SAMPLES Pt. 2 | Caliginous Need

WRITING SAMPLES

The Sequel

Psychological Thriller/Dark

March 2016 came in roaring like a lion and went bleating into April like a lamb, and the storms that were forecast for twenty-four year old David Landry were going to be a motherfucker.

The college senior would have remained blissfully engrossed with web surfing on the Samsung Galaxy 6 + Edge clutched in his hand if he didn't have to talk to the cashier. An almost obsessive overuse of his cell phone only added to his addiction to technology, and his habit was to practically ignore everyone around him, including the canned speech that retail employees were trained to perform as part of their customer service duties.

Strangely enough, the college senior at UNC Greensboro was graduating in the spring with his Masters of Science in Psychology, and he happened to be a die hard March Madness fan. His blatant fan-love soon became evident as he entered the Lowes Food Mart in Kernersville, North Carolina, dressed in a blue on powder blue UNC Tar Heels basketball T-shirt, relaxed low-rider jeans, and a pair of Adidas slides.

"Hello and welcome to Lowes, Sir," Sebastian's husky twang was the first heard among the chorus of associates.

Sebastian paused to dry the rain off a shopping cart with a hand towel, and quickly placed a store ad on the child seat before offering him the shopping cart. David briefly acknowledged him with a casual flip up of his Oakleys, revealing the intense jade stare of his acknowledgement as he perched the pair of tortoiseshell designer sunglasses to the top of his dark curly head. A nod and a terse smile were given him as he juggled his phone and the shopping cart Sebastian provided, without so much as a thank you.

Without a doubt, Sebastian was stunned by his rudeness as David cruised past him like he was invisible, into the belly of the store. Releasing a soft sigh as he ruffled his fingers through his tawny gold mane, he resumed the duty of parking the shopping carts in the corral for the customers. Sebastian had been working for Lowes since the end of his junior year of high school, only because he lied on his job application. Shortly after the varsity wrestler won the All-State championship for the Bobcats last April, he received his diploma as part of R. B. Glenn High School's class of 2015.

Sebastian was desperate to get a job because he wanted his independence, especially since his Mom and stepdad had found religion. All of his friends at school had long since achieved those two rites of passage--a summer job and a driver's license. Next to having a real boyfriend, he wanted his driver's license badly. He had big plans for all the money he'd been saving, and that was to finally buy his own pick-up truck. He dreamed about the tan and black 2004 Chevy Silverado he fawned over on the used lot at Winner Chevrolet during his 8 mile hike back and forth between Kernersville and Colfax.

Tanya Keller's diminished joy about Sebastian's good news was obvious only because her son lied while filling out his job application. She made him promise to wear the one thing that marked him as different from the other store associates, and he complied in order to get a ride to work. When his day shift was changed to nights, Sebastian was forced to hitch rides because Tanya Keller worked nights at WJKL-Christian Radio. She completely flipped her shit when the neighbors reported something out of the ordinary to her. They noticed Sebastian being dropped off at Greenwood Trailer Park by a guy riding a Harley Davidson.

Confronted, Sebastian began to evade answering any questions concerning his personal business, until he was forced out of the closet kicking and screaming.

David Landry probably was too self absorbed to have even noticed the way Sebastian stared blankly at nothing for a few seconds while he loudly slammed his items onto the conveyor belt. He'd been far too busy focusing on a drawn out, one sided dialogue with his on again-off again boyfriend Seth Daniels. His noncommittal replies quickly riled his dark Irish temper up because Seth hadn't yet given him any confirmation that he was joining him for the UNC game with Purdue that set him back $300.00. Just moments before it was his turn in the long line, a text from Seth arrived.

"I got plans babe. Sorry. Working. Gotta go."

If the outrage wasn't evident by the way David's face contorted into a baleful glare at the $500 cell phone clenched in his hand and his bright angry red complexion, it soon would be.

It wasn't a text he sent back, it was a huge go to hell, and verbal emasculation for ears to hear and tongues to waggle about.

"Are you fucking serious Seth? Out of all people I expected you to remember how important our anniversary is! Honestly, you are the biggest douchebag ever. Do you even realize or grasp with your pea sized brain how long it took me to get tickets to the fucking UNC game, you unappreciative, selfish son of a bitch?!?"

"Hi again, welcome to Lowes Supermarket, didya find everythin' you needed today?" Sebastian blurted out cheerfully, because had just resumed his duties as cashier after lugging the shopping carts out of the torrential rain outside. Another awkward pause blipped by, a few seconds lapsing as he asked David if he preferred paper or plastic. Sebastian soon recovered from his temporary space out, but found himself on the receiving end of David's hot temper.

As others standing the line of people began to bail from his register to the next available one as it opened, a still on the phone David answered icily. "No, I most certainly have not. What the hell is wrong with you? Huh? Didya ride the short bus on the way into work this morning?!"

Sebastian gulped hard, his entire face flushing pink as a familiar feeling slowly began to creep over him. The customer's attempt to degrade and humiliate him in front of everyone, causing their heads to turn and stare at him with rapt interest, had accomplished their desired effect. Except it wasn't a crushed ego that Sebastian was feeling.

It was the hot tingle arcing up his left arm along with the smell of burnt rubber that rapidly replaced the air he was breathing, eventually obscuring even the taste in his mouth.

His seizures always started with an aura.

"No..00. I did..didn't, " his voice forming a soft echo in his ears along with the remainder of the conversation with David.

"Did you know that Seth Daniels is the biggest asshole in the world, SEBASTIAN? Do you sell T-Shirts here that say, Hi. My name is Seth. I am a complete dick? I need to buy one for Seth." he uttered loudly enough to get the attention of the store manager with the unfolding drama.

A growl of exasperation was given the the guy he had an ear to the phone with.

"Don't please baby me Seth. I want you and your shit of my apartment before I get back. Toodles." he uttered succinctly, discontinuing the call.

It was obvious something catastrophic happened at register 7 because his voice sounded shaky. There was a lady waiting to check out behind him, who had arrived in the middle of the customer's meltdown and the periods where Sebastian had phased out.

"Um. uh, Sorry Ma'am. My register's closin', but Mary would be happy to take ya over at register 4." his words began slurring, as the left side of his face began to lock up and twitch as if it were injected with liquid nitrogen.

"What the actual fuck, dude? Are you lit up on something?" asked Mr. Obnoxious with the Oakley sunglasses.

The store manager started walking in their direction but sped up when the entire supermarket saw the really super cute cashier with the nice ass and killer smile that perhaps a nicer guy might have asked out on a whirlwind date, topple to the floor with a loud boom as his body connected with the ledge of the counter.

David thought differently about apologizing for his rudeness and was about to ask him if he wanted to come with, when Sebastian's stunning blue-green eyes rolled up in his head and he started convulsing on the floor. Unconscious and shaking violently, a shrill stutter issued from his lungs, which drew looks of concern and people milling about around to get a glimpse of what was going on.

"Holy shit! Are you okay dude?" David asked, moving around the counter.

While he watched Sebastian's seizing body on the floor, the store manager ran over, No one expected the sudden medical emergency, and as far as John Harrison was concerned, Sebastian Keller was one of his most reliable employees. To his knowledge, nothing like this had never happened in the thirteen months that Sebastian had been employed there.

"Is he rolling on Molly? Oh God, why is he turning blue? Someone do something!" David panicked.

Customers looked on in horror until the manager and an off duty nurse ran over to offer aid. Rebecca Moseley RN, began asking John questions about Sebastian's medical history that he had no knowledge about.

"As far as what he told me, nothing. Let me contact his mom," John quickly rushed off to his office to reach Sebastian's mother at work.

Rebecca snapped David Landry out of his piss poor attitude. The poor kid was having a grand mal seizure. "Instead of becoming part of MY problem, why don't you shut up and make yourself useful. Get 911 on the phone. Now."

Sebastian's tonic-clonic seizure was a violent and unsettling display for everyone to watch, and it was probably a good thing the 20 year old wore the medical alert bracelet his Mom forced him to wear as promised.

It was one of the newer, less conspicuous styles that passed for a leather surfer bracelet. "He's an epileptic. Hold that on his head, it will stop the bleeding,"

Taking the phone from David's trembling hand, Rebecca spoke with the 911 operator after John successfully reached Tanya Keller at her job. They log rolled Sebastian over to the rescue position to prevent him from aspirating on the bubbling frothy drool that huffed past his slightly bluish lips and clenched jaw to prevent aspiration pneumonia. They kept him stable as they waited for the electrical storm to stop raging inside his brain, and for paramedics to arrive.

Sebastian received 6 stitches in his head in the ER from the fall during his seizure. He was so embarrassed about what had happened at work that he never returned to Lowes. With his prospects of becoming independent dwindling to zero, he withdrew his savings and left his small town life behind forever.

Sebastian's middle finger should have been raised in tribute to his Dad.

Thanks for the love. Peace out.

Sebastian imagined himself bathing in the light of a million stars while laid out on his sleeping bag to enjoy the view. Night time never looked so different before. He listened to the sound of birds singing in the campground, nestled in the Sauratown Mountains. Located on the rise of Hanging Rock State Park, Sebastian was 1,000 feet above the Piedmont. and felt as though he was so close to the sky he could pull the stars down as they dangled from their blanket of night.

With outstretched arms he reached up to try and catch them, but his arms remained frozen in place.

As the stars faded from view, so did Sebastian's consciousness.

The first blow was a sucker punch that hadn't been hard enough to knock him out, but forced him towards the ground in a kneeling position. When Kilo tackled and punched him a second time, he fell over, stunned. Sebastian tried to protect his face and head with his arms, but a hard punch to his unprotected stomach caused him to double over, and Kilo connected with an uppercut to his jaw among the volley thrown at Sebastian's head.

Sebastian didn't remember anything after that.

The leather Medic Alert bracelet warning others of his seizure disorder, snapped off his wrist during the struggle with Kilo.

Flickers, and fragments of light, blurry images.

Dragging and pain.

Tightness constricting his breath and an inability to move his extremities.

Sebastian transitioned back to consciousness, the zip ties on his wrists and ankles securely preventing his escape. Those fragments became a picture. One of wooden walls, dust and Kilo's sins. By the time Sebastian became cognizant of his surrounding,s the door of the cabin closed behind them, there would be no escape. He trembled as his bindings were fumbled with, removed and replaced by stronger restraints. Objects and instruments used for pleasure, and devices meant to inflict pain were hanging on the walls, and on a wooden table.

To be used on him.

"Please Mister, I ain't done anything to ya. Lemme go, please. I won't tell, I promise," Sebastian begged, trying be rational but it was an ineffective method for rationalizing with a twisted mind like Kilo's.

Kilo chose to respectfully ignore his request, a hidden agenda taking precedence.

His terrified and pained howl would pierce the silence as well as Kilo's eardrums like the blare of a horn as his body weight was lifted up and cuffs were fastened tightly around his wrists. His extended arms formed a sinewed X, revealing the damage Kilo left on his face in order to incapacitate him back at the lot.

Sebastian could still taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. A swollen black and blue bruise had formed under one blue-green eye. There were bloody abrasions from where he'd been dragged from the back of the pickup. Kilo might have felt the hammering of the heart within his chest if he pressed his hand there, but Sebastian noticed something about him in that moment. It was something that his grandma used to say about a person's character.

If he has coldness in his eyes Bastian, Mamaw Gracie said, then that man's heart is stonier than the grave.

Modern Supernatural

It happens like this. One day you meet someone and for some inexplicable reason, you feel more connected to this person than anyone else-- closer to them than to your closest family. Perhaps this person carries an angel within them--one sent to you for some higher purpose, to teach you an important lesson, or to keep you safe during a perilous time. What you must do is trust in them, even if they come hand in hand with pain or suffering. The reason for their presence will become clear in due time. Though here is a word of warning. You may grow to love this person, but remember they are not yours to keep. Their purpose isn't to try to save you, but to show you how to save yourself. And once this is fulfilled, the halo lifts and the angel leaves their body as the person exits your life. They will be a stranger to you once more. ~ Love & Misadventure, Lang Leav

All Ever remembered was sharing a kiss with Ophélie de la Fontaine in Volunteer Park and waking up the next night with his mouth full of dirt and grass. Oh and something else. Elongated, sharp canine teeth in his upper jaw and mandible, and a thirst for blood. With no one to help guide him or teach him the things he needed to know, his instincts took over.

Ever wound up knocking out two runners and dragging them into the thick underbrush and drinking from them until he nearly killed them both. He ran home, horrified by what he'd done. The runners would recover eventually, not remembering the details of the attack. But Ever didn't know that. Thinking he murdered someone he cried himself to sleep, and lesson one was learned as painful as it was.

Keep the fucking shade closed during the day. Receiving the equivalent of a third degree burn on his left foot, all of the curtains in his Seattle condo were drawn before he fried like a fucking marshmallow. What the fuck did Ophélie do to me? What am I? Shutting the door, he locked himself in his bathroom.

Ever gazed back at his handsome visage in the mirror. His eyes, a crystalline green like the color of spring grass were glowing as red as glittering rubies. His hand pressed against his chest in a state of alarm, and he suddenly realized that not only was he not breathing, but his heart had stopped beating.

"Jesus fuck." he said. "I'm a vampire."

Without even thinking it, Ever opened his mouth and his teeth unsheathed themselves like automatic switchblades, the canines on the upper and lower jaws, pointy and sharp enough to tear and rip flesh apart. He howled in horror, taking his fist and smashing it into the twisted reflection he saw in the bathroom mirror until the glass was pulverized.

Ever fell into a deep melancholia, refusing to leave his apartment for almost three days. The hunger gnawed at his belly, nipping at his heels like a baying dog. Ever didn't know whether the food in his refrigerator would suffice, so he tried some leftover potato salad and baked ham. He didn't puke it back up.

At least he figured out he could eat and drink human food without becoming sick. Soon, human food wasn't enough to satisfy his new hunger and on night four after his turning, Ever left the apartment, quickly dashing past the reception area and out the front doors of the building to walk the streets of Seattle, Washington. So far he'd learned three lessons: Stay out of the sun; Human food won't make you sick; Blood is necessary to live.

Another thing Ever began to notice was that lights and sounds were brighter and much louder than before. Not only that, every person he passed on the street with a pulse and a heartbeat was seen with his enhanced vision and hearing as if he could see with an infrared camera. Human auras floated around him in a rainbow of colors, their heartbeats sounding like tribal drums, pounding out their rhythm while pushing their blood through their vessels.

Seeing the color red meant that it was a sure sign that it was a food source. Whether the human was suitable to drink from or not, was a whole other story. He passed a goth nightclub while out hunting, and stopped inside. Although he was naturally charming and not just because of his new state, Ever was still turned away at the door.

"Don't worry Ned. He's with me." Ever heard a voice say from behind him.

"Of course, Mr. Jacobsen." Ned replied, obeying his employers order without question.

Ever spun around in surprise, and before him stood a man with the face and the body of an angel.

Maxwell Jacobsen. Not only his savior and knight in shining armor, but Ever's Achilles heel.

He took him in, and gave Ever his own wings in which to fly.

Ever's mind reflected on the torrid evenings spent with his mentor and lover since their first meeting, under the pretense of viewing the drink menu. He smelled Ophélie before he ever heard her voice, before he ever felt the touch of her slender fingers against the sleeve of his bespoke jacket. He involuntarily flinched, the muscles of his arm becoming tense and uncomfortable as he picked up on her fake public display of affection. Ever turned slightly, grassy gaze edged with ice.

Discretion was important. He wouldn't make a scene in front of the entire restaurant.

"Ophélie! It's been ages."

Ever's handsome face shifted like clockwork into a beatific smile.

"But of course, ma douce fleur. Shall we?" Ever said.

[Translation: sweet flower]

When she suggested moving to a more private venue, Ever followed her with a fluid grace. Oh but inside he was furious, and a lesser man might have called her out on her bullshit right in front of everyone. But Ever was not a lesser man. Maxwell Jacobsen had made him a better man, and an even better vampire.

Even if he wasn't the one that embraced him. He accompanied Ophélie to the comforts of her office, and once the door closed behind them, his calm, civil demeanor began to fade and his true feelings projected out like sharp daggers. A crimson glow bled into the green of his eyes. Ever was pissed off.

"Are you?" Ever asked. "Are you really glad I've come to Scylla Bay, Ophélie?"

Ever snorted derisively. Too many ears his ass. "Let's cut through the bullshit. I need to get this off my chest now."

But just in case anyone was listening on their happy reunion, they'd better hire a translator.

"Que diable! Mon voyage? Vous étiez celui qui m'a fait ça. Tu étais celui qui m'a quitté! Pourquoi ne m'as-tu pas tué Ophélie? Cela aurait peut-être été mieux que de me laisser à Seattle pour comprendre que j'étais un vampire. Seul, vous chienne égoïste!"

[Translation: What the fuck! My trip? You were the one that did this to me. You were the one that left me! Why didn't you just kill me Ophélie? It would have been better than leaving me in Seattle to figure out that I was a vampire. Alone, you selfish bitch!]

"Tu t'es foutu de moi alors, pourquoi maintenant?"

[Translation: You didn't give a fuck about me then, why now?]

Ever's angry outburst was a long time coming, and as far as he was concerned, Ophélie deserved it.

Modern-Realistic

It was survive or die on the streets of the Lower Ninth Ward, in New Orleans. It was a way of life Ayren Bélanger grasped rather quickly after leaving his home in Houma, Louisiana, to avoid the crazed step-bitch his father married. His biological mother, Amélie, died in an unsolved hit and run when he was 5, and Ayren spent eleven years being emotionally and physically abused by his stepmom and finally had enough, leaving home for good at 16 years old.

He was a chronic runaway that didn't finish high school. He spent the next five years as a street hustler/musician making enough money for food, and earn his GED. At night, the twenty-two year old Cajun man was forced to find safe shelter in the storm ravaged houses of the ward, living hand to mouth as a squatter. Fortunately, the youngest child of eight children was street savvy, and opportunity soon came a knocking.

A burglary gang of five youths, ranging in age from 19 to 24, showed up on the other side of the proverbial door.

______________________________________

567 Bienville Street, French Quarter, Motor Vehicle Theft. April 5.

Tre'Marcus Harris encountered Ayren during a game of bourré, losing $50 due to Ayren's sleight of hand, which placed him on the high end of the con artist spectrum. Tre'Marcus, was the 24 year old leader of the burglary fencing ring, and was thinking about using Ayren's white privilege to his crew's advantage. In return for a place to hang out and relax, Ayren was hired to case the estates in the New Orleans Bywater and Garden District.

In return, Ayren earned a portion of the fenced proceeds and the additional street cred immediately. The other guys admired Ayren's charisma, his meticulous attention to detail and intuition. The unsuspecting targets of their crimes discovered too late that the young white male they'd allowed inside their home was actually keeping tabs on where the expensive items were located. All of them naively believed he was part of the Southeast Louisiana Flood Control Program.

Ayren gave them all the right credentials, seemed knowledgeable about broken sewer lines and storm water drains, and drove in and out of their neighborhood in a stolen white NOLA public works truck that looked totally legit. His notepad came in handy to write down the access routes, alarm systems, and whether the marks had video cameras installed.

The boy from the Bayou kept a list of the high quality items they needed to steal and how much they'd score when he tried to sell it on the street.

______________________________________

2336 Jourdan Avenue. Bywater. Residential Burglary. April 13.
1110 Melpomene Street, Garden District. Residential Burglary. April 30.

After going out on several runs with Ayren, their ring was making several grand with each successful break-in. Ayren even earned himself a nickname from the rest of the crew.

Casper the friendly ghost. White, charming, and in and out of a house with stolen goods like he was practically invisible.

________________________________________

1745 Pauline Street. Bywater. Residential Burglary. April 26

Tre'Marcus was entertaining his 17-year-old cousin, for two weeks. Dreon was visiting N'awlins, and it was his first time in the city, but was a huge pain in the ass as far as everyone, especially Ayren, was concerned. He didn't want to go out on runs with him because he was like a powder keg with a short fuse. Dreon took every single opportunity to throw shade in the white boy's direction that everyone noticed.

For one, he kept saying Ayren's name wrong, and it didn't seem to matter if he was corrected by the others or not. He kept calling him Aryan, and it wasn't an innocent mistake. Not when it was followed by this:

"Hey Aryan, why you so damn pale? You like takin' melanin-deficient to another level!" he laughed, but knew he was pissing Ayren off.

The icy chill from Ayren's frosty blue gaze made everyone tense when his eyes locked on Dreon from the rear-view mirror as he drove. He was dead serious when he said it.

"Keep practicin' fo' de shawt bus, Dreon. You be grown in no time, you. Til yo balls drop best stay de fuck out mah way, you feel me?" Ayren said in a warning tone to Dreon, that he was dead serious.

"Dreon? Damn boy, why you keep throwin so much damn shade?" Dante asked Dreon, since he was pissing Ayren off.

"Yo' lips keep flappin' nigga, shut da fuck up. Damn!" Billy uttered, chocolate gaze boring holes into Dreon.

The crew always had Ayren's back, but the blonde in the driver's seat glanced over at Tre'Marcus, who was riding shotgun tonight.

He didn't make as good an attempt to calm the tension in the car. "Ren, y'know he my bebe cuz. He don't know nothin about shit."

Tre'Marcus tried to minimize the situation, and his blasé attitude didn't fly with Ayren.

"Podna, dis beef he got wid me, gonna make me take yo cuz ousside dis truck an' bust him in de mouf. So, between you an' me, dis problem be closed now, awrite?" Ayren's thick Cajun drawl stirring Dreon up.

Apparently Dreon missed that memo. Quiet for a whole five seconds, he mouthed off one more time.

"You trippin' now. Imma fuck you up, white boy. Wait and see, 8 Mile. I got something for your redneck ass." Dreon growled angrily.

"Chill yo' shit homie, and shut the fuck up!" was all Tre'Marcus growled, finally hearing enough shit from his cousin.

Hurricane Katrina wasn't the only destructive event to come to New Orleans, apparently she must have given her personal blessing to Dreon to fuck things up a second time. At the house on Pauline Street, he hopped over the mark's fence, tried to squeeze his skinny ass through the doggie door and then borrowed a garden shovel to bust the back window.

Once inside, he unlocked the door for everyone else to enter. Dreon seemed to make the place his own. He took basically every drawer that was in the house and threw everything that was in them as well as the cabinets --on the floor. Ayren was in the car waiting on them to finish up as the lookout, totally pissed off.

"Ain't dis sum fuckin shit? Captain obvious, gonna git all us busted fo'sho now. Mais, de po po fixin to come now. Ain't no way de neighbors not hear dat noise. no, no." Ayren cussed, hearing the siren blaring in the distance.

Dreon was in the kitchen, eating barbequed ribs and macaroni and cheese from the fridge. He started drinking a soda, which he threw on the kitchen floor when he noticed a bag of Jiffy Pop on the counter next to the microwave. Burning the popcorn, the idiot opened one of the kitchen windows to clear the smoke and set off a silent contact alarm on the window.

Tre'Marcus, Billy, and Dante were upstairs looting the electronics when Ayren heard sirens, quickly texted ABORT to Tre'Marcus letting the crew know they had to run. Abandoning $5000 worth of goods they could have boosted, they tried to evade arrest. Dreon angrily dumped the mark's HDTV over the fence. By the time the cops arrived, shit went south very quickly and Ayren decided to abandon the truck and get the fuck on home before he got caught.

Tre'Marcus, Billy and Dante jumped into the stolen truck and in the process of getting away, got busted for grand theft auto, breaking and entering, attempted burglary, and vandalism. Dreon pulled out a Glock from the back seat and was about to turn it on the cops when was shot dead by NOPD, right there on Pauline Street.

It even made the 11 o'clock news.

Psychological Thriller/Dark

"Bo. I can't believe I'm even having this conversation with you. Sebastian is practically more man than a kid. He told me he was 17, and the sex we had was consensual. He wanted it as much as I did. I don't know what his Ma and step-dad told you, but from what I know, his kin are a bunch of Jesus freaks," Jacoby Martin told Detective Nathan Campbell and his partner, Jack Tilley, of the Kernersville Police Department's Criminal Investigative Division.

"Like we told you Mr. Martin, we take every complaint seriously and will be taking into consideration your statement, as well as the statements of the parents and neighbors that saw you on repeated occasions at the alleged victim's address. Once we have all the statements, we will know more. Until then, you are charged with indecent liberties with a minor, your case will be reviewed, and you will be sentenced according to what the judge decrees." Detective Campbell explained.

After Jacoby was informed of his Miranda rights, and the charges against him explained he was formally arrested, booked and fingerprinted and his picture taken down at county. Because Sebastian's family accused him of raping their son, his lawyer explained that he was being charged with an Class F Felony. In the state of North Carolina it was punishable up to four years in prison, but because he was a first time offender he only served 10 months of a two year sentence.

Every single thing he thought he had went to shit in the moment he had to put an orange jumpsuit, his life forever changed. Twenty-three year-old Jacoby never once thought that meeting sixteen-year- old Sebastian Keller and having a relationship with him would turn out to be such a damned nightmare. What he and Sebastian had shared was magical and despite his being in jail, Sebastian continued to send him letters that gave him a good idea of of what his young lover's days were like.

Sebastian sent photographs, care packages, messages of love and the promise to wait for him. Then the letters stopped coming, and Jacoby got worried because Sebastian always kept in touch. At first, he thought that maybe the young man's heart gravitated to another guy. When Jacoby got out of prison, he ran into two of Sebastian's friends at the Piggly Wiggly.

His question was answered in a split second.

"Yer Coby right?. Sebastian always spoke a lot about you. He quit his job up at the Lowe's a few weeks back.," Eli informed him.

It seemed that Sebastian had more friends than he realized, and they were pretty weird.

"Sebastian Keller? He was kicked out of his Ma's trailer and was staying over at Kyle's for a bit, right Eli?" asked Jesse.

Eli nodded. "Yeah bo. Gosh. I miss Keller's stupid jokes and his crazy white boy dancing. Jesse remember his epic pin at State Championships?"

Eli and Jesse were able to tell Jacoby that Sebastian was leaving town, heading west. "I know he spazzed out over at his job though, heard someone talking about it like a month ago. Guess he did leave this shithole town after all. It's a damn shame. That bo was a trip."

"You don't happen to have his cell number, do you?" Jacoby asked.

He knew Sebastian couldn't drive, so in order to leave the Greensboro area he'd have to hitchhike, and that worried him a lot more than listening to the outcome of an uncontrolled seizure at Lowes Supermarket.

"Yeah sure, I got it. Ya ready, bo? It's 336-322-9426." Eli flipped through his contacts list, until he found Sebastian Keller's number.

"Thanks ya'll. Hope it works,"Jacoby said as he saved the phone number to his contact list, and started calling. He kept calling Sebastian's number but it just rang and rang.

Jacoby dreamed of Sebastian during those long nights in county, and those dreams were very romantic and sexually charged. Waking up screaming in his empty trailer on his queen sized bed covered with sweat from a very bad nightmare five nights in a row, was something out of the ordinary for him. He didn't know why but he had a strong feeling that something was wrong about Sebastian's letters stopping, and the fact he wouldn't pick up for his calls.

Maybe Sebastian didn't want to ever talk to him again, perhaps his parents brainwashed him with their religiosity. No, that couldn't be, it wasn't like his Sebastian. The kid had gotten the courage to come out of the closet, and Jacoby had been his first, his something special. He found the instant flash camera that Sebastian told him to get developed once he got out of county, and the pictures developed by the Walmart photo center in Kernersville.

For the first time in ten months, Jacoby cried when he saw how gorgeous Sebastian was. The photographs were sitting on his nightstand, so he pored over them again at 2:46 A.M. His finger traced over his golden boy's image, noticing Sebastian had taken the time to label the dates on them so he would know what he was doing in the pictures. Sebastian was the ugly duckling that became a swan.

Jacoby reminisced as he studied Sebastian's young face, pondering on the memory of how they met. The thought caused his breath to catch in his chest. He'd just turned away from the window at Ancient Art Tattoo, heading toward the back of his shop to snag a Coke from the fridge when the bell over the door jingled. Sighing, he rolled his eyes, thinking that another lost traveler wandered inside to ask where I-70 was, only to wind up browsing his tattoo shop and chat his ear off.

It happened all the time - they'd dash in out of the rain and spend an hour perusing the catalogs and photos of clients on the walls, asking a million questions without getting a damn thing done. As he turned, Jacoby's face was already creasing into a scowl when he noticed a young man of no more than eighteen or nineteen standing nervously by the door.

Tall and lanky, his Glenn High School tank top and cargo shorts were plastered to his lean body from the rain, along with his short blonde hair that had a little crest on the crown of his head. Rivulets of water dripped down over his tanned shoulders and arms. His wet clothes clung to him, outlining some very nicely toned abs and pecs. All he needed was a skateboard, thought Jacoby.

The kid's earnest expression made him get the urge to let the frown slip away and a smile tilt his lips. If he had to be bored by a tourist then at least he'd get in some eye-candy time in the process. He flashed a crooked, shy grin at him that was innocent and sexy at the same time, and Jacoby remembered that he was suddenly very glad that the counter hid his bottom half from him. Wouldn't do to frighten the kid off with the monster that was beginning to rear its head in the crotch of his Levi's.

"Come on in," he said cheerfully, eyeing his chiseled biceps and sinewy forearms. The kid worked out, so it seemed.

Jacoby wouldn't have minded lifting him for a few reps himself. "What can I do to you...er...for you?"

"Um, well...I was thinking about getting a tattoo. I mean, I want to get a tattoo. Definitely. Right now," Sebastian stammered, as if still trying to convince himself that he wanted one.

"Then you're in luck - I just happen to have one I could part with," Jacoby laughed. "What did you have in mind?" he asked him. Jacoby knew what he had in mind, and it only involved one painless needle - the one that was currently pressing up against the zipper of his jeans.

"Nothing too big. Not for the first time, anyway," Sebastian said.

His voice was slightly raspy, reminding Jacoby of the sound a zipper makes when it's unzipped slowly, one tooth at a time. Then again, that might have just been his wishful thinking exerting itself.

"Ah, a virgin," Jacoby laughed, then raised a brow as Sebastian's cheeks flamed. Uh oh. Something told him that a tattoo wasn't the only thing this young man hadn't tried yet.

He cleared his throat and continued. "Okay. Have you thought about what design you'd like to get? A tribal maybe?" Jacoby suggested.

He quickly scanned the shelf behind him for a catalog of designs, spreading it open on the counter. "I'm Jacoby by the way, just call me Coby." he smiled, offering Sebastian his hand.

He took it, smiling that sexy half-smile again. "Seb- Sebastian Keller."

He eyed his forearms and shoulders, his hand still gripping Jacoby's. "Whoa, yours are awesome, bo."

Jacoby shrugged. He was used to people ogling his tats. His tank top hid most of them, they continued up across his chest and back . Had a few more in other places as well, which he'd see when he moved out from behind the counter. Which would be as soon as he could get his cock to stop trying to jump up out of his jockeys.

"I kind of like that one," Sebastian said, pointing to a small font print design.

It was a good choice actually, for someone's first tattoo. It was small, with crisp, easy lines. It would be a snap for Jacoby.

"Great! Let's get going," he said, finally coming around from the back of the counter, hoping that Sebastian's eyes didn't drift south to where the bulge at his crotch was threatening to bust a seam.

They did.

Sebastian blushed crimson, but didn't stop staring at his groin. Jacoby was willing to bet that Sebastian was wondering what else he'd tattooed, and he was sorely tempted to drop his pants and show him. The kid was hot, and Jacoby was bored and horny, a dangerous combination.

Let's just keep this professional. You are a professional. Act like it. Jacoby sighed and ushered him into his workspace, a partitioned section near the rear of the shop. Sitting Sebastian on his work table, he jogged back into the shop and locked the front door. He didn't want to have to stop once he started to ink him, should anyone else come in.

"Okay, now what did you want it to say and where are we going to put this?" Jacoby asked, holding the stencil of his chosen tattoo in his hand.

He blushed again. The kid blushed more than a virgin on prom night, and Jacoby was beginning to think that the only thing he might have had experience in was being a virgin.

"Labor Conquers All. It means all the hard work its taken for me to condition for sports. I wanted it somewhere that wouldn't show,"Sebastian said softly. "You know, in case I didn't like it." He bit his plump lower lip and Jacoby nearly came in his pants.

Oh, please, Jacoby prayed, let it be where he hoped he wanted it to be. It was.

Sebastian's long slender fingers dropped to the waistband of his cargo shorts, unbuttoning and unzipping them quickly, as if he was afraid that if he took too long he'd lose his nerve. He exposed the silky tanned flesh of his right hip. Jacoby nodded, unable to speak for a moment. Sebastian wasn't wearing underwear and he could see a few curling, light brown pubic hairs peeking out as he pulled his shorts to the side.

"Okay. Um...you're going to need to lose the shorts, though," Jacoby said. "I can't work with you holding them open like that."

Sebastian's eyes widened a moment, then he nodded. Lifting his hips up, he pulled his shorts down and pushed them to his ankles.

Oh. Dear. God.

Jacoby still recalled his reaction when he saw the monster sized dick that hung between Sebastian's legs, looking like a long, thick sausage. How the kid managed to keep it tucked in his shorts without wearing underwear was anyone's guess. Maybe he kept it strapped it to his thigh, but his own cock saluted his accomplishment by springing to rigid attention again. Sebastian's cheeks flushed bright fuchsia as Jacoby helplessly stared at his well-endowed package.

Under his gaze, it suddenly began to stir to life, growing hard before his very eyes and he mewled, a sort of half-strangled groan.

"I'm sorry!" Sebastian gasped, reaching for his shorts to pull them up.

His blue eyes were as wide as saucers, and Jacoby realized that he was scared shitless that the big, tough, tattooed guy was gonna deck him for daring to get a hard-on while sitting half-naked on said tattoo guy's work table. That was it. Jacoby's brain ceased to function altogether at that point, ceding all rational thought processes to his crotch.

"Don't be," he whispered, smiling gently. "Maybe we should take care of this before I tattoo you," he grinned, shrugging. "It'll make you relax. If you're tense, it'll only hurt worse."

"But...but..." Sebastian stammered.

He figured Sebastian was his age, maybe a little younger but certainly not a minor. Hindsight being what it was, Jacoby could have exercised a little better self-control and common sense. But he was thinking with his little head instead of the big one.

"Then maybe later we can go play pool at Shooter's Billiards, let's say 7 P.M.? Buy you dinner?"

"I-I, uh- ain't that the one out on High Point Road? It's kinda far for me to walk. I reckon I can't, b-but. I want to." Sebastian tried to break it to Jacoby gently.

"I can come get you. Ever ride a Harley before?" Jacoby wasn't going to be disappointed to find out yet another fun experience Sebastian had not yet indulged in.

"It's a date. I'll pick you up at 7." Jacoby got to work on the tattoo, the first of three that he personally inked upon Sebastian's flesh that year before he graduated from school.

He could still see the image he created for him, right there in dark ink on his right thigh. It read, Labor Conquers All.

Their meeting on a rainy day in Colfax was a burning flame to dry tinder. From tattoos, to playing pool, to midnight rides on his Harley Davidson. Sebastian was a quick learner in the bedroom, and boy was he loud when he came. A hand lifted from the pictures he'd been staring at for two hours now. Then Jacoby couldn't take it any more. He called Sebastian again, and this time when the phone rang it went to voicemail.

He almost thought Sebastian had answered but it was only his smartass recording that made everyone calling think it was him. The voice mailbox was full, and Jacoby knew something was definitely not right about that. Sebastian was always checking his messages, at least when he was with him. At 4:25 AM, Jacoby Martin was no longer able to sway his sense of unease, and picked up the phone beside his bed to call the Kernersville Police Department, so he could report Sebastian Keller missing.

The clock was now ticking.

~~~~~~~~~~~

His body felt so weightless, Sebastian thought he'd died already. Maybe wings sprouted from his back and carried him away from the darkness and into the light. He couldn't have been more wrong. A snake was constricting around his neck, its coils gripping and crushing the life out of him as his feet scrambled to find balance on the floor in the upstairs cabin.

One small blessing was that when Kilo tied him face down over the sawhorse, that some of the puke could drain downward as he coughed up whatever had gone down the wrong pipe. He felt more like a department store mannequin than a human being right now, as he was manhandled astride the sawhorse with his ankles and wrists lashed tightly to the wooden frame. It was more than stable to support his 165 pound body.

Sebastian hadn't noticed all the implements of torture lining the walls in the area he'd been tied to,, mainly because he'd been blinded by the brightness of the light upstairs. Compared to the dark hole beneath the cabin, his eyes needed time to adjust. From someplace behind him, he heard someone praying or babbling inconsolably followed by the sound of something hard striking a surface.

He was scared by the ferocity of the chanting, and the loud reports that were registered as a belt striking skin. The cracking sound reminded him of when his father, Wayne, took off his leather belt or made him fetch a switch from the willow tree in the backyard for a beating. There was no other option for Sebastian, no place to escape to. His arms and legs jerked helplessly when the punishment that Kilo reserved for him was doled out.

It wasn't Wayne Keller's heavy, studded leather belt, but nine separate strips in one that lit up his ass and his back like hellfire.

"OW..oh God! Oh God...no ...no OW! Please...no!" he yelped loudly in pain, wanting Kilo to stop beating him.

There was no off switch, nothing registering in Kilo's twisted mind as please stop now enough to make him realize that his heavy handed lashes had broken through his epidermis, and sent a lightning quick responses to his neurons. His brain was in overload, enough to trigger another seizure. His screaming ended in a guttural bark as his teeth locked together, sclera becoming visible.

As the tonic part of his seizure began, the air in his lungs was forcefully pushed out of his mouth with a disturbing ca-caa-cakkk. The convulsion made his back arch away from the sawhorse and force his taut belly muscles to lift the weight of his torso as if he were a wooden 2x4. The bindings on his extremities forced his ligaments and tendons to stretch to their limit. Sebastian couldn't feel any of the consequent blows from the whip in Kilo's hand, or had any awareness of what was going on around him.

Alill had formed a human shield to protect him from the whip as he tried to talk Kilo down from his manic episode. Sebastian was jerking violently on the sawhorse, and Kilo would finally figure out where the puddle of urine came from earlier as a stream of it dribbled onto the cabin floor as a result of his body's violent muscular contractions. Before his seizure activity wound down like it usually did, the slam of a car door was heard outside, a noise that jarred Kilo back to the here and now.

Realizing he had a captive tied to a sawhorse, whether he was unconscious, bleeding or not, the matter of self-preservation was more important to the truck driver than noticing he was forcing a gag into Sebastian's unconscious mouth. Fortunately for Sebastian Alill remained close after Kilo flew outside with a loaded shotgun to prevent an accidental discovery of the captive hitchhiker.

Sebastian was in a sorry state, his extremities straining until the bindings were released by Alill, and the portion of the gag that was forced into his mouth removed so he could breathe and not accidentally asphyxiate. The duffel bag he'd carried along for the trip was where Kilo left it, but now that his cell phone had maxed out the voice mailbox, it had started to chime incessantly to remind Sebastian he had to check his messages.

There were personal things inside the bag. Things like a wallet with his bank card, North Carolina identification card, Kernersville library card, and lots of pictures of Jacoby. His last $10 was in the billfold, unspent, and all he had to his name. There was a Lowe's Supermarket name tag with his last pay stub, the paper frayed from chronic damp. In another section were his toiletries, and a few clean boxers, jeans, shorts and T-shirts.

Sebastian's wet, and soon to be mildewed clothing, was half in-half out of a plastic Lowe's bag. His Samsung 5 had about two bars on it. In order to access his phone the only thing needed to access it was by sliding their finger across the touch screen. The charger was in there as well, tucked under a pair of Adidas athletic slides and a pair of Nike runners. His cowboy boots were nowhere to be seen.

If anyone decided to rummage through Sebastian's bag, under the toiletries bag containing his travel size 2-in-1 shampoo, Speed Stick antiperspirant-deodorant and Axe body wash, was a small box and a brownish-amber bottle of pills inside a white Kernersville Rite Aid pharmacy bag, with the receipt still attached. One bottle had about 120 pills in it, only 20 were missing. That prescription was for Levetiracetam XR 3000 mg, the generic form of Keppra extended release.

On the label there were instructions for Sebastian to take once daily as directed by the doctor. The other prescription contained four small microsyringes for Midazolam Intranasal 10 mg. The label instructed for a person to give in the event of an emergency (status epilepticus) and to administer when the convulsions lasted longer than five minutes, or if the convulsions occurred after having intermittent seizures without regaining consciousness for five minutes or longer.

With the commotion going on outside with Kilo and the stranger, there was no telling how long the shaking phase had lasted. Alill's calming touch upon his spine was enough for now, as he released the locks on the shackles to free his extremities. The bluish pallor had faded from Sebastian's complexion as he started to breath fuller breaths, but he didn't move when Alill said he could. Sebastian lay bent over the sawhorse with the weight of his body mostly on its base.

Arms and legs limp as he blinked his eyes tiredly. He had difficulty coordinating his movements as quickly as he did earlier. The only thing he uttered was Coby's name, over and over again.

"I'm gonna die here Coby. Please don't let me die here." Sebastian whimpered, his tear-filled eyes wide with panic as he gazed at Alill as if he were Jacoby Martin in the flesh. "I'll be a good boy. I -I will, please. please." he sobbed.

Gritty/Edgy

Nathaniel jiggled the titanium ballpoint pen from his desk organizer back and forth between his fingers while waiting for a response. One ear remained pressed to the phone, and he was pretty sure he heard someone on the other end of the line breathing heavily.

He needed some kind of confirmation that he'd reached Mr. Tempte, because he was one of Seven Sins BDSM Parlor's regular clients, and Nathaniel wanted to assure that any problem was straightened out with the order.

In all the years that Seven Sins BDSM Parlor was in business, Nathaniel worked hard to foster and maintain good relationships with customers of all backgrounds. Nathaniel prided his business reputation as being a shop of the highest caliber, and Seven Sins was the essential go-to place for everything BDSM and alternative.

"Mr. Tempte? are you th -" Nathaniel's warm breathy voice floated into the receiver, and was abruptly met by the blaring drone of the dial tone.

At first, Nathaniel suspected a dropped call. He had no way of knowing that the man on the other end of the line had intentionally hung up on him. Naturally, all Nathaniel had to do to get Mr. Tempte back on the line was to press number 2 on the multi-line phone. As the number he re-dialed began to ring, there was a soft knock at his office door.

"Feh! Come in." Nathaniel's growl rose a few decibels louder than intended, mostly due to the constant ringing and lack of response from the number he called. Rafael poked his head in, offering his boss an uncomfortable looking smile that twitched at his full lips.

"Sorry Nate. You know, about the guy on the phone. I just-um, well. Mr. Tempte sounded so very pissed off about the order, he said he didn't know what kind of clients you were used to dealing with. Then he yelled something about a lawsuit." Rafael tried to explain.

Nathaniel, on the other hand, quickly got the gist of the situation. He slammed the receiver of the phone down on the cradle to end the call. The businessman that was typically unruffled, suddenly transformed in front of Rafael. His employee quickly noticed that Nathaniel's fair complexioned face morphed into a blotchy redness as the news he relayed caused his boss' anger to flare. It had taken nearly three months for Nathaniel to locate a reputable obsidian quarry in Lipari, Italy, to create the column commissioned by Mr. Tempte.

The onyx colored mineral, a product of quickly cooling volcanic lava was extremely fragile. Its crystallized surface was hard and brittle, and when it fractured produced very sharp edges that could cut. As far as a businessman like Nathaniel Roshan, the obsidian was meant to be more ornamental decoration than functional apparatus. Being a realist and quite knowledgeable about his products, he was concerned that the device that Mr. Tempte had envisioned would become a source of contamination and possible injury.

With no way of ensuring that staff or his workers would not become injured by the obelisk of doom that his client had commissioned, Nathaniel tried in vain to present his concerns about the column because of the potential risks involved. Nathaniel was met with Mr. Tempte's stubborn resolve. With that considered, Nathaniel had been wise to consult with his corporate lawyer, Marcus Bradley, who undersigned a release of liability contract that was presented to Mr. Tempte and signed as part of the business contract between them.

The release of liability released Nathaniel and all entities of Seven Sins BDSM Parlor, including his delivery staff from any fault in regard to the commission they'd been hired for.

Livid didn't even begin to describe his mood.

By the time Rafael could ask Nathaniel if he was okay, his boss had risen from the chair behind his desk, grabbed the keys to his Harley Davidson Heritage Softail, his phone and was on his way out the door.

"Ana. I'll be out of the shop for the next several hours handling this balagan of a commission. You're in charge of the store, forward any further calls to my cell. The training is postponed for today, Rafael. I am rescheduling it right before your shift on Friday. Shalom, for now." Nathaniel informed his team before leaving the store. Then he departed the shop through its heavy. chrome plated glass front doors.

The double S emblazoned door swished closed. Nathaniel had left the building.

There were three ways to reach Mr. Tempte's multi-million dollar estate. Nate could either take Wiltshire Blvd to I-405, to I-5, West Olympic to South Sepulveda or take La Cienega Boulevard through Inglewood. The latter being the least desirable, but sitting in a backup on South Sepulveda and Wiltshire wasn't doing much to help improve his dark mood. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that Nathaniel would bypass the traffic jam by taking a shortcut through the hood.

Nathaniel was a lily- white, sunny blonde that was definitely dressed to kill in the clothes he had on his back. His appearance was a night and day difference compared to people in the neighborhood that he rolled into on the way to the El Segundo Freeway. It didn't help matters that he was riding a Harley and was very exposed to the elements. Preferring to go helmet-less when he rode his hog, Nathaniel was waiting for the red light to turn green at the corner of Lennox and La Cienega when four teenage miscreants pulled up in a hoopty of epic proportions.

"Yo! Fabio! You in the wrong hood! Didn't you read the fuckin' sign back there?"

"Dis white boy about to get jacked!"

"Gonna fuck yo' cracka ass up."

Nathaniel blissfully tuned out the two black youths shouting vulgarities from behind the rolled down car window. Then things got ugly. Thinking themselves gangsta, the loudmouth kid in the back seat leaned part-way out the window and hurled a to-go cup full of yellow liquid in his direction. Missing his designated target, the cup and its contents exploded on the street next to his bike and splashed his hog's chrome rim, exhaust system, and kick plate. The cocky teens realized too late that Nathaniel was the wrong guy to fuck with.

"You should never mess with a man's bike, mefager."

"Oh shit! Dude got a gun!

"Get down!"

Before the red light changed to green, Nathaniel produced a Glock 19 automatic handgun that was concealed from its leather holster under the lapel of his jacket. Unlike the teen, his aim was on point. Two 9mm slugs popped the Chevy Chevelle's front and back tires, completely flattening them. Nathaniel left the car disabled at the intersection, tucking the handgun back in its holster.

Popping the clutch on his Harley, the blonde Israeli gunned the engine all the way to the Hawthorne Blvd exit and got on the ramp heading to Route 1. Getting the hell out of the inner city before he made the 6PM news, Nathaniel tried to calm his shit, and concentrate on navigating the twists and turns in the cliff hugging road ahead of him.

By the time he reached Mr. Tempte's estate six minutes later, his cell phone had six voice messages on it.

As he stood waiting at the grand set of double gates, he pulled up behind another vehicle that was in the process of being checked over by security at the guard house. Nathaniel straddled the butter-soft leather seat of his Harley as he waited for the other vehicle to pass its inspection and proceed through the gate, checking his voice mail messages.

A male's thick Slavic accent emanated into his ear as a message from an associate in Serbia, Vojislav Bukumir. A casual conversation with Mr. Tempte over exotic things, and Nathaniel divulged a little about knowing someone who might be able to help him out. Intrigued by the offer, he allowed Nate to progress forward on the deal. After utilizing a few networking contacts, Nathaniel acquired something Russian for his estate.

Acting as a third-party facilitator to broker the deal for Mr. Tempte, Nathaniel made contact with a recruiter in Kiev, that went by the street name of Viktor. Within a few weeks, he managed to locate a kid for Mr. Tempte. Money was exchanged as part of the transaction, with the promise to pay half upfront and the other half upon delivery of the kid. From the tone the voice message had taken, Vojislav had not been wired his payment.

Now it was just another thing to be pissed off about. A woman's voice was heard on the next voice mail, as the gate opened for the car ahead of Nathaniel. The security staff turned to approach him on his bike, as he heard the following message:

"Greetings Mr. Roshan. This is Imari, Mr. Tempte's secretary. He wishes for me to pass on that due to unforeseen circumstances, your presence is not only needed but expected as soon as possible. It is his desire that you arrive in a reasonable amount of time, because of his distress. Should you fail to do so, the repercussions will be severe-" Nathaniel pressed call end, abruptly cutting off the sound of her sickly-sweet voice.

"Bitch, you have no idea that I am already way ahead of schedule." was Nate's surly utterance, while tucking his iPhone 6 into his jacket pocket.

"Afternoon Sir, may I see some form of identification?"

Nathaniel produced his California state drivers license., and presented it to the guard. "Nathaniel Roshan."

"Is Mr. Tempte expecting you, Sir?" asked the guard, his gaze flickering to the picture ID and back to Nate's face and his rather kinky attire before handing the card back to him.

"Oh, he definitely is. Please tell him Mr. Roshan has arrived at the gate, and I am looking forward to seeing him."

Modern Supernatural

"Questions. So many questions, Isaiah," Kais murmured lustfully.

He was sprawled across the bed in a posture that was an obvious attempt to look casual and careless, but Kais was posing for Isaiah. He delighted in watching others, as well as being looked at. Blissfully naked, his silky, ash blonde hair appeared to flow across the pillow beneath his head in a resplendent golden cascade. As Isaiah straddled his lap so that his cock stroked against his, the quality of his hyacinth blue eyes radiated with a sudden rush of heated lust as he spoke once more in that strange, foreign dialect.

"I am Norwegian, Isaiah, mmn," a soft moan accompanying his answer tumbled from his lips.

Propping himself up to rest against his elbows while lying on the bed, Kais declared his intentions with a seething rasp. "Jeg ønsker å være inni deg nå."

The Grigori took complete control, his mouth gentle yet ravenous as it plundered Isaiah's tender lips. Soft and yet strong, as he applied just the right amount of pressure and suction to leave Isaiah nearly breathless. His hungry tongue caressed the insides of Isaiah's mouth, trying to taste every corner of it. There was no doubt that he could kiss, but his full lips were capable of so much more. Kais answered Isaiah's muffled moans as he gradually released his lower lip with a soft suckle. The hunger surging through him at that moment was too intense for comfort no matter how hard he tried to suppress it.

"Come here Isaiah." Kais groaned. "Turn around kjæreste. I'm going to devour your sexy ass."

Kais yanked Isaiah's hips up towards his hungry mouth meeting someplace in between, focusing on bringing Isaiah pleasure. It was as though Kais was a starving man, and Isaiah's muscled pucker was his all-you-can-eat buffet. Prying Isaiah's ass cheeks widely apart with his hands, his tongue plunged deeply into his core. It wasn't very long before Isaiah started impatiently wiggling beneath him, lips craving more of his wonderfully warm, wet mouth.

Kais was teasing the fleshy ridge between Isaiah's sensitive taint and balls with his wicked tongue, but stopped as soon as he felt Isaiah's thighs begin to quiver. By the time Isaiah switched positions, Kais' face was flushed, his breathing erratic from struggling with the overwhelming urge to thrust his thick, engorged length into the tight coil of Isaiah's ass.

It took all of his will to suppress the desire to snatch Isaiah from behind as he decided to crawl across his bed to rummage in the nightstand drawer for the lube and a condom in which to use during their sexual tryst. Then Isaiah stroked Kais' ego with a compliment.

"Dusen takk, Isaiah," Kais chuckled, offering him a polite thanks in his native tongue.

Just from the subtle change in the sound of Isaiah's voice, Kais suddenly got the impression that he didn't get very many opportunities to be on receiving end of his sexual encounters. Isaiah briefly mentioned God, with no idea of how strained the relationship was between himself and his Creator.

All he could manage to say was, "Mmm, perhaps you are correct."

Kais carefully observed Isaiah place the supplies on the bed within easy reach. He hated how condoms numbed the sensations he received from burying balls deep into a tight, clenching hole, that much was obvious as the indentation of Kais' lower lip formed a seductive pout, that was short-lived. Isaiah straddled his lap once more, giving him the direct body contact he needed, and craved more than anything.

His strong hands falling to rest in a tender grip upon Isaiah's hips, adjusting his body under him so that his thick cock could easily glide between the cleft of his ass cheeks with a teasing flex of his hips--or potentially penetrate him in the moments before giving Isaiah his answer.

"Tis always better to give, than to receive, Isaiah." Kais responded with a seductive rasp.

And if Isaiah thought the rimming he'd received from Kais earlier was otherworldly, he was about to get his ass wrecked.

"The only question remaining is, do you think you can handle me?" he purred.

Translation - Jeg ønsker å være inni deg nå: I want to be inside you now; Kjæreste: darling; Dusen takk: thank you very much.

Modern Supernatural

As per doctor's orders, Daxon Ripley was slated to stay overnight for observation at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center after his bike crash. Ramming into his best friend's bike in mid-air resulted in a mild concussion and a closed fracture of his tibia, so after assessing and diagnosing his injuries, the medication took effect and Dax was able to get a good night's rest.

Before his shift ended, Dr. Callaghan left Dax with a stack of discharge instructions that included no weight bearing on the injured leg, a referral to an orthopedic surgeon, and a prescription for Percocet. Dax hobbled off the unit on a set of crutches, his lower left leg was immobilized in a knee-length removable air cast later that day after he was visited by the inpatient physical therapy department, and one of their PT's instructed him on how to navigate with his new assistive walking devices.

He was picked up by his parents, who'd made an appointment in advance with an orthopedist later in the afternoon, since Dax was mobility impaired and unable to drive with his cast for a while, he would be staying at their place in order to recuperate.

---------------------------------------------

At his appointment, Dr. Robert Dietrich concurred with Dr. Callaghan's assessment, after viewing more detailed X-rays of the fractured leg in his office. He felt that Dax was very fortunate that the break in his bone was a linear crack that was not misaligned, otherwise he would be scheduled and admitted for immediate surgery at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center.

So Dr. Dietrich's treatment plan for Dax was for him to continue to keep his leg immobilized for 12-16 weeks in the specialized removable air cast, followed by rehabilitation with a physical therapist. Thoughts of Dr. Ian Callaghan's molten gaze still lingered on Dax's mind long after he was discharged from Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, and for a week the doctor's phone number had burned a hole in his pocket.

It wasn't intentional that hadn't called Ian immediately after arriving at his parent's home because he'd been taking the Percocet, and he wanted to sound more like himself when he did call him. Dax waited several days before he summoned up the courage to call the doctor, idly tapping the marble surface of his parent's kitchen island with the edge of Ian's personal business card as the steady beep of the ringtone blared in his ear.

Whether Dr. Callaghan still remembered a random BMX biker that flirted with him during his visit to the ER or cared to meet him for lunch or a dinner out sometime was anyone's guess. Dax left a message on his voice mailbox, asking Ian to give him a call after leaving his name and cell phone number in which to reach him. Maybe Dr. Callaghan was just a busy man?

He attempted to reach Ian a second time before the start of yet another grueling physical therapy session at Evergreen Physical Therapy Associates, and he finally heard the real Dr. Ian Callaghan's voice on the line. Dax was excited and a bit nervous while talking to him, but managed to pencil in a time frame in which they could meet up later in the evening.

It was after Dax had already hung up that he realized he'd forgotten to provide his address. Since the physical therapy center was close enough to his apartment for Dax to stop by to pick up some clean clothes, he decided to text Ian to relay the information, having the doctor pick him up from his apartment instead. Even though he was excited to have a date with Dr. Callaghan, he was concerned about his roommate, Ross Alves.

Ross hadn't stopped by his family home even though he had requested him to come pick up his half of the rent check, and to drop off a few things he would need from the apartment during his convalescence. They were close, the two young men had shared the unit at Santa Clarita Apartments since junior year of college, while working together as paranormal investigators at Cal State.

After enduring another hour-long torture session with Pamela, his physical therapist, he checked his voice mail while his leg was was being iced. Dax noticed that his Mom had called to let him know she was stuck in traffic and it would be another hour before she could swing by and pick him up. He quickly called her back to inform her of the change of plans, then texted Ian to send his address with a smiley face emoji at the end of the message.

Leaving the physical therapy center, Dax hobbled off on his crutches in the direction of his apartment. When he arrived he rang the buzzer, and got no answer so he believed Ross crashed at his girlfriend, Lydia's place. It happened when Ross didn't want to drive home after their paranormal team cases, and there had been a lock-in scheduled at a house in the Hollywood Hills during his recovery from the bike accident.

Truth be told, their apartment looked like more of a trap house for vagrants than a place to live, and the shitty maintenance barely made it worth more than the $1400 a month rent their insufferable landlord kept hiking upward. Regardless, Dax enjoyed his half of the 980 square foot apartment. It was still a place both men called home and could entertain their fellow paranormal investigators and close friends.

Leaning against his crutches, Dax removed his apartment key from his jean jacket pocket., and when he jammed his key into the lock, it was met with resistance. The second he realized that the lock looked different than it did a little over a week ago, his mouth let loose a string of obscenities.

"What the actual fuck! Really dude! You've got to be-" angry words froze in his throat as he heard a weaselly, nasally intonation coming from behind him that caused his head to turn.

“Daxon Ripley,” came the reedy voice behind the twenty one year old tenant.

Dax groaned inwardly, releasing a slow controlled breath, before slowly pivoting around to look behind him. With a heavy lean against his pair of green metallic crutches that helped in walking around, Dax tried to relax the tight muscles of his arm and hand to keep them from cramping up. Giving his shoulders a wiggle, he rolled his head in a circle in an effort to relax.

It was a decent attempt, enough to fool the casual observer, but to the keen eyes of the fat slob that stood behind him he probably looked like a walking anxiety medication ad. Dax's crystal blue eyes moved with the alertness that came from the additional stress he was under, hands remaining clenched around the cushioned grips of the crutches by the non-negotiable demands of his subconscious mind.

Dax's stomach recoiled with the uncomfortable yet familiar sensation of nausea, when his gaze met Robert Rogers, the landlord. He had nothing against obesity, or the hirsute. Dax wasn't disgusted by his paunchy midsection, his man boobs or the greasy residue of potato chip crumbs clinging to his pants. Other tenants might have thought that his unkempt, gelatinous body was like a form of pollution,.

But to Daxon Ripley it was the unsavory way he presented himself personally, combined with an equally nasty temperament. He still remembered the day Mr. Rogers told him he couldn't park his bike trailer in front of his unit while Dax was loading his bikes after a competition. Even though Dax agreed to move the trailer directly after loading his bikes, his landlord glared at him in the parking lot and threatened to call the cops.

Then somehow after asserting that Dax was gay, he seemed to think asking him inappropriate sexually loaded questions whenever he saw him in the rental office or around the complex was mutually enjoyable. Dax thought Robert Rogers was creepy as fuck and his unease was difficult to conceal even now. Revulsion and a sudden flood of anger began to rise up like gorge in his throat.

This guy is suck a prick.

"Dude, you really need to chill. We paid rent on the 15th of last month, in full. Yeah, we were five days late with the rent. But you got it, and we still have roaches and no exterminator. Our stuff is still in the apartment, and I have my portion of the rent to give you now. I know Ross does too when he gets back. You can't just change the fucking locks like that, without at least giving us an eviction notice first."

He had a problem with the locks being changed without proper notification, it wasn't the part of the protocol for legally kicking people out of rental property and he knew it. Dax was sure he'd seen plenty of folks that couldn't pay with their shit out on the curb, after a posted eviction notice. What Dax didn't like or appreciate was the dig about his parents, who were well off and lived in Holmby Hills, an affluent neighborhood in Los Angeles.

They'd come to the rescue a total of two times. The remainder of the time Ross and he'd been renting the unit, they'd come up with the money even if they had to scour the filthy shag carpet that Mr. Rogers had been too cheap to replace for spare change.

"Wait a damn minute. Dude. Just. Stop. You keep talking about my 'rents, I have a job that pays my bills. I just told you I had my half of the rent covered, and when Ross gets here he'll pay his half. So I don't think so. Um...?" Dax was puzzled by the way his landlord wrangled past, keys in hand to open the door.

"Excuse me?? I think that you need to chill, and let me get my shit." Dax replied, with an irritated tone to his voice.

"I'm going to text Ross now, so we can-" Dax was speaking, and Mr. Nasty pants rudely brushed past him after eyeballing his ass while he texted Ross.

Or thought he had.

His iPhone 6 still had Dr. Ian Callaghan's number on the screen when it opened up, but Dax was so rattled he didn't notice who he was sending the text to. Instead of the message going to Ross Alves, it went to Ian.

Brah. Come to the apartment NOW. Creepy landlord's gone psycho. Changed locks and I'm stranded here. Rent is due. he's really freaking me out. You have to come now. RIGHT NOW PLS

What Dax wanted to do was leave, but he wasn't leaving without his stuff. He wanted to shower and try to get ready for his date with Ian, and this creepypasta asshole was making it much more difficult to accomplish. He hobbled into the apartment with the intention of giving him the envelope containing his half of the rent, and stuffing duffle bag full of stuff he needed for the next few weeks.

Hop. hop. hop.

Dax paused to rest in the alcove leading into the tiny living room, so he could get the envelope out of his pocket. Hearing the keys jingle he thought Robert Rogers was standing there waiting on him to produce the money, but he was dead wrong. Dax tilted his head while counting the cash from his paycheck as he heard the double cylinder deadbolt lock click shut by way of the landlord's key.

"Seven-hundred dollars, and I want a receipt dude. I texted Ross so he should be-" his voice abruptly cut off when Mr. Robert's sweaty arm looped around his shoulders.

Dax was utterly disgusted, immediately jerking away in an effort to shrug the unwanted contact off but the weight behind Mr. Roger's embrace completely threw him way out of balance.

"Heeyyyyyyy! What the helll!- Get off! Get the fuck off me, dude!" Dax's voice rose in timbre and the anger that was released with his sexually explicit offer of alternative payment.

The fact that his left leg was barely healed and immobilized in an pneumatic air cast didn't seem to matter, as his landlord's hand threatened to crush his windpipe, and his hands flew up in the air sending twenty dollar bills flying all over the living room floor like falling snow. His body resounded with a loud boom when Dax no longer handle the weight on his bad leg and collapsed with his landlord's hand around his neck.

Dax howled in pain, but his cry came out with a croaking sound. Flailing hands became fists once he landed with Mr. Roger's hand gripping his throat and the other hand releasing the fly under his protruding belly, revealing a pint sized dick enveloped in a pad of fat so thick it looked like an oversized clitoris. The keys, oh fuck I need the keys. I'm fucking going to stab this dude in the nads.

His landlord then called him a fag with lips that could suck dick for hours. That was mostly true, but those lips weren't going to be his. Dax didn't know what was worse, the dull throbbing ache from his fractured leg, or the sharp sting of pain as the social retard yanked on his thick, dark curls and tried to force himself him to suck his cock.

Robert Rogers could either choke him until he blacked out or rip out clumps of his hair, but there was no fucking way in hell that micro-penis he was packing was getting near his mouth. Dax swung a fist at his groin with the intention of popping Mr. Rogers right in his sweaty testicles and hoped like hell the punch connected. Perhaps if he made enough noise, someone might just hear the struggle going on in his apartment.

Since he couldn't get enough air to yell loudly and effectively enough, he had to make a way. The only thing Dax knew was that Ross better show up in time before this encounter escalated to something that could end violently for one of them. Out of the corner of his eye, Dax saw the cord on the table lamp dangling and within reach. He yanked the cord, and the lamp was sent crashing to the floor, taking a glass picture frame and the land line phone down with it.

If his fist connected with his landlord's genitalia, and incapacitated him enough, Dax started yelling as loudly as possible to alert others that there was a situation going on.

"Get your fat ass off me, get off! Help! Someone help me! Oww...my leg --fuck! Getttt offff meee!"

Because if his punch missed, Dax was SCREWED.

Paranormal Suspense

Ki shan i Romani—

Adoi san' i chov'hani.

Wherever gypsies go,

There the witches are, we know.

"Did you bring me what I asked of you?" asked the Rogulja, the old witch's skin appearing as gnarled as the bark on the woodland trees surrounding her ramshackle wagon.

Tamas had heard that she dabbled in the dark arts and was there to consult her about his son, Amadan. Her lips were large and leathery, her nose a bumpy collection of warts and her eyes narrowed to a squint so close that it was impossible to tell their color. When he spoke to her about his gay son cavorting with a Gadjo man, and his leaving the group of Roma for this outsider while breaking their codes, sealing Amadan's fate was as simple as gathering personal items of his. A few strands of hair, some fingernails and his baby amulet that was worn as protection from the dark spirits that existed in their world. And his mother, Livia.

At birth, she named her son a secret name not even her husband knew, a fake name meant to protect him from evil spirits.

Now she spoke the name aloud to harm him.

"Patrin. His name is Patrin, Roguljia. We have brought the money, and his things."

On a black shrouded altar, with even darker candles there was a ritual athame and a chalice. The spell was word of mouth and memory, there were none so vile as the one about to be cast.

"Place the items here," came the wavering voice of a woman 82 seasons old, one bony digit pointing to the space within the circle with the upside down star in its center.

Tamas and Livia Vélas' did this horrible thing to protect their culture and to rid themselves of the son they had given birth to that was an abomination to them. The money was exchanged with the witch and libations offered to her dark god. Tamas' blood was spilled first then Livia's, just a cut on the wrist with the athame, the blood combined in the ritual chalice. Earlier in the day, a large spider was caught and placed into a jar. It too, was placed on the altar. It would be sacrifice enough.

"Go now, I will conduct the ceremony," the Roguljia said, her cowled visage dark and foreboding.

After the Vélas' departed the witches wagon, the black candles were lit, and the ceremony begun.

The Romani witch stood in the center of the pentagram with her arms raised, crying out to the horned god.

Dáv rátá me káthe!"

Miseç ándre tut,

Ačel ándre tut!"

Ač tu káthe

Čin mánush táv păianjen

Čin păianjen yek mánush

Ko mudarel mánush yon káthe mudáren.

[Translation]

O evil one come forth!

What is evil within

May it always remain

You shall remain here

Until the man becomes a spider

Until the spider becomes a man

Devouring man until he perishes!

A cold draft of air issued from a corner of the wagon, rippling the flames in the candles, as the witch took Amadan's hair, fingernails, his parent's blood, and a large walnut. The meat of the nut inside was long gone, and the shell was all she needed. The spider in the glass jar stirred, its front legs rearing back defensively as the witch reached for it. It bit her as all eight of its legs contorted violently when she picked it up and held it aloft. Ignoring the instant flame of pain traveling up her arm, she repeated the incantation, stunning the spider by placing it over the flame of a candle.

She placed the still living spider inside the walnut shell, and sealed it closed by tying the red ribbon representing Tamas' fatherhood around it securely. The incantation was repeated a third time. While the spider's venom traveled through her body, she carried the shell from the wagon and into the woods. Under a full moon, the witch dug a hole in the ground and buried the spider alive inside the walnut shell. To the rest of the Romani, she was a crazed old woman who believed in superstition and the old ways.

That was what they thought when they found her dead in the woods near the camp the following day.

Unaware that she hadn't died of a heart attack but from a spider bite, the Romani knew nothing of what she had unleashed with her maleficence. The secret of the magical incantation also died with her, but Amadan was forever transformed by the gypsy's curse. The spell was double-edged, culminating with Tobias' mysterious suicide soon after arriving in the United States, and Amadan's unexpected and unpredictable shifting back and forth from his human form, to a spider the size of a large dog. For those unfortunate souls that discovered his spider form lurking in the shadows, it meant a sure death.

If there was a quote that described Amadan Vélas' chaotic evening that he could screen printed on a T-shirt, it probably would have read: Cancel my subscription, I'm tired of your issues.

Amadan had walked this world all of twenty-five years, and from growing up on the fringes of normal society he knew the kind of people that looked down on him now. Texas cops were just the same as if they were etched in his head with a sharp knife, scored in his neurons deeply like some strange work of art. The Austin streets were foreign to him, because Amadan was born and raised in the Romani slums of Seville, Spain. His reasons for moving to Austin, Texas were his own, and then again, they weren't.

Amadan made a terrible error of judgement, letting his heart rule over his common sense, and it had little to do with what the cops arrested him for, or were grilling him about in the interrogation room down at police headquarters. He believed everything his Gadjo boyfriend, Tobias Jarquin, told him about the United States and how their dreams to be together for eternity could be realized if they left their old lives behind in Spain and moved to America, land of opportunity. He bought into his boyfriend's lie, hook, line and sinker.

He knew full well he had forsaken his cultural ties by becoming involved in a relationship with Tobias. He broke the rules completely by being gay, and by consorting with a Gadjo he robbed his father of a heir to carry on the family name. To restore his honor, dark deeds were done. Less than six months later, the Gadjo man was dead, having jumped to his death from the sixteenth floor of a building in downtown Miami, Florida. Amadan was going to marry him, and fulfill their dreams together. It was a dream that would never come to pass.

He collected the fragmented pieces of his life and packed them all into a tiny home he shared with his lover, towing it behind the Chevy Tahoe out to Austin, Texas to start a new life. The world was in crisis, going to hell in a handbasket almost daily. He made due with shopping for clothes at consignment shops, growing a garden for whatever bounty it could provide, and playing the violin for money at weddings and other celebratory events. Amadan kept to himself, he didn't make friends but the neighbors said he was quite friendly, even talkative.

Almost as if he were desperate for company.

If Amadan's neighbors were asked, they would say this. No one knew much about the enigmatic man, except he came from somewhere in Spain, he was learning to speak English, wasn't married and he played the fiddle better than Charlie Daniels dancing on flames. In hell.They knew this because he'd serenade them every single night at sunset with a song. No sheet music or conductor's cues, the kid knew how to charm snakes with the goddamn violin. When Amadan played, the music soared through the air like an eagle on an up-draft, taking with it the very souls of his listening neighbors.

The notes ascended together in a magical flight to the heavens, a breathtaking melody of orchestral exuberance. Then after the crescendo they dived back down, giddy, their breath stolen from their bodies, until all that was left was the silence like there was at the beginning. It was a shared journey that held them spellbound in rapt silence. Then like a tsunami a ripple of noisy clapping followed, until Amadan took a bow and vanished into the darkness of his little home on wheels. None of them knew that Amadan was a pasche-paskero, a Romani musician.

Amadan always carried with him a rare old violin in a wonderfully carved wooden case that was at least two centuries old. Booked into jail on the false charges of terrorism and capital murder, the authorities had taken everything Amadan had on him, including his violin and its protective case. The officers and the jail staff examined and inventoried all of his personal property in the event they happened to find evidence in the process. It would probably be given to the investigators or stored in an evidence room, once the barrage of ridiculous questions finally ceased.

If these detectives thought that he was easily broken, they were sadly mistaken. He was accused of a crime he didn't commit, and of that Amadan was certain.

"I tell you already, I KNOW nothing of what you say! Please. No more." he pleaded with his interrogators.

After a few hours had passed, Amadan asked for something to drink --and the detective's strategy was to deny his request. Instead, more questions came, the pair of detectives growing more insistent that if he confessed to the crime the questioning would be over, and he could rest easy.

"¡Déjame en paz!" he yelled, at the edge of his sanity.

"I only just play violin, I always play for the neighbors, they come for listening. I play, I go inside my home, to sleep. That is all I do!" Amadan's events of the evening never deviated or took a guilty tangent during the multiple, repetitive questions fired at him to twist the events up in his mind.

Amadan's hands pressed to his ears, as if a sudden headache threatened to blow his head off. Amadan was also trying to block out the droning sound that the pair of detective's voices were making while accusing him of doing the unspeakable. He wanted to leave, to escape, but Amadan felt so trapped in the room that he could hardly breathe anymore.

On the surface, Amadan looked the epitome of relative calm. Even though he was trying to stay on an even keel, his patience was wearing thin. His heart wanted out of his chest, wanting to beat free of its soul cage. It pounded like it was going to break his ribs. With senses on high alert, every color became brighter, every noise louder. Amadan was surrounded by very strange, judgmental expressions on the faces that surrounded him.

He wanted to shift so badly, to bring about their quick demise. There was a fine line between avoiding eye contact and conveying his deference to the detectives investigating the crime he was suspected of committing. Amadan was disinterested in their closed minded world of violence and hatred. Nothing turned his mood faster than their dimwit, Podunk attitude and ignorant fears. Amadan pushed his chair away from the table with his feet to as a sign he had mentally disconnected from the conversation. Amadan's facial features were impassive, his head downcast.

Surprisingly, the pair of detectives didn't pursue further questioning. Called out of the room for a break, the door opened to the interrogation room. Amadan expected they would just leave him there alone to stew, but another man came into the room and took a seat across from him. Amadan's vermilion hued eyes lifted to meet his for just a moment, trying to read what was there before his eyes broke their connection. When the new detective addressed him, Amadan's hand lifted to brush the dark fringe of hair that shielded his green eyes from view.

The accent seemed different from the two idiots that were grilling him earlier, and that made Amadan curious. "Don't apologize, just fix. I hear enough of apology." Amadan uttered, bitterly, his English broken.

"Discussion?" he released a rather disturbing, sarcastic-sounding laugh that ended rather abruptly.

"You mean inquisition, correcto?" Amadan asked with an audible trilling of r's in his strangely exotic accent.

The detective provided his name. Tony Deschenes.

All the while, his mind mentally turned the melodic sounding name he'd been given over in his head.

"If going to sleep is crime, To-nee Dee-chanay, then I am guilty." Amadan admitted, which would be the only confession he was giving today.

"No, I not know why I come here, except for questions. I thirsty, hungry. I want lawyer, and I not get anything from esos policías estúpidos."Amadan was angry now, and a bit hungry too.

Of course, the spider lurking beneath the surface of his human shell was hungrier, its ravenous appetite ever present.

Perhaps after his temper tantrum, Amadan would be able to get a goddamned can of Coke from the soda machine outside in the hallway.

Caliginous Need

WRITING SAMPLES

The Sequel

Psychological Thriller/Dark

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Modern Supernatural

Modern-Realistic

Psychological Thriller/Dark

Gritty/Edgy

Modern Supernatural

Modern Supernatural

Paranormal Suspense

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