Posts Tagged ‘Romance writer


Entry #8: Endless Love by Tess MacKall

            The midnight hour approached and Evelyn lay in bed waiting. Her stay at the beach house had been intended to overcome the loss of her husband. Caroline, her sister, had insisted she needed to come to terms with his death and find peace. At first she’d been afraid and questioned her sanity. Now she simply accepted what had transpired. All that mattered was Marcus.

            Translucent, nothing more than the essence of a milky moonbeam, Marcus appeared. She held her arms open and he floated toward her. How she ached for his touch-to know the silken feel of his lips, to savor his taste.  

            He leveled his body to hers, melded within her flesh, and possessed her wholly. ‘Twas only the mere kiss of air to her skin, yet unparalleled passion ignited within the depths of her soul and burned through her veins. Her body arched, desperate to feel him, but fell into nothingness. Tears spilled to her pillow.

            “Join me, my love.” A shadow of a whisper found her.

            Stunned, Evelyn’s eyes widened. He’d never spoken a word before, just loved her through an exquisite merging that left her with an endless, painful need to be with him.

            “How, Marcus?”

            “I’m waiting on the cliff.” His vaporous entity lifted from her and vanished.

            Evelyn sat up and threw her legs over the side of the bed. She donned a wispy, white wrapper and rambled through the house in search of him. “Marcus!”

            “The cliffs, my love.”

            His words seeped into her mind and drew her to his voice. Her fear of heights had kept her from strolling there during the day, but now she had no choice. Love outweighed cowardice. She breathed deep and flung the door wide.

            In the distance, his gossamer form emerged. Barefoot, Evelyn ran to him. Chilled air filled her lungs with the brackish scent of the sea that lay beneath the jutting rocks. An orange moon sagged low on the black horizon and cast an ethereal blush across the murky water. White capped waves burgeoned and curled, crashing against the shore.

            He faded away and she screamed his name, “Marcus!”

            His whisper rose from the dark depths and found her on the cliff. “I’m here. Join me.”

            Lured to the edge, she trembled. “I’m afraid, Marcus.”

            His hand reached for her, enveloping her in a swirl of wind that hurled them upward into the silvery veil of stars. Evelyn lay her head upon Marcus’s chest, once more touching the warm flesh of her beloved husband.


            Sunlight swept across the water, tinting the waves into a glimmering blue. Marcus stared at the jagged rocks below. He draped his arm across the shoulders of the beautiful blonde beside him. “As her only heir, I trust you’ll play your role well.”

            “Almost as well as you, dear departed Marcus. She always was a bit too emotional. I guess it was the death of her.” Caroline molded her body to his and laughed.


Entry #7: Full Moon Mating by Lex Valentine

The clouds parted, allowing the full moon to bathe the earth in its silvery light. Jensen shivered. Halloween was the wrong night to be caught outdoors. Every witch and wizard on the planet would be casting spells. Tendrils of magic could wind themselves around a person and the next thing you knew, you were enchanted or cursed.

Jensen locked her car, turning toward her house. She had almost reached the door when she felt a tug on her arm. She whipped around, her pale blonde hair lifting in the breeze. Her sharp grey eyes searched the yard. It was empty. Yet she had felt the presence of another. Halloween. Full moon. Out in the open alone. She might as well have a target painted on her ass.

“Oh, but that would be a waste of a perfectly fine ass.”

Jensen stiffened. She knew that voice. Heat filled her as the shadows shifted into the shape of a man.

“Bram.” Her heart slammed against her ribs as she spoke the wizard’s name.

One long fingered hand caressed her jaw, his thumb stroking over the wildly beating pulse in her throat. “Aren’t you glad I’m not a vampire? I could have drained you by now,” he murmured silkily.

Jensen shivered. His touch was driving her mad with lust and he knew it.

“It’s a full moon too, which means you’ll not be able to resist me,” Bram smiled, his white teeth flashing in a devastatingly handsome face. “I can’t resist you either, Jensen. You’re Alpha. You were meant for me.”

Bram’s fingers tightened around her arm, and he pulled her down the drive, into the moonlight. “Show me!” he ordered, his dark eyes glittering.

Jensen stared up at him, completely overcome with lust from the heat cycle thrust on her by the full moon. Bram bent and kissed her hard, his teeth scraping her bottom lip, making it bleed. Jensen growled, the pupils of her eyes elongating. Bram’s tongue flicked over her fangs and she shuddered.

He pulled away, his hands ripping her shirt in two. Her pink nipples stiffened in the cold air. “You’re rare. The only white were on the planet and now you’re mine,” he whispered. “Shift for me, Jensen.”

With a piercing howl, Jensen’s body dissolved, her pale skin becoming white fur. She nipped at Bram’s hand, drawing blood, then ran down the drive. He stared after her, eyes alight with lust. She stopped and thrust her nose to the sky, howling mournfully. Then she swished her white tail at him. She might be in a heat cycle because of the full moon, but she was still Alpha. It was her choice who she would mate with. Tonight, it would be Bram.

He stepped toward her and she grinned, fangs gleaming. If he was lucky, he would survive the mating and she would keep his wizard ass. If he didn’t survive, then he had no business rousing a white werewolf on a full mooned Halloween, now did he?


Entry #6: The Death of Jonathan Grant by Grayson Reyes-Cole

A black and white photo, scratched, creased, faded in spots remains as testament to Johnathan Grant’s short life. In it, the little boy stands alone against what looks like a gray sky and black grass. He stares blankly up at the photographer. He could be looking into the camera.

He isn’t.

He wasn’t.

He had dark hair, pale skin, and eyes that appeared clear in the sepia tones of the picture. Maybe they were blue. Maybe green. Assuredly pale near the point of white beneath black lashes. His gaze even now is like a grasping hand…

In the picture, the boy wears a severe black suit and an inquisitive expression. His head lolls just slightly to one side, but he continues to stare, to silently request. He holds something in his hand, but the picture quality will not reveal it not matter how long and how hard it’s studied.

Jonathan Grant, a silent child, was nine years old when the image was captured. On that day, Jonathan Grant was also the victim of one of the most vicious and mysterious murders in the county’s history.

On a sunny but windy day, 54 years ago, twelve children executed Jonathan in art class.

Hair pulled off her face with a tortoiseshell band, broad cheeks, cardigan even in summer, his teacher, a Mrs. Fenton, was gone for no more than twelve minutes. Office Assistant, America Gonsalves, had met Mrs. Fenton in the main hallway and together they entered the classroom finding Jonathan and the other children. America stood stunned and silent while Mrs. Fenton screamed and screamed and screamed.

Another photo taken on that sunny, windy day: Compact, intense, the twelve stand in a circle around Jonathan’s body.

Every child-little boys and little girls in dingy, ill-fitting smocks-are bathed in blood gone black in the photo. Cheeks smeared. Hands soaked. Every child bears serious, dutiful gazes.

All hold art instruments: sculpting trowels, carving knives, precision cutting blades. Long after the photo, each of the 63 punctures and cuts on Jonathan’s body were matched to at least one of the twelve blades.

This next image is difficult. A photograph of Jonathan Grant.

Same black suit. Same wide, clear, disconcerting eyes. Except this image was captured from above his still form. A shoulder sticks out of one jacket sleeve awkwardly. Beneath, his shirt is ripped to shreds and deep lacerations cover his frail chest and arms, even one punctured his cheek in a long, swollen, black gash. The boy’s eyes are open and staring, it seems, with colorless content. His forehead is smudged with some sort of charcoal symbol. One open palm reveals another such symbol.

The children all admitted to their parts in killing Jonathan Grant. The police, psychologists, and parents asked why they did it during separate questioning sessions. Each child told the same story:


“Jonathan Grant was the devil. The angel told us there is only one way to kill the devil. Then he taught us how to do it. We learned it by heart and we used it. We did good. We killed the devil. It took all twelve of us. The angel told us it would. The angel told us how to do it.”


An angel? Yes, an angel. When they were asked to describe the angel, they all-separately-gave only a name.

Not one child blinked. Not one child breathed. When parents and psychologists and policemen sat on the edge of their seats nearly tipping forward but holding steady so as not to startle their fragile children, each one stated with calm reverence: Jonathan Grant.


Entry #4: SHADOW by Rita Vetere

After finishing up the late shift at work, I gulped the dregs of my coffee before heading home. At just after midnight, I locked up the deserted building and made my way across the silent emptiness of the parking lot, carried along by a chilly blast of late-October wind.

            I was halfway to my car when I saw it. The wolf-like dog that emerged from the shadows beyond the parking lot was black as coal, its fur spiked and matted. The sight of it moving purposefully through the empty lot raised my hackles. My trepidation only increased when the animal came to a stop next to the driver-side door of my car. It lifted its massive head, training its red-rimmed eyes on me.

I stopped in my tracks, not ten feet from it, eying the animal cautiously. No domestic dog, this. Collarless, it had obviously been roaming wild for some time, probably riddled with fleas, possibly rabid. The menacing look in the dog’s bloodshot eyes caused fear to rise in my throat like battery acid. The animal remained perfectly still, marking me with its strange eyes, daring me to make a move.  

            In the absolute silence of the deserted lot, I could hear its hot, panting breath. I imagined its razor-like incisors at my throat, the rancid smell of its breath in my face. Sweat began to trickle down my back, despite the icy wind that made my eyes water. The showdown continued, neither of us moving. Saliva dripped from the dog’s mouth as it panted with impatience. I tried to slow my racing heart and mounting panic, knowing the animal could sense my dread.

Seconds ticked by, and I knew I had to act before fear immobilized me completely.  Reckoning I was closer to the passenger door and could get there before the dog was able to travel around the car, I took my chance.

            I almost made it. My fingers grasped the door handle, just as the hound came tearing around the back bumper like damnation. It sprang at me, leaping into the air on powerful hind legs, its teeth bared, a low growl deep in its throat. Too slow, I raised my arms to protect my face, closing my eyes against the sight of its slobbering mouth and sharp fangs. I felt its mangy fur brush my face as it swept by me, heard its ferocious growl of attack.

            From behind me, someone screamed in terror. Unharmed, I opened my eyes and spun around. The dog stood over the supine body of a man, his open jaws at the man’s throat. On the pavement nearby, the blade of the attacker’s knife glinted in the moonlight as the animal continued to hold the mugger at bay with its deadly maw.

Five minutes later, I watched as the police summoned by me led the gibbering thug to a flashing cruiser. I looked with fresh eyes at the now-docile dog panting at my feet. Opening the car door, I issued an invitation. The dog scrambled in, licking my hand in passing. He’d emerged from the shadows to protect me, and Shadow is the name I gave him before taking him home.

–  End –

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