Maralily

Shadowplay (the first three chapters of my novel)
WARNING: My writing is adult in nature, homoerotic and sometimes violent, considering the nature of horror novels. If this bothers you, don't read it. You have been warned. I do not write about glittery, happy vegetarian vampires.

Shadowplay

Note: If my stories were a movie, Fairuza Balk would be cast as Anais.
She is that character in my head. *sigh*

A Silly Poem Written For The Good Faeries & Bad Faeries Of The Masquerade Balls
Dream Narrative 1
Dream Narrative 2

A Silly Poem Written For The Good Faeries & Bad Faeries Of The Masquerade Balls

Our balls are made of faery dust
Our balls are made of glitter
Our balls show up on Tribe.net
On Facebook and on Twitter

The music makes us dance all night
To Woodland & Kan'Nal
Mark Lewis is a lovely host
Though he can't pronounce Qntal

My shoes fell off by twelve o'clock
I didn't care to get them back
I was too busy pulling out
The nylons from my crack

And dancing with the pixies
the satyr and the fae
Though my teenage nephew saw the pics
and said “That's kinda gay.”

I said “You're nuts, do you even know
I spent hours on that costume!”
He said “You'd write something clever here,
but nothing rhymes with costume.”

Our balls are entertaining
Our balls are full of joy
Our balls have lots of devil sticks
And brightly glowing poi

Good faeries know the peaceful music
is for lovely thoughts and chilin'
Bad faeries know everything and some
need penicillin

So, faerie kings and queens and bosses
be kind, be oh so nice
Because the only thing better than one ball held
is two balls held twice.

Dreaming Narrative 1

The sun takes longer to rise here in this hidden place. It could be that the forest is so dense with gnarled oaks that no one in this house feels the warmth of the sun until it peeks high overhead. When light does filter through windows often left open, it splashes everything buttery warm and no one bolts upright in their beds but rather everyone begins to melt awake. The stones stay cool, even when peet smolders stubbornly in the hearth, and the tiny ever present particles of dust dance in the beams of light that spy between leaf and shadow. Something scampers in the narrow passage of the kitchen just as doors begin to open and the bare feet of sleep-spelled children pad across the floor. Things live here along with people. Of course they do not know the way they should know since it is obvious if they only bothered to look, but things have lived here for a very long time. Something always lives in 400 year old houses.

Dreaming Narrative 2

She does not remember coming here, or how she came to be; only that she has always been here. No books hold her name, or any date when she might have been born. The Sisters do not recall opening the door to her. What they do know is that she is part of this place, and that the very stones themselves may crumble in her absence. There are no birthday cakes or schoolbooks. The other children learn what she already knows. Latin flows easily from her lips, as easily as French, English and Greek. When the workers came to repair the abbey, they brought Arabic, Punjabi, Urdu... and she spoke at ease with them. In the woods behind the abbey, she knows the names of trees, knows their dreams and their boredom. The Sisters do not bother her with school, or even prayers. Some of them fear her, but none will expel her from these stone walls. When it occurs to her to play at such things, she makes herself vanish. It is a simple thing, to think of earth and moss and join it for company.