It's Just So... Purple

I have a tendency towards purple prose.  Lilac, lavender, violet, fuschia- right down to deep, royal purple that would make a Tyrolian king proud to wear it.  Purple is my favorite color.  Sometimes, however, it can trip me up in humorous and unexpected ways.

Today I decided to share a completely unedited piece of a piece from years ago- this started out as a challenge on a writer's site to create the most over the top purple prose I could come up with, in a short fiction format.  Surprisingly, it got excellent reviews from readers, but reading it now- my eyes hurt.  This is also part of a much longer and more involved storyline that involves vampires and angels and the end of the world as we know it.  That piece is and will be on the backlist for a while, mainly because two of my characters are fighting over who gets Australia, and I'm waiting for them to finish duking it out.  For the record- vampires can take years to get to a resolution.

In the meantime, please enjoy my Purplest of the Prosies- A Far Cry From Heaven.

A Far Cry From Heaven

She was perfect Death in black leather and lace, the incarnation of every succubus and nightmare since the dawn of time. And she walked in the perfect night, where the streetlights were dying around the crumbling bricks and debris of the inner city, cold and distant as the stars in their endless swing through space and time. 

Past the dumpsters full of rats and other, darker vermin, through the swirling leaves that had lost their way in this treeless wasteland, she walked, looking only for the satiation found in a white-hot thunder of blood and pain, and left drifting again, aimless and chilled, when that pulsing beat faded to a spiraling whisper of loss and destruction and flickered out. She walked endlessly through the streets full of filth and shadow, tears and fears and wasted lives, and here and there she stopped to deliver her emotionless devastation, a drug dealer, a hooker with tired lines beneath pancake make-up, a boy-whore made up to look like a girl with silver spangles on his dropping eyelashes and gilt and lace wrapped around his wrists, as thin and pale as funeral lilies. Young or old, she felt no pity for any of them as she touched them, took them into her arms and left them frail husks in the gutters. 

And then she stopped for him, with his kohl-smudged eyes the color of stormclouds, full of rage and a cold logic that matched her own, who looked up from his knees as Death approached and rose like a challenger's flag, defiant and blazing with life and lust and loathing of everything he so desperately wanted to claim for himself. She was reaching out, when suddenly he smiled, a tremulous little flicker, a wry curve of lips, too pretty to belong to any man, across the tear-streaked face, expecting nothing but battle in return, those clear eyes dulled with a sort of desperate, restless vitality, and a contretemps longing for her embrace unlike anything the ancient nightmare had ever seen. 

And for that alone, Death stayed her perfect white hand, changing the blow into a caress.

"Do it then." His voice was rough magic, heartbreak and bell tones, raw silk frayed at the edges by endless nights of whiskey and cigarettes that must have driven him to the perilous point on the edge of the abyss where he had waited for her. "I know what you are."

"What am I?" she asked. Like some slumbering goddess, awakened to find a new and exquisite mystery placed before her altar, she held his face gently in her hands, long nails caressing the edge of his turbulent eyes. She examined him the way a dragon examines a new jewel, absorbing each facet, searching each refraction for the hint of a flaw that would render such a treasure worthless dross. "What am I, my pretty, pretty little boy?"

"Vampire." His breath came out in a hiss, all that beautiful sorcery lost in the tide of fury that spilled through his clenched teeth. "Dead walking, evil incarnate, soul-stealer, life-taker."

"Did I take something - someone - from you, little flower?" Her voice, husky, as though she hadn't used it for something as mundane as speech for decades, whispered against his skin as she tilted his face into the dull glow of the flickering streetlights behind them, analyzed the slick fall of the hair that swept past his shoulders in waves as deep and untamed as the sea. His skin yielded like fine linen beneath her fingertips, soft and crisp with youth, with that fragile, fleeting bloom that time steals. 

"You didn't take enough. You left me." There was the despair! There was that flood of emotion, of anguish, that she'd been searching for in his cool skin. She breathed it in like rare incense and smiled, her teeth impossibly white and sharp against the ruby curve of her lips.

"And you regret that, poppet?" Her eyes caught and held his, eyes drowning deep and blue as the heart of a sapphire, flecked with gold that shimmered and swam before his befuddled gaze. She was bewitching him, and in the back of his primeval brain he knew that she was the wolf - he was the rabbit. His breath came in shaky, terrified gasps, and his knees trembled.

"You keep reminding me what regret means," he whispered, so softly she had to lean in to hear him, breathing the words right off his lips. He could taste her laugh, a taste as red as her lips, blood old and fresh, and the faintly perfumed taste of the lipstick she must have applied, to achieve such a perfectly crimson pout. Those lips brushed against his, so cold they burned, drawing another tiny hitch from his lungs, fluttering his long dark lashes closed over his cheeks.

"And you want me to remedy my oversight, lovely?" she murmured, their mouths still touching in that soft, chaste almost-kiss. He nodded, then shook his head, then finally gave up and sank to the ground, unable to stand. She knelt beside him on the damp concrete, those fathom-deep eyes swimming with things never meant to be seen by mortal eyes. Hair as dark as his own swirled forward over the shoulders of her tailored black coat, brushing soft, electric kisses across his bare arms as she hovered over him, too close, and too far away all at once. "Do you want me to steal your soul?" she asked, and he could hear the silver edge of laughter in that dark voice. "Do you want me to damn you to a crossroads, cher? Would you like to walk my path, petit homme, and take the lives you've accused me of stealing?"

"You can't steal what's offered," he murmured. To his own ears his voice sounded distant and tinny, like the fading signal the car radio picks up on desert highways, drifting in and out in snatches. Her eyes held him, as surely as a gilded cage, deep and blue as the waters of the Bermuda Triangle and infinitely more dangerous.  The golden flecks that spangled that night-sky iris shimmered and swirled, and he felt himself falling, flesh and bone folding away like a spent cocoon until he floated whisper-light across a vista of dreams and despair.

He saw, suddenly, what she offered him. In a temple of silver stone with slick falls of smoke-coloured curtains a goddess reclined, supine on a dais of bone-white marble, her hair as long and black as the litany of her sins. Her skin was alabaster perfection, silken fire in the gloaming, sheened with opalescent radiance where lunar light touched her. He drifted closer, on twilight breezes scented with jasmine and the skin-tingling perfume of blood, bright and bold as red poppies in a field, over a courtyard whose sand shifted and sparkled beneath him. He knew what this shimmering dust was, madness and sacrifice, and dreams shattered beyond repair, the terrain of a realm given over to the majesty and mastery of pain. And here she rested, this creature of forgotten nightmares, of mist and moonlight and the gods' twisted delight, here she lay still and silent on her altar, as though she was the sacrifice.

Eternity took a breath, and his vision crystallized into the perfect clarity granted only in the moment between last breath and first, that little space of infinity between incarnations. He could taste the blood on her crimson lips, cold and flat on the tongue, without savour or scent, the vessel that had brought it to her having long passed its mortal coil. He could see now the black iron shackles that bound her to this place, with chains like black vines that snaked away into shadow, runes glinting silver in the light as she stirred. They held her here, like some exotic cat captured and paraded before kings, and claimed it as worship. She was not the goddess he had supposed, she was the holy font they drew their blessings from. The blades would come, each to their priest, and open that flawless white flesh, spill her magic and mystery into the chalices for those who begged immortality at the feet of the gods. They saw her as a gift, she saw them as parasites and peasants. She would kill them, if she could.

She stirred and shifted in her dreamless slumber, long silk-lace lashes flickering against cheeks as cold and pale as the marble on which she was chained.  What he had assumed was sable cloth that shrouded her shifted and changed into a swathe of her own hair, draped artfully across breast and thigh. She was chastity most pure, and the exalted whore, all at once. The flicker of torchlight drew him back from that crystalline vision, to relive another's reverie. The priests in their long gilded robes, ceremonial blades absorbing the light and giving nothing back, dusky and forbidding in each left hand. Each right hand grasped a chased gold goblet. And still the lady slept, caught so deeply in her torpor nothing beyond the gods themselves could reach her.

They came for the prophecy that fell from those garnet-carved lips, and for the bounty of her sanguine blessing. The ritual knives gleamed dully in the torches as they rose and fell, and she screamed silently red from a dozen gaping mouth, wept roseate tears that glowed like melted rubies from a dozen blind eyes.  He felt the first faint tremor of the gods' voices before the priests did, insubstantial as he was, so attuned to the breath of the darkness. That first faint shimmer of sound that rippled against his soul and seared it with a backlash like a forest fire, crisping his essence and leaving him as light and brittle as ash, rendering him blind and deaf for the incalculable moment it took the gods to call her from her slumber, to roar her name into that echoing underworld she drifted in.

When the first chain broke with a sound like cathedral bells rung by mad demons, he could not find the breath to scream, even in silence. When the first throat opened in a wash of vermilion devastation, the first heart was torn still pulsing its life into the ivory skin of her poet's hands, he could not find a tear to shed for them. She rose from a bed of blood and flesh, glowing like a star, and glided off the dais, chains trailing in her wake like handmaidens. She stood before him, and it was as though her skin opened its pores and drank down the thick blackened blood of her faithful fathers, leaving her as untouched as virgin snow, cloaked in the breathing warmth of the night and the sweet copper penny fragrance of blood.

Her eyes found his, eyes that held the sorrow and wisdom of a thousand lives, a million nightmares that she could not hide from. A single tear, as red as a rose, made its way down her cheek to fall and tremble on the crest of her high, proud breast.

"Is this what you want from me? This hell?" He could taste sorrow in her words, as dark and sweet as a lover's intimate kiss. Her eyes held his, as blue as the star-touched night, as old as Methuselah, as tempting as Eve's apple. He could almost see her wings drifting like shadows behind her, broken and twisted, scarred and blackened and burnt.  He thought suddenly of a book he had read as a child, about a vampire prince and his brides whose souls he had drunk away.

A far cry from heaven, and a long way from home...**

He knew who she was now. What she was. She was one of the lost, who hadn't made it through the gates of Eden before they closed. She was one of the fallen, who could never get to heaven on wings too shattered to fly. The golden flecks in those tragic eyes shimmered, and he was falling again... His tears were still wet on his cheeks when he opened his eyes and looked into her face. She held him as easily as a mother supports an infant, and he could feel the sleeping strength in those fragile-looking hands that cradled him against her chest. She was cold and distant as the moon, offering neither compassion nor cruelty. She was, he realized, not alone, but still lonely. Her nightmares were spent in waking hours, and sleep was a respite she feared, for what it had brought her to in the past. She was no goddess, but her blood was divine ichor, and tainted as it was, it would not let her rest in a mortal's sweet grave. She saw what she did as a sin of kindness, a cruelty of caring.

"How long?" His whisper ghosted against her cheek, into the shadowy spill of hair he turned to bury his face in. "How long have you been... how long did they keep you caged?" Her laughter sliced the tongue like razorblades and left him shaking with terror and anticipation.

"Long enough to earn their deaths."

"And how long have you been... alive?"

"The dead do not celebrate birthdays, little one. I saw your Jesus crucified at Golgotha, and lay a hand on his weeping mother's veiled head in sorrow as I passed on my way back to the palace of the Pilate."

He could see that, as well, through her eyes, the torn and dying Messiah with his angel's face contorted into the rictus of final agony, tears as tainted as her own drying on his bearded face. The women who knelt at his stiffening feet, wailing like tortured souls, rocking and keening in sympathetic pain, as the crowd threw refuse and made crude commentary as to what one could do with a dead man on a pole, were you so desperate and so inclined. He saw her as she was then, swathed in the fine linen of aristocracy, the silk and security of luxury, silencing the crowds as she walked, tall and dignified and unafraid, the Pilate's chosen consort, his obsession and despair, his passion and pitfall, to lay her fingertips on the mother of Christ's drooping head, her eyes meeting Mary's in the sympathy of the damned for the desolate. Promising retribution in her own silent way, vowing that some crimes would not go unpunished, no matter how the sinner tried to make amends. Some things could only be washed away in blood and vengeance, and another scar on her soul was of no difference either way. She had been the punisher of God once, before the world trapped her to this torment, the hand of vengeance and consolation.

"Not all of the forsaken of God have forsaken humanity in turn," she commented softly, and he tasted again that longing and love that he had seen in her shattered eyes. "When the gates of the garden closed, we were lost. That does not mean we were stripped of our duties to love, cherish, and protect the chosen of our master."

"So two thousand years, and then some." 

"This awakening, perhaps. I was old when the stars were born of my Master's whims, and slept through the birth and death of a hundred generations of your kind before I awoke again."  Which was why her voice held the echo of many languages, he reflected, her native tongue must have been all but forgotten in the shadowy reaches of her labyrinthine mind. He doubted it was ever meant for human ears to begin with. 

She chuckled again, as though he had spoken aloud, and set him away from her, turning back into the night. He saw it wrap around her, the way a man pulls on a heavy coat, absorbing her back into the slippery nocturnal womb. She had given him a double-edged blade, with that glimpse into her reservoir of memories and nightmares, and he could not help but see things as they were now. Every flower, every tree, every person he saw from this point on would fade into death as he watched, for he saw now through the eyes of the damned, and shared her hell.

"You won't wait for my answer, then?" His voice was a child's voice, crying in the dark, lost and wondering, frightened and pleading. He saw her turn, the razor-etched silver curve of her cheek, the somber mystery of her veiled eyes. He thought she smiled, a sweet, fleeting thing as fragile as an angel's halo, before she turned away again and there was only the quietly thrumming night. Her voice drifted back to him, cool and light on the skin as fine-woven silk, touched with laughter and bitter with tears.

"You don't want to walk my path, enfin. You do not even really want to answer. You want to save me, and I am not lost. I am simply taking the long road home."

**Meredith Ann Pierce - The Dark-Angel 

The Imagination Station

Earlier this week, I posted something on my personal Facebook about following/liking a page because the book series just gobsmacked my mind into a total meltdown.  It's an erotica series about- GAY MERMEN.  Please do not take that as a bad thing!!  (Honestly, I haven't read the books yet, so I'm not qualified to review.)  It's the fact that it's about GAY MERMEN.  I can't even wrap my mind around the logistics of how to write that.  I mean- is it fish-based genitalia or is there transformation involved?  Do other mermen sic their pet sharks on them if they see them swimming along the reef hand in hand?  Is it a secret society shrouded in mystery and hidden deep in the Mariannas Trench, only accessible by initiation?  The sheer scope of the imagination involved in creating the basis for this series made me feel woefully inadequate.  And yes, I want to read the books- I just don't have the time right now!

However, that does not end my mind-expansion for the week- not by a long shot.  Somehow, on Twitter, I have managed to follow what appears to be a online 50 Shades of Grey roleplay.  Which is apparently a polygamist?polyamorous? situation with Ana directing the vagina traffic in and out of Christian's life/bed.  And I think there are imaginary babies involved.  I haven't seen any mention of other males as of yet, so it's entirely possible that this imaginary Christian is getting more play than my mom's old vinyl albums- which is saying something.

All of this, coupled with my current situation of having to rewrite a LARGE portion of American Baby (which sadly, I have finally admitted is going to take me longer than a couple of weeks- so AB will be pushed back for a Valentine's Day special) and working on other projects has made me realize that maybe I'm stuck in a rut.  Most of my work falls into one of two categories- light-hearted, slightly improbable romance situations where the heroine is kind of stupid about men and the guy is just trying to do the right thing (in a clueless manner, granted) or pretty damn dark.  Dark as in deep, deep black and blue with that really interesting eggplant color you get around the edges of a really bad bruise that lets you know just how bad it's going to be.  There's some stuff that sort of straddles the middle line, but for the most part I'm at the ends of the pendulum swing.  And that's not a bad thing. 

However, I need to branch out and start pushing my mind a little bit more.  I've set myself a minor goal- ten stories.  Short, one-off stories that can be about anything- a picture, a pretty tree in the backyard, an overheard conversation snippet.  I used to force myself to do these stories when I was younger and fighting severe depression and writer's block.  Sometimes it worked- Happenstance is one of those pieces, as a matter of fact- and sometimes it didn't.  But for this exercise, I'm trying to write 10 short stories, in any length from flash fiction to novella, in 10 days.  I may end up failing- in which case I invite everyone to ridicule me.  I may end up succeeding- you'll know for sure when I start promoting them if that's the case ;)  Either way, I'm hoping to push and expand my brain and see if I can start embracing some of the stuff between horror and fluff.

Today's prompt:

The spoon plopped back into my cup, splashing coffee over the sides and leaving three perfectly round spots of superheated failure in my sugar bowl.

Oh, phooey!

So I lost my American Baby file.  No idea how I managed that particular bit of stupidity, but thank goodness for my lovely almost Sister-In-Law, who managed to fid an older copy of the rough draft for me in her files!  I'm working on rewriting what I lost today and still pushing to release before the end of January. 

In the meantime, I'm also working on a short little teaser prequel for American Baby, an introduction to Jacob, our handsome rock star hero.  Being famous isn't much protection against heartbreak, as we all know!

I'm feeling pretty blessed this morning- I have delicious blueberry cheesecake muffins, fresh hot coffee with chocolate and cream, and an adorable toddler playing around my feet while I work.  The weather is cold and clear, and sunshine is just pouring through the windows of my computer room.  Tonight I get my older boys home again after Christmas with their dad, and we all get to eat popcorn and watch movies together.  I hope everyone is having as much fun as I am today!!

Hello!

Just a hello post, to tell you a little bit about me.

I've been writing stories since I was a kid. Most of them are short, and seldom sweet, but I've written articles for newspapers, short stories for multiple published anthologies, short novellas for themed series, poetry, and for a short, profitable time, pornographic flash fiction for an Australian skin mag. I love to write. I make no promises to be the best out there, but I enjoy it, and I hope that my readers share in the experience. I've written for decades at this point- from my very first published pieces to now has been a very long, twisted journey which has involved marriage, divorce, children and remarriage and more children, with a sideswipe through modeling and the BDSM world. I grew up with and still love horses, so they make an appearance here and there in some of my work. I'm a fan of dark fantasy, horror and the early work of Poppy Z. Brite, so you'll sometimes catch that darker edge underneath my work.

Now this is the part I'm almost ashamed to admit- I believe in love. Not necessarily the hearts and flowers type of love where everything smells of roses and ends up fading into a shimmering sunset, but the real thing- dirty, messy, complicated and sometimes painful.

My first independently published anthology, Fearless, was my experiment in writing about love in all its varied forms. Much of it is dark and painful, some of it is uplifting and hope-filled. All of it is real, in the sense that these are the emotions I have lived through over the past fifteen years as I grew up, changed and learned a lot about life. Certain pieces in Fearless can be pinpointed to certain periods- the loss of a friend and the pain we all suffered with her, the ending of my first marriage, the exploration of being alone for the first time and having to figure things out without having a road map.

In contrast, the novel that I have scheduled to come out in January, American Baby, is an entirely different story. American Baby started out as an experiment in romance with a happily ever after ending- and I have to say that I am very pleased with the result. I hope that you will come back and look for excerpts from American Baby and other upcoming short stories, novellas and novels from me. If I'm being honest, I'm hoping YOU will keep me honest, by reading, commenting, reviewing and reminding me that at the end of the day, I write as much for the readers as I do for my soul.

Please come with me and share this exciting new journey!

You can follow me on Twitter @GabWhiteWrites and find my Facebook Page here