tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65972430069861642382024-02-06T20:09:20.127-08:00The Violet HourJuilliard’s American Opera Center is the epicenter of intrigue that spans one blistering New York summer when three acclaimed musicians are murdered. Jasmine Dee, the most gifted soprano to attend the American Opera Center in the last century, becomes the focus of a supernatural feud that started in the Renaissance between Phisto, a vicious Vampire, and Luca a more rare spiritual but deadly supernatural.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524577350914900625noreply@blogger.comBlogger88125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597243006986164238.post-47387600368336957372014-06-20T19:59:00.009-07:002014-06-30T19:04:41.879-07:00The Violet Hour has Descended<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524577350914900625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597243006986164238.post-65927390087378336352013-12-05T19:19:00.003-08:002014-06-21T13:52:59.765-07:00The Violet Hour - Chapter One<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Violet Destiny<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Violet-Hour-Metaphysical-Love-Story-ebook/dp/B00L3R2DUY/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1403296303&sr=1-1&" rel="nofollow" style="line-height: normal; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px;" target="_blank">http://www.amazon.com/Violet-Hour-Metaphysical-Love-Story-ebook/dp/B00L3R2DUY/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1403296303&sr=1-1&</a><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Jasmine<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">When I awaken this summer morning in Venice, I have no
premonition that I will be fighting for my life before tomorrow’s dawn; or that
my mentor and would- be lover, plans to kill me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Memories
of</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.05in;"> the last eight pain- filled years, like a pale puckered scar, remind me that
I have been able to heal, through music and love.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.05in;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.05in;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.05in;">Music
has always saved me, I think.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.05in;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.05in;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Several
hours later, before the violet dawn flushes a new day, I walk into the American
Opera Center theater theatre, in New York, to meet my lover, but really, the
stage has been set for my death.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
rush into the <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>theatretheater, only thinking
about his arms and his kiss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I halt briefly, noting that hundreds of
candles have been lit and the stage set for Violetta’s death scene in </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">La Traviata</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
call to my lover, and my voice echoes in the acoustical theater then fades into
silence. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have one thought, and that is to run, but
despite my instincts, I still hope that my beloved waits for me there, and my
legs move slowly towards the exit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then his arms encircle my waist and his
breath, <span style="color: black;">heavy with the rich scent of the fine vintage
1787 Bordeaux that we shared in better times, you could say,</span> tickles my
ear. Immediately I realize that something has gone desperately wrong. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ah,
but you were expecting the other one. Sorry to disappoint, my dear. But you
will see that I am the better choice. I offer the better life.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
just startled me,” I choke as my throat closes with fear. “Come, are you
chastising me for missing a rehearsal? Did I forget something?” I chide him lightly,
even though the words stick in my throat and my mouth is dry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nothing
has been forgotten. This is the most important night of your life. Tonight, you
will truly be immortal. I offer you this, and fame. What girl has had such an
offer?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
turns me so that I gaze into his familiar <span style="background: yellow; mso-highlight: yellow;">face</span>. I recognize the dark stubble that ripples
along his angular jaw and a wave of dark chocolate hair that falls into his
cobalt eyes, which are now steely. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ve
been traveling all day,” I say. “It’s wonderful to see you, really. Can’t we
continue this tomorrow?” <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Tomorrow is a day for
beginnings, but tonight is for endings. Say goodbye to the mediocrity that
shadows every step that humans take. Au revoir to servitude, and fear and
folly. Tonight, you will become the queen of your life, and mine. Together we
will rule the operatic stages of the world. Just a brief time of pain, and an
eternity of song and power will follow.” He touches his cold lips to mine, and
I feel ice bubbles run throughout my body.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Come, my dear. Have a drink with me. There is
no need to hurry. I have wanted to taste you since I first smelled your blood. It
is quite magnificent, you know, like your voice.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
leads me to the stage and I sink onto Violetta’s deathbed, praying that it will
not be mine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
offer a toast, to our new union,” he says. “We will reign forever, </span><span style="background: yellow; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: EN-US; mso-highlight: yellow;">Tseylulu.”[</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: EN-US;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I flinch at his pet name for me, which
translates as ‘I kiss you.’ He often shouted that during our rehearsals over
the past year, but now his vocal caress pounds in my ears, like a Lady Gaga
recording that is poorly synced. I am determined to hold onto another melody,
one that was written for me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I sought him whom my soul loveth: I
held him and I would not let him go.” The phrase from the Bible’s Song of
Solomon races through my mind. So, I am to be this monster’s immortal bride or
destroy the other man who has become my soul. This totally bites, I think, and
then choke back hysterical laughter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .05in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I don’t answer, and my silence
enrages him. I feel a rush of wind flying past me, but it is I who fly across
the stage when the demon hurls me. My body feels mangled, and the harsh stage
floor thuds against my head before I lose consciousness. The last thing I hear
is my beloved’s music. It comes to me as through a mist. I hold onto that. I
will take that to my death. I think of the aria that my love wrote for me, “Questo
Il Mio Momento Finale”—the aria that I was cast to sing in the New York premier
of his opera, on this same stage—while another stabbing pain rocks my body. And
so I will not die alone, or in vain. My love and his music will survive. And
the world will be a better place for that…</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524577350914900625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597243006986164238.post-18825216295044907282013-03-23T22:06:00.001-07:002014-12-03T11:43:38.045-08:00To End is But to Start - Juilliard's Curse<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Violet-Hour-Metaphysical-Love-Story-ebook/dp/B00L3R2DUY/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1403296303&sr=1-1&" rel="nofollow" style="text-align: center;" target="_blank">http://www.amazon.com/Violet-Hour-Metaphysical-Love-Story-ebook/dp/B00L3R2DUY/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1403296303&sr=1-1&</a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtEJGu8SrcQWxg8PRIYRuB34k7SKPq4yBmE5Rw8Vf7cp_4YkjnWKoyed1kRX5S3i7bRouYlgZ3pHQj2qt_fjSa67Jx3NF02CQNH1NRWDmHh2Iu6TsvrZxzNB1HZ8dlYbnjoYvPauGXx_ag/s1600/cover1_1.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Prologue<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> If I am to save Wendy and myself I must get to
the island of the dead before midnight. Phisto, my conductor, and lover, has
his cobalt eyes trained on my every movement now that I know what he
wants. I inhale deeply and sing the
fifth lied in Mahler’s Ruckert lieder, “Ich bin der welt abhanden gekommen,” for
my third</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: 200%;"> encore.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: 200%;">As I sing the exquisitely
painful words,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <span style="color: magenta;"> <span style="background-color: white;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Violet-Hour-Metaphysical-Love-Story-ebook/dp/B00L3R2DUY/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1403296303&sr=1-1&" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"> “</a></span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: magenta; font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Violet-Hour-Metaphysical-Love-Story-ebook/dp/B00L3R2DUY/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1403296303&sr=1-1&" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">I
am dead to the world's tumult,<o:p></o:p></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; color: magenta; font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Violet-Hour-Metaphysical-Love-Story-ebook/dp/B00L3R2DUY/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1403296303&sr=1-1&" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"> And I rest in a quiet realm!<o:p></o:p></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; color: magenta; font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Violet-Hour-Metaphysical-Love-Story-ebook/dp/B00L3R2DUY/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1403296303&sr=1-1&" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"> I live alone in my heaven,<o:p></o:p></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; color: magenta; font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Violet-Hour-Metaphysical-Love-Story-ebook/dp/B00L3R2DUY/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1403296303&sr=1-1&" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"><span style="color: magenta;"> In my love and in my song!</span><o:p></o:p></a></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-language: EN-US;">the now familiar
scent of lavender blooms and fills the packed church. The audience seems to fall into a trance as
they turn dreamily to identify the source.
They discreetly sniff themselves before they check out their neighbors.
But I know the source of the heady fragrance.
And I feel that this is the last time that I can sing this piece,
broken-hearted as I am. This is a bitch,
I think. All I want to do is sing my
last encore and then slip into my soft jeans and glide over the black waters of
the canal that will take me to his resting place. I want to lie on the cool earth beside his
sepulcher to see if he is the man that’s been obsessing my thoughts and
actions, or if it was some mad fantasy.
I move quickly after the curtain calls because I know that Phisto will
be following me. He suspects my love and
my intentions. I don’t have much time
and I need him to believe that I want his insane future as much as he. As if I think.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-language: EN-US;"> “I’m wiped tonight. I’m not up to dealing with a bunch of
hysterical Italians. Please explain for me.” Then I touch the conductor’s lips
so that he is not suspicious.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-language: EN-US;"> “I love you.” I say and calculate
how much time I have while I wait for Phisto’s response for he is always
punctilious.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-language: EN-US;">He pauses, such a drama queen I think impatiently,
because I feel the weight of each lost second.
Then he traces my jaw and moves his hand down the curve of my neck to
the top of my right breast. His touch
freezes my skin, but I miss something else, the sensation of<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-language: EN-US;">fire that
follows. Did he ever do that to me or
did I just imagine it?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-language: EN-US;"> “You were brilliant. Your voice has grown like a mighty warrior’s
prowess, now you are the most powerful weapon on the stage. It’s a battle field
my dear. Don’t let the gowns and
sparkling jewels fool you.” He touches the yellow diamond necklace that he gave
me, now nestled in my throat, where I feel my rapid pulse. I see that his eyes
are fixed there. He is mesmerized by the
frenetic dance that he sees.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-language: EN-US;"> “I’ll be refreshed and waiting for
you later.” I turn and look over my bare
shoulder, “I’ll have my answer for you then, love. You won’t be disappointed.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-language: EN-US;"> I turn and head towards my dressing
area but see that his SNAKE waits for me.
Not tonight I think and slip into the ladies room. I’ll have to go in my
concert gown. Not exactly the comfort
that I was looking for, but it will have to do.
Wendy is waiting for me outside.
We don’t have much time. It’s
almost midnight, the last half hour of </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">November
2, the day that the Italians make pilgrimages to the Isola di San Michele where
their dead are buried. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> I’ve bribed a gondolier who finally
agreed, after intensive haggling, to take me to the island of the dead. The Italians are very superstitious and no
living person is allowed to step onto the island after the sun has set.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> “</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 19.0pt; mso-bidi-language: EN-US;">Affrettatevi
signorina. Non possiamo ritardare. Avete il resto dei soldi?</span><span style="color: #16314a; font-family: "Times New Roman"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-language: EN-US;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-language: EN-US;"> I hand him the balance of the money
and kick off my heels and step onto the rocking gondola.<span style="color: #16314a;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">And now I
will cross over to the island to view the sepulcher of the man that I love, and
whom I am now sure, has returned my love.
The sky is a lush deep purple but the wind begins to gust and a flash of
lightening scars the sky the darkest violet. So he realizes that I’ve slipped away,
and he is angry, I think. I shiver in
the Fall Italian air and pull my hooded black velvet cape more closely to my
body. I know that I love the composer’s
music and perhaps that is all of him that I will ever have. And I acknowledge
that it has, in some ways, been enough. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> “Chill Wen, this was your idea.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> “One thing in theory,” she says and
huddles against me as the gondola bucks in the angry winds.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> The gondolier begins to lose it and
yammers about the weather and how we have disturbed the dead. I hand him another 250 euros and tell him to
calm down. I barely hop off the gondola
with my heels in my left hand, before he pushes off. Another flash of
lightening illumines his terrified face as he makes the sign of the cross
against his straining chest. I panic
then because without him we are stranded here until morning. I reach for Wendy’s hand, it is cold and she
is uncharacteristically quiet. I can see
her fear as well as her determination.
My black sequined gown glows in the eerie night shadows and I think that
I must look like the bride of some demon. Better this than the bride of the
other one, I think. Wendy and I switch
on our flashlights and consult the hand scrawled map that the gondolier had
given me earlier. It directs us to
Luca’s grave. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> I abandon my shoes entirely and my
Donna Karan stockings hold up valiantly before they tear against a stone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> “Ouch, this is like some bad 1930’s
horror flick,” I say<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> “Yes, but then we’d have a film crew
and they’d have some freakin transportation back to the living.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> “Good point. Stop, do you smell that? I ask.<br />
“What are you… you mean the”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> “Yes the musky lavender scent. He is here.
Dead nor not, he will protect us.
I’d bet my life on it.” I reiterate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> “Uh, news flash, you are betting our
lives on it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> “It’s okay, Wen. Promise. I wouldn’t put you in danger.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> She squeezes my hand and we follow
the map with our flashlights trained in the same direction. This is the path that will lead me to him,
finally, after a year has passed and another Fall is upon us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> “This must be it,” I say and move
the flashlight to read the name on the massive ornate mausoleum.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> “There it is, Cantanta.” Wendy screams. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> As for me, I’m filled with warmth
and terror. What if I’ve been wrong?
What if he was just a brilliant composer who fed my fantasies, and somehow
triggered my post-traumatic stress disorder that I’d suffered from after my
parents were killed? I pull myself
together and raise my flashlight.
Someone has affixed photos of him to the sheer surface of the stone. Those eyes, those lips. My body feels heavy and it’s difficult to
move, but perhaps it is only the weight of my longing. Then I see something else, a bouquet of
purple flowers, they are fresh so someone must have left them earlier
today. I can’t identify them but they
fill me with dread and I almost drop my flashlight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> I turn to choke down the bile in my
throat when I feel him, as close to me as my skin. My body seems to have no bones and melds in
perfect symmetry with his. His lips
caress my ear and his sound is a melody that interprets the jumble in my
soul. He speaks of love, but I know that
doesn’t exist. Those whom I have loved
are now dead. Only memories remain, like
dried blood on a white carpet, a dark scar against a once unsullied tapestry,
ruined forever.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> “We will never be parted again.” His
voice caresses my throat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> I turn my mouth towards his lips.
Since he won’t stop lying, I silence his voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> He takes my face between his
well-formed, muscular hands and I glimpse the violet in his eyes before I close
mine. He covers my mouth with his and
even though death invades our private moment, I feel as though I am no stranger
here. My mind fills with the sound of
his aria, the one that now forever links us in fame’s fickle web. His arms hold
my weight as I drift on the beauty that he created. The sound and his kiss deepen until I gasp
for air. But I make no effort to
retreat. He is what I have longed for
and since I can not find him in life, I will follow him through death. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> There is not much time left and I
struggle to tell him that I love him, that I have always loved him. And I close my eyes welcoming the serenity
that will follow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">But
we are torn apart and I realize, as my lungs fill with sweet air, that he is
fighting for our lives. The soft earth
is covered in blood. But I don’t want to
fight anymore. I want to follow him to a
world beyond this. I want the calm that
will silence the voices and the loss. I want to make sure that Wendy is safe
and then, I want to go home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524577350914900625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597243006986164238.post-67696055647417158332013-03-08T21:26:00.000-08:002014-12-03T11:43:47.447-08:00Fame's Seduction - Power's Control<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Lorenzo led us to the magnificent Cappella dei Magi, one of the crowning jewels of the palace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a moment I lost even the image of Fiora’s eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was overwhelmed by the beauty of the frescoes painted by <span style="font-family: ArialMT;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Benozzo_Gozzoli"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Benozzo Gozzoli</span></a>,</span> one of the most gifted 'equine' Medieval painters, (and disciple of the famous Florentine painter of angels, Fra Angelico).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I began to understand how wealth and power could seduce a man. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I should like to have you write a Motet for my niece’s wedding. You may remember the young woman who sang for you last night.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My mind returned to the young woman with a protruding nose and mediocre voice at best.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, very accomplished,” I managed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We would like to cultivate her voice. It is an accomplishment when used in the right setting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think that you will be an admirable composer for her talent.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I am honored, naturally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I am at your service.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>May I suggest another talented singer with whom we can work?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fiora di Moretti.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You heard her sing last night.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, a remarkable voice to be sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I should like to consider that. But this commission will feature my niece.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Isn’t she the bride?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Would it not be preferable for her to enjoy her wedding feast and to sing for another ceremony?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I am a family man and given to indulgence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is her request and a small one. She wants to present it as a gift to her husband.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Romantic notion isn’t it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Cesco’s words wrapped through my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hadn’t even begun to ponder how I was now able to hear him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d assumed that we were so well acquainted that I could imagine every word that he would utter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that was not the case.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His conversation resided in my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d only to look into his intense eyes to verify the messages that he sent me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524577350914900625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597243006986164238.post-51589022433787051712013-03-08T21:25:00.000-08:002014-12-03T11:43:55.118-08:00Violet Destiny Chapter One - Death by Music<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://cache3.asset-cache.net/xt/138087440.jpg?v=1&g=fs1|0|TIB|87|440&s=1" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="View image detail" border="0" src="http://cache3.asset-cache.net/xt/138087440.jpg?v=1&g=fs1|0|TIB|87|440&s=1" id="img4" style="text-align: left;" /></a><b>Violet Destiny<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>Jasmine<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></b><span style="font-weight: normal;">When I awaken this summer morning in Venice, I have no premonition that I will be fighting for my life before tomorrow’s dawn; or that my mentor and friend, plans to kill me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Memories of the last eight pain filled years, like a pale puckered scar, remind me that I have been able to heal, through music and love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Music has always saved me, I think.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Several hours later, before the violet dawn flushes a new day, I walk into the American Opera Center theatre, in New York, to meet my lover, but really, the stage has been set for my death.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I rush into the theatre, only thinking about his arms and his kiss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I halt briefly noting that hundreds of candles have been lit and the stage set for Violetta’s death scene in La Traviata. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I call to my lover and my voice echoes in the acoustical theatre then fades into silence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have one thought, and that is to run, but despite my instincts, I still hope that my beloved waits for me there, and my legs move slowly towards the exit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then his arms encircle my waist and his breath, <span style="color: black;">heavy with the rich scent of the 1787 Bordeaux Chateaux Lafitte that we shared in better times, you could say,</span> tickles my ear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Immediately I accept that something has gone desperately wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ah but you were expecting the other one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sorry to disappoint my dear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But you will see that I am the better choice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I offer the better life.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You just startled me,” I choke through my throat that is closing with fear. “Come, are you chastising me for missing a rehearsal?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did I forget something?” I chide lightly, even though the words stick in my throat and my mouth is dry.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nothing has been forgotten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is the most important night of your life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tonight, you will truly be immortal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I offer you this, and fame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What girl has had such an offer?”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He turns me so that I face his well-known face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I recognize the dark stubble that ripples along his angular jaw, and a wave of dark chocolate hair that falls into his cobalt eyes, that are now steely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ve been traveling all day. It’s wonderful to see you, really.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can’t we continue this tomorrow?” I ask.<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Tomorrow is a day for beginnings, but tonight is for endings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Say goodbye to the mediocrity that shadows every step that humans take.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Au Revoir to servitude, and fear and folly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tonight, you will become the queen of your life, and mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Together we will rule the operatic stages of the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just a brief time of pain and an eternity of song and power will follow.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He touches his cold lips to mine and I feel ice bubbles run throughout my body.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Come, my dear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Have a drink with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is no need to hurry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have wanted to taste you since I first smelled your blood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is quite magnificent, you know, like your voice.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He leads me to the stage and I sink onto Violetta’s deathbed, praying that it will not be mine.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I offer a toast, to our new union. We will reign forever, <span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">Целую, (Tseylulu).”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I flinch at his pet name for me that translates as ‘I kiss you.’ He often shouted that during our rehearsals over the past year, b</span>ut now his vocal caress pounds in my ears, like a Lady Gaga recording that is poorly synced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am determined to hold onto another melody, one that was written for me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I sought him who my soul loveth: I held him and I would not let him go.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The phrase from the Bible’s Song of Solomon races through my mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, I am to be this monster’s immortal bride or destroy the other man who has become my soul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This totally bites, I think and then choke back hysterical laughter.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I don’t answer and my silence enrages him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel a rush of wind flying past me, but it is I who fly across the stage where the demon hurls me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My body feels mangled and the harsh stage floor thuds against my head before I lose consciousness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The last thing I hear is my beloved’s music.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It comes to me as through a mist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hold onto that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will take that to my death. “Questo il mio momento finale,” I think of the aria that my love wrote for me, the aria that I was cast to sing in the New York premier of his opera, on this same stage, and another stabbing pain rocks my body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so I will not die alone, or in vain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My love and his music will survive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the world will be a better place for that…<span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524577350914900625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597243006986164238.post-15803836787360194772013-01-18T22:16:00.002-08:002014-12-03T11:46:01.874-08:00Santa - Jasmine's Golden Shaded Persian Talks About Vampayre Luca<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://cache3.asset-cache.net/gp/89176073.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=3&d=X7WJLa88Cweo9HktRLaNXkM0G8H2bddmBKmExLNJHueY%2bmNUSB2WcMfoncd9ijHX" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="prev" src="http://cache3.asset-cache.net/gp/89176073.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=3&d=X7WJLa88Cweo9HktRLaNXkM0G8H2bddmBKmExLNJHueY%2bmNUSB2WcMfoncd9ijHX" id="img2_bbl_img" style="width: 340px;" /></a>Santa - Jasmine's Golden Shaded Persian Talks About Vampayre Luca<br />
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6597243006986164238" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6597243006986164238" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><br />
I heard Luca in Jasmine's thoughts before he entered her life for the second time. Flashes of violet overtook me as I played with the potted ficus tree that turned towards the sun at the edge of our living room. Luca's energy filled me with wonder as I heard his music and remembered my days on the stage in my last incarnation. <br />
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Jasmine's sound was woven into the notes and the rests that he notated carefully. He wrote for Jasmine, I knew. As I knew that her music would also attract the other one - the dark one - Phisto, a Vampire. The fourth trial was upon them and that is why I'd re-entered this sluggish earth plane so that I could assist Jasmine at this pivotal moment. Such was her young life that she didn't trust humans and so I entered in a form that would reassure and comfort her. I'd been a beautiful and feted woman in my day and was grateful at least that I retained my blonde hair and had luminous green eyes that saw everything - everything. <br />
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As Luca drew closer so did Phisto. My eyes would widen as I stared into the abyss that was his soul. You understand that he didn't think that he was evil. Evil does not think in those terms. Phisto believed that his choice were wise and prudent. Each choice bought him nigh his goal and that is all that he desired. Now he desires Jasmine. Phisto knows that she is Luca's love and understands that her talent will heighten his fame and vanquish his enemy. <br />
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And so I watch and I wait as I enter Jasmine's dreams offering messages that I hope she will interpret and not ignore. I love Jasmine and Luca so I must remain vigilant. I would offer my life for their safety but that will not clear the debt. And so my journey continues, parallels hers.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524577350914900625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597243006986164238.post-33096742409976684712013-01-16T20:34:00.001-08:002014-12-03T11:47:41.332-08:00It's in the Vampayre's Kiss<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When I was thirteen my parents plunged to their deaths while driving the Amalfi Coast. How could I have known that the country that had taken my parents would give me my greatest love and held truths about my past lives that I wasn't then ready to confront?<br />
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<a href="http://cache3.asset-cache.net/gp/3506-000129a.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=3&d=P8XDNLRJ4QNqYn1Hr4ZmJlqj5GfwmYRj%2boJOPToF3XZx%2bXEO35ix%2flMiJa6f1w%2b2" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="prev" src="http://cache3.asset-cache.net/gp/3506-000129a.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=3&d=P8XDNLRJ4QNqYn1Hr4ZmJlqj5GfwmYRj%2boJOPToF3XZx%2bXEO35ix%2flMiJa6f1w%2b2" id="img58_bbl_img" style="width: 340px;" /></a>I stopped speaking for six months when my grandfather, Grappa, a well known biotech entrepreneur, heard me humming one evening and then subsequent evenings. That had become my only pattern of communication after my parents' death. He tried to join my shadow world and held me late into the unfolding nights, humming songs that were popular during the 1940's. I remained frozen in my midnight melodies, unable to reach out in any meaningful way. Then he had a flash of insight and took me to a famous voice teacher. Renee bought me back to life and realized that I had a world class talent simply through my breath work, humming and physiognomy. My greatest tragedy would bring me my greatest triumphs, a love that felt like it transpired time, and my most brilliant heartache.<br />
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"You don't want me to audition for your opera?" I asked Luca, avoiding the deeper purple tones that belied his impatience and concern.<br />
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"This role should go to someone who is already well known. You will have time to prepare for the European premiere and you and I can work together then." He answered with a level tone.<br />
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"You mean it will keep me away from Phisto." I answered with more edge than I'd intended.<br />
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"His influence on your music has been, in my opinion, destructive." He reached for my hand but stopped and bent his head. Violet eyes were hidden by the shadows that the candle cast across the table.<br />
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"He believes in me." I retorted.<br />
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"As do I." He managed and I knew that his temper had ignited.<br />
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"Why do you want to delay my success? A premiere in Europe is nice, but it's not New York, now is it?"<br />
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"It is better this way. What does he encourage but big sound and dramatic phrasing? Tools for the career not for the artistic development. I want you to sing for your soul, not for the paycheck."<br />
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"Then you'll be paying my bills." I said unkindly. I watched his mouth move as he responded and remembered how it had felt just hours before. Why did Phisto's existence create such problems for us? It was as though Luca hated him. <br />
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"I'll support you in any way. I hope that you know that."<br />
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"Grappa has said that he will support me for only a few more months. I need to start my career now, not in six months. I'll be waiting table by then."<br />
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"Let me help you." His dark beard created a sculpted shadow across his face, highlighting high cheekbones and a sensual mouth<br />
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"Allow me to help myself by giving me the New York debut."<br />
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"It's not possible. I'm sorry," he said, and stood abruptly, overturning his chair as he reached for me. His lips were on mine and I felt him once again take me to a familiar land where only saftey and desire existed, danced like well loved partners, came together, released and then joined again with seamless efforts. I felt as though we burned castles in the air and that the tidal waves responded to our rhythm.<br />
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I had to understand why he opposed my starring in the New York debut. I didn't realize that my life depended on it</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524577350914900625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597243006986164238.post-86425864019187571002013-01-01T18:07:00.003-08:002014-12-03T11:47:49.168-08:00Vampayre New Year Kiss<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://cache4.asset-cache.net/gp/88466815.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=3&d=kgT%2fSQ1J%2bBNElkhP2hUjCEWHGijXxVrnfgoQ8z2IrbwV20urIcH2eyCT11VNkYsR" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="prev" src="http://cache4.asset-cache.net/gp/88466815.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=3&d=kgT%2fSQ1J%2bBNElkhP2hUjCEWHGijXxVrnfgoQ8z2IrbwV20urIcH2eyCT11VNkYsR" id="img17_bbl_img" style="width: 340px;" /></a>It was a critical juncture in Jamine's life and career. She had been pursued by two supernatural beings, though she did not realize the true nature of their power or sexual charimsa. Luca, the famous composer, with eyes the color of pre-dawn light, a mystical, mythical violet, that represented the highest level of spiritual attunement spoke to the inner depths of her being, like her fingerprint, he was that close. And Phisto, the famous conductor, who seduced her with his uncanny musical coaching and interpretation. His eyes flashing a deep cobalt that indicated his level of engagement and passion. Phisto wanted her to join his journey and to fatten herself on fame and achievement.<br />
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Luca wanted her to live. His deep amethyst colored eyes explored the caverns and crevices of her soul, leaving no interior thought or desire hidden. His touch was at first cold, then burned with the passion of one who knew her well. His kiss took her to inner regions where she met the essence of her soul and traveled, like a native, on that welcome journey.<br />
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Jasmine didn't realize that she was not only at a pivotal juncture in her career, but at a defining moment in her soul's journey that would dictate her future incarnations and relationships. Vampayre;s are turned at the time that they are ready to advance spiritually. They are gifted with the ability to remain in their physical forms until they are ready to leave the earth plane and explore higher regions. First, each, must pass the fourth trial in their spiritual evolution before they can leave their physical form. Jasmine, though mortal, was facing a similar trial in her mortal incarnation and her choice would dictate her future.<br />
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Jasmine understood that with change she could grow or slip into the choices and patterns that had constricted and confined her life. Her soul wanted Luca. Her mind, and ambition wanted Phisto. <br />
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"I embrace you in the violet dawn of a New Year," Luca said as he held her to his body and drew her breath with his kiss. <br />
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His lips were at first cool, then burned with the fire of a thousand suns as Luca's kiss deepened, as his tongue explored the center of her feminine passions. Gradually she heard the aria that she'd sung for him at the defining audition, the audition for his new opera. If she won the role, her future was assured. She sang each note, felt each rest and silence as intimately as her breath. She knew the piece for it had been written for her. The aria's signature was her individual sound that called her froth from dust to the consciousness of a sentient being. She lay within the expanse of his kiss like a child in the womb, so protected and sated was she. Luca called her home. Her breath became shallow and the petty concerns of the world receded. His kiss was all the remained, and the moving shadows of her many lives. She was complete in that moment.<br />
<br />
Her Golden Shaded Persian interrupted, deep green eyes alive with wisdom.<br />
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"It is not time," Santa said, thumping her tail against the woven silk amethyst duvet cover. The pear shaped golden candlelight flickered in the New Year's light and remained steady against the power of their passion.<br />
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"I lost control." Luca admitted and released Jasmine as his being shuddered from the desire for completion.<br />
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Luca kissed Jasmine's closed eyes and called her back to the earth plane, summoning her with his desire to share an earthly journey.<br />
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Jasmine's eyes, green, like deep mountain ponds, flickered before registering consciousness. She knew that a decision must be made. Her being remained suspended in the space between Luca's kiss and her life. The New Year had dawned.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524577350914900625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597243006986164238.post-55352310805787370362012-12-20T23:24:00.002-08:002014-12-03T11:47:55.143-08:00A Vampayre Christmas<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://cache1.asset-cache.net/gp/157502224.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=3&d=ttNEtA5BItYBV14jIrLMXreyCy6GIo1nkCn%2bEh9fBmWKEzJgVvWNN3xuyHJ%2bOZw4" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="prev" src="http://cache1.asset-cache.net/gp/157502224.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=3&d=ttNEtA5BItYBV14jIrLMXreyCy6GIo1nkCn%2bEh9fBmWKEzJgVvWNN3xuyHJ%2bOZw4" id="img48_bbl_img" style="height: 340px; width: 226px;" /></a>Jasmine loved Christmas - the chill in the air as it wove through her clear and powerful lungs; the lights that in their magical illumination lent mystery and charm to a tarnished city tableaux. And the music, the music that had called her back to life after her parents' tragic death. She had stopped speaking but music beckoned her from beyond the throbbing void and she'd responded. She sang to heal herself and when she'd realized that her talent was epic, she sang to heal others.<br />
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She walked backstage during the intermission of the Christmas concert at the American Opera Center. Major donors and benefactors sat with self-satisfied contentment in the audience. Gemstones and furs were encapsulated by the theatre's light and held, for a moment, suspended in a perfect moment in time.<br />
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Luca waited in her dressing room. Jasmine had just sung his new composition, a sensual and haunting rendition of "Oh Holy Night". The music caressed her lips, tongue and lungs. It filled her body with such completion that she'd imagined a world where people loved one another, gave generously of their time and resources - a world without guns and automatic weapons and the deaths of children, who were the closest to heaven. Children and animals, she thought, the unsullied. <br />
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Luca's violet eyes stopped her breath as he searched her golden eyes. His lips curved in a congratulatory smile, his right lip tilted slightly higher than the left. The cleft in his chin firm and deep. His arms found her immediately and he inhaled the tender scent of her body, the<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">exhilaration</span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> </span>from her performance and her more sensual, darker notes that caused his body to strengthen and formed his resolve to protect her above all else. Jasmine, for him, was sacred.<br />
<br />
The dressing room door rushed open and a frosty current of air froze the room. Phisto's powerful presence filled the space. And the two powerful beings consumed all of the air and energy so that remaining in their presence was insupportable. Jasmine understood that they disliked each other. But she had no knowledge of the feud that had begun during the Renaissance and which was about to consume them all. <br />
<br />
"You were a magical storm, my darling. The audience wants more of you. Come, you don't have time to tally with nonsense the intermission will soon be over. I want you to rest."<br />
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"Your conducting was superb, Phisto. Thank you."<br />
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"You inspire me, my dear. We will do great things together." Though he didn't look at Jasmine as he spoke, his cobalt eyes challenged Luca.<br />
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"She will be prepared for the second half of the program. I will deliver her safely to the stage." Luca said in a still, deadly voice.<br />
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"You have done your part, composer. She has brought the notes on a page to life. I have helped her to bring your notations to life. Now it is time that she and I prepare for the remainder of her triumph."<br />
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"Are you dismissing me?"<br />
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"If you want to call it that. Go play with your notes. We have music to make."<br />
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Luca's eyes pulsed deep purple and his right hand clenched and unclenched as he absorbed Phisto's words. He stepped forward, his powerful shoulders moving gracefully beneath the exquisitely tailored Armani tuxedo.<br />
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"It is you who are superfluous. Her talent needs no instruction though you are intent on taking credit for her success."<br />
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"Careful composer. You and I have business but now is not the time."<br />
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Luca closed his eyes briefly and focused intently on an inner vision. Phisto grasped and fell onto the coach where Jasmine had rested earlier. He grew pale and shook his head as though to dislodge an unbearable sound.<br />
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A battle was being waged that Christmas Eve. Visions of angels and saviors had been demolished. All that remained was the feral scent of two immortal beings who would fight to the death to avenge their past and to accompany Jasmine through her mortal life.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524577350914900625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597243006986164238.post-11859121909231947042012-11-18T21:04:00.001-08:002014-12-03T11:48:01.612-08:00Vampayre's Revenge<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<img alt="" class="prev" src="http://cache3.asset-cache.net/gp/155076889.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=3&d=7yt5wbtut2FDgliEIDMFPMZHLOSWyTl7cznySn5aop3RSBzO4WltB6mX50msYasg" id="img17_bbl_img" style="height: 340px; width: 226px;" /><br />
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Jasmine had had an accident at the audition at the American Opera Center earlier that day. Luca had taken her to the hospital, holding her in his arms, inhaling the poignant fragrant delicacy of her being. Her sounds, still, even then, were filled with a gentle compassion. Jasmine had called his name between her pain filled breaths. He saw Jasmine's wise hazel eyes when she'd been his wife, Fiora, during the Italian Renaissance. <br />
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He'd carried her through the crowds on a large feast day. They'd finished a performance and the Italians, overcome with emotions, had reached for her. They were likely to tear her delicate person apart, he'd thought as he lifted her easily and carried her steadily through the cheering throng. <br />
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Luca had been filled with gratitude that day as he held her against his racing heart. Fiora's golden highlighted hair fell across his arms in a long delicate braid that had been woven with seed pearls and flowers. Fiora's patrons had finally accepted him as a suitable partner. His newfound musical stature had reassured their greedy natures and they'd consented to their marriage. They were preparing a meal for them later that day. His mentor,Cesco, and patron, Vincenzo di Medici, had been invited, no doubt, to also raise her patrons' stature.<br />
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Luca's mind filled with the scents and memories that had fed him these past five hundred years. While he'd waited for Fiora to return to him, or for death. But Vampayres were allowed release only when their soul's mission had been completed. He'd yet to succeed in the fourth trial which would allow him to leave his human body and ascend to higher realms. But he'd not wanted to leave before reuniting with Fiora. He was man and arch-angel. Demon and avenging spirit with Christ's compassion and Lucifer's temper and arrogance. He'd many trials to yet overcome.<br />
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Phisto, his beta-noir, his dark night, wanted to destroy Jasmine and bend her talent to the service of his greater fame and fortune. Luca could not allow that. And so the demon that he'd created, out of fear, and misguided compassion, as a young Vampayre, had survived and lived to destroy Luca and those whom he loved. He hadn't loved anyone these many years on earth, apart from Fiora, Cesco and now Jasmine. He'd heard her sound before she auditioned at the American Opera Center and he knew that the fourth trial was upon him.<br />
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He knew that Phisto had manipulated the accident that broke Jasmine's beautiful right hand. It had been his invitation to the final conflict. Phisto had known that he would get Luca's attention by hurting Jasmine. And he had. Luca's infinite vision and powers were now trained solely on Phisto. How could he destroy him if he couldn't love him. Love was the only weapon that bought that demon to his knees. Love and gratitude were his only weapons, despite his inhuman strength and gifts.<br />
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He prayed and waited for the love to return to his heart. Now he wanted revenge. A Vampayre's revenge.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524577350914900625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597243006986164238.post-91487757895588029662012-09-30T21:12:00.002-07:002013-11-30T11:48:56.048-08:00Vampayre Lovers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://cache1.asset-cache.net/xt/84750159.jpg?v=1&g=fs1|0|TIB|50|159&s=1" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="View image detail" border="0" id="img5" src="http://cache1.asset-cache.net/xt/84750159.jpg?v=1&g=fs1|0|TIB|50|159&s=1" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 14px;">They walk in beauty like a patch of midnight briefly illumined by the moon. They are archangels and men. Vampayres, like humans, have free will </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 14px;">and, like humans, struggle with the weight of that particular responsibility. But they are also archangels who live in the center of passion's fury and integrity's forgiving sword. They are like an intensified soul twin who has known and experienced your essence for centuries, and who still loves you beyond human capacity.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 14px;">Jasmine and Luca experience each other in a way that makes my body flush as if the secret petals of my essence have just felt the touch of the sun. Luca has loved Jasmine through the centuries and is now faced with losing her to his intrepid enemy, Vampire, Phisto. Their feud has survived hundreds of years as they rose in stature as eminent classical musicians. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 14px;">Luca hears each persons' music and vibrations. He lives in a world buoyant with sound and through the elements of their music, deeply understands human thoughts and motives. Luca's </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 14px;">gifts led him to become a preeminent composer whose name today lingers in every music lovers' conversation.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 14px;"> Phisto was tempted by the penetrating power of the orchestra and the desire to control it, and so he became a famous conductor. Jasmine entered their sphere as a student at the American Opera Center, gifted beyond comprehension, with a voice that heals.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 14px;">I think of the warrior's path that my love life has become. I have struggled with shadow men and phantom lovers who could never quite summon the courage to love me the way that I need to be loved. But when I see Jasmine and Luca together, I know that other elements and other connections exist beyond the outskirts of my limited imagination. Luca's eyes are a true red violet. They deepen or lighten according to his emotions. Luca's eyes immobilize me. I feel that he has known our Creator and danced with the divinities of the world. What destiny has bought them together? And I wonder if my destiny has a creature such as he to move with the currents of my soul. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 14px;">I never feel as alone as when I face the raw fragility of their love. Yet the vision also lends a comforting belief that I can continue to live in a world where this, at least, exists. But I notice how Phisto's cobalt eyes slither over their movements and relationship. I know that they have but little time before a price is exacted for the joy that they have known.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524577350914900625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597243006986164238.post-83464757901486313562012-04-28T15:34:00.000-07:002014-01-26T12:14:08.757-08:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524577350914900625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597243006986164238.post-38103613548875453912012-03-30T21:08:00.002-07:002014-12-03T11:46:32.110-08:00Game of Thrones - Who will take the Ascendancy? Vampayre? Vampire?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://cache4.asset-cache.net/xr/108271923.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=3&d=45A59E392C339D42D0E2C40F957D582922B4500B1ACEF9D4FDF0FB2DC590352BE30A760B0D811297" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="prev" src="http://cache4.asset-cache.net/xr/108271923.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=3&d=45A59E392C339D42D0E2C40F957D582922B4500B1ACEF9D4FDF0FB2DC590352BE30A760B0D811297" id="img6_bbl_img" style="width: 340px;" /></a><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">I began to think that it was time to leave New York and to go back to the monks who had trained me so many years ago, eons it seemed. They taught me to live on the spiritual energy of breath, or prana. Since I’d lost my beloved wife, Fiora, and I was no longer human, music became my only passion, my life. So I hadn’t anticipated the way that Jasmine’s scen<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"></span>t, how she smiled, sang, and looked had tempted and awakened me, though I should have. I should have remembered that temptation fed on the complacent soul. I had become so confident that I’d conquered my true nature that I had almost forgotten that I was a Vampayre. Almost. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"> Vampayres fed on human breath and sucked their victims’ oxygen until they lay drained and dead. I vowed to destroy my life as an eminent composer before I could get close enough to harm Jasmine or expose her to my particular passion for human breath. I paused to consider my nature. After all as a Vampayre, I had exceptional gifts. We were essentially spiritual creatures, half angel and half man, but like all souls, we Vampayres struggled with free will, but we also possessed extraordinary abilities to charm humans, which challenged their free will. We had unnatural physical beauty and epic sexual magnetism. Vampayres were often seduced by music and usually had other worldly musical talents amongst others. I’ve explained my ability to hear and interpret humans’ sound vibrations. My abilities extended to animals and other creatures, like Phisto.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"> Let me finish, for our gifts are many. Vampayres also have full, sensual lips and excel at kissing. Kissing was the more compassionate way that we could kill our victims. Expertly and gently at first, we would caress their lips with ours and penetrate their mouths until we suffocated them by sucking all of their breath. Their deaths were essentially pleasant though, for we filled their heads with beautiful music that had accompanied them through their lives. We lured and consoled them with their individual sound vibration that lulled them into blissful, hypnotic states. They went peacefully, blissfully even towards death’s caress.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"> Beware though, we were also vicious when betrayed and would do anything, anything, to protect our loved ones. And we Vampayres were also capable of killing in more painful and far less gentle ways.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"> But our eyes, our eyes were extraordinary. They reflected the level of our spiritual development and changed with our growth. During the past five hundred years my eyes had turned a violet color that deepened or lightened with my state of spiritual attunement. I had advanced tremendously for this color was associated with one of the highest levels of spiritual attainment. My eye color also indicated psychic power of attunement with self as well as intuitive, visionary, futuristic, idealistic, artistic and magical gifts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524577350914900625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597243006986164238.post-78266848655573512432012-02-26T10:24:00.002-08:002013-11-30T11:49:20.597-08:00Violet Destiny Chapter One - Death by Music<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>Violet Destiny<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>Jasmine<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<a href="http://cache4.asset-cache.net/xr/119021991.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=3&d=993043C0AF5AB0D32EBB1F045EA6080D891CCF64DF300BD6F5BFCBF8F1F11D2DE30A760B0D811297" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="prev" id="img7_bbl_img" src="http://cache4.asset-cache.net/xr/119021991.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=3&d=993043C0AF5AB0D32EBB1F045EA6080D891CCF64DF300BD6F5BFCBF8F1F11D2DE30A760B0D811297" style="height: 340px; width: 226px;" /></a></div>
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<b> </b><span style="font-weight: normal;">When I awaken th</span>is summer morning in Venice, I have no premonition that I will be fighting for my life before tomorrow’s dawn; or that my mentor and friend, plans to kill me. Memories of the last eight pain filled years, like a pale puckered scar, remind me that I have been able to heal, through music and love. Music has always saved me, I think. </div>
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Several hours later, before the violet dawn flushes a new day, I walk into the American Opera Center theatre, in New York, to meet my lover, but really, the stage has been set for my death.</div>
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I rush into the theatre, only thinking about his arms and his kiss. I halt briefly noting that hundreds of candles have been lit and the stage set for Violetta’s death scene in La Traviata. </div>
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I call to my lover and my voice echoes in the acoustical theatre then fades into silence. I have one thought, and that is to run, but despite my instincts, I still hope that my beloved waits for me there, and my legs move slowly towards the exit. Then his arms encircle my waist and his breath, <span style="color: black;">heavy with the rich scent of the 1787 Bordeaux Chateaux Lafitte that we shared in better times, you could say,</span> tickles my ear. Immediately I accept that something has gone desperately wrong. </div>
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“Ah but you were expecting the other one. Sorry to disappoint my dear. But you will see that I am the better choice. I offer the better life.”</div>
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“You just startled me,” I choke through my throat that is closing with fear. “Come, are you chastising me for missing a rehearsal? Did I forget something?” I chide lightly, even though the words stick in my throat and my mouth is dry.</div>
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“Nothing has been forgotten. This is the most important night of your life. Tonight, you will truly be immortal. I offer you this, and fame. What girl has had such an offer?”</div>
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He turns me so that I face his well-known face. I recognize the dark stubble that ripples along his angular jaw, and a wave of dark chocolate hair that falls into his cobalt eyes, that are now steely. </div>
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“I’ve been traveling all day. It’s wonderful to see you, really. Can’t we continue this tomorrow?” I ask.<br />
“Tomorrow is a day for beginnings, but tonight is for endings. Say goodbye to the mediocrity that shadows every step that humans take. Au Revoir to servitude, and fear and folly. Tonight, you will become the queen of your life, and mine. Together we will rule the operatic stages of the world. Just a brief time of pain and an eternity of song and power will follow.” He touches his cold lips to mine and I feel ice bubbles run throughout my body.</div>
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“Come, my dear. Have a drink with me. There is no need to hurry. I have wanted to taste you since I first smelled your blood. It is quite magnificent, you know, like your voice.”</div>
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He leads me to the stage and I sink onto Violetta’s deathbed, praying that it will not be mine.</div>
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“I offer a toast, to our new union. We will reign forever, <span style="font-size: 13pt;">Целую, (Tseylulu).”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13pt;"> I flinch at his pet name for me that translates as ‘I kiss you.’ He often shouted that during our rehearsals over the past year, b</span>ut now his vocal caress pounds in my ears, like a Lady Gaga recording that is poorly synced. I am determined to hold onto another melody, one that was written for me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I sought him who my soul loveth: I held him and I would not let him go.” The phrase from the Bible’s Song of Solomon races through my mind. So, I am to be this monster’s immortal bride or destroy the other man who has become my soul. This totally bites, I think and then choke back hysterical laughter.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I don’t answer and my silence enrages him. I feel a rush of wind flying past me, but it is I who fly across the stage where the demon hurls me. My body feels mangled and the harsh stage floor thuds against my head before I lose consciousness. The last thing I hear is my beloved’s music. It comes to me as through a mist. I hold onto that. I will take that to my death. “Questo il mio momento finale,” I think of the aria that my love wrote for me, the aria that I was cast to sing in the New York premier of his opera, on this same stage, and another stabbing pain rocks my body. And so I will not die alone, or in vain. My love and his music will survive. And the world will be a better place for that…<span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524577350914900625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597243006986164238.post-25031704233467261572011-11-18T22:48:00.000-08:002013-11-30T11:49:31.080-08:00Violet Scars - Prologue<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://cache1.asset-cache.net/xr/117146392.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=3&d=45A59E392C339D42122A761E71056670EA7CA73ABCC46C44837766C3FBBBFA8AE30A760B0D811297" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="prev" id="img10_bbl_img" src="http://cache1.asset-cache.net/xr/117146392.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=3&d=45A59E392C339D42122A761E71056670EA7CA73ABCC46C44837766C3FBBBFA8AE30A760B0D811297" style="width: 340px;" /></a>Prologue</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I am to save Wendy and myself I must get to the island of the dead before midnight. Phisto, the conductor, has his cobalt eyes trained on my every movement now that I know what he wants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I inhale deeply and sing the fifth lied in Mahler’s Ruckert lieder, “Ich bin der welt abhanden gekommen,” for my third encore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I sing the exquisitely painful words,</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<span style="color: #16314a;">I am dead to the world's tumult,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #16314a;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I rest in a quiet realm!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #16314a;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I live alone in my </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #16314a;">heaven,</span></div>
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<span style="color: #16314a;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In my love and in my song!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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the now familiar scent of lavender blooms and fills the packed church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The audience seems to fall into a trance as they turn dreamily to identify the source.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They discreetly sniff themselves before they check out their neighbors. But I know the source of the heady fragrance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I feel that this is the last time that I can sing this piece, broken-hearted as I am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is a bitch, I think.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All I want to do is sing my last encore and then slip into my soft jeans and glide over the black waters of the canal that will take me to his resting place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to lie on the cool earth beside his sepulcher to see if he is the man that’s been obsessing my thoughts and actions, or if it was some mad fantasy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I move quickly after the curtain calls because I know that Phisto will be following me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He suspects my love and my intentions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t have much time and I need him to believe that I want his insane future as much as he.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As if I think.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m wiped tonight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not up to dealing with a bunch of hysterical Italians. Please explain for me.” Then I touch the conductor’s lips so that he is not suspicious.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I love you.” I say and calculate how much time I have while I wait for Phisto’s response for he is always punctilious.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He pauses, such a drama queen I think impatiently, because I feel the weight of each lost second.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then he traces my jaw and moves his hand down the curve of my neck to the top of my right breast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His touch freezes my skin, but I miss something else, the sensation of<o:p></o:p></div>
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fire that follows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did he ever do that to me or did I just imagine it?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You were brilliant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your voice has grown like a mighty warrior’s prowess, now you are the most powerful weapon on the stage. It’s a battle field my dear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t let the gowns and sparkling jewels fool you.” He touches the yellow diamond necklace that he gave me, now nestled in my throat, where I feel my rapid pulse. I see that his eyes are fixed there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is mesmerized by the frenetic dance that he sees.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll be refreshed and waiting for you later, love.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turn and look over my bare shoulder, “I’ll have my answer for you then, love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You won’t be disappointed.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I turn and head towards my dressing area but see that his SNAKE waits for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not tonight I think and slip into the ladies room. I’ll have to go in my concert gown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not exactly the comfort that I was looking for, but it will have to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wendy is waiting for me outside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We don’t have much time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s almost midnight, the last half hour of November 2, the day that the Italians make pilgrimages to the Isola di San Michele where their dead are buried. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’ve bribed a gondolier who finally agreed, after intensive haggling, to take me to the island of the dead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Italians are very superstitious and no living person is allowed to step onto the island after the sun has set.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Affrettatevi signorina. Non possiamo ritardare. Avete il resto dei soldi?<span style="color: #16314a;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I hand him the balance of the money and kick off my heels and step onto the rocking gondola.<span style="color: #16314a;"> </span>And now I will cross over to the island to view the sepulcher of the man that I love, and whom I am now sure, has returned my love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sky is a lush black but the wind begins to gust and a flash of lightening scars the sky the darkest violet. So he realizes that I’ve slipped away and he is angry, I think.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I shiver in the Fall Italian air and pull my hooded black velvet cape more closely to my body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know that I love his music and perhaps that is all of him that I will ever have. And I acknowledge that it has, in some ways, been enough. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Chill Wen, this was your idea.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“One thing in theory,” she says and huddles against me as the gondola bucks in the angry winds.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The gondolier begins to lose it and yammers about the weather and how we have disturbed the dead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hand him another 250 euros and tell him to calm down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I barely hop off the gondola with my heels in my left hand, before he pushes off. Another flash of lightening illumines his terrified face as he makes the sign of the cross against his straining chest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I panic then because without him we are stranded here until morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I reach for Wendy’s hand, it is cold and she is uncharacteristically quiet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can see her fear as well as her determination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My black sequined gown glows in the eerie night shadows and I think that I must look like the bride of some demon. Better this than the bride of the other one, I think.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wendy and I switch on our flashlights and consult the hand scrawled map that the gondolier had given me earlier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It directs us to Luca’s grave. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I abandon my shoes entirely and my Donna Karan stockings hold up valiantly before they tear against a stone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ouch, this is like some bad 1930’s horror flick,” I say</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, but then we’d have a film crew and they’d have some freakin transportation back to the living.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stop, do you smell that?<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What are you… you mean the”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes the musky lavender scent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dead nor not, he will protect us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d bet my life on it.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Uh, news flash, you are betting our lives on it.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s okay, Wen. Promise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wouldn’t put you in danger.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She squeezes my hand and we follow the map with our flashlights trained in the same direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is the path that will lead me to him, finally, after a year has passed and another Fall is upon us.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This must be it,” I say and move the flashlight to read the name on the massive ornate mausoleum.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There it is, Cantanta.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wendy screams. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As for me, I’m filled with warmth and terror.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if I’ve been wrong? What if he was just a brilliant composer who fed my fantasies, and somehow triggered my post-traumatic stress disorder that I’d suffered from after my parents were killed?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pull myself together and raise my flashlight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone has affixed photos of him to the sheer surface of the stone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those eyes, those lips.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My body feels heavy and it’s difficult to move, but perhaps it is only the weight of my longing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I see something else, a bouquet of purple flowers, they are fresh so someone must have left them earlier today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t identify them but they fill me with dread and I almost drop my flashlight.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I turn to choke down the bile in my throat when I feel him, as close to me as my skin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My body seems to have no bones and melds in perfect symmetry with his.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His lips caress my ear and his sound is a melody that seems to interpret the jumble in my soul. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He speaks of love, but I know that doesn’t exist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those whom I have loved are now dead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only memories remain, like dried blood on a white carpet, a dark scar against a once unsullied tapestry, now ruined forever.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We will never be parted again.” His voice caresses my throat.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I turn my mouth towards his lips. Since he won’t stop lying, I silence his voice.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He takes my face between his well-formed, muscular hands and I glimpse the violet in his eyes before I close mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He covers my mouth with his and even though death invades our private moment, I feel as though I am no stranger here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mind fills with the sound of his aria, the one that now forever links us in fame’s fickle web. His arms hold my weight as I drift on the beauty that he created.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sound and his kiss deepen until I gasp for air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I make no effort to retreat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is what I have longed for and since I can not find him in life, I will follow him through death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There is not much time left and I struggle to tell him that I love him, that I have always loved him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I close my eyes welcoming the serenity that will follow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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But we are torn apart and I realize, as my lungs fill with sweet air, that he is fighting for our lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The soft earth is covered in blood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I don’t want to fight anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to follow him to a world beyond this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want the calm that will silence the voices and the loss. I want to make sure that Wendy is safe and then, I want to go home.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524577350914900625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597243006986164238.post-19931048798550035572011-10-29T21:48:00.000-07:002011-10-29T22:38:15.969-07:00Zombies' Revenge - All Hallow's Eve Debacle<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="http://cache3.asset-cache.net/xr/96612439.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=3&d=D9DE238B075EBDD9348AF0415BB5A71756DF8AF9ADB5EC5F2B933B999B3DE5B3" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="prev" id="img18_bbl_img" src="http://cache3.asset-cache.net/xr/96612439.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=3&d=D9DE238B075EBDD9348AF0415BB5A71756DF8AF9ADB5EC5F2B933B999B3DE5B3" style="width: 340px;" /></a>They wanted revenge. They came to destroy. They had died young and the night would not pass without them exacting a price. The Harvest Moon hung low on the horizon. It would not rise in the sky, just as they would not return to the ground that suffocated them, until they carried the body of the one who had killed them.<br />
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This is a night of chaos. This is a night of balance. Sleep well in your beds and munch your colorful candies but if you have not received expiation for your sins, be watchful - do not sleep - or they will possess your body. Your soul will wander through the dusts of eternity seeking shelter - which will not be found. <br />
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Storm Rider had killed thousands of God's creatures. He was unrepentant and walked the earth still - an avenging spirit without mercy or reason. He had tricked my friend and client so that she gave him her body and her love. When she realized that he was a member of the undead, that he wanted to sustain his lifeless vessel with her blood, she'd turned to me for help. My love, Cairn, understood one such as he. They were powerful and vicious adversaries, equally matched. Storm Rider travels the earth still. Everyone is a potential victim - each soul is at risk. Until they decided to stop him. And Hallow's Eve was the only night when the fragile veil that separated the two worlds would briefly open and the living and the dead were free to communicate or destroy.<br />
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They passed in whirling flashes during the day. Storm's speed was unsurpassed but his self-absorption was legendary, so he easily forgot the strange phenomenon, until they clustered at dusk, on the wind ridden moor, where he sought his nightly prey. Their numbers were astonishing; their eyes vengeful hells; as they walked as one towards him.<br />
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He laughed into the wind. Storm's chiseled muscles flexed in anticipation of the first contact. His black hair whipped in a dark cloud around his craggy face. White teeth, like ghosts, crowded in his mouth - and he lashed at them with a strike of lightening and laughter that chilled mortal men. Still they advanced with open mouths and hands curled like claws.<br />
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Lightening scarred their ashen faces, and the fierce winds slowed their pace, but they were relentless and advanced still, towards their killer, for tonight, the killer was the prey.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524577350914900625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597243006986164238.post-86147157907164027582011-10-15T21:59:00.000-07:002013-07-28T19:33:00.329-07:00Dead Redheads and Human Hearts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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What had been a vibrant, young woman that morning, was soon a mass of gristle, carved bone and liquidated organs. I ran the water to slough the remaining blood, liquids and smaller bits down the drain. Curiosity led me to save her heart for last. It was a curious thing, the heart. It ca<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"></span>used so much suffering for humans. I’d always wanted to taste the heart’s forbidden fruits, and wonder<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"></span>ed if in so doing, I’d share some of the humans’ heart driven experiences. For fun. For a change. I snipped a piece of her heart and bought it to my mouth. Nothing had passed through my lips for the past five hundred years other than blood and the most exquisite alcohol. </div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was chewy, not altogether an unpleasant texture. And then I had to steady myself against the wall, for I was filled with a euphoric sense of wellbeing and a power that surpassed even my supernatural abilities. I’d heard humans talk about heroine. I imagined that I experienced similar sensations to that. I felt the theatre rumble as the storm surged in response to my experience with the redhead’s heart. And I took another snip and savored that bite more than the first. I slid to the bathroom floor and grasped a handful of her hair. I bought it to my lips and inhaled the lemon verbana fragrance. I was hungry, perhaps hungrier than I’d ever been. And I felt reckless. That was not a good thing. I fought to maintain some composure. I had work to finish. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Time passed in indivisible segments, so that I could not determine which was the minute and which the hour. But I know that I lay like that with her hair beneath my nose for a long time - perhaps an hour, maybe more. When I at last roused myself I went to my Rolex and saw that it was almost dawn. I’d not joined Jasmine at the hospital. But the worry and tension seemed to dwell in another universe. I didn’t want to dispose of the rest of her heart. But I dared not take another taste. It was time that I’d finished the job and left. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I took the saw to the remains of her heart and was shocked when I felt tears in my eyes. I ruthlessly shred the muscle and dumped the remains in the juicer. I followed methodically with what remained. Originally I’d thought to package her remains in the bags that I’d bought with me, and fly over the skyline, dropping plastic graves in the Hudson and East Rivers. But the juicer seemed just the thing. It was so much tidier. I then flushed her juiced remains and she would ultimately join the river in her last journey. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My last chore was to burn her hair. I took a match to the coppery curls and watched the flames in the bathroom sink, before I extinguished the sooty remains with water. I did not know if my eyes stung from the smell, or from my new experience with tears. I would not dwell on that. It was a job well done. I disinfected the tub, sink and toilet bowl and exited the theatre, walking into the violet dawn towards Jasmine’s apartment.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524577350914900625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597243006986164238.post-86612555872590518572011-09-20T18:03:00.000-07:002013-07-28T19:33:29.676-07:00Vampayre Diaries<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://cache3.asset-cache.net/xr/NA006343.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=3&d=EDF6F2F4F969CEBD990766F3CECDB4E39B1D5A5D4EF74122CE799AFB09ED5A61" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="prev" id="img4_bbl_img" src="http://cache3.asset-cache.net/xr/NA006343.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=3&d=EDF6F2F4F969CEBD990766F3CECDB4E39B1D5A5D4EF74122CE799AFB09ED5A61" style="width: 340px;" /></a>I opened the door to fiery wet darkness and stared into deep violet shadows. <br />
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"I told you that I was working tonight." My heart went flippy dippy when I saw Luca standing there.<br />
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"I wasn't about to leave you alone in the hurricane." Luca said.<br />
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"Yes, it's not turned out to be the drama that the 24/7 bleating heads reported." I ached to invite him in.<br />
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"Nevertheless, I didn't want you to be alone."<br />
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"It's been me and Santa for so many years now," I said and bent to stroke my Golden Shaded Persian's head. She particularly like to be caressed between her eyes. I guess that it was her third eye too, I mused. I tried not to focus on Luca's height that filled the storm soaked doorway to my Riverside Drive brownstone apartment. I wanted to kiss him in the center of the storm and to run my hands over his carved chest, and lick away every raindrop. But I wasn't emotional. No, not me.<br />
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I had tried to reach the reporter with whom I'd been speaking. I supposed that was naive. She could possibly use any portion of my story and that would bring a deluge of negative attention to the American Opera Center. Not much to tell, just two preternatural, magnificent men, oh and they were supernatural. But I wasn't sure what kind of supernaturals that they were. That's why I called the reporter in the first place. I'd heard about her blog about supernatural creatures in the classical music community. At first I'd laughed. That was before I'd experienced Phisto's focused fury, and kisses that made my head spin while my body wanted to tear at his clothes and couple on the floor.<br />
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And there was Luca. His eyes pulled me into the shadows of silence, where I floated in a milky way of comfort. I'd felt like I'd been kissed all over by nightshade petals, and that was before his lips touched mine. Kissing him was like swirling in the center of a tornado. It sucked all of my breath, but I was so intensely excited that I barely noticed. All there was, was Luca.<br />
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Luca kissed my rain splattered face before he focused on my mouth. The first touch was explosive. I felt as though I understood then how perfectly my woman's body was wired. His touch shot heat through my breasts and other more intimate parts of my body. I felt my body opening to him and wanting to merge with his. We stood in my doorway until our clothes were wet and clung to us like film. Luca carried me into my apartment and laid me my bed. It was the first time that we were in my bedroom together.<br />
<br />
I'd forgotten to close the window and the wind hissed through the screen and rain slashed across my maple floors. I then became absorbed with Luca and wrapped in his kisses, and arms and tongue. I didn't see Phisto's face contorted in rage as the lightening slashed across his exposed blood teeth and he howled into the thunder. <br />
<br />
I think that I may have run even run from Luca, had I seen that. But I heard Santa howling at the window and heard her hearty hissing.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524577350914900625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597243006986164238.post-30141207808413623232011-08-26T21:41:00.000-07:002014-12-03T11:48:09.754-08:00Hurricane Irene - A Vampire's Fury<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://cache2.asset-cache.net/xt/57224320.jpg?v=1&g=fs1|0|BLD|24|320&s=1" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="View image detail" border="0" src="http://cache2.asset-cache.net/xt/57224320.jpg?v=1&g=fs1|0|BLD|24|320&s=1" id="img23" /></a>The New York air is unnaturally subdued even as the fierce city tracks the progress of an historic storm. I know why the storm is surging tonight poised to attack the eastern coastline. Phisto's fury is churning, and with that the hurricane has been spawned. I felt the man's intensity and strength in his music, as I watched his casual stance, taut with power. His eyes tracked Jasmine's movements even as he smiled and charmed his fans, he watched her with an intense cobalt concentration. <br />
<br />
I was chilled when I saw him focus on Luca's mystical violet eyes. It was like a midnight storm trying to penetrate a perfect dawn. These two men, seemingly dissimilar in every way, actually shared many traits. They were the light and the dark that we admire in a painting, the human voice. Without one the beauty can not exist. It is the contrast that creates the magnificence. But it is too much for one woman to withstand. They each fight for Jasmine's talent and her affection, though for different reasons.<br />
<br />
Jasmine and I have not had a chance to speak at depth since the concert in Central Park. I have many insights and some information that Cairn has shared. Does she know that Phisto<br />
is not as he seems and that he is more dangerous than she can imagine? And what of Luca, does she realize that he is a Vampayre? These are not exactly truths that she can learn at the American Opera Center. And yet she is about to learn the visceral consequences that will accompany her choices and the freedom that she is claiming with her voice is about to be curtailed in her life, if she is not conscious. <br />
<br />
She called in a state of agitation. Apparently Luca has invited her to spend the pre-storm darkness with him, even as Phisto said that he expected to spend the night with her at her Riverside apartment. For the moment she has told them that she will be fine and needs to work and study over the weekend. But the storm is coming because one man can not accept her decision. We are waiting tonight to see what tomorrow will bring. In the hushed expectation someone's life is about to be changed.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524577350914900625noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597243006986164238.post-31902161765614822462011-08-15T18:33:00.000-07:002014-12-03T11:46:41.178-08:00Summer in Central Park - When Two Strong Men come Face to Face<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://cache1.asset-cache.net/xr/108350942.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=3&d=45A59E392C339D42A288F86710152BCE130B0E80FEEA33F18CFC4EE724BD5884E30A760B0D811297" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="prev" src="http://cache1.asset-cache.net/xr/108350942.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=3&d=45A59E392C339D42A288F86710152BCE130B0E80FEEA33F18CFC4EE724BD5884E30A760B0D811297" id="img4_bbl_img" style="width: 340px;" /></a>It happened. I met Luca and Phisto. Cairn was with me, and his SPNdar (supernatural radar) was in full throttle. Jasmine invited me to attend a performance of the American Opera Center in Central Park. That gave me an opportunity to experience their music before I met them. I wasn't prepared for the force that left me trembling.<br />
<br />
The night was languid with heat and humidity. Cairn had gone before to reserve a spot, so I was able to luxuriate next to him on my lavender sari blanket that was woven with silver threads that united the sari's rich fabric and history, in the middle of the park with a direct view of the stage. I looked into Cairn's eyes that to me, were like the stars that created a palette above the trees. I was home. <br />
<br />
The orchestra tuned and I settled against the beach chairs that Cairn had bought along, determined to observe and experience everything. The first chords from Luca's new opera encircled Central Park with a golden thread. It felt like looking into the beloved's eyes for the first time - the recognition - the disbelief - the intense relief that he's finally come. No, it felt like listening to the life current that made buds blossom and the ocean tumble onto the shore. It was the sound of life. I turned to look at the canopy of leaves that sheltered us and I swear that I saw new shoots sprout and jump into the summer night. I saw buds quicken and burst into flowers. I saw life. Cairn turned to me and drew my hand to his mouth where his lips lingered and promised more intimacy. I didn't know who this man, this composer was, but he was a genius. He channeled sounds from another realm. A realm that we long to retreat to but can only visit in meditation or dreams, or we hope, after death. The music continued to flourish, build and release, leaving a plowed field with new seeds in its wake. His music was about possibilities and expanse. <br />
<br />
Phisto conducted the piece with a fury that made me feel greedy. I wanted to grab all of the life around me and stuff into my mouth, my pores. I wanted to roll in the grass and cover myself with life. I wanted it all. The next piece was from Saint Saen's Samson and Dehlilah, the Bacchanale. It was a piece that depicted greed, a surfeit of food, music, love. The intense and relentless swell of the music grabbed me by the throat and I wanted to shout yes to everything. I didn't notice how Cairn watched me with amusement or how his full lips curved and his dimples flickered from the shadows of his masculine face. I always loved music but my response to Phisto's conducting was visceral. The air grew heavier and plump with moisture as if in response to the promise that the music held<br />
<br />
The last strains from the concert hovered above the muted park while the audience seemed to turn within and consider their destiny. I was surprised when Jasmine came to us and said in a gentle voice, "Come, I want you to meet them." Her eyes flickered to Cairn and she nodded, so we made our way through the crowd. She moved economically and with confidence so that we made our way easily and were soon behind the stage where I saw two mythic men talking with admirers.<br />
<br />
Luca turned first as soon as he sensed Jasmine's presence. I was struck by his violet eyes that slashed against his rugged tanned face like an oasis in a dessert. His dark hair hung over his forehead, slightly damp from the heat. His eyes focused on Jasmine with such intensity that they seemed to create the impression of a universe with Jasmine at the center. Introductions were made and I stammered something about the vivacity and ethereal quality of the piece, hoping that I didn't sound terribly gauche. I just really wanted to kiss his hands for I felt like I was in the presence of something more fragile and beautiful than this earth can comfortably host. His touch at first was cool, then my skin flushed where his hand had just held mine.<br />
<br />
"I'm glad that my music satisfied," he responded. The words glided on a rich baritone voice that sounded like another one of his compositions. His masculine hand was beautifully formed with long eloquent fingers and a large reassuring palm. I sensed Cairn's immediate reaction, as though he recognized the man. But my questions would have to wait until later.<br />
<br />
Then we moved towards Phisto who commanded a group of admirers as a general might preside over his troops. His height insinuated that he would dominate every situation but his confidence guaranteed it. His speech was clipped and direct with an Eastern European accent.<br />
<br />
"The music is only notes. It is the conductor that gives it life, no?"<br />
<br />
And I knew in that moment that he and Luca hated each other with the primordial hatred that cleaved heaven from earth at the beginning of time.<br />
<br />
They were not mere men. They were something more. And my new friend Jasmine was at the epicenter of something that had driven their desires and fears from the beginning.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524577350914900625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597243006986164238.post-19110811498287540812011-08-12T21:10:00.000-07:002011-08-12T21:39:58.378-07:00PTSD - Solitude and Sound -<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="http://cache4.asset-cache.net/xr/72131206.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=3&d=6BCF04FE7E4632B6AA68882FC89AD5E2F545382F61317BDF39C7CD61A10CBE71" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="prev" id="img22_bbl_img" src="http://cache4.asset-cache.net/xr/72131206.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=3&d=6BCF04FE7E4632B6AA68882FC89AD5E2F545382F61317BDF39C7CD61A10CBE71" style="height: 340px; width: 268px;" /></a>I live in a world of solitude and sound, surrounded by the comfort of one and the miracle of the other. I didn't trust human love after my parents had died. It seemed that if they could not manage to remain to raise me, love me, that my obligations to such emotions had then been neatly severed. Truthfully I longed to be invited into the warmth of the insular world that they inhabited but I was always an observer. As such, I became acutely keen at discerning peoples' emotions and motivations. I learned to mimic their behaviors that had been inspired by deep attachments. But I held myself back from the emotions themselves. Still I am a deeply sensitive person and needed an expressive outlet for my inner kingdom.<br />
<br />
Music became that outlet and I served her like the most faithful initiate. Her love was steady and strong and she always rewarded my devotion. She took me to inner realms where the spirit soars unfettered by the body. I was transformed in the service of music. I sang with the passion of an abandoned lover, an embittered parent, a defeated enemy. My voice transported me to distant lands where I was always safe because as soon the music stopped, I was able to retreat to my comfort zone. That was before I met Luca and Phisto. They were game changers. I knew that I would never be the same. Nor did I want to be. <br />
<br />
Luca's music invaded my body and soul like a fever. It heated my muscles and swam through my veins even after the last resonance from the last chord had echoed through the theatre and only rapt silence remained. Luca's music soared like Puccini and haunted like Strauss. It fit my voice more intimately than my words or speech. For I was often awkward when I spoke of emotions, but Luca's melodies spoke for me with far more eloquence and more courage than I had yet summoned.<br />
<br />
<br />
I sang for Phisto first when I auditioned for the American Opera Center. But I sang for Luca when my career hung in the balance and I fought for the lead role in his long awaited new opera. It was as though we were alone in the theatre though many came to hear my audition. Yet, I performed in the magical sphere of Luca's violet eyes and my voice responded to his presence like lightening to thunder. I followed his lightening with the thunder of my passion.<br />
<br />
Would they cast me, an unknown in Luca Cantanta's new opera. It was a story from another time. An innocent time when talent was rewarded above connections and money. But careers were not only for the talented or corporate America wouldn't be littered with so many talented musicians, actors, writers caught in a daily soul struggle to keep the vibrant parts of themselves alive. Save me from an enormous talent that would not find it's voice, I thought. And I sang for all of those who could not love me and for those whom I hoped could. I sang for Luca. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524577350914900625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597243006986164238.post-75012914379352791442011-08-05T22:54:00.000-07:002011-08-06T22:03:19.653-07:00Curb Your Enthusiasm -<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Sometimes my desires crash into one another like thunder, like wind battering shutters against an old clapboard house. I try to reconcile them with the tenacity of the blood hungry GOP, but the heart wants what it wants. Yett the soul, too, has desires. I struggle to extricate the small still voice of my higher self from the ego driven frenzy. That voice, like most things worth cultivating, is elusive. I believe that I want to hear it but I really find that I'd rather stay immersed in denial. <br />
<br />
I've found that a person can believe the most extraordinary things about themselves and others. For example, don't we all think that our intentions are good? Worthy? That is why I started to practice Reiki - a spiritually guided life energy form of healing accomplished through the laying on of hands. One can practice this healing on themselves or others. I have become acquainted with the gentle voice of my higher self while practicing Reiki. But that voice tells me things that I'd rather not heed. It tells me not to become involved with the conductor, Phisto, or the composer, Luca. It feels like a deep knowing wisdom that gracefully rises to the surface in still waters. But I'm in such turmoil that my emotional waters are rarely placid. <br />
<br />
Phisto has helped me to perfect my musical interpretation, phrasing. My voice, my instrument now seduces the music. It scorches like fire, burns like ice. But when I sing Luca's compositions, I need no coaching. It feels as though I am singing my soul's melody. I barely require coaching or study. Luca's music is as much a part of my soul's signature as the unique sound of my voice. His music defines my soul and through singing it, I have found myself.<br />
<br />
Fragments of myself are irrefutably seduced by Phisto's power and wealth. These are heady twins against the backdrop of New York's siren's call. <br />
<br />
They are more than mortal men. But I know that is impossible. I think that my imagination has become inflamed. I strive to curb my enthusiasm and remain faithful to the music. Music has saved my life. And I know that straying from that purpose will destroy me.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524577350914900625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597243006986164238.post-68124499722762264782011-08-02T19:56:00.000-07:002013-07-28T19:34:46.722-07:00Khaleesi- Which Woman Will I Choose to Be?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://nerdvortex.files.wordpress.com/2011/05/dany-drogo.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://nerdvortex.files.wordpress.com/2011/05/dany-drogo.png" style="-webkit-user-select: none;" /></a>There are those who believe that it would be a gift to love two men. They perceive the imperative choice as a blessing. I can tell you that it is hell to love two men. It is a fever that ravages the body with fire and ice. Sustaining either state for an extended period of time weakens the body and diminishes the spirit. But I love them both and there it is. <br />
<br />
Some women are complex, mostly all, and to varying degrees. I have been told that I mask my authentic feelings behind a placid smile, like a Cheshire cat. I don't believe that anyone can lose as much as I've lost without cultivating this ability. So my emotions are difficult to ascertain when I choose to remain silent. And when I'm not singing, silence is my preferred state. For I have learned to listen more than I speak and to watch carefully lest another betrayal overtake me and consume the rational parts of my being. One however hears my thoughts as music. Luca feels and hears my energetic patterns and knows me, I think, better than I know myself. His eyes are a home that I have never visited but of which I have often dreamed. I am safe there and I don't want to leave. His touch at first chills my flesh and then burns where the chill had been. It excites me in such a way that I experience life and each sensation with heightened clarity and pleasure. I love him with my higher self. I love him with abandon and have fallen in love with the version of me that he reflects. I love Luca for who he is. I feel like a priestess in a sacred temple when I see myself through his eyes.<br />
<br />
But there is also Phisto. He is a furnace of sexual energy and power such that I am helpless amidst the storm of his touch. Phisto loves my talent first and looks to cultivate base urges that struggle to assert themselves. Urges such as the desire for power, supremacy, wealth. And the artistic world has a feeding frenzy with these urges. After all success is to the swift, the calculating, the survivor.<br />
<br />
I am the warrior with Phisto, fearless, strong. Ruthless.<br />
<br />
I am the Priestess with Luca, wise, complete. The keeper of a sacred flame.<br />
<br />
They each want me to choose. And in that one decision I will clarify my life and who I choose to be. If only each woman could live unfettered and free. Why must I choose? Yet a decision must be made at the Violet Hour and that will determine my soul's signature from that moment onward.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524577350914900625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597243006986164238.post-77881172130442805412011-07-23T21:59:00.000-07:002011-07-23T22:42:03.720-07:00True Blood<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">"Fear is insidious. It maims the soul."<br />
<br />
"What do you fear," I asked tapping my recorder to guarantee that it had started. "I mean you have the operatic worlds poised to open their theaters and their check books for you."<br />
<br />
"Yes. Performing is the act of love, self-love, selfless love, and selfish love. I've wondered often if I would have chosen this profession if my parents hadn't been so self-absorbed with their romance."<br />
<br />
"You were destined to be a singer, a great one from what I've heard." I always wanted to sing but my vocal chords only produce rumbling gurgles that sound like I'm hungry.<br />
<br />
"Well, I do believe that it was my destiny. As I believe that I was destined to work with Phisto and Luca."<br />
<br />
"Yes, what about them? They're both, well, in the words of one of my gay friends, magnificent animals. How can you resist either?"<br />
<br />
"Do you believe," Jasmine asked while twirling her long sheathe of coppery blonde hair, "that we have one soul partner? One above all else who completes us?"<br />
<br />
I laughed, thinking of Cairn from whom I was separated temporarily while he continued his battle with StormRider. "I think that there is one who is most suited to us but that we can reasonably make our home with several hearts."<br />
<br />
"I think," she answered with music lilting in her well-modulated voice, "that there is one who completes us in human form, like God does in a spiritual one. One who was part of our being from the beginning of time. Finding that person can make all of the difference."<br />
<br />
"And if you don't find them? We rarely do."<br />
<br />
"Then there is music. It's the perfect amalgam of art, spirituality and truth. It's completion. It saved my life."<br />
<br />
"Yes, I've heard that. Tell me about it."<br />
<br />
"I developed PTSD after my parents were killed and lost my voice. I didn't even know that I'd had a gift then. But I couldn't speak. My grandfather, Grappa I call him, is very wise. He took me too a famous voice teacher when I responded to his attempts to sing to me at night when the blackness fell upon me."<br />
<br />
"Blackness?"<br />
<br />
"You know, fear, terror, abandonment. Grappa suffered a heart attack not long after my parents died and I stopped speaking after that. After they'd patched him up and he'd come home, he began singing to me at night. Apparently I responded to that and began to hum. It was, the only way that I'd communicate for a few months."<br />
<br />
"And so he took you to a voice teacher? Ingenious."<br />
<br />
"Yes, he's a remarkable man."<br />
<br />
"You learned then that you had a voice?"<br />
<br />
"Yes."<br />
<br />
"What frightens you now? You have youth, beauty, talent."<br />
<br />
"I'm afraid of making the wrong choices. A misstep in such a young career could finish me before I'm started. I'm afraid that I'll never trust someone enough to love them."<br />
<br />
"Do you trust your instincts?"<br />
<br />
"Sometimes. I need to become more acquainted with the still soft voice within. I believe that is the voice of the divine."<br />
<br />
"And your advisors? Luca? Phisto?"<br />
<br />
"Ah, that is a more difficult question to answer."<br />
<br />
"Why?"<br />
<br />
"Have you met them?" Jasmine asked and took a sip of peppermint iced tea.<br />
<br />
"I've not had the pleasure."<br />
<br />
"You would be able to understand with greater clarity if you had met them. Phisto is powerful in a way that men aren't. He's visceral, genius and with a raw power. Luca is mesmerizing, spiritual and he makes me want to be a better musician, a better woman."<br />
<br />
"Do the two influences need to conflict?"<br />
<br />
"You're a gifted journalist. What do you think?"<br />
<br />
"I think that one is associated with power and conquering, the other with serving the gift of music and using that almost as a healing tool."<br />
<br />
"Oh, but you are perceptive."<br />
<br />
"Why did you contact me Jasmine?"<br />
<br />
"I need your help. I've never experienced anything like this before. They're more than men and I've wondered if they weren't perhaps supernatural. That is how powerful and compelling that they are."<br />
<br />
"Couldn't they just be powerfully gifted men with great sexual magnetism? That's what I've heard."<br />
<br />
"Perhaps I can explain it better. Or, I could have you meet me at the theater one day. Maybe then you will understand. You have more experience with this than I."<br />
<br />
"What is your truth?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"One's truth is as fickle as one's perception." Jasmine answered her luminous eyes alight with<br />
amber overtones.<br />
<br />
"We all know the truth for ourselves. That is something you have to discover."<br />
<br />
"I know that, through my Reiki practice. But I often think that truth should be definitive, like blood. You're one type or another. It's absolute."<br />
<br />
"True blood, you mean," I laughed. "If truth were absolute free will would be easier to navigate. It would mitigate the messy gray areas."<br />
<br />
"Still, it's something to consider."<br />
<br />
"Yes," I agreed. "But our choices define our character and our souls. You wouldn't want someone to take that privilege away from you."<br />
<br />
"Privilege comes with great responsibility. Few realize the implications. It's something that I am just learning."<br />
<br />
Neither of us knew how much Jasmine had to learn or how she would be tested in the ultimate battle for her soul and her career.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524577350914900625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597243006986164238.post-84794312939289434002011-07-16T19:43:00.000-07:002013-03-08T21:18:23.947-08:00Winter is Coming<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://cache4.asset-cache.net/xr/102492511.jpg?v=1&c=NewsMaker&k=3&d=AA1747D0965B1B3DD6DDEF1AC81CD41080215A07616601E93CF8806A92036667E30A760B0D811297" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="prev" id="img10_bbl_img" src="http://cache4.asset-cache.net/xr/102492511.jpg?v=1&c=NewsMaker&k=3&d=AA1747D0965B1B3DD6DDEF1AC81CD41080215A07616601E93CF8806A92036667E30A760B0D811297" style="height: 340px; width: 254px;" /></a>It's finally happened. The musical community has been buzzing about my blog, and Jasmine, the brilliant new soprano at the American Opera Center, has finally contacted me. There's a lot of chatter about her career and what she will accomplish, but tonight, she is concerned only with the men who are controlling her. The men that she loves. Differently. Definitively.<br />
<br />
<br />
Luca composes as though he were transcribing music from the celestial realms. His compositions are magical, mystical, mysterious. He is manly. Jasmine is drawn to him like an instrument to music. She needs his music and his love to fulfill her in the same way that the piano needs the composition.<br />
<br />
And there is Phisto, the magnetic and fierce conductor who raises music from scratches on a page to emotions that penetrate and compel the audience. Jasmine's response to him is visceral.<br />
<br />
Phisto is the career. He is the strategist and impressario who introduces the most talented artists to their future.<br />
<br />
Luca is the art form. He embodies how music can transport us from our worldly drudgeries, and introduce us to our soul. He composes because that is who he is. Luca's music interprets our yearnings, gives voice to our imaginations. It is the substance of our dreams.<br />
<br />
They each want to know who Jasmine will choose to be, the artist or the career woman. They each want to know who she will love. <br />
<br />
Jasmine knows that winter is coming. She knows that her choice will be made at the Violet Hour.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524577350914900625noreply@blogger.com0