word.

The medicine made her feel as though she were floating. She could feel its effects crawling over her skin. It itched, whatever he gave her. Her arms felt as though tiny insects were tickling her with their legs. It wasn't pleasant.

“You don't look so well, Mags,” Many Voices chimed, laughter behind his musical voice.

Slowly, she sat up, propped by her pillows. Magda opened her eyes and there, sitting cross-legged in front of her was Many Voices. He didn't look quite so beastly or terrifying now. His skin was a dusky gray and his eyes were the color of a smoldering furnace. He had sharp features and a broad smile. His teeth were blunt and very white. His hair was undulating smoke and vapor.

“I don't feel so well,” she said, her voice soft and far away sounding. Magda didn't think it was a good idea to talk to the demon, but ignoring him hadn't made him go away. Her eyes cut to the door of her room. He followed her gaze.

“Do you want to know what they're talking about? Your sly and wicked parents?” He cocked a brow at her, his grin ever present.

She shook her head.

“We'll tell you anyway! We can hear them. Making plans. Plotting.”

Magda frowned. “Plotting?”

“Your servitude. Your ruin! We don't think that's very nice, Maggy.” His burning eyes narrowed and his smile was all ill intent and hunger, desire so dark and naked that it turned her stomach.

Swallowing convulsively as her mouth sweat, Magda closed her eyes again. “Go away,” she whispered. “They already think I'm crazy.”

But no matter how many times she told herself he wasn't real or that wishing would make him go away, Many Voices prattled on. “Let them think what they'll think. We're here to help you, Maggy.”

She could feel him drawing closer. She tugged the blankets to her chin and wanted very much to pull them over her head like a child having a night terror. He sat on her chest. Many Voices didn't weight much, she barely felt the pressure of him. But the air was charged, snapping and crackling.

Magda opened her eyes and found his face very close as he leaned over her. “Such sinister plans your nasty parents have.”

“Go. Away,” she insisted more firmly.

He rolled his burning eyes. “Fine, fine! But don't say we didn't warn you, Maggy!”

With a rush of hot wind and a popping sound, he was gone.

Magda sat very still trying to keep her breathing even. Every muscle hurt and she couldn't close her jaw all the way. Sliding out of bed she tried not to think about anything at all. The medicine the doctor had given her helped. She stripped out of her soiled dress and then tugged at her underthings and corset. It was hard to change without someone there to loosen the strings. She could have called on her maid, but she wanted to be left alone. Even the maids treated her as though she were about to fly into wild hysterics at any moment. They regarded her with open, naked suspicion. They wouldn't meet her eye or talk to her. The ache and stab of loneliness was enough to drive her mad if she wasn't already there.

She washed up in the basin. The water was tepid and cold, but it felt good on her sore skin and tensed muscles. Thinking about the demon, she wondered if it were real. She realized she'd never had a vision separate from a fit before. The visions and hallucinations were usually in the throes of the fit itself. Sometimes, she heard a strange ringing in her ears, the sound of distant war horns. A rumbling. Sometimes there were angel's halos around the lights and searing pain in her head, but she'd never seen anything without a fit.

Magda tugged on a thin night gown and tied up her dark curls in a ribbon and then stripped the soiled sheets from her bed. She sat on her bare mattress and chewed on her bottom lip. So, if she hadn't had a fit, did that mean Many Voices was real? She'd seen the demon many times in her visions. She had seen his face floating in the Gray River. She'd heard his maddening whispers and felt the icy touch of his thin fingers.

Her gaze cut to the closed door of her bedroom. It was likely locked. Her mother wore the key on a silver chain around her slender neck. If she wanted to see if Many Voices was real or not, she would have to go eavesdrop on her parents.

Sliding off the bed on trembling legs, Magda went to her vanity. She rummaged through the cosmetics and blew off the thin veneer of white powder that coated the top. She pushed aside rouge and kohl and loose ribbons. Finally, she found the little porcelain bowl that had hair pins for her wigs. She plucked a long one with a pearl end and crept to the door.

She'd done this before, when she'd been younger. At seven, she'd first begun to have her fits. Terrifying and violent, her seizures frightened her parents. They'd stripped her room bare of her furniture and padded the walls and floors. They slid plates of food under the door. Doctors came to see her, often twice a day bringing tinctures of morphine and laudanum and other elixers that made her vomit and caused her head to feel wobbly.

Late at night after the manor went dark and quiet, she would pick the lock. It had taken many tries, but finally she'd figured it out.

Squinting one eye, Magda knelt in front of the door, her tongue poking out the corner of her lips. She slid the needle into the lock and wiggled it until it caught on the lock's teeth mechanism. Once it was good and stuck, she attempted to turn it. It whined in protest, but after a few more tries and a few more jiggles, she heard the mechanism turn over with a satisfying series of clicks.

Putting the hair pin in her hair, she carefully opened the door. It needed grease on the hinges badly and screetched and the floorboards under her feet groaned. She was certain she'd be heard, but no, no one came to usher her back into her little, gilded cage.

On bare feet, she padded down the darkened hallways, silent on the plush carpets. She avoided looking at the rugs. They were imported from Pith and in elaborate, lattice work patterns. Sometimes patterns made her dizzy, which brought on fits. Holding her breath, she crept down the spiral staircase and only stopped near the first floor when she heard her mother's voice coming from the drawing room.

“We have to think of something. They already see us as...freaks. Monsters.” Her mother sounded so disgusted, her voice full of tears and sniffling. Magda scowled.

“I say we take her physician's advise. Once the facility is up and running, commit her.”

Magda's heart lurched in her chest. Her mouth went dry. She couldn't even summon tears. She wasn't sad. Cold, stark terror made her tremble. She curled her small, delicate hands around the banister and continued to listen.

“Come now, Arthur,” her mother scolded her father. “That should be the absolute last resort. Word will get out, you know. That our daughter is mad and in an institution.”

She could hear the deep rumble of her father's voice as he hmm'd in agreement. “Perhaps. We could merely say that she passed on.”

Magda drew her knees to her chest. Maybe it would lessen the deep ache in her chest. How could they? She loved them, didn't they know that? Didn't they know she was sorry she caused so much trouble? Pressing her forehead to her knees, she just let their words wash over her.

Many Voices perched on the banister. He hadn't been there a moment before. Magda startled, scuttling backwards. She knew she couldn't hide from him. Spirits didn't see with eyes. They saw with some other sense.

He gestured a stick-thin arm towards the place her parents had occupied. He clucked his tongue. His movements seemed oddly jerky, as though he constantly blinked in and out of existence. A laugh left him, though his lips didn't move. It wasn't a nice laugh and it crawled over her skin and sunk icy teeth into her stomach.

“Didn't we tell you? Stubborn girl,” he hissed.

Magda wished she could sink into the floor. She just shook her head, unable to speak.

“We can help you. We've said so before. We've said so in your dreams, while you were sleeping. We slipped in your bed and whispered in your ear.” The demon tittered. She couldn't tell if it was a laugh or a high-pitched growl. His voice sounded different from before. More childlike.

She turned back to eavesdropping, blinking at the mist of tears that obscured her vision.

Her mother's voice chirped, cool and clipped. “If we marry her...”

“Wilford Rosewood is out. Anyone her age really. Unless you plan to court a commoner. Perhaps a banker?” Her father snorted. “I'd rather tell the world she's dead.”

Many Voices dripped off the banister like he was made of thick liquid. Oil. He settled beside her and now the only thing other wordly about him was the smoldering fire of his gaze. He had a messy shock of black hair and a boyish face. He looked young and oddly similar to Magda. He could have been her twin brother. His eyes were the same flat gray as hers. His skin pale.

“We don't like the way your father laughs. We don't like the things he says.” His voice pitched wildly between low growls and light chitters, the trill a cat made when hunting birds.

“I know, darling. There was a man who showed interest in Magdalline last year. Remember? The older fellow. He's from a minor noble house. The Shadowglades.”

She remembered Dolph Shadowglade. He was old enough to be her grandfather. Magda squeezed her eyes shut. It was a terrible sentence either way. She would spend the rest of her life in an asylum or married to an old, lecherous man.

“Adolphus Shadowglade? Truly, Jules? He's so old and everyone knows he's in debt.” Her father didn't sound as though he were protesting all that much. His tone was light.

“Think of it, darling. It can be a mutual act of charity.”

He tutted. “I shall have to go speak to him then. I suppose you're right. It's far preferable than the papers getting wind of Magdalline being in an asylum.”

Her mother mmhm'd. “After today, there will be a big enough black mark on our house. We shouldn't exacerbate it further.”

Numb, Magda's hands slipped off the banister as tears scalded her cheeks. It was done. Decided, her fate sealed.

A cool, slender arm circled her shoulders. “Come now...we can fix this for you, Magda. We can. We'll guide you. Give you advice!” Many Voices whispered in her ear. She could feel his breath. He smelled like ozone.

Shuddering she shrugged violently out of the demon's hold. “Go. Away,” she gritted. Silently, she called upon the goddess Herith for protection. Nothing happened.

Many Voices wearing his new face which was so similar to hers scowled. “Oh yes, just roll over for the old man. He'll fuck you, you know,” he said, crass.

She reached up to plug her ears, but the demon snagged her by the wrists so she would have to listen. He was air and darkness, but deceptively so. His grip on her was cold iron. No amount of thrashing freed her.

Finally, she sagged, giving up, her shoulders hunched. She looked at the demon even though she knew she shouldn't. “What...do I do?”

Many Voices grinned broadly. “Kill them.”

She blanched and fought all over again. She writhed. A fuzzy feeling clouded her head and pain lanced through her skull. She was going to have an episode. She could feel it coming on like drowning very slowly on dry land.

“No?” the demon asked casually. “Too much?” He laughed and let her go so that she tumbled backwards from the force of her struggling.

“Fine, fine,” he conceded. “Something a little more gentle. We know just the thing. You must fetch a book, Maggy. We'll tell you where it is.”

Panting, trying to get ahold of herself, she rasped, “A book?”

“Yes. A book. That's what we said. An unholy tome written on the tanned hide of a human. Bound in blood and darkness. In it is written an oath.” He was very matter of fact, very dry. The laughter was gone, replaced by a strange, hollow reverence.

She swallowed dryly, her throat clacking. “An oath...to who?” she asked, but she already knew.

Many Voices bowed his head, clasping his thin hands together. “To Venorith. Our creator. Only he will take pity on you now. He has heard your cries. Seen your plight. He has been moved by it, Magda.”

She felt as though she stood on a very high place, her feet hanging off the edge as she teetered. Below her was the world, so far away. Unreal. It didn't look like it would hurt if she fell. She stood on the precipice of change. All she had to do was jump.

“Where is it? Where's the book?” The words felt thick. Hard to say. She could see her father coming up the stairs, his gaze fixed on her. He looked so angry. So disgusted by the mere sight of her sitting on the floor.

Many Voices only smiled and held a finger to his lips. He faded, he sunk into the floor and his absence was like taking a breath after suffocating. As her father rounded on her, the clock on the wall, beautiful and gilded with filigree and cherubs, suddenly stopped. The pendulum ceased to swing and she could hear the clockworks click-clack to a halt.