Monthly Archives: August 2012

Tell Me So, Even If It’s A Lie…

So this little did-bit is from a spinoff of Barrack and Willow’s books, Tell Me So.

This is from chapter one. Somewhere! XD

Do enjoy!

NOTE: If you followed my once active excerpt blog you’ve already read this.


Shutting the door locking it he finally allows himself a moment to relax. His quick sharp gasps of air irritate his side. Groaning he uses his shoulders to shove off the door to the stack of clothes next to the sink. Quickly stripping he folds his wet clothes as best he can placing them in the sink. Not knowing what to do with his wet shoes light panic sets in. “Shit.” He mumbles. Darting his eyes he does everything possible to not look at himself in the mirror. 

Seeing no other option he puts them a top his clothes in the sink along with his socks. His boxers are soaked as well. Sighing he strips them too placing them underneath the pile at the very bottom. 

Now completely naked his shivering intensifies. Reaching for the dark gray shirt one particularly violent tremor shakes the shirt free from his hand. “Shit.” Bending down grasping the shirt he rights himself with a sharp exhale. Gingerly slipping the shirt on the scent of lavender drifts casually to his nose invading his sense of smell arrogantly, “Shit.” Ignoring the intoxicating smell of his favorite flower he reaches for black pajama pants. “Shit.” Cursing again to the fact that he just now realizes that he will be boxerless he does his best to calm his panic. Even if boxers were here would he actually put them on? That is a bit weird considering they just met and all. “Shit.” Another realization hit him. Ryleigh mustn’t be wearing any either. “Shit. Shit.” Pulling on the pants a flash of light green finally catches his attention in the mirror. His light green eyes blink back at him. Red rimmed and slightly puffy he either looks overly exhausted, which is true, or a high, which isn’t true. “Shit.” Squeezing them shut he does his best to breath. 

All through school he’d been teased for his light eyes. The other kids told him he looks demonic with eyes that light. He didn’t really let it bother him because he knew he wasn’t a demon and besides kids can be cruel. His face is that of his mother, soft planes with easy slopes. His hair that of his father, rim rid straight brown with hints of blonde hang long over his, well Ryleigh’s, collar. His build is easily his mother’s. Slight and none to bulky. He’d tried for well over a year lifting weights to get bigger like the other guys back in high school but it just wasn’t happening. 

Blinking open his eyes he finally notices his hair still damp sticking to his face. “Shit.” Running his fingers through his literally un-style-able hair he sighs in frustration. 

Jerking another chill runs through him. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.” Leaning heavily on the counter he tries in vain to catch his breath. He can’t do this. No way in fucking hell can he do this. His mother would kill him. “Shit.”

Practically collapsing on the floor he leans he head against the vanity. “Shit.” Squeezing his eyes shut he slowly rocks himself fighting the tears whishing to escape. His eyes burn along with his side from his near hyperventilating panic ridden state, “Shit.” His stomach rolls with nerves and sheer panic. 

I can’t fucking do this.

Flinching hard as a soft knock immediately followed by Ryleigh’s gentle voice asking if he’s alright knocks him on his ass. “Shit.” He whispers to himself. “I’m-I’m fine. J-j-ju-st toweling my hair dry.” 

“Good. I’ve got you some warm milk when you’re done mate.”

“Thank you.” 

Whatever Ryleigh says is completely lost to him as the blood rushing in his ears takes over. His stomach clenches in anger. Moaning he scrambles to open the lid to the toilet barely making it to dry heave. He knew nothing would come up. He hasn’t eaten anything in over twenty-four hours to throw up. But still the urge to upchuck inside a toilet even if it is a dry upchuck cannot be fought. His heart races as if he’s been running for miles. Sweat beads on his upper lip. 

Another wave of nausea overtakes him. His stomach and chest constrict with the effort. This time burning stomach acid creeps its way up to land in the bowl. His throat burns just in the back like fire. Gripping his neck he tries in vain to rub the fire away to avail. His side mimics the fire heat in his throat.

A soft knock startles him again. “You sure you’re alright?”

Slightly trembling he does his best to right himself only to fall back down again. This time knocking into the wall, “Yeah, I’m just uh… using the bathroom.”

“What was that banging?” 

“My shoe fell…?” His statement sounds like a question even to himself. 

Ryleigh didn’t answer for a long time. “If you say so. Hungry? I was about to have dinner after my shower when them two twats showed up.”

Ryleigh’s generosity doesn’t sit well with him. Everyone wants something in return for anything offered. He’s already said he have sex with the man. He doesn’t have anything else to give… nothing at all. Absolutely nothing…

“N-no thank you.” Trembling he tries once again to get up, this time succeeding albeit a little shakily. Whatever Ryleigh has will probably be too much for his stomach to handle anyway. 

“You sure mate? It’s lintel soup.”

“Shit.” He whispers to himself. He’d love a bowl of soup and a bed… for sleeping purposes only and some pain medication. Fighting himself he finally answers, “No-no thanks.” He just knows that he’ll throw up on Ryleigh and then he won’t get paid. He can’t afford to not get paid. He really can’t… 

Swaying a little he blinks at himself in the mirror again. “If you say so.”

Swallowing back down his own bile he flushes the toilet before turning on lukewarm water splashing his face. His smooth face under his fingers sends a spike of panic down his back. He needs to get paid…

Untitled Piece

This lovely bit stormed my mind until I wrote it. Too bad I happened to pick my notes on my phone. Yes, I typed this up on my tiny iPhone screen. Do enjoy my very rough, Untitled Piece.

I think it will be the opening to the eighth untitled book in my Valk series under my WIPs. A little ahead of myself I know but those books could be rearranged a little to suite my purposes.

Do enjoy.

“Where is she?” She asks again.

This stout woman, who looks to be 57 but I know to be 39, takes quick choppy breaths telling me how angry she is. It’s too bad I don’t give a fuck.

“Where is Carol Lynche?” Flying spit lands on my face in globs, again telling me how angry she is. And again I don’t give a fuck.

The young yet old stout woman paces in front of me trying her best to send threatening glares my way. All it does is make her look comical and a tad childish. Again, I have no fucks to give.


Her outburst only serves to my advantage. It’s proof I’m winning and she’s losing. This revelation should be giving me happy elated feelings but alas I have no fucks to give. I don’t have anything to give. Well, emotion wise. Information I have. I have copious amounts and this stout woman wants it all. But alas, zero fucks to give.

“Víktoria Valíkant, you will give me everything I want.”

I look up into pretty hazel eyes. She leans away and I know it’s because of my eyes, a rare indigo color worthy of notation. Her breath quickens, a hint of it puffs over my face and I smell a hint of toothpaste mixed with coffee, eggs, a salad, and steak. A hint of alcohol tells me this federal agent is a naughty one. Drinking on the job, the shame but then again, I have no fucks to give.

Her face contorts in anger. If I could feel anything I think I would be impressed with this woman for not completely backing away from me. Even though she thinks me human all humans naturally keep their distance from me and others like me. We are a dangerous sort.

“Miss Valíkant.” Her tone is threatening as well as her stance but it’s the eyes. She’s afraid of me. I can smell it. Her fear permeates the air, if I could feel something I know it would be satisfaction. “I’m running out of patience.”

Taking a deep breath, the other agents too thick cologne almost gags me. “As am I.” I take pause, cocking my head, as I analyze my voice. If it could be called mine. The stout agent steps back as if I shoved her. Her face registers shock and fear for only a moment before schooling herself back into her trained federal expression.

If curiosity could tickle my interest I would wonder if she thought me a psychopath. But again, no fucks to give.

She steps away along with her partner, who up until now, stood quietly leaning against one of the bland gray walls. If I could feel attraction this man would be handsome I suppose but in this emotionless state I can’t honestly say for sure. But again, I have no fucks to give.

The two retreat from the small bland room I have called home for the past forty-six days. Solid cinder block walls painted in a shabby dark gray leaves the captey feeling helpless and lost to time. Too bad this doesn’t phase me. I know precisely when the sun rises and when it sets. These humans doing their damnedest to trick me by turning day into night and night into day do little to unsettle me.

My nails glide over the metal surface of the chair I am bound to. The cool substance gave way to warmth along time ago with the heat of my body. If I were human the agents would certainly break me very soon.

Too bad for them I am anything but human.

I am Víktoria Valíkant and if I could feel emotion I would be angry. Too good for them I feel nothing. Because if I did they would be dead and this facility would sit in ruins.

The tip of my tongue glides over a fang nicking the tip. The taste of my own blood pulls a smirk across my lips. These humans will soon be dead. Not from boredom or anger, no nothing like that.

They will die because I simply need. I need to find my brother, my twin. And nothing and no one will keep my from my task.

The time is coming.

They will die.

Changes and Chaos

When I write a book I have a round about time to finish it, edit it, then publish it. These dates will change by a few days up to a week and I know that. Something pops up, a family member needs help, or a case of the “I dun wanna’ takes hold. It’s a all things that cannot be helped or natural occurrences but as of Saturday I looked in my Writing Bible (my schedule for anything related to writing or WB for short) and my heart dropped. My publishing dates are way of course and it pisses me off.


I dropped the ball. Hard. I know how it happened. I know why it happened. And I have no one to blame but myself.

Because of this I now have to go through my WB and figure out new pub dates. I hate doing this. One I’ve already figured out so all I have to do is figure out the timing for the other three. That’s right. Three.

I will get it done and I will do it. I’ve the feeling I’ll be extremely busy for the next few months.

Let the chaos begin.


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