O.M. Grey's Blog, page 8

Words, Words, Words

There is a line in my life, an ever-widening chasm, like a line in the sand that has become the Grand Canyon in a year’s time. This gulf bisects my life into before the rape and after the rape.

After my deeply trusted lover turned from an affectionate, loving man to a sociopathic rapist, overnight, and raped me, humiliated me, raped me again, then discarded me, I found that I had to rebuild reality. The subsequent months of struggle also included my rapist making legal and social threats, convincing an entire community I was lying, trying to confront me at a sexual assault awareness seminar, and stalking me at Burning Man. Not a nice guy, in the end.

Now, over a year after the assaults and continuing extensive rape recovery/PTSD therapy, I’ve rebuilt my reality, but it looks considerably different than it did before. I’ve found a few words have changed their meaning for me. Certain words that meant one thing for the first 42 years of my life now mean something completely different.

SEX & ROMANCE

Before: Sex was wondrous and fun and euphoric. Sex was a way to express love and desire. It was spiritual for me, connecting with my lover body, mind, and soul. There was little more sacred than the love and sexuality shared between two souls.

After: sex now means exploitation and violation. The thought of sex makes me nauseous. I can’t read about sex, especially loving sex. Not even romantic affection. I’m an author of erotic romance, but now I can’t write about sex, unless it is violent and cruel, because that’s what it is for me now. That’s what it represents. I can’t make love to my husband. I can’t masturbate without crying. I can’t be naked in front of myself, let alone my husband or anyone else. All safety is gone. All desire is gone. My sexuality, which was a big part of my identity, has been shattered.

I don’t know who I am anymore.

POLYAMORY

Before: An alternative lifestyle chosen by me and my husband because we had the belief that love is not finite, nor is desire. That love breeds more love; desire, more desire. Perhaps even an orientation more than a choice, we approached interpersonal, romantic, and sexual relationships with integrity, honesty, and genuine, open love. We believed that most everyone else who was “poly” felt the same way, more or less. That sex was a part of a fuller, more rounded and fulfilling relationship. That if casual sex was the goal, that was communicated and expressed with honesty and respect. If things evolved into something more serious, or that was the intention to begin with, then that, too, was communicated with honesty, integrity, and compassionate respect.

After: A euphemism for lots of sex without responsibility or integrity while pretending that the “poly” people are self-aware, honest, and genuine. A place where people can practices lots of sex and short term relationships, riding on oxytocin highs and “New Relationship Energy” (NRE) under the pretense of establishing something deeper, until they get bored and move on to the next lover, often callously. A way to exploit the sexuality and emotions of another person for one’s own selfish ends, under the pretense of honesty and openness, while never truly investing in the relationship or having any responsibility to the relationship.

For men especially, it is a new age euphemism for establishing a harem.

SPIRITUALITY & MEDITATION

Before: I would run or walk listening to the soft voice of Eckhart Tolle, teaching me about how to let go and live in the moment, how to deny ego. I felt a connection between all living things and I knew although I didn’t understand the intricacies, I was a part of that larger network of life energy. I believed that everyone was basically good at their core, although they sometimes made horrible decisions. The “evil” people, like rapists and murderers and such, were distant. People who would be easily recognizable so that I could steer clear. I meditated every morning across from my lover, focusing on the words of Thich Naht Hahn then opening our eyes to see one another in a bubble of euphoric love.

After: To be “spiritual” is to use a sacred term to hide one’s own debauchery and callousness. My rapist was “spiritual.” I had rape recovery and PTSD counselors who were “spiritual” and told me that I needed to have compassion for my rapist. That the reason I was so upset was they way I thought about the rape, all while giving me anecdotes of remote tribes who systematically gang rape every female at the age of 11, and no one is traumatized by it because it’s part of their culture. So, you see, if I just get out of my ego and embrace my rapist with compassion, everything would be all right.

Men, especially, use the pretense of “spirituality” to con and entrap women for sex. Again, without responsibility or accountability.

In short, “spirituality” is a con.

SOCIOPATH

Before: Dexter.

After: Possibly anyone I come into contact with. One in every 25 people are sociopathic, that is, without a conscience and incapable of empathy.

FRIENDS & COMMUNITY

Before: A group of good people with similar interests. Some closer than others. Spiritual and honest and unashamed of their sexuality, it was an open and free, loving community.

After: People I can’t trust. Rape apologists. People who would rather ignore rape and sexual assault because the rapist is a funny guy, charming and witty, skilled and personable. People who believe partying is more important that sexual safety. People who will shun the victim for having the audacity to speak about her assault. People who will rally around the rapist, protecting him, crying “slander” – “witch hunt” – “cry rape” – “revenge tactic” – “love gone kaplooey” – “trolling” – “false accusations,” etc. Not just my former community, either. I’ve seen this time and time again over the last year.

TRUST

Before: Something I gave fairly freely to good people. I trusted people to be decent. I trusted people to be kind. Forgiving. Loving. Rational. Responsible for themselves and their action. To have integrity. With few exceptions, I trusted them to be honest, for there was no reason to lie to me. Bottom line, I trusted most until given a reason not to. I would never “make someone pay for another’s mistakes.” Everyone started with a clean slate.

After: The word has absolutely no meaning anymore.

The Number 12

Before: My birthday in November.

After: The first time he raped me in February. The 16th was the second time.

RAPIST & RAPE

Before: A horrific act perpetrated by severely abusive people and men in dark alleys. Something that I had fortunately escaped, now being out of the target zone of 18-35. I didn’t accept drinks from strangers. I didn’t walk alone at night. I didn’t drink at parties and pass out in a short skirt. I did everything that rape culture teaches a woman to do to avoid rape.

I was with my lover.

After: Every person is a potential rapist. One in every 16 men has or will commit rape or attempt to commit rape. 30% of men claim they would commit rape if they knew they could get away with it. A woman is raped every. single. minute. in the USA. 1800 a day. The average rapist will rape six different women. One in every three-to-five women will be sexually assaulted or raped in her lifetime. Since coming out as a survivor, every. single. woman. I’ve met or spoken with since is a survivor of rape, attempted rape, or sexual assault. Not one in five. Not one in three. EVERY. SINGLE. ONE.

Rapists look like everyone else, up until the raping starts.

The only sure way to avoid rape is not to be in the same room with a rapist.

So, I spend a lot of time alone.

LOVER

Before: A deeply trusted confidant with whom it was safe to share my innermost thoughts and fears, with whom I could be open and honest, with whom I could share my body and soul, with whom I could safely be vulnerable and exposed.

After: Rapist.

FLASHBACK

Before: 1990 film with Kiefer Sutherland and Dennis Hopper

After: Something I experience every single day for over a year now. Reliving the rapes. Reliving the humiliation. Reliving the subsequent trauma from not being believed, from being ostracized, from being accused as a liar. Reliving the police interrogations and how they translated the oral portion of my violent rape as “she remembers at one point giving oral sex to the susp.”

AKA Intrusive Memories and Re-experiencing. Benchmark of PTSD and Rape Trauma Syndrome (RTS).

FEAR

Before: Something that occurred under extreme circumstances, or when a cockroach was present.

After: My new state of being. Every second. Every day.

—-

Then, there are a whole set of new words I’ve learned and come to know intimately because of the abuse, the assaults, and the long-lasting effects of PTSD and RTS.

COGNITIVE DISSONANCE

The psychological phenomenon of holding two conflicting ideas in one’s mind and trying to make them fit together, like LOVER and RAPIST. How he could have raped me, then right afterward told me he loved and adored me. They don’t fit. If he raped me, he couldn’t love me. If he loved me, he wouldn’t have raped me. Which is it? Which is real? How could he have been so tender and affectionate and blissfully in love with me one day, and the very next day punish me with rape?

It took me five months, a dozen sexual assault support professionals, and extensive therapy for me to accept it was rape. One of the most insidious things about “date rape,” which about 85% of rapes are committed by someone the victim knows, is coming to terms with who you thought the man was, friend, lover, father, brother, cousin, etc…and RAPIST.

DISSOCIATIVE STATES

These are so much fun. Dissociation is the mind’s way of protecting itself from trauma. Often during rape, the victim goes into one of these states. They don’t fight or scream; they freeze. They’re suddenly somewhere else. Nothing seems real. They’re confused. And it continues after the trauma. I remember about a week after being raped twice and discarded, I was in a daze of sorts. I ridiculously thought it was a glimpse at enlightenment, for everything seemed surreal. I was completely in each passing moment, and I had found a sense of peace. I now understand it for what it really was: a severe dissociative state. Those states come and go throughout the PTSD, although never has one been as intense as that one or the one during the rapes. Sometimes I feel as if I’m not real, as if the world is a movie going on around me and that I’m somehow not in it.

It’s quite unsettling.

This phenomenon is called depersonalization.

See all the fun words I’ve learned? Another one: Hyper-Vigilance. Hyperarousal. Numbing.

BETRAYAL or TRAUMA BOND

The months and months of cognitive dissonance and crazy-making reality rebuilding, trying to see your abuser as an abuser and not a lover. The vacillating (mostly covert) abuse and (mostly overt displays of) love creates and extremely strong bond, as shown in Skinner’s experiments with pigeons: intermittent reinforcement. This is believing, against overwhelming evidence to the contrary, that it was all a misunderstanding. He’s just confused. He’s just scared. He really loves me. It will be okay. He just needs some time and patience and more and more and more and more love. If he would just show the slightest bit of humanity, I can hold on to something that says he’s not this monstrous rapist.

Finally, once I broke free of this extremely strong bone, understanding that I was the lucky one to get away early. The unlucky ones are bound to the abuser for years, if not decades, if not for life.

ISOLATION

The only place I feel safe is in my remote home overlooking a lake with my husband, my dog, and my cat. No people. Little contact, and then only with the barrier of texts and internet communication. Any time I let someone in just a little bit, I learn all over again that any amount of trust is too much.

If someone is nice to me or funny or smart, it doesn’t mean they are a good person. It doesn’t mean I am safe with them, alone or otherwise.

I’m not safe with anyone.

—–

My life and perception is so drastically different than it was before the rape, I feel as if I’m no longer the same person. The Rapist shattered my identity. The Rapist raped my sexuality out of me. The Rapist stole my ability to trust and function in society.

I see authors who weren’t even published three years ago far surpassing me in readership and success now, and I’m angry that The Rapist, The Musician, and The Writer (the two “lesser” assaults before The Rapist that contributed to the Complex PTSD and caused increasing vulnerability) robbed me of my career, sending me into a tailspin. In 2010, I was on the cutting edge of the Steampunk movement, now…I’m just the woman who’s “always fragile” and can’t talk about anything other than rape. Authors I used to promote I see promoting each other, leaving me and my work forgotten. Understandably, since I’ve barely been able to function over these years, let alone write anything other than a short story up until a few months ago. I’m writing again now, though. Fuck yes, I am. They may have forgotten me, but I haven’t forgotten me.

There is an ever-widening chasm between my life before the rape and after the rape, and I can see now there is no going back to who I was. The Rapist, along with his accomplices, The Musician and The Writers, murdered that person with rape and betrayal. Now, I imagine people saying what a shame it is that I “let” my rapist have so much control over me, that I “let” him change me. They’ll muse about what a nice girl I was before and now I’m just a cynical bitch, a man-hating feminist, a drama queen, etc.

I’d rather be regarded as those things than be a victim of rape again.

Bottom line. I don’t care what they say about me. They don’t know what it’s like to be betrayed, raped, and discarded by a trusted lover.

If they did, they would be kinder.

If they did, they’d have a new reality, too.

If they did, they’d be looking back over that ever-widening chasm of life before rape and after rape, wondering if there would ever again be a day they weren’t afraid.

Filed under: Trauma & Recovery Tagged: ptsd, rape, recovery, romance, sex

ZM_CH4: In Which Nickie Nick Learns Some Moves

Continuing in the Victorian tradition, enjoy today’s installment of The Zombies of Mesmer: A Nickie Nick Vampire Hunter Novel.  Every Friday a new installment of this YA Steampunk ParaRomance is published free for your enjoyment. Leave a comment and be entered to win an author-signed copy of the sequel, released Summer 2013. The more you comment, the more times your name is entered.

Follow Nicole Knickerbocker Hawthorn (Nickie Nick) as she discovers her destiny as The Protector, a powerful vampire hunter. Ashe, a dark and mysterious stranger, helps Nickie and her friends solve the mystery behind several bizarre disappearances. Suitable for teens, enjoyed by adults, the story is full of interesting steampunk gadgets, mad scientists, bloodthirsty vampires, and mesmerized zombies. This paranormal adventure is sure to appeal to fans of Boneshaker, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and The Vampire Diaries.

The Zombies of Mesmer is a Gothic Young Adult Paranormal Romance novel set in Victorian London. Appropriate for teens.

Get your very own copy of The Zombies of Mesmer in paperback or for your Kindle (FREE for Prime Members)! Don’t have a Kindle? Kindle apps are available for smart phones, PCs, and tablets. Have another eReader? Email me about other formats.

-_Q

Chapter 4: In Which Nickie Nick Learns Some Moves

“You could have been killed!” Fanny yelled in a whispery voice, for we certainly couldn’t risk my parents overhearing, not even in our big house. My father’s office was just down the hall after all, and he was probably there. He was always there. Always working, unless he was at the factory.

“What were you thinking?” she continued.

“I was not thinking, Fanny.” I sat at my dressing table and brushed my nose with some powder. “I went with my feeling, just like you said. My entire being was urging me to go out last night. It was like I needed to hunt, so I followed my instincts.” I put some color on my cheeks and checked to see if they were evenly rosy in my dressing table mirror. Even, but subtle.

“I should have better prepared you, lassie,” Fanny said, getting all teary-eyed as she fixed my hair for the day. After braiding it down my back, she twisted it around itself into a high bun. Her sleek red hair was pulled back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, as usual, but her cheeks were more rosy than normal. Naturally rosy, no added color there. “I should have told you years ago, Nick. How could I have been so foolish?”

“That’s not doing us any good now, Fanny.” My tone sounded little more harsh than I had intended. I took a deep breath and smoothed some stray hairs back along the side behind my ear. My hair need not be perfect, after all. We were just going to train, whatever that meant.

She looked up at me shocked at my tone, but she got the message. “You are right,” she said, moving across the room. “What’s done is done. We shall train today. All day. Make up for lost time and all that. You shan’t go out unprepared again.”

“And where are we going to do this training, Fanny? In the garden for all of London to see me in my knickers? Or do you expect me to wear a corset and bustle and carry a parasol as well as a stake?”

“In the attic, actually,” she responded, ignoring my quip about the bustle. “I had Wilfred start on clearing a space to train last night. He worked through the night, as I impressed upon him the importance of it.”

“You told Wilfred?” I asked incredulously. Wilfred was one of the lower butlers of the household. He was around Fanny’s age, and I had always suspected he was sweet on her. Now I knew for sure.

Really. A woman of her age. She was so old, like forty-something. How unseemly.

“We can trust Wilfred.” Each time she said his name, her voice softened just a little. “He follows the old ways as well. Just you leave him to me.” She blushed, as if she knew what I had been thinking. “Let’s get you dressed,” she continued, holding up a day skirt and corset. “I got one of your mother’s corsets for the time being. I sent Judith out today to get you a larger one of your own. If last night proved anything, it is that you cannot wear a corset that tight anymore. Not only can I not cinch it properly, but you were lucky you didn’t bust the seams simply by breathing. No, you must still wear one, of course.” She likely saw the joy on my face at the thought of not wearing one. “Just not quite so tight. It might make you less desirable for your potential husbands, however, adding a few inches to your waist.”

“Good!” I exclaimed without hesitation. “Perhaps it will deter The Most Annoying One, too. Can we just make me look downright frumpy? I shall eat many more apple tarts with great pleasure.” I smirked, waiting for Fanny’s response.

“Let us not go overboard, my dear. You will lose your figure soon enough, no need to rush it.” She patted her own waistline as an example.

Fanny was not fat by any means, but she was on the plump side. I liked it. It was so much more freeing that watching every little thing one ate, as mother insisted. Mother likely would not be too happy about this waistline increase, but it was all so trivial after all. It was my waist regardless, nothing actually changed there. The only difference was how much we forced it into being reduced in a corset. So now instead of reducing it five inches, it will only be two or three. Fine by me. I rather liked to breathe.

“Take hold of the bedpost.” She indicated the one that was not the broomstick tied with twine. “Just not too tightly,” she added through a wide grin.

She began to put me into mother’s corset, which was not all that much larger than my old ones. After all, she was still a fine-looking woman, nearly as old as Fanny. But after giving birth to me, her waist would never be reduced to fourteen inches again. My waist had never been fourteen inches, since I stood a few inches taller than her. Mother was a very tiny woman, a full head shorter than me. She would tell stories of how father used to be able to encircle her waist with his hands back when they first met. Now she settled for twenty inches, which was a dream for me, as I usually was forced into a corset that made my waist eighteen inches. But only reduced to twenty inches? Only a three inch reduction!

I might even be able to fight vampires in a corset like that.

Lacing the larger corset was far more successful. No more broken bedposts. After putting me in an under bustle, meant to hold out the ruffles on the back of a walking skirt, and a simple day skirt and blouse, she led me up to the fourth floor.

No one ever went up to the fourth floor, certainly not my parents. It had been used mostly for storage, and we called it an attic. The third floor was mostly for servant rooms and the like. The second is where my family lived and where father’s office was. The library, dining room, and parlor were all on the first floor, street level. Then the kitchen, pantry, laundry, and more was on the basement level. It was quite a large house, and I got a little nauseous every time I thought about how much unused space we had and how little space my four misfortunate friends had.

“Wow,” I said as we reached the fourth floor. Granted, I had not been up there for quite some time, but it had been completely transformed.

Wilfred swept up the last bit of dust and dirt into a bin.

“Miss Hawthorn.” He bowed formally. “I hope it is to your liking.” His eyes twinkled at Fanny, and she blushed again.

“It is amazing, Wilfred! You did all this in one night?”

Boxes upon boxes were piled neatly in the corners. Some of my old toys and a faded rocking horse were there. Old dolls with missing eyes and torn dresses sat primly along the tops of the crates in a neat row. More trunks and old furniture were piled in other corners and along the walls. Most of the interior walls had been removed on this half of the house by the former owners, so it was a large, open space with few supporting beams here and there. In the center of the room was a heavy wooden stand, padded with old pillows and tied around the middle with some twine that looked suspiciously like the kind holding my bed together.

“That’s to practice your–um–scrappin’ skills.” He pointed to the padded wooden stand. He demonstrated by throwing a punch right into the heart of the pillow. “See? Practice dummy. Protects yer hands,” he continued.

I wanted to run and hug him, but that would not be proper, so I just folded my hands over my skirt and with a courteous nod said, “Thank you, Wilfred. Thank you so much for this.”

“Yes. You did a wonderful job.” Fanny’s voice had a softness to it that I rarely heard other than when she spoke of him. They exchanged another smile, like it was a secret.

“Well,” Wilfred said. “I shall leave you ladies to it. Let me know if I can be of any more service.” With a tip of his cap, he left the room.

Fanny didn’t speak until we heard his footfalls start down the stairs.

“This will most certainly do.” She spoke to no one in particular. After surveying the room again, she turned to me and continued, “Now, tell me again of your encounter last night.”

“Like I said, it was over quite quickly. He was not there, then he was. I reacted. He deflected. I hit the cobblestones. He was gone,” I summarized. “That’s about it, and it happened just about that fast, too.”

“Show me.” She indicated that I should demonstrate on the practice dummy Wilfred had made.

“Are you serious?”

“Quite.”

I pulled out the stake which I had put down the front of my corset, as I couldn’t be seen walking through the house with a stake (although, I would have to find a better way to carry it), and lunged at the dummy.

“Yes,” Fanny said. “I see your mistake. Your balance was off. The sheer force of you lunging forward swinging the stake thus gave the creature much time to react. Indeed. You are quite lucky to be alive.”

“Much time? It all happened in an instant!”

“Yes, an instant in your perception, but the creature can move at a different speed. This is why he seemed to just ‘appear,’ as you said.”

“Well, how can I kill a vampire who moves faster than I can even see?”

“You cannot see it yet,” she said. “Yet is the key word there, my dear. Your strength came upon you quickly and you were unable to control it, but you are already adjusting to that, no?”

“Yes. I’m getting better already.” I demonstrated by lunging toward the practice dummy again, paying close attention to how my body felt. “I can use the extra strength when I need to, but I can adjust my actions to fit normal life as well. Or, at least, door handles are no longer coming off in my hand. That’s progress, isn’t it?”

“Perfect. Your other senses and abilities will need rather more concentration to tap into and to control, Nicole. They will not be as apparently easy as the strength. The Protector has many abilities, and you have not even scratched the surface of yours. You had a taste of heightened senses when you first transformed, remember? But now you must learn to hone those. With some practice, you will be as fast as a vampire when you need to be. That’s why we are here, training. To learn. Now again, only this time, try to remember what you felt, not only what you saw.”

I thought for a moment, replaying last night’s brief encounter again in my mind. I slowed it down, trying to analyze every moment. There was something.

“I felt nauseous, then something moved me to action. It was like my body knew what to do, although, I guess it really didn’t after all.”

Perhaps I was lucky to be alive.

“That feeling is the essence of your power.” Fanny put a clenched fist to her stomach for emphasis. “You feel the urge, and it may feel like nausea now, but that’s only because you have nothing else to compare it to. It might also feel similar to nervousness or excitement, but you must hone your attention to this feeling to differentiate between the subtleties of it.”

“How do you know all this, Fanny?” She’d been a governess for seventeen years, how could she possibly know about the subtleties of The Protector’s powers?

“As I told you, I was chosen among those in my coven to care for you, in case you were the Hawthorn to fulfill The Legacy, but there were other possibilities for The Protector as well. I was trained to guide The Protector since I was a girl, knowledge and skills handed down through generations. It is why I used to fight vampires to learn how so I could teach you. You, my dear, will be the strongest of all the Protectors, however, because of your heritage. Because of the blessing the witches put upon your family.”

“Blessing?”

“Some would say curse, but it depends on one’s perspective, doesn’t it? After what your ancestor did at the Salem Witch Trials, condemning so many women to horrible deaths, the coven demanded retribution, but not in the way of punishment, in the way of service. You see?”

“So I’m cursed.” I felt rather angry.

“Do you feel cursed?” Fanny asked wisely. She folded her hands over her belly and waited for my answer.

“No,” I said after a few moments of checking in with my body. “I feel magnificent, like I could do anything. Like I never even have to sleep again. The energy surging through me is without end. Power without limits.”

“Well, my dear. There are limits, as there should be. You will also need to sleep, although likely not as much as most, which will certainly facilitate you leading a double life. Which you, of course, will have to lead, my dear. And no one will be able to know your identity.”

“Well….” I looked down, embarrassed. “I–I already told someone.”

Fanny sighed and shook her head. “Let me guess. Conrad. You told Conrad already?”

“He was there, Fanny,” I protested. “The vampire tried to bite him on the neck.” I thrust two fingers in the shape of a “v” towards my throat to dramatize my point. “What was I supposed to tell him happened?”

“Indeed.”

“And…” I started.

Fanny looked at me sharply, crossing her arms the way she did when she was rather cross with me.

“The other boys know, too.” Before she could scold me, and I saw that she was about to with the deep breath she had just taken, I continued, “But just those four, I promise. No one else knows, well except Wilfred. Ah ha!” I pointed the wooden stake at her, feeling justified. “You told Wilfred, so obviously people can know.”

“Yes, well, Wilfred is”–Fanny blushed again–“a very good friend.” She relaxed her arms and rubbed her neck.

“Is that what you call it?”

I was lucky she didn’t take me over her knee for being so cheeky. But she just smiled. I guess I was all grown up now.

“Enough, little mite,” she snickered. That was what she has called me since I was a girl. I guess I was not all that grown up in her eyes, nor would I ever be. “No one else, all right?”

“All right. As if anyone would believe me anyway.”

“Back to training, my dear girl. Stand before the beast as you did last night.”

I did as she asked, but then she pushed me and I stumbled to catch my balance.

“Fanny!”

“Point proven? Here, stand like this.” She positioned me in a way that my legs were spread and knees bent. My arms out before me, protecting my torso. Stake out. “Feel the strength here.” She put her hand just below my navel. “Feel the floor beneath you, Nick. Feel how your feet are one with the floor. With the house. With the earth. Can you feel that?”

It sounded all rather silly, but I just suspended my skepticism for a moment, and I really could feel it. For lack of a better word, it felt all tingly. Like tiny bits of light and strength was coming up through the soles of my shoes into my feet and running up through my body. It felt much as the fire that coursed through my body last night, when the change had come upon me.

I didn’t realize I had closed my eyes to concentrate until Fanny had pushed me again, but this time I didn’t budge.

“This is the difference,” she said. “Now from this position of stability and power, you move.”

I tried the move again and thrust the stake at the stationary dummy, driving into his fluffy, feathered breast. It splintered the wood behind the pillow with a loud crack.

“I can certainly feel the difference, Nanny, but how will this help if the vampire is moving at lightening speed?”

“Trust the process, my dear. It will become evident.”

-_Q

Thank you for reading this week’s installment of The Zombies of Mesmer: A Nickie Nick Vampire Hunter Novel. Join me every Friday for a new installment of this YA Steampunk ParaRomance. Don’t forget to leave a comment for a chance to win an author-signed copy of the sequel, released Summer 2013. The more comments you leave, week after week, the more times you’ll be entered!

Filed under: Serialized Fiction Tagged: author, book, buffy, buffy the vampire slayer, love, nickie nick, o.m. grey, olivia grey, paranormal romance, passion, serialized fiction, serialized novel, steampunk, teen, teen romance, the zombies of mesmer, vampire hunter, vampires, victorian, ya, zombies, zombies of mesmer

ZM_CH3: In Which Nickie Nick Meets Her First Vampire

Continuing in the Victorian tradition, enjoy today’s installment of The Zombies of Mesmer: A Nickie Nick Vampire Hunter Novel.  Every Friday a new installment of this YA Steampunk ParaRomance is published free for your enjoyment. Leave a comment and be entered to win an author-signed copy of the sequel, released Summer 2013. The more you comment, the more times your name is entered.

Follow Nicole Knickerbocker Hawthorn (Nickie Nick) as she discovers her destiny as The Protector, a powerful vampire hunter. Ashe, a dark and mysterious stranger, helps Nickie and her friends solve the mystery behind several bizarre disappearances. Suitable for teens, enjoyed by adults, the story is full of interesting steampunk gadgets, mad scientists, bloodthirsty vampires, and mesmerized zombies. This paranormal adventure is sure to appeal to fans of Boneshaker, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and The Vampire Diaries.

The Zombies of Mesmer is a Gothic Young Adult Paranormal Romance novel set in Victorian London. Appropriate for teens.

Get your very own copy of The Zombies of Mesmer in paperback or for your Kindle (FREE for Prime Members)! Don’t have a Kindle? Kindle apps are available for smart phones, PCs, and tablets. Have another eReader? Email me about other formats.

-_Q

Chapter 3: In Which Nickie Nick Meets Her First Vampire

The entire house was now sleeping soundly. I had tried to sleep. I really had tried, but my mind was reeling with images of ghosts and demons and vampires. I had put the wooden stake beneath my pillow, and I could feel it there. I mean, I couldn’t actually feel it with my head through the fluffy down pillow, but I could feel it there, as if it called to something deep inside me. That same something was urging me to get up and go out into the night. It was a deep pressure, imploring me to hunt.

After a few hours, I gave into the call. My dingy boy’s clothes were piled in with the laundry in the basement, so I dug them out and pulled them over my chemise and pantaloons. I twisted my long hair into a tight knot and put the cap over it. After smudging some dirt from the sleeve of my overcoat onto my cheeks and tucking my new stake into my belt, I was ready to head out.

I resisted the urge to take off my scarf, cap, and fingerless gloves while creeping through the hot kitchen on the way to the pantry and reminded myself how cold it would be outside in just a few more minutes.

And cold it was.

As soon as I opened the pantry window the wind howled, blowing snowflakes past me and onto the sink top on which I stood. As I went to hoist myself up through the window, I forgot about my new strength again and ended up bashing my head against the ceiling. A second attempt proved more successful, actually getting me through the window.

My foot stopped the window from crashing closed, then eased it almost all the way shut, propping it open with a stone kept nearby just for that purpose. Some heat would escape, but that stuffy basement could use some airing out. I thought about my boys and how cold they likely were tonight, wishing I could take some of our extra heat to them.

As I stepped out of our garden and into the adjacent alleyway, I marveled at the streets all decorated for Christmas, which was just a few days away. The snow fell steadily yet sparsely, a perfect grey night punctuated by the white flakes which were illuminated by the points of gaslights leading down the street.

We lived in a rather posh neighborhood in Lambeth, mostly middle-class, with a sprinkling of upper-class for further decoration. Father’s textile factory was just across the Waterloo Bridge near the Thames’s north bank, but the nearer bridge to our house was Westminster. From the south bank one could see the magnificent Houses of Parliament across the water. Always an impressive sight, they were even more so this time of year. With all the holiday decorations in the glow of the gaslights, it made the entire city look almost surreal, and my favorite time to see it was at night.

But I was heading in the opposite direction tonight. Just a few blocks away on the other side of Kennington Road was the Lambeth Workhouse, a horrid place. Conrad had told me stories about it, for he had been there shortly after his father had died and his mother forced into an asylum. I had known Conrad from our childhood. We had played at the textile factory together as children, because Fanny had to sometimes pitch in when my parents had been still struggling. She brought me along for a few hours and there were other workers’ children there as well. Conrad and I hit it off from the start. But once the money started coming, they no longer allowed me to play with those beneath our station, as mother put it. They also did away with the day care for workers. My parents had reasoned that care for their workers’ children should come out of the parents’ pocket, not theirs. Still, Conrad and I had kept in touch over the years, especially after the accident. No forced sense of decorum could keep me away from my best friend.

Just a few more blocks from the workhouse was an abandoned warehouse, the current residence of Conrad and my other friends. That was, at least, until it was discovered they were there. They moved around mostly at night and in the early morning, so as not to be detected. It was not a great neighborhood anymore, and it could be quite dangerous at any time of day.

My disguise as a boy not only facilitated movement, because skirts and corsets certainly didn’t allow one to move freely or quickly, but it also helped keep me safe. There were far more nasties to be done to a young woman than a young man on the dark streets of London. Although with my new strength, I shouldn’t worry about that too much.

Still, I was sure to walk in my boy-walk, strutting with my feet turned out and hands in my pockets. It was the exact opposite I was expected to do as a lady, and I loved how carefree it felt.

“Well if it ain’t Nickie Nick,” a familiar voice came from a particularly dark alleyway.

I cringed. I hated when Conrad called me that, but of course, he called me that because he knew I hated it, so I said nothing. Conrad emerged, bundled up in a coat and scarf I had found for him. I often snagged things from my parents stash to bring down to Conrad and the others. After all, it was their fault he and the other boys were on the streets. The least they could do is provide some clothes for them.

“Conrad. I was just on my way to see you and the others. What are you doing out so late?”

“I might ask the same of you, Nickie.”

“Shhhh!” I scolded and then whispered. “You know better than that when I’m dressed this way. Do you want me to be hurt? Nick, all right? Just Nick.”

“There ain’t nobody about, Nick. Relax. How was your fine party? Find a rich husband yet?” He threw a rather large pebble down the alley. I heard it skip once and then make a soft, wet sound, as if finding a new home in a pile of snow.

“Where are the boys? Are they inside?” I asked, ignoring his question. The annoyance in his voice I also chose to ignore.

“A-course,” he said.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s go!”

“As you wish, m’lady,” he quipped with a mocking bow.

A wave a nausea came over me and a man stood behind Conrad. It was as if he just had appeared out of nothing. I had heard no footsteps, had seen no movement. Just one moment he was there, and in the next he grabbed Conrad by the shoulders. He hissed at me and his pointed teeth caught the gaslight from the corner. Its face was quite horrid. It must have been really old, for it had only the faintest hint of human appearance.

After another moment, my mind registered that this was indeed a vampire, then I reacted without further thought. It was if my body knew what to do while my brain was still catching up. Before the vampire even got a fang in, I was on him. Knocking Conrad aside rather roughly with my left hand, I grabbed the stake out of my belt with my right and lunged at the vampire. My reaction took the horrid thing off guard, but not nearly enough. He deflected me and sent me in a somersault off to the side and the entire world was a blur until my head clunked on the snow-coved cobblestones and stars filled my vision. I rolled back to my feet an instant later, turning back to face it again.

But only Conrad remained.

“What the–” Conrad said, rubbing his head.

“Where did it go?” I took a moment to catch my breath and pushed the hair from my eyes. In my tumble, my cap had come off and my dark hair now spilled over my shoulders.

“I dunno,” he answered and then followed with “Ow!” He rubbed his arm where I had knocked him out of the way and then rubbed his head again. He must have hit it on the street as well.

After twisting my hair back up under my cap I said, “Let us get off the streets.”

He led me down the alley into the secret passageway behind some wooden crates. We went as quietly as possible through the walls and down the stairs until we reached the cellar where the boys stayed.

“Nick!” Edwin cried and ran to give me a big hug around the middle. Edwin was the youngest of the four boys and the most recently orphaned. His parents, like all of theirs, died in my parents’ factory. There were always accidents with the machinery. The unluckiest were not the ones who died, however. The worst were the ones that were just maimed and could no longer work. They had no choice, either they go to a workhouse or live on the streets. Still, perhaps the very worst of them all were the children left behind for those who did die. They had the same choice, workhouse or streets. According to Conrad, the streets were far better than the workhouse, which is why they all stuck together.

“Hey there, Ed.” I stooped down to his height so I could give him a proper hug. He was such a sweet boy. Only nine years old with sandy blond hair and blue eyes. He had the face of an angel covered in dirt, which he almost always was. The clothes he wore were a little big on him. They were Rufus’s old ones, since Rufus had outgrown them.

The basement was dank, damp, dark, and cold. There were only three lanterns, all of which I had snatched from my house. They kept the wicks low, so as not to waste the limited oil.

“Didja bring more food?” Rufus said from the floor where he and Edwin had just been playing a game of cards. Rufus was the second youngest at twelve.

“Not this time, but I will be sure to bring more in the morning,” I replied, and I chastised myself for forgetting. There was just so much on my mind, and I had just come face to face with a vampire. Strange night all around.

“Hi Franklin,” I addressed the boy huddling in the corner with a pile of junk. His head was down, and he was tinkering with something, as usual. Franklin had just turned fourteen, and he had an uncanny ability to turn junk into wondrous little working gadgets and machines. He often demonstrated some of his gadgets on the streets to help the boys make some money. Passersby would marvel at his mechanical toys and toss a few pennies his way.

“Oh.” He looked up from his work, as if he was surprised anyone else was in the room. He was truly in his own world. “Hello Nick. All right?”

“I dunno about that,” Conrad said. “What just happened up there, Nickie?

What should I say? I mean, do I tell a group of homeless boys that there is even more danger out there than previously thought?

“Um,” I started, quite eloquently. “It was a–” really? Can I explain this? If I couldn’t tell my best friends, who could I tell? I took a deep breath and just blurt it out. “It was a vampire.”

I waited for their laughter, but there was none. Well, none except for Conrad, who always scoffed at me. The other three just looked at me with wide eyes. Edwin eyes glistened with tears.

“A vampire. A-course it was, Nickie. Nah. It was just some old crazy guy, probably escaped from Bethlehem.” Conrad plopped down on his bedroll, which consisted of some hay and rather worn bedding, and started whittling.

He was referring to Bethlehem Asylum just a few blocks away. He joked about it when he could. I suppose it was the only way for him to deal with it, as his mother was a patient there. She had gone mad after Conrad’s father was killed at my parents’ factory, an accident with the machinery. She just couldn’t cope with the loss. They had adored each other, the way Conrad told the story. When Conrad told the story, which was almost never. He didn’t like to relive that horror, and I couldn’t blame him. After his mother was taken away, Conrad was sent to the workhouse, but he had escaped shortly thereafter. Since then we looked out for each other, and Conrad took it upon himself to help other boys who were orphaned in the same way. That was how he had gathered his small band of ruffians. They all worked together to survive, and I helped as much as I could.

“It was a vampire, Conrad,” I asserted. “Turns out I’m rather the expert, as it were.”

That statement was met with just blank stares, all except for Conrad, of course, who made another sneering sound and kept whittling.

“Fanny told me so, earlier tonight. She said I was The Protector. I fulfilled an old prophecy called The Hawthorn Legacy.”

Again. Blank stares.

“Watch this.” I grabbed the lantern Edwin and Rufus had been using. I turned up the wick to allow more light to spill into the basement, illuminating the grey stone walls and dirt floor.

It already felt warmer in the dingy basement, but oil was hard to come by.

After placing the lantern on a pile of scavenged wood, I took a rather large piece of broken beam. It was about as thick as my thigh, just about the same width as my bedpost, so this should do the trick.

All eyes were on me, even Conrad’s, as I broke the wood over my knee. It splintered in two, and although it did hurt a little, the pain was gone as quickly as it had come.

“Woah!” the three younger ones sang in unison.

“What’s going on, Nickie?” Conrad said, now standing again. He came over to me and took the wood out of my hands, probably inspecting it to see if it had been rotted through. He looked at me with wonder, mouth hanging open.

“Like I told you, I fulfill The Hawthorn Legacy. I have been chosen.” I told them everything Fanny had explained to me, and no one interrupted me or scoffed this time, not even Conrad. They all just listened with rapt attention until I had finished.

Franklin said “Woah” again.

“I know. It is rather a lot to take in. Imagine how I feel.” I sank down to the floor with them all. We sat for a few moments in silence, not really knowing what to say.

“So,” Conrad started. “That thing up there was really a vampire? It was trying to, what, bite me?” He knew the answer without me having to speak it, and his face turned quite white upon that realization. “How have we lived on the streets so long and have never seen one before? I mean, we’re out there every night and every day. Begging. Working. Winning food and such.”

That was what they called it when they stole food, or anything. They said they had “won” it. Conrad also scavenged, and he was teaching Rufus to do so as well. They spent low tide down by the river as mudlarks, finding wood, coins, jewelry, bones, rags, and bits of copper. Anything that they could sell. Conrad alone worked as a tosher in the sewers doing the same. It was too dangerous for Rufus, but at fourteen, he would join him. Franklin’s time was better spent tinkering, as his gadgets brought in as much as all the rest put together.

“I don’t know,” I said at a loss. “Lucky?”

Again, the familiar dismissive sound came from Conrad. “Right. ‘Cause we are so lucky. Luck o’the devil,” he mumbled.

“We are lucky,” Edwin said. “We have Nick to look after us.”

This made me smile, and it really moved me. I felt the tears forming, but I swallowed hard and didn’t allow them to come. Now was no time for frivolous sentimentalities, especially with such danger afoot. Especially since…

“Or,” I continued slowly, not wanting to even think it let alone say it. “Perhaps they can feel me. I mean, I certainly felt the change go through me. Fanny says that I should be able to learn to sense them, although I didn’t feel anything except a little nauseous, maybe they can sense me, too.”

“So, great.” Conrad stood up and glowered down at me. “These bloodthirsty creatures of the night can sense you, and you led them straight to us.”

-_Q

Thank you for reading this week’s installment of The Zombies of Mesmer: A Nickie Nick Vampire Hunter Novel. Join me every Friday for a new installment of this YA Steampunk ParaRomance. Don’t forget to leave a comment for a chance to win an author-signed copy of the sequel, released Summer 2013. The more comments you leave, week after week, the more times you’ll be entered!

Filed under: Serialized Fiction Tagged: author, book, buffy, buffy the vampire slayer, love, nickie nick, o.m. grey, olivia grey, paranormal romance, passion, serialized fiction, serialized novel, steampunk, teen, teen romance, the zombies of mesmer, vampire hunter, vampires, victorian, ya, zombies, zombies of mesmer

Playing Games

I first heard game terminology to indicate sexual experience in a BDSM context. People who participate in the BDSM lifestyle talk about sexual partner as “play buddies” or “play partner.” They talk about sex parties as “play parties,” and they recount a sexual encounter by saying something like “I played with her last Saturday.” My understanding, as a person outside of the BDSM culture, for them adopting this kind of game terminology in regards to sexual experiences and relationships is that BDSM encounters are rather planned out. There is often role playing and scenes set up/acted out, and there are definitely rules set beforehand, outlining boundaries and safewords, since “NO” is usually not the indicator for withdrawn consent in a BDSM scenario. This is all part of the “game” they’re playing.

(ASIDE: At least, I hope these boundaries and safewords are discussed beforehand. If they aren’t, get away from that person fast.)

Although I once used the word “game” with a dom, and he got terribly upset and offended, as this was not a “game” to him, it was his lifestyle. His orientation. I later discovered this very dom, fortunately never a lover of mine, was a narcissist and rather sadistic, both sexually and emotionally to his wife and his lovers.

I digress, imagine that.

It is a lifestyle and orientation, indeed. The way those in BDSM set up their “play parties,” and the way they discuss their encounters and partners are all centered around game terminology.

I have absolutely no problem with game terminology being used in the BDSM lifestyle. For many participating in those communities, perhaps there needs to be a separation between every day life and their “play parties” or “play sessions” because those often consist of staggering humiliation and physical pain, either given or received. There must be a clear difference and separation. between reality and their “play time.”

Again, I don’t know first hand. Although I’ve toyed (again with the game terminology) with some submissive tendencies, I’ve always made it verbally clear beforehand that I was not, by any means, into humiliation or pain. I have had partner not respect those boundaries, which means those encounters crossed into the realm of sexual assault and rape. Two things very common in BDSM, polyamorous, and other sex-positive communities.

And yet, I digress.

Unfortunately, I’ve heard these game terminologies used by people in the poly community and even by those who are just dating. They would say “we played together once” when talking about a former lover. The Rapist, in our short-lived relationship, used game terminology a lot. After a specific sexual encounter he’d say “I’ve played that game with so-and-so before,” or “I like that game.” The use of such terminology, likening intimate sexual encounters to games, threw up serious red flags during the first month, wondering if I was just a toy to him although his actions spoke quite deeply that I wasn’t. His words did, too, about half the time. I kept emotional distance at first, watching to see if his words and actions matched. (Now, by the way, I’d be out of there. But then now, I wouldn’t be having sex in the first place.) Then one day, we were discussing spirituality and his meditation practice, and he said that meditating was a game he liked to play. That’s when I questioned it. If he used game terminology to indicate something as sacred as spirituality, then it must mean something different when he says it.

Rookie mistake at 42. Assuming that people hold spirituality sacred. Newsflash: predators don’t. They’ll use it because decent people think that it is sacred. Hmmm. Digress…

I asked him about it, and he fed me some story about an old friend and lover whose father would turn everything into a game. If they had a flat tire on the side of the road, he’d make a game out of it to lighten the mood and stress, getting the family though the crisis with humor and making light of the situation.

I tragically believed him.

At the end of it, after he raped me twice, humiliated me, and tossed me aside like garbage–after he crossed the country to stalk me and turned my community against me–I realized that the entire spirituality thing was as much of a game as my heart, my mind, and my body was to him.

I’m here to tell you, as a woman who has had her share of love, heartbreak, and trauma, that my heart, my soul, my body, and especially my mind are not your fucking toys.

Unless that’s agreed upon at the very beginning, with terms outlined, negotiated, and understood, much as in proper BDSM encounters, this is not a fucking game.

You do not play with my body.

You do not play with my heart.

You absolutely don’t fucking play manipulative mind games.

I’d like to see us move away from game terminology when discussing intimate encounters, sexuality as well as of the heart. This is not a game, people. In fact, I don’t think there are many things more serious and sacred than love and how we express that love, especially sexually.

To turn that into a game without consent makes you just like a manipulative, sociopathic narcissist. Don’t do it.

Respect your partners. Respect their hearts, their bodies, and their minds.

May you find peace.

Filed under: Romance & Relationships Tagged: bdsm, ethical non monogamy, ethical sex, games, o.m. grey, olivia grey, open, polyamory, sex, sex positive, sexuality

Short Story: Of Æther & Æon

This was the first short story I ever wrote back in 2010. After several publications, I’m retiring it from the market. Please enjoy.

-_Q

She watched him move across the deck as she had a thousand times before. Every day, just before muster, he walked this way. And every day, she watched from behind the main canon, peering around the cascabel, hoping that one day he would see her. Notice her. Love her.

If only Jonah would look at her, he would see.

It was the middle of a very long war. It had begun before Constance had even joined the RAN nearly a decade ago. She had served as the HMS Æther’s Chief Navigator for just over three years now. How time flies.

Jonah was above her in rank, but not by much. Lean and strong, his body moved with grace, and Constance felt clumsy. Even she, a woman, didn’t move with such grace and poise and confident purpose. He had dark brown hair, deep chestnut, that extended past his temples in cocoa colored mutton chops, following the curve of his strong jaw.  The leather baldric that ran from his right shoulder to left hip accentuated the breadth of his muscular chest, even beneath both the shirt and regulation waistcoat.

“Connie,” a deep voice said. “Let’s go, we’ll be late to the morning muster and then there will be hell to pay.”

“Morning, Samuel,” Constance said without taking her eyes off Jonah, who was talking with another officer on the starboard side of the airship. He laughed, and Constance found herself catching her breath at the sight of his brilliant smile. His cheek held the slightest suggestion of a dimple when he smiled.

Although they worked in close proximity, he as the Chief Engineer and she as the Chief Navigator, she effectively hid her feelings for him while on the job. It was only in the few moments of the morning that she could let her guard down.

“Mornin’, Con. What’s got yer interest?” Samuel followed her gaze to the handsome officer across the way. “Ah. Of course. Shoulda known.”

Constance blushed and forced herself to look away. She turned to Sam and had to shade her eyes from the rising sun behind him. During the day, the great balloon that held the dirigible aloft blocked out most of the sun, but the during the early morning and the late evening, it shone between the great blimp and the top deck of the battleship. The movement felt too familiar.

“Déjà vu,” she said. 

“Really?” Samuel responded. “Me, too. How odd.”

“Quite,” Constance agreed. “Let’s move.” She stepped out from behind the canon and, after a quick glance to check that the seams of her knee-high spats were running straight up the center of her shin, strode across the deck toward muster. She fell in and stood at parade rest, her feet shoulder-width apart and hands folded at the small of her back over the lacing of her regulation steel-boned corset, just above the small bustle, a tie-on piece that covered the derriere and gave the appearance of the bustle sway that was so popular down below. It was a recent addition to all women’s uniforms, said to keep the men from being distracted. Although Constance felt that it did more to draw the eye.

If only it would draw his eye.

“Attention!” the first mate yelled, and the entire mustered block snapped to attention. Constance stood stiffly with the rest of her crew and listened to the Captain speak.

“At ease,” the Captain said, and the entire company returned to parade-rest, synchronized. “Today is an important day,” he continued. “Earlier this morning, the Communication Officer’s team intercepted a message from the enemy. I am confident that this piece of information might be just what we need to sway this war back into our favor. And it’s high time, too!”

Constance felt a wave of hope rush through her core. The energy of the entire muster changed, and she felt that, too. Out of the corner of her eye, she chanced a look at Jonah and had to catch her breath when she saw that he was looking at her as well! She snapped her eyes back to the front and realized she had no idea what the Captain was saying anymore. The blood rushed into her cheeks, warming them against the cold air. The rising sunlight caught the lens of Jonah’s goggles atop his flight cap, so she knew he was still looking back at her.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

“Dismissed” was the next thing that registered in her distracted mind. She took the opportunity to duck away in the opposite direction from Jonah, hoping that Samuel would tell her what she had missed. She took the long way around to the Chart House, past the great engine cogs that pierced the floor of the port-aft deck and up the back stairs past the Signal Bridge. The Chart House was empty. Samuel was not yet here, and the night watch, already off duty, had left for the day. Bending over a large map spread over the center table, she commenced work immediately.

“Interesting turn, no?” Samuel asked as he stepped inside the small room just above the main deck in which they both worked.

“Indeed,” she responded, not wanting to admit that she had missed most of what the Captain said. Surely it would come up in conversation.

Samuel moved a tarnished astrolabe off the counter left over from the night watch and picked up a brass sextant. While Samuel took the morning readings, Constance calculated their current location on the map. She adjusted the divider based upon their speed, air velocity, and cross wind readings set down by the night watch and then walked the divider across the map from the last recorded position to their current one.

“What did you think about the Captain’s lecture?” Constance asked as she wrote the new figures down in the navigational log, but Samuel didn’t answer. He stood at the front window looking through the sextant’s eyepiece, then readjusted its arm and looked through the eyepiece again.

“Sam?” Constance said.

“Somethin’ ain’t right,” he said. “According to these here readings, we are thirty-three degrees off course.

“That can’t be right,” Constance said dropping the divider and rechecking her figures. She pulled the brass compass out from the tiny pocket on the front of her corset. “Unless the night watch wrote down the wrong calculations again.” Sure enough. The compass confirmed it. She snapped it shut and placed it back into its pocket. Its long chain bounced against the steel boning as Constance moved over to Sam. Taking the sextant from him and looking through it herself, she confirmed it once again. “This is unacceptable,” she said, thrusting the sextant back into Samuel’s hands. “Sam, I think it’s time we split up. You will have to take the night shift with Airman Hannigan, and Sergeant Fredricks shall take the day shift with me. This is the third time this month, although it’s by far the worst.”

“Aye aye, Lieutenant Commander McCoy” Sam said with more than a hint of sarcasm. He obviously didn’t want the night shift, but since Constance outranked him, he knew he couldn’t argue.

“You know we cannot afford mistakes like this, especially not after what the Captain said this morning. This might be the turning point for the war,” she offered, as it was truly the only thing she heard, “and we do not want a navigational error to jeopardize this mission.”

Constance pulled her bound tablet out from a pocket in her belt and scribbled down some new headings. It always amazed Samuel just how fast she could calculate even the most complex formulas. She ripped the last page with the new headings out of her bound tablet and, handing them to Samuel, said, “Fix this. Fast.”

“Aye aye,” he said again, without the sarcasm.

Constance Illustration by Daniela “Rivan15th” Giubellini

Constance went over to the stock cabinet to get a new tablet, but before she could open the door, a deep, melodic voice said, “Lieutenant Commander McCoy, might I have a moment?”

It was Jonah. Her mind filled with a mixture of pleasure and fear. Perhaps he had come to berate her about the navigational error, although that would not be the responsibility of the Chief Engineer. She forced herself to be the officer she was and responded, “Of course, Commander Beaufort.” Then continuing to Samuel said, “Sergeant Whitford, please relay the new headings to engineering.” Samuel nodded in reply and moved over to the sound telegraph they used to communicate with other parts of the ship. Putting the flared earpiece to his ear and speaking into the similarly flared mouthpiece, he said, “Engine Room.”

Jonah stepped sideways out the doorway in which he had been standing and put his hand out, inviting her to go before him. She caught her breath, no matter how much she tried not to, when she passed so closely in front of him. The two walked down the front stairway and up toward the foremast, where he stopped her.

He just looked at her and after a moment, smiled.

“There was something you wanted to speak with me about, Commander Beaufort?” Constance said, folding her hands in front of her, as if she was a proper lady from the ton. She took very conscious deep breaths and reminded herself again that she was an officer in the Royal Air Navy.

“Of course, Constance. But, please call me Jonah. We have worked together for so long,” he started.

Breathe.

“Well,” he said rubbing his neck and looking out over the edge of the ship into the horizon. “In light of what the Captain said this morning, I seem to have new hope regarding this war and…life, I suppose.” He laughed a little here, and Constance felt her heart jump in her chest when the faint dimple appeared along with the joyous sound of his laughter. “I really should’ve done this long ago, but things have been quite dire with the war over the past months. Still, now with this new hope.” He shuffled his weight from foot to foot and laughed again.

Heart. Jump.

“Anyway, what I’m trying to say is–Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”

His gaze turned down to her with the question, and he bit his lip, which only made to deepen the dimple, as he waited for her response.

Constance had not realized she had been holding her breath for the last several seconds until she let it out. Then she took another one and held it again.

Jonah must have taken her silence as offense, for the smile left his eyes, but still politely stayed on his lips as he said, “Forgive me, Lieutenant Commander McCoy. I have overstepped my bounds.” With a slight bow, he turned and began to walk away.

Constance forced herself out of her shocked catatonia and yelled after him, “Yes!”

He turned back.

“Yes,” she said, breathing a little more rapidly than normal. “Yes, Jonah, I would love to have dinner with you tonight.”

He smiled and then returned to her, sweeping her into his arms and stepping behind the great foremast to block them from view of the rest of the crew. She felt his taut body pressed up against hers, and it was a good thing his strong arm, wrapped tightly around her waist, held her against him, for her knees were weak. They most certainly would not have held her weight if he were to let her go.

She prayed that he would never let her go.

His grey-blue eyes looked intently into her green ones for a moment before closing. She felt his soft lips press down over hers, and she met the kiss in kind. Her hand found the bristly chestnut chops along his jaw. His tongue brushed hers ever so slightly, and it sent a wave of longing down her entire body, settling heavy in her deepest part. He withdrew his lips, leaving her breathless.

“Until tonight,” he said. He touched her cheek and let his hand slowly trail along her jawline before removing it completely. Images of quenched longings filled her mind and she thought that there was too much time before now and dinner. Would this day were done!

He stepped out from behind the foremast and she followed, a little wobbly, but before he could get too far away, Samuel called down to her from the Chart House stoop.

“Lieutenant Commander McCoy, get up here quickly!” he shouted.

The edge of panic in his voice caused Jonah to stop as well.

“What is it, Sergeant,” Jonah said.

“The night watch,” he said. “You had better see for yerself.”

Constance and Jonah rushed back up the stairs to find Airman Hannigan and Sergeant Fredricks on the floor by the supply cabinet, as if they had tumbled out of it. Both their bodies were twisted in unnatural ways, and their empty eyes stared out from their strangely angled heads at nothing.

Constance stifled a scream, but she could not look away from the horrific sight.

“Sabotage,” Samuel said. “That’s why we’re off course.”

“I shall alert the Captain,” Jonah said, touching Constance’s shoulder to show his concern.

Jonah turned and went down the stairs and Constance followed. “I shall come with you,” she said. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she ran right into the back of Jonah who had stopped suddenly.

“Jonah, what is it?” she said. He stepped aside and, looking past him over the port side of the ship, she saw a vessel, smaller than their own but no less armed, rising to their altitude. “Where did that come from?”

“It must have been beneath us, hiding. Waiting.” Jonah took off in a run toward the bridge, and Constance followed. But by then, the entire ship had been alerted. A steam whistle sounded in alarm, piercing the quiet of the morning. The sound of panic shortly followed as the crew members crisscrossed the top deck.

They were not prepared for this. They had been miles from anyone last night.

“Battle stations!” the Master-at-Arms shouted into the increasing chaos of the crew. Men and women pulled their goggles from off their caps and covered their eyes as they manned their stations around the main deck’s peripheral cannons. Others rushed passed Constance and Jonah trying to get to the lower decks in time for the fire command.

“Get back into the Chart House, Connie,” Jonah looked back at her, and his goggles were already in place, covering his grey-blue eyes. He gently took hers from off her cap and placed them over her eyes as well. After a tender kiss, he turned to follow the others downstairs, heading to the engine room.

She started back toward her station as well to await orders.

The enemy vessel had matched their altitude, and simultaneously, what seemed like every canon on their ship fired. Jonah and Constance had but a moment to catch each other’s terrified eyes before the HMS Æther was hit.

Great booming sounds in rapid succession accompanied by a blur of motion filled Constance’s mind, and she was thrown against the side of the ship. Catching herself from going over, she saw several of her crew mates falling through the sky towards the unforgiving ground below. Frantic, she turned to see if Jonah had been one of them, but all was chaos.

She could not see him.

The wounded cried out from all along the deck. Smoke billowed up from the lower decks through the new holes in the floorboards and from portholes on the side of the ship. Even the huge engine cogs had been broken. The largest one was broken in two, and two of the smaller ones, still larger than a man, had been forced up through the now fragmented deck. She looked around for Jonah, trying to force her brain to catch up with what had just happened. All was but a blur of blood and smoke and splintered wood.

There, she finally saw him, laying against the large capstan, bleeding. He hadn’t gone over the side, but he was hurt.

She rushed up to him just as she heard the command, “FIRE!”

The HMS Æther rocked back as its canons fired back at the enemy.

“Jonah!” Constance shouted above the din. She got to him and knelt by his side.

It was not good. Several shards of wood stuck out from various parts of his body. His leg. His arm. His shoulder. His neck. All were bleeding. By far the worse wound must only have been inches from his heart. It was a metal rod, like the main shaft from some engine gears, and it was deep.

“Jonah!” she shouted again. She lifted the goggles from his eyes, which rolled over to focus on her. She lifted off her own goggles so that she could see him more clearly.

“Connie,” he said weakly. He reached out and touched her cheek. She felt the wetness of blood, and she clapped her own hand over his, holding on. “I guess I really should have asked you to dinner sooner. So much time. Wasted.”

“Shhhhh,” she said. “I’ll get the medic.”

“No,” he said, putting his hand on her knee as she began to rise. “Stay with me.”

She tried not to cry at the sight of the bright red blood dripping down his face and into his mutton chops. He had a head wound as well as the rest, and his breath was quickly becoming raspy. Gurgling noises wafted out from his shallow breaths. The shaft must have punctured a lung.

“I can’t see you,” he said, rubbing his eyes with his uninjured hand. “There’s blood in my eye.” He laughed and then coughed, splattering more blood on his already darkened uniform.

“I am here, Jonah. I am here with you,” she said, and the tears came, blurring her vision as well. She wiped them angrily away, wanting to see him clearly. Knowing there were but moments left, even if she could have gotten to the medic, this was not a battle one walked away from. Any of them.

“I have loved you for so long,” he said. “I should have asked you out sooner.”

They had finally found each other, and now this. There was not enough time, but she would spend every last moment with him. She would hold on to every last moment with her life. There just was not enough time.

“I really should have asked you sooner.”

And with that, he died.

“Jonah?” she said, shaking him, but there was no response. “Jonah! Stay with me. I’m here now. Stay with me!” But his eyes, still eerily fixed on her, were empty. Dark.

“Jonah!” she cried. “NO!” His head lolled to the side, so she pulled it close to her breast, steadying it.

“I’m here now, Jonah. Don’t leave me.”

The commotion of the surrounding havoc crept back into her consciousness as she held her lover’s dead body. It was so surreal. Just moments ago he had been kissing her. She could still feel the softness of his lips, his tongue. His cologne still filled her nostrils.

Only a short time ago.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, and it made them sting in the cold morning air.

A frantic Airman rushed by screaming, “They’re aiming for the balloon! They’re aiming for the balloon!”

“No. The hydrogen,” Constance said to Jonah’s blank stare. There was no panic in her voice, for the pain she felt was too great. What she felt had surpassed pain. Surpassed numbness. There was no escape, but she would be with Jonah again soon. Forever.

She held him closely and accepted her fate. Letting everything else fall away, she felt the cool morning air sting the tears on her cheeks. She blocked out the screaming and chaos around her and just felt Jonah’s body pressed up against her. She looked down at his handsome, blood-stained face and brushed her hand over his jaw, feeling the roughness of his mutton chops, then with her finger she traced the place on his cheek where his dimple had been.

The blast came. It sounded faraway as if in a dream. Then she saw the cannonballs fly, and they appeared to be moving in slow motion. She saw them hit the great balloon, and she saw the beginning of the explosion. As the fireball rushed towards her, she felt as if she was being squeezed into a narrow tube. A horrible sensation of moving backwards, as if being yanked forcefully back into a room you had just left. A blur of brilliant lights filled her peripheral vision, forming a funnel around her and the entire ship.

Then she was standing on the deck looking into the sun rising in the East. She turned away from the brightness of it, blinking several times to clear the spots still flashing on the inside of her eyelids.

There he was.

She watched him move across the deck as she had a thousand times before. Every day, just before muster, he walked this way. And every day, she watched from behind the main canon, peering around the cascabel, hoping that one day he would see her. Notice her. Love her.

If only Jonah would look at her, he would see.

-_Q

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed “Of Aether and Aeon.” Every Friday, look for new FREE fiction as I serialize my teen Steampunk romance The Zombies of Mesmer. Find more of my work on this blog, in several publications, and on Amazon.

Filed under: Short Fiction & Poetry Tagged: airship, constance, dirigible, free fiction, o.m. grey, of aether and aeon, olivia grey, romance, science fiction, short story, steampunk, time travel

ZM_CH2: In Which Nickie Nick Dances by Rote

Continuing in the Victorian tradition, enjoy today’s installment of The Zombies of Mesmer: A Nickie Nick Vampire Hunter Novel.  Every Friday a new installment of this YA Steampunk ParaRomance is published free for your enjoyment. Leave a comment and be entered to win an author-signed copy of the sequel, released Summer 2013.

Follow Nicole Knickerbocker Hawthorn (Nickie Nick) as she discovers her destiny as The Protector, a powerful vampire hunter. Ashe, a dark and mysterious stranger, helps Nickie and her friends solve the mystery behind several bizarre disappearances. Suitable for teens, enjoyed by adults, the story is full of interesting steampunk gadgets, mad scientists, bloodthirsty vampires, and mesmerized zombies. This paranormal adventure is sure to appeal to fans of Boneshaker, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and The Vampire Diaries.

The Zombies of Mesmer is a Gothic Young Adult Paranormal Romance novel set in Victorian London. Appropriate for teens.

Get your very own copy of The Zombies of Mesmer in paperback or for your Kindle (FREE for Prime Members)! Don’t have a Kindle? Kindle apps are available for smart phones, PCs, and tablets. Have another eReader? Email me about other formats.

-_Q

Chapter 2: In Which Nickie Nick Dances by Rote

Upturned, expectant faces filled the room below as I stood at the top of the staircase unable to move. The muscles in my cheeks complained as I held a plastered smile on my face. My gloved hand rested delicately on the wooden banister, but my mind was still back in my bedchamber.

Me? Really?

I was supposed to fight vampires? And demons?

Had I heard that right?

Surely Fanny was joking, or maybe she just had had too much whiskey.

“May I present,” a loud booming voice filled the room, “Miss Nicole Knickerbocker Hawthorn.”

Fanny did enjoy a taste every now and again, but the strength and, for lack of a better word, power surging through me was no mistake. It was no joke. Something was quite different indeed.

“Nicole,” my mother chided in a harsh whisper through her own plastered smile. She was standing a few feet away from me on the second story. “Nicole. Move!”

This jolted me out of my thoughts. The music had already started again, which was my cue, so I began my slow descent of the staircase. Mother had made me practice this several times a day over the past week, so I knew just how slowly to move and just how wide to smile. I really had hated all those stupid rehearsals at the time. I mean, I could walk down a staircase and smile without practice. Now, however, I was truly grateful that my body could do this all without my brain being in gear. Because my mind certainly was not operating properly at the moment.

As I reached the bottom of the staircase, the guests gathered around to greet me as I made my way through the foyer. My mother was right behind me with her hand at the small of my back, guiding me.

Again. Grateful.

A rather large, old, and particularly pasty woman stopped us on our way to the dining hall which had been converted into a ballroom for the party.

“So lovely,” she said, then added to my mother, “You must be very proud.”

“I am, indeed,” my mother answered. I could feel the joy emanating off of her in a warm glowy way. At least she was enjoying this. My face was beginning to ache from keeping the same smile for so long. The corner of my mouth started to twitch.

“Nicole.” The pasty woman gave one of those condescending smiles. “Such an unusual name.”

“Yes,” I offered, my cheek muscles welcoming the momentary rest. “It is Greek. It means–”

“Foolish girl,” my mother interrupted as she moved up beside me and grabbed my arm. I noticed a blush coming up in her cheeks. “It is a family name, actually. Dutch. She is named after my family, from the Nicoles and Knickerbockers of Holland, and more recently, New York.”

“I see,” the woman said, clenching her teeth. “Still, so lovely. Yes, so very lovely.”

My mother’s grip clamped down on my gloved arm, for the gloves extended well past my elbows, nearly to the bottom of the tiny dress sleeves. Mother steered me back on course toward the far end of the ballroom floor. There we stopped and the guests formed a receiving line, each to meet me formally as I entered society.

The entire thing seemed so pointless, really.

They greeted my mother first and then she presented me to each of them saying, “I want to present my daughter, Nicole” to every. single. one of them.

I smiled. I greeted. I curtsied. I did all that was expected of me.

After an eternity of pretense, the receiving line was finally coming to an end. There had been more than a few handsome bachelors, and even more old crotchety ones, who took great pleasure in kissing my gloved hand and reserving their place on my dance card. Not one of them piqued my interest. Not even the handsome ones. After all, I did have more important things to think about than with whom to dance and when. How perfectly frivolous.

But dance I must.

The first came for his dance, and I waltzed with him just as I was taught. I really couldn’t say what we talked about. Something trivial, no doubt, as I was able to carry on the conversation without my thoughts ever leaving what Fanny had said. There was a great difference between who the ton saw and who I really was on the inside. Fanny had taught me to blend into High Society quite well.

Vampires. What were they like? Could they be here at my ball? And demons! How dreadfully horrifying!

And this was the way I spent the evening, waltz after waltz. Each with a new dance partner that hardly registered in my distracted mind until…

“You are not listening to a word I say, are you Miss Hawthorn?” my current partner accused. I looked up at him and saw it was none other than the great fop, His Most Annoying, Lord Reginald Godwyn. He was considered one of the most eligible bachelors for one of my station, that’s the half-American daughter of nouveau riche industrialists. Only those titled with questionable finances would lower themselves enough to marry beneath them, or what would have been considered beneath them only a few years ago. The upper middle-class was now marrying quite often into the lower aristocracy.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” I feigned offense.

“I said, you are not listening to anything I’m saying, are you?” he repeated as he twirled me in a waltz across the ballroom. Waltzing was second nature to me, almost like walking. I was normally able to do it quite well without thinking, but now I found myself counting ‘one-two-three, one-two-three’ in my head to ensure I would not miss a step.

His Most Annoying had certainly done what he did best. Yet, this irksome, albeit handsome, man was my mother’s first choice for my husband. He was the highest rank in attendance, and he must think this is all quite beneath him. We did have that in common.

My daydreaming must have offended him quite deeply. Good. For I would never marry such a man. Best that he lost interest altogether.

“I think one would do one the honor of at least listening when one speaks, wouldn’t one?”

“What?” I asked before I could stop myself. Did he really just say that?

“Am I not interesting enough to hold your attention, Miss Hawthorn?” He emphasized the ‘miss’ to indicate that I was neither married nor titled, a subtle way of chastising me. If I had cared about such things, I’m sure it would have stung.

I wanted to say, ‘of course not,’ but I minded my manners. “Forgive my rudeness, Lord Godwyn. My mind did wander for a moment. Please, do repeat your comment, my lord. You now have my undivided attention.”

“It was a question, actually. I shall repeat it dear lady, but you must make more of an effort to listen. Don’t you agree?” He was quite handsome, but really in the most obvious and tiresome way. The type of handsome that’s too handsome, especially for one as spoiled and elitist as this great fop. And he was indeed a Great Fop! He had perfect blue eyes, a perfect chiseled jaw that framed a brilliant white smile, and perfect color of flaxen hair swept perfectly to the side. Each step he made in the waltz was perfect as well. He was the epitome of what society considered a great catch for any debutante, especially for one at my station, as I was so very often reminded. I would be considered most fortunate to marry such a man, a mere five years my senior. But his beauty was marred by his personality, which was bossy, arrogant, and terribly vexing.

“Yes. Of course, Lord Godwyn. Again, do forgive my rudeness.”

“Very well. I am in the market for a wife, if I may be so bold. Perhaps my boldness will hold your attention this time. And I would very much like to call on you on Christmas Day. May I do so, Miss Hawthorn?” Before I could respond he continued. “If all goes well at that meeting, then I would very much like to escort you to a New Year’s Ball the following week.”

I couldn’t understand why he had needed my attention so desperately, as he seemed to have decided this for himself without my acknowledgment.

“Christmas is traditionally a day for family in our home, Lord Godwyn,” I said sweetly.

“I have already spoken with your mother, and she has agreed to the visit.”

The music had just stopped, so we stood before each other for a moment before he bowed and kissed my white-gloved hand.

“Well, then.” I gave him the same sweet smile, “I shall see you in a few days, Lord Godwyn.”

“I look forward to it, Miss Hawthorn. You do look quite lovely this evening, despite that repulsive necklace.”

I curtsied, and he strutted away.

Over the rest of the evening, I caught Lord Godwyn watching me quite often, and it was deeply unsettling. I glanced over at the great Grandfather Clock in the foyer, counting the minutes to when this disagreeable ball would come to an end and I could get out of this blasted corset and learn more about who I had become, but there was still at least another hour before I could be free. Looking down from the great clock, my eyes met those of a young man who I had never seen before, peering in the long window that ran down the side of the front door. For that instant our eyes locked, my stomach flipped inside my tightly strung corset. He was beautiful, albeit rather scruffy. His face was dirty, but his dark eyes sent a thrill through me like I have never known. But before I could move toward the door, he was gone. From that point on, that mysterious stranger fought the thoughts of my strange birthright for control of my mind.

 ***

After the last guest left, I gladly went back up to my chamber and immediately took off that frivolous dress and had begun to unlace my corset when Fanny came in from her adjoining room.

“Did you have a nice time?” she asked cheekily.

“Very funny,” I replied. “I’m just so happy it is over.”

“Did you find a husband?” She enjoyed playing with me.

My thoughts fled to that handsome stranger in the window, but that was just absurd, as I had no idea who that was and I would likely never see him again. But that feeling is what I wanted in a husband. That rush of thrill and excitement. Whoever he was, I knew now that that feeling was possible. Now more than ever I knew I would not settle for anything less than love.

“Well?” Fanny raised her eyebrows awaiting an answer.

“There were many handsome suitors in attendance, Fanny. Indeed! But, alas, no one at the party stirred any feelings of love for me.” It was not a lie after all. That mysterious man had not been at the party.

“So then, we can enjoy each other’s company for a while longer.”

Fanny was far more like a mother to me than my own, and I knew I was very much like a daughter to her.

She helped me on with my night dress, and I climbed up on my bed and snuggled under the covers. Fanny sat next to me and stoked my hair like she had done my entire life.

“Tell me more about this prophecy, Fanny.”

“Very well, you did hold up your end of our agreement. It is known as The Hawthorn Legacy, and it was foretold many, many years before you were born.”

“How is that even possible? How can anyone know what will come to pass?”

“My coven is descended from a long line of very powerful witches.”

“Are you a witch, too?” I sat up straight against my headboard, waiting for one of her stories. I now began to wonder if all those stories she had told me throughout my life had been real and not just bedtime stories.

“I am,” she answered. Her eyes looked sad. “Once, I was a very powerful witch, and I suppose I still am. But I gave up that life to care for you, my lamb. I have kept up a moderate practice, of course, as I have been preparing for this day my entire life. But many members of my coven have grown into extremely powerful forces against darkness.”

“So I’m not the only vampire hunter?”

“Heavens, no, child. How could there be only one vampire hunter? This world would be overrun with demons and vampires and other nasties if only one person in the entire world could defeat them. There are many fighting in the war against evil, child; but you are special. You are also The Protector, and you are the only one. No, there have been others, and there will be more once you are…finished. Although, there has not been a Protector like you for generations. Not since your birth was foretold, and your powers do exceed that of most. At least, they were foretold as such. Your actual abilities are yet to be seen. Tell me, did you feel a change?”

I pulled my knees to my chest and looked up at the broken canopy. The corner post I had broken during the change was still missing, but the canopy had been temporarily propped up with a broom handle and some twine.

“Sorry about that.” I indicated the broken bed frame.

“No worries, love. Wilfred fixed it for the time being. We shall get it properly tended to tomorrow.”

“I guess it goes without saying that I felt a change.” Resting my chin on my knees, I thought about the feeling that I had when the change came over me. It was not unlike the feeling in my stomach when I had seen that beautiful stranger, only much more pronounced. Also, it ran through my entire body. “At first it was a chill, then it turned to fire, as if my skin was burning.”

“Interesting. Perhaps part of the witches blessing on your family. That was the fate of many a witch, burned at the stake. Such a horrible way to die, my dear. Your Hathorne ancestor ensured women accused of witchcraft met similar ends. Hanged and crushed they were. So horrible. So very horrible, indeed.”

“It didn’t hurt, Fanny. Rather it was exhilarating, like every pore exploded with strength and energy all at the same time. Then I could see more clearly, if that makes sense. And I could hear things from far away and smell…like all my senses were heightened.”

“You are indeed The Protector, my dear. You are the most powerful vampire hunter alive.”

“What about you, Fanny. Did you ever hunt vampires and demons?”

“Oh that was many years ago, my dove. Many, many years. I must’ve been no older than you, but yes, I have dusted a vampire or two in my time. Come here.” She got up from the bed and waddled a few steps before she walked the kinks out of her “old bones,” as she called them. She led me into her own bedchamber, pulled the rug aside, and opened up a hinged portion of the floorboards.

“This is my past, but it is your future.”

Beneath the floor door were dozens of sharpened wood stakes and other weapons.

“We will begin training tomorrow after you have had a chance to rest from this evening’s excitement. It is much to take in all at once, no?

She handed me a wooden stake, and it belonged in my hands. I made a fist around the hard shaft and felt the roughness of the wood dimple my skin.

“It is made out of hawthorn wood, the tree from which your ancestors were originally named. This, my dear, is your main weapon for hunting vampires. From this point forward you are to always have a stake on your person.”

“Where did you get all these?”

“Some are from my own fighting days, but most I have carved throughout the years in preparation for this day.”

She took the black stone that hung around my neck and slid it inside my nightgown. “Keep the necklace tucked close to your breast for protection. It is more powerful when it lies against your skin.”

I fingered the stone through the cotton nightdress. “So vampires cannot control my thoughts with this, correct?”

“True.”

“But they normally can? I mean, how? Will I be able to do that?”

“So many questions!” Fanny laughed.

“Sorry, Fanny, but this is all rather shocking.”

“Yes, they normally can. I’m not sure how, but they can cloud your mind. They can feed off you and make you not remember anything about it. They can make you believe and do things, too. And, no, as far as I know, you will not have that ability.”

“But you said–”

“I know I said you would have powers like them, and you will. You do,” she corrected herself. “You have strength and speed that rival theirs, but you are still human after all.”

“Do they look human?”

“More or less, but they have a tendency to look increasingly less human and more monstrous as time goes on. Really old vampires are quite monstrous, but they can make you believe they are still beautiful. That necklace will keep you from being fooled by that. Their cold, pale flesh and pointy canine teeth normally keep them out of polite company,” she assured me, but I was not convinced.

“I saw some rather pale and monstrous looking, lecherous old men at my birthday gala earlier.” The memory of some of those suitors caused my lip to curl in the most unattractive way.

Fanny laughed heartily and then covered her mouth. She looked around guiltily as if she could wake my parents across this huge house.

“How will I recognize them?” I asked.

“You will most certainly know one when you seen one,” she had responded. That was of little help.

“How? Do they have fangs?”

“Indeed they do.”

“Are they always out or do they sometimes look like normal teeth?”

“They are always visible, my dear. Now it is getting late and you need your rest. We have much to do tomorrow.”

“Do they come out during the day?”

“They can, but they are out mostly at night because the sun burns and blisters their skin if in it for too long. Also, their strength and powers of mind control weaken during daylight hours. It is why they have what are called powers of darkness.”

“But how will I know when I see one?”

She laughed again. “So many questions! With some practice and concentration,” she said, “you will be able to sense them. Here.” She put her clenched fist against my stomach. “That, along with fighting skills, is why we shall train every day beginning tomorrow. Your strength is natural, my dove, but technique must be learned.”

-_Q

Thank you for reading this week’s installment of The Zombies of Mesmer: A Nickie Nick Vampire Hunter Novel. Join me every Friday for a new installment of this YA Steampunk ParaRomance. Don’t forget to leave a comment for a chance to win an author-signed copy of the sequel, released Summer 2013. The more comments you leave, week after week, the more times you’ll be entered!

Filed under: Serialized Fiction Tagged: author, book, buffy, buffy the vampire slayer, love, nickie nick, o.m. grey, olivia grey, paranormal romance, passion, serialized fiction, serialized novel, steampunk, teen, teen romance, the zombies of mesmer, vampire hunter, vampires, victorian, ya, zombies, zombies of mesmer

Living Your Purpose

One of the things I’ve been really struggling with over the past couple of years of this sexualized violence at the hands of a friend, a colleague, and a lover, is feeling a sense of purpose in my life. I’m 43 years old. I don’t have any children. I’m not religious, so I don’t have a community through church. I’m a moderately successful writer, depending on how you define “success.”

I also have an amazing husband and family.

When I turned 40, I hit the stereotypical mid-life crisis, I suppose. I wasn’t nearly as “successful” as I had hoped to be, as I had worked so hard to be. With the level of investment, monetary and energetically, I had put into my own self-growth, my career, and my education, I “should’ve” been much further along by the time I hit 40.

I felt like my life had no purpose. No matter what I did, it wasn’t good enough.

It wasn’t enough that I had produced and directed two political documentaries, one of which premiere in Paris. It wasn’t enough that I had written and published an award-winning novel (and have subsequently written and published eight more titles). It’s not enough. They’re not successful enough. They don’t sell enough. I don’t have enough readers. I don’t make enough money.

At the same time, my children…which were my dogs, started to die as they were all nearing 15 and 16 years old. I lost all three in the span of two years. During this very vulnerable and scary time, when a lot of the demons that have haunted me throughout my life reared their ugly heads again–compounding this feeling that life had no meaning whatsoever, someone I trusted completely, my best friend at the time, used that vulnerability to get in very deep, sexually exploit and assault me, and then discard me. The Writer ignored my repetitive “NOs,” manipulated me into a sexual position I had repeatedly tried to avoid without hurting his feelings–as he was my best friend, and then decided he couldn’t handle the situation afterward, abandoning me and the friendship I had sacrificed my honor to protect. I felt I was partly at fault, although I see now that wasn’t the case.

Our friendship and our writing pacts helped give me that sense of purpose I was so desperately craving. When he hurt me in the way that he did, he ripped that away again. Similarly with a colleague about 7 months afterward, The Musician also ignored my hours of repetitive “NOs,” throwing in a chorus of what a gentleman he was and how he would never do what The Writer had done, coercing me into a similar situation despite my constant protestations. Again, when his needs had been met, albeit through coercion, and he realized he couldn’t “handle” it, he discarded me as well. This time when I was alone in a foreign country.

Both these betrayals set me up for The Rapist and the greatest betrayal of my life.

So, I’ve really struggled with this idea of feeling a sense of purpose. I truly feel I don’t have one. When those I trust and who swear they care for me exploit me and toss me aside so callously, it compounds my feelings of worthlessness and lack of purpose. I write for hours, spending months writing and editing a book, only to sell a handful of copies. The royalties from those sales doesn’t even equal the price for the print run, the cover artist, and the editor, let alone leave any profit to live on.

I feel my life and my work is pointless. Utterly and completely meaningless.

Although I have fans breathing down my neck for a sequel to Avalon Revisited and The Zombies of Mesmer, and I appreciate their interest and support for my work. In fact, often that’s what keeps me going. Still, I know I would sell about 100 copies if I’m really, really lucky. Three months of work and not a dime goes to me or to buy food or to pay living expenses (let alone pay for mochas!).

So, I feel like I have no purpose.

It’s been a recurring theme in my current therapy, this lack of purpose. Struggling for a sense of meaning, any sign that my entire existence isn’t a waste of time and space. Knowing that if I only had the courage I could end all of this. Although I’m no longer suicidal like I was in the months following the rapes, I still struggle with this existential dilemma.

These days, I’m actually enjoying life most of the time, and that’s because I’m living my purpose much more often than I’m wondering about whether or not I have purpose. That’s another of the many gifts my therapist gave me…

Living my purpose.

He brought that up one day, and I was so in awe of him, as I often am, because he’s so articulate and skilled in his work. He says things with such clarity that they touch my soul and I truly understand. He asked me if when I was working in my garden or playing with my dog or writing a story if I worried about my purpose. I said no because I was distracted.

He asked, “Perhaps because in those moments you’re living your purpose.”

Again, he’s right.

When I get a pathetic royalty statement from my agent and see, again, how few books sold. When I look at my CreateSpace or Kindle sales, or lack thereof. When I see the piles of books in storage, month after month. When I see our dwindling bank account…I hear the voice of my parentss and of society, the voice that says unless I’m making money, I’m worthless. Unless I’m “successful,” my existence is pointless.

Then I paint. Then I write. Then I reach for my husband’s hand. Then I create beauty in the garden or I compose a blog post revealing truth. I watch Buster run around the hillside, jowls flapping up and down, up and down. He sits next to me and together we watch the sunset over the lake. Then I share Chocolate Chip Waffles with my husband on Sunday morning. Then I sit in Starbucks enjoying a frothy mocha while working on a plot for my next short story…

Then my life has meaning. Then I’m living my purpose.

Edgar Allen Poe, a writer to whom I’ve been compared more than once, died penniless, a drug addict and a drunk. Hemingway blew his head off. Wolfe drown herself.

However I end, I don’t write for you. I write for me. I write to fill the hours until I die, not to make money. Not to sell books. Not to increase my fan base. I write because when I do, I’m living my purpose.

My guess is that some fans will hate the sequel of Avalon Revisited. That’s okay, for the whole 100 copies that will sell. I didn’t write it for them. It was cathartic for me. It was healing for me. It was what I needed to say. It might or might not be picked up by a publisher, and it really doesn’t matter. My purpose isn’t based on my bank account or my Book Scan numbers. I don’t write for them. I don’t write for the readers. I don’t write for my agent or a potential publisher. (I must keep repeating this blog post after blog post, and even in my sleep, so that I believe it. I was socialized to please others. It’s a difficult training to break.)

For you, find what you not only enjoy doing, but something where you feel a sense of peace and contentment. Then, you’re living your purpose. Whether you’re making money or not is pretty irrelevant. We put far too much importance on money. It’s easy for me to say that, I admit, because I have a husband who makes the bulk of the money. Far from wealthy, we have food and shelter and clothes and I get to have Starbucks’ mochas. We get to moderately travel. We live pretty simply, so we don’t need much income, but of course we need income. Everyone does. Fortunately for me, his income comes from living his purpose. His self-worth and esteem are based in his work, and that works well for us both. He’s a skilled contractor, and he’s paid decently for it. He’s a great writer, like me, and we’ve had some success traveling to promote the books and other art we create. We rent out a room via AirBnB and get to meet some cool people. Those things together bring in enough income to pay the minimal bills and still give us time to write and garden and be together.

Live your purpose.

I write because it fills the hours, because I’m improving my craft for me, because I’m creating beauty and revealing truth. I don’t write to get published. Although it’s way cool when I get that validation and support, and I love to hear from readers, all that is icing on a delicious cake.

While I write or garden or paint or give advice to readers, I’m living my purpose, which is to create beauty and reveal truth.

What’s your purpose?

Filed under: Trauma & Recovery Tagged: author, existential thought, existentialism, healing, honesty, intimacy, love, mental health, mid-life crisis, non-monogamy, o.m. grey, olivia grey, open, open marriage, purpose, rape, rape survivor, sexual assault, sexualized violence, suicidal ideation, suicidal tendencies, suicide, survivor, therapist, therapy

Book Review: Lullaby

Lullaby by Chuck Palahniuk

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

Brilliant. That’s the word, the only word, that came to mind as I started reading Palahniuk’s Lullaby. I struggled to keep reading, as I was too impressed with the prose. As a writer, reading Palahniuk made me feel like a dancing monkey in comparison.

By the time I hit the halfway mark, I struggled to keep reading for an altogether different reason. It had become too fragmented, repetitive, and just plain boring.

At the beginning, this passage stopped me. Full stop. Absolute. No going further out of awe:

“Helen, she’s wearing a white suit and shoes, but not Snow White. It’s more the white of downhill skiing in Banff with a private car and driver on call, fourteen pieces of matched luggage, and a suite at the Hotel Lake Louise.”

By the time I had reached page 116, about halfway through, I’ve read about twenty passages stylistically the same.

This color. But not color like this, more like this extended metaphor.

Dull.

First time, brilliant. First few times, brilliant.

Twentieth, dull.

Okay. I might be exaggerating with the twenty mark. I didn’t count, but it’s repetitive enough to make it annoying. Unlike his other “choruses,” like “I know this because Tyler knows this” or “these noise-aholics, these peace-aphobics” (and all the variations on that theme) or the counting to remain calm, it doesn’t tie anything together. It doesn’t do a thing past a look-at-how-well-I-can-write. Over and over, which defeats its own purpose. It’s like those movie scenes so overdone they’re obviously this-is-my-Oscar-winning-performance-scene.

Again with the ads Oyster, one of the many despicable characters in this novel, takes out to blackmail corporations. Really. Really. Old. I get it. I don’t have to be beaten over the head with it.

**spoilers** — **trigger warnings**

Then, on page 177 (Ch 29), after I skipped dozens of pages of the same-ol’, same-ol’ repetition, where no new character development is revealed nor is the plot projected forward, I came to the part where Streater remembers orally and vaginally raping his dead wife. Of course, he only thought she was unconscious, so it was just rape, not necrophilia. “It’s not rape if they’re dead.”

This is where I stopped reading.

Not sure which was more disturbing, the fact that Streater calls it “the best he had” since before his child was born or that he didn’t even bother to check on her after he got off with her unconscious, unresponsive form.

I’m utterly disgusted by Palahniuk, and I’m not sure I’ll be reading anymore. Darkness is one thing. Disturbing is one thing, and I like things very dark, but something about this is beyond revolting. Thankfully, the protagonist and everyone, really, are all horrific people, so at least the rape isn’t brushed off as something acceptable. That’s the only thing that might get me to try another book.

This is the first Palahniuk book in which I’d gotten this far. I’m partially into Fight Club at the moment, the second time I’ve tried to read it. The first I found difficult to keep going for the same reason at the beginning: blown away by the prose. That, coupled with the movie playing in my head, made it hard for me to read. I’m trying again, and I hope to get through it this time.

Two stars, only because of the brilliant prose. I wouldn’t recommend this book to anyone.

View all my reviews

Filed under: News & Reviews Tagged: dark, demented, disturbing, fight club, lullaby, necrophilia, o.m. grey, olivia grey, palahniuk, prose, rape, writer

ZM_CH1: In Which Nickie Nick Discovers Her Destiny

In the Victorian tradition, today starts the serialization of The Zombies of Mesmer: A Nickie Nick Vampire Hunter Novel.  Join me every Friday for a new installment of this YA Steampunk ParaRomance. Leave a comment and be entered to win an author-signed copy of the sequel, released Summer 2013.

Follow Nicole Knickerbocker Hawthorn (Nickie Nick) as she discovers her destiny as The Protector, a powerful vampire hunter. Ashe, a dark and mysterious stranger, helps Nickie and her friends solve the mystery behind several bizarre disappearances. Suitable for teens, enjoyed by adults, the story is full of interesting steampunk gadgets, mad scientists, bloodthirsty vampires, and mesmerized zombies. This paranormal adventure is sure to appeal to fans of Boneshaker, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and The Vampire Diaries.

The Zombies of Mesmer is a Gothic Young Adult Paranormal Romance novel set in Victorian London. Appropriate for teens.

Get your very own copy of The Zombies of Mesmer in paperback or for your Kindle (FREE for Prime Members)! Don’t have a Kindle? Kindle apps are available for smart phones, PCs, and tablets. Have another eReader? Email me about other formats.

-_Q

Chapter 1: In Which Nickie Nick Discovers Her Destiny

The toes of my oversized boots searched for footing along the back of the countertop as I slid through the small back window, clutching the sill for support. I always came in and out of the pantry window when I went on my “adventures,” as Fanny the Nanny called them. My parents would never dare come into this part of the house. It simply was not done, as it only held the laundry room, pantry, and kitchen. It was a place for servants, and my parents would not lower themselves enough to be in a place of servitude. The servants themselves were not down here unless it was just before or just after a meal. So even if they caught me, they would not tell my parents. Not even Fanny would tell.

I lowered myself to a standing position and brushed the snow from my patched overcoat, dusting the sink with a sprinkling of snowflakes which melted almost as soon as they hit the countertop. A sudden, insistent clacking sound startled me. I turned from the window to see Fanny glaring up at me and impatiently tapping her pointed black boot against the pantry’s stone floor.

“Where have you been?” Fanny the Nanny scolded. She was not really my nanny, of course. No seventeen-year-old girl needed a nanny. She was more like a governess, but I still liked the sound of Fanny the Nanny. And more importantly, she didn’t.

“Out,” I replied in mock defiance, crossing my arms and holding my ground.

“Just look at you. You are a mess, and you must make your grand entrance within the hour! The party is about to begin and your guests will be arriving any minute.” She stood glaring up at me with her chubby hands balled up in fists and set firmly on her hips. “Get down from there this instant, young lady. What would your mother say?”

“She would not say a thing, Fanny, because you shall not tell her a thing,” I replied, taking her proffered hand and jumped down onto the stone floor beside her.

“You have been with that Conrad again, haven’t you?”

“Not just Conrad. With Franklin, Rufus, and Edwin as well,” I replied with a smirk, which would have sounded so scandalous to any passersby, a girl talking about all the boys with whom she had been keeping company. But it was far from scandalous. “They are just friends, Fanny, as you well know.” But she did like to tease nonetheless.

“Friends or no, my lamb. You are cutting it very close tonight.”

I took off my scarf and cap, letting my dark hair fall about my shoulders, still damp from the quickly melting snowflakes. With the gas range in the adjacent kitchen, burning virtually all day and night, it was rather hot on this level. Quite the change from the bitter sting of the London’s streets in December. “They were cold and hungry, and I was not going to leave them out there like that. Birthday or not.”

Fanny flashed me a smile, then sighed, “Always thinking of others. Tenderhearted, you are.” She took my hat and scarf, then held out her hand again waiting for my overcoat. I unbuttoned it and handed it over, revealing a dingy waistcoat over a pair of dirty dungarees. “Ugh,” Fanny grunted. “Upstairs with you, young lady. Wash up and get out of those awful clothes. I never should have gotten them for you.”

“Just think how much worse it would be if I had gone in my fine white dress?” I teased, then spun around the pantry as if dancing at a ball.

Fanny laughed and shook her head. I loved making her laugh with my antics, as long as mother was not around. With mother, it was all propriety and tedium. With Fanny, I could be myself.

“Boots, too.” She pointed to the filthy, wet boots on my feet and the muddy footprints marking the steps of my mock waltz.

“Oops.” I eased them off, smearing more packed, muddy snow on the stone floor. I gave Fanny my best please-forgive-me expression and batted my eyelashes once or twice.

“Upstairs with you, missy,” she scolded and flicked the scarf at my derrière as I left.  “Don’t you dare let your mother see you like that. I should never hear the end of it,” she called after me.

To be safe, I used the servant’s back staircase to get upstairs, and after checking that my parents were nowhere in sight, I snuck across the hardwood floors in my stocking feet on tip toes, careful not to slip. I made my way down the hall and disappeared into my bedchamber, undetected. Just as I was closing my chamber door, the music for my impending debutante ball floated up the main staircase and filled me with dread.

“We must do what society demands,” I said aloud in a mocking sing-song way, repeating what my mother said to me far too often.

I shall play their game and draw out this marriage thing as long as I can, hopefully until I will be regarded a spinster. Then I can get on with more interesting pursuits in life, like learning and traveling. 

I dreamt of going on the Grand Tour and helping people who were not as fortunate or “well-born,” whatever that meant.

I shuddered when I saw the fine white ball gown with its frills and ruffles and short lacy sleeves spread out on my bed. A pair of white gloves lay across the dress, and all I wanted to do was to smear the dirt from my hands all over them. How I loathed this day.

The water in the corner wash basin was still lukewarm. After removing my dingy boy’s clothes, I stood before the small mirror in just my camisole and pantalettes and, regarding myself, took a deep breath to stop the tears from coming. I took the white washcloth and washed my face, hands, and arms. At least I got the satisfaction of staining their ceremonial white washcloth. When I was finished with it, it was as dingy as the boy’s clothes in which I felt so much more comfortable. I picked up the brush and began to brush my hair. It was naturally curly, which would be a blessing this evening, as there was no time to curl it before my grand entrance.

Mother insisted on me making a grand entrance, American style.

Traditionally, the debutante was to greet all her guests as they arrived, but mother wanted to do it the new way. She was a paradox, both ashamed of being considered of the nouveau riche, fairly new into London’s society, and at the same time trumpeting her American heritage and modern ways.

I heard the door close behind me, and I turned to see Fanny enter frantically. She held a steaming pot of water. “Still not finished washing up?” she said in her strong Scottish brogue.

She rushed over, put the kettle on an iron trivet next to the wooden washbasin stand, and then, with a look of disgust back at me, took the cloudy water over to my bedroom window. When she opened it, a gust of refreshingly cold wind blew in, carrying a few stray snowflakes, and it filled my heart with momentary joy. Brisk, beautiful winter weather.

Fanny tossed the dirty water out the window into the alley below before shutting and locking the window, along with my joy, bringing me back to the reality at hand.

“Perhaps we can make some excuse, like I’m deathly ill. Then I shan’t have to parade around like a peacock, on display for all the eligible bachelors. It is like I’m nothing more than chattle or a sheep on market days, presented for the picking.”

“Now, Nickie, we have discussed this. It is just one night. You can make due for just one night.” Steam rose toward the ceiling as she poured the fresh water into the now empty basin. Taking the browned washcloth between the utmost tip of her thumb and forefinger (with another sneer of exaggerated disgust), she dipped it into the hot water and started scrubbing places I had obviously missed.

“Balderdash, one night. They are trying to plan the rest of my life! I’m most certainly no debutante, and I have absolutely no interest in marriage at seventeen. I just want to be left alone, and I really hate white, frilly dresses.” I pouted and crossed my arms like a petulant child.

“We must get you into that frilly white dress and fix this rats’ nest.” She turned a blind eye to my mock tantrum, trading the washcloth for the hairbrush and tugging against the tangles.

I bit my lip and tried not to cry out. It felt as if she would pull the hair from my head.

“One should enjoy their seventeenth birthday, shouldn’t one? But not me, no sir.”

“Quickly,” she said, ignoring my continued protests and putting the brush on the washbasin stand’s lower shelf. “Corset.”

There was that feeling of dread again. Corsets. Not fun. I assumed the position. Against the corner of my four poster bed, I hugged one of the ornately turned shafts and waited as Fanny laced the back of the corset over my camisole and pantalettes.

“Do you think they will find a husband for me tonight,” I asked Fanny quietly.

“Possibly. There were already many guests arriving as I headed upstairs. We really must hurry.”

“I don’t wish to marry for duty. I want to marry for love.”

“Yes. You and every other girl in your position. Such is life in these times. At your station,” she replied matter-of-factly.

“Then I don’t wish to marry at all.”

“I’m afraid that’s not up to me, nor is it really up to you, if you want to gain your inheritance,” Fanny said with a hint of sadness in her voice.

“The devil with my inheritance. They can send me into the country–or off as a governess or even put me to work in their blasted factory dying linen, but I shall never submit to marry. After all, you never married.”

“It is just one night,” she reminded me again.

“Of course, what society demands,” I sneered. “The ball is one thing, and I suppose it will be relatively painless, but I absolutely will not submit to marry someone I don’t fancy.”

She tugged on the strings of the corset and cinched it snugly around my middle. I caught my breath and tried to push the front of it down beneath my breasts.

“Leave it alone.” Fanny swatted my hand away. “Relax your breath or I will not be able to close it.”

“I shan’t be able to breathe,” I protested.

“You will not have to breathe, much. You’ll just be standing around and dancing some, not the level of activity you are used to, my dear,” she said with a hint of sarcasm, referring to my adventures. “I’m quite sure you will be just fine.” She wrenched the corset tighter, causing me to grasp the bed post more firmly to avoid being pulled away from it. “Have you been sneaking apple tarts again?” she asked with an accusatory lilt. “This is rather difficult to close tonight, my lamb. Hold on tight.”

I couldn’t take a deep breath as the corset already confined me too much for that, so I took a shallow breath and held onto the bedpost more tightly than ever.

A chill ran up my back, and I looked over at the window thinking another gust of the winter air had come through, but it was still closed tightly. The chill continued and filled my entire body. I watched the goose bumps travel up my bare arms. Then the chill turned to a burning fire that surged through my limbs, chasing the goose bumps away. Colors became brighter around me. The scent of new satin filled my nostrils and I heard guests milling about downstairs through my closed door. My entire body felt full of energy. Life. Strength. Power.

“One, two…three,” Fanny counted. As she reached “three,” she pulled with all her might and I held on to the bedpost with all mine. With a loud crack, I fell backwards onto Fanny with the bedpost still in my arms!

“Oh, my graces!” Fanny exclaimed.

“I–I’m sorry,” I stammered, pushing the broken bedpost away from us. “I didn’t mean to, Fanny. It just came off in my arms!” Moving off Fanny, I looked up at the bed trying to make sense of what just happened. The canopy sagged on the corner onto which I was so recently holding. The other three posts still held up the wooden frame around the top from falling completely, but it definitely sagged.

“Oh, my graces!” Fanny said again. “It has happened. Hasn’t it?”

“What?” I was still not sure how I broke the thick post off from the rest of the bed. I turned back to Fanny on the floor with me. She looked at me with an open mouth and wide eyes, as if I was some sort of circus sideshow exhibition.

“The prophecy! You are she after all,” she said, eyes wide. Her trembling hands covered her cheeks. “I thought when nothing happened today that the witches had been mistaken, but you are her after all!” Fanny exclaimed again. She sat on the floor staring up at me in surprise and her skirts crumpled beneath her.

“What witches? What are you talking about?” I demanded.

A knock at the door interrupted us.

“Nicole?” My mother’s voice sounded muffled through the door, but her tone made it quite clear that she was rather impatient. “It is almost time. I do hope you are dressed.”

“Just a moment!” Fanny’s shrill, excited voice filled the room. “We shall be down presently, madam. Don’t look! We want you to be surprised at your own daughter’s beauty. Oh, and she does look lovely, madam. So very lovely.” Fanny took the broken post and shoved it under the bed. “We’ll be down presently,” she repeated.

“Very well, but do make haste,” my mother said through the door. Her footsteps trailed down the hallway and I let out the breath I didn’t know I had been holding.

Fanny sighed a relief next to me.

“Quickly.” Fanny scrambled to her feet. “I must get this corset fastened and you in that dress. Hold still,” she said, jerking me up and grabbing hold of the corset strings again.

“What witches!” I demanded.

She cinched the corset as tight as she could.

“Let us hope we can fasten your dress, or you will be quite the sight,” she said, ignoring my question. She was ignoring a lot of my comments tonight. “I cannot cinch this corset closed. You and those apple tarts!”

After I felt her tie the corset off at the bottom, I spun around and took her by the shoulders. “What witches, Fanny? What prophecy? What just happened?”

“There is not time for it now.” She pulled herself from my grasp and gathered the white dress from the bed. “Put on your petticoat. There is no time for dawdling!”

“I will not do another thing until you answer my questions,” I insisted, placing my fists firmly on my hips.

She sighed, defeated. “Very well. Put on the petticoat, and I shall tell you as you dress.” She stuck a chubby finger in my face. “But you must promise me that nothing I say will stop you from behaving properly tonight at your ball. It is very important, now more than ever, that you keep up appearances. Do you understand me?” She turned and gathered up the frilly dress from the bed.

“That depends on what you say, Fanny. You are frightening me.” Chills ran up my arms. I tried to warm them away by rubbing my hands over my bare skin, but nothing could take the feeling away. Something had changed in that moment. I had changed.

“Promise me, Nicole.” She stood there with the white dress in her hands and looked at me with a very serious expression. I had never in all my life seen her look so dour, yet at the same time, I did see a hint of joy in her eyes.

“All right,” I gave in. “I promise. Now tell me.” I stepped into the petticoat and tied it around my back. She put the white dress over my head and arms, and while my head was still covered by the white satin she said, “Your birth fulfilled an age-old prophecy that a Hawthorne would be born prematurely on Midwinter’s Night, and on the seventeenth year from the day of her birth, she would be called upon and bestowed with the powers necessary to protect humanity from evil supernatural fiends like vampires.”

My head cleared the white satin and I looked at Fanny the Nanny, expecting to see some sign that she was just having me on, but there was none.

“Evil supernatural fiends? Vampires? Really, Fanny. Is this all a game?”

“No, my dear. I should have told you before tonight, but there had been no signs before, well,” she said with a look back to the broken bed.

“This is preposterous!” But there was no denying the change I had felt run through me. Something was definitely different. Still, evil supernatural fiends? Please.

She hurriedly fastened my dress in the back and fluffed up the blasted bustle. I truly did hate those frivolous things. Leading me to the dressing table, she pushed me down in the chair and began working on my hair.

“Quickly now, the powder and blush. We shall have to work together. Your mother will no doubt be coming back soon to collect you.”

“You are serious.” The look on her face made that clear. I picked up the powder puff and tended to the shine on my nose, cheeks, and shoulders. The white gown had a rather wide décolletage, so there was much skin to cover.

Fanny swept my chestnut curls up into a loose twist and fastened it with a silver hair comb.

“I’m quite serious, my dear. Oh my, I just really don’t know where to begin, and we have so little time,” she said while twisting a few stray locks into place along the side of my face. I began putting some color on my cheeks and lips.

“How about the beginning?” I offered. I was doing my best to remain calm, and the tight corset certainly reminded me not to get overly excited and remain quite proper and still. Society dictates that ladies must keep their feelings well hidden. After living in this household for so many years, I excelled in skills that would be essential to make it through this night. Especially now.

“I come from a long line of witches, and we have watched your family for generations. It was your ancestor John Hathorne who condemned some of the witches in Salem over in The Colonies. After that, the American coven wrote to their sister coven here in the England about a series of dreams they had had after those horrid trials were over. They dreamed that a descendant of Hathorne would one day set it right. It would be a girl and she would inherit the powers of the damned to be used for good, working with the witches and fighting the vampires, demons, and even fey from the unseelie court.”

“Vampires?” I said with a derisive scoff. “Really?”

“Listen child,” she began as she draped a string of pearls around my neck and fastened them in the back. “This is no jest. You wanted to hear it before your ball, so I’m telling you quickly. We can talk in more detail later.”

“All right.” I found all this rather hard to believe. It was merely another of Fanny’s strange stories, just as she had told me my whole life. She was just telling me another ghost story to entertain me before the ball. That’s all this was.

“You were conceived on Beltane, a holy day for my people and the day associated with the holy hawthorn tree, from which your family were originally named. You were born on a moor a mere seven and a half months later, premature, on Midwinter’s Night. It was exactly where my coven had foretold: The Forest of Bowland in Yorkshire.”

“A moor in Yorkshire. Really?” I said, still not believing her. “What a tale you tell.”

She pinned a few curls into place and decorated them with some fripperies as I clipped the pearl earrings onto my earlobes. “Yes. A moor. Your parents were resting in the country during the latter part of the pregnancy, but your father got word from the factory that needed to be dealt with presently.”

“Of course,” I breathed through clenched teeth. That I believed. “Business always comes first.” It was why I hardly knew my parents. I had always been second to their precious textile factory.

“Your boots.” She knelt beside me, and I offered her my stockinged feet. She went to work lacing them up and continued, “Your mother didn’t want to be left behind, insisting that there was much time before the due date. Although her doctors advised her against it, they left early morning on the 21st, dreaming of Christmas in the city, but the driver took a wrong turn which ended in tragedy for him and almost for you and your mother. After hitting a large stone on the moor, it set your mother into labor. I was nearby, and not by accident, as it was where your birth had been foretold, as I previously said. Since I was a trained midwife, I delivered you. You were so very tiny. Three fortnights early, you were. It is a miracle you survived, especially after such a traumatic birth on such a bitterly cold night.”

She straightened my skirts over the white boots, got up from her kneeling position, and started fussing with my hair again. “I held you in my arms and I felt the definition of love. I understood the purpose of life. You were powerful even then, Nick.”

She reached around the back of her neck to unclasp a necklace and then lifted it out of the front of her bodice. Offering it to me, she said, “This is a powerful amulet, my dove. It will protect you from a vampire’s mind power. They will be unable to compel you or influence your thoughts. Keep a clear head, my lamb.”

“Thank you, Fanny.” I allowed her to clasp the necklace around my own neck. The large black stone cradled in silver hung from a heavy chain.

“You may tuck it inside your gown, for I know it is old and rather garish.”

“Nonsense. ‘Tis beautiful, and I shall cherish it always. Although I will normally keep it protected, close to my heart, tonight I shall display it proudly for all to see.”

Tears filled her eyes and her nose turned red. I looked at her reflection through my dressing table mirror, and I knew this was all the truth. I felt it, just as I felt the power of which she spoke surging through me. I wanted to scream. To run. To fly, but I had to sit with my hands folded properly in my lap. I had to go downstairs and dance with potential husbands. I had to–

Another knock, more frantic than the last interrupted my thoughts.

“Nicole!” my mother demanded. “Your guests are waiting!”

“Coming mother.” I got up and turned to Fanny. The tears spilled down her plump cheeks and she looked at me with love. I went in to embrace her, but she stopped me.

“No, you will smudge your powder. Remember what I said, act properly tonight, but have a nice time. One only turns seventeen once. We shall talk more later.”

“We most certainly shall!” I said in a scolding tone, but with a smile in my voice and on my face. She smiled back at me and wiped the tears from her rosy cheeks.

“Don’t forget your gloves.” She indicated the long white gloves still on the bed.

I collected them and put them on hurriedly as I turned to leave, but she stopped me with a single word.

“Nicole.”

I turned back to her with my gloved hand resting on the door handle, my mother still pounding on the other side of the door.

“It was I who suggested you be named Nicole. Unusual name for this part of the world, I know, but it means ‘Victory of the People.’ And of that I have no doubt, my dear girl.” She wiped more tears from her cheeks.

Willing my own tears away, I turned the door handle to face my determined mother, but it broke off in my hand. I looked back at Fanny for guidance.

“Take care tonight,” she added, laughing now. “You are stronger than you think.”

Filed under: Serialized Fiction Tagged: author, book, buffy, buffy the vampire slayer, love, nickie nick, o.m. grey, olivia grey, paranormal romance, passion, serialized fiction, serialized novel, steampunk, teen, teen romance, the zombies of mesmer, vampire hunter, vampires, victorian, ya, zombies, zombies of mesmer

PTSD: Somatic Experiencing & ACE Study

Through my somatic therapist’s blog, I found some incredible resources and further information to facilitate my understanding and healing. First, Somatic Experiencing, which I first heard about from a PTSD specialist I saw back in TX before the move. Although I only had four sessions with this woman (KH), she provided me with a turning point in my healing. First, by calling the events what they were: rape. Second, by validating I was suffering from PTSD, likely complex PTSD.

She was right.

Due to the cruelty of my former community and the constant hyper-vigilance, I left Austin and moved to Northern CA. KH stayed in touch with me and urged me to find a somatic therapist here. Although I live in a very rural area, after much searching and nearly giving up, I found one (SR).

He has become one of the three people I trust on this planet, the other two being my husband and my best friend.

In the first few months of therapy with SR, I felt rather confused as to why we weren’t doing any somatic work, as KH said my body held information about the rapes and it should be processed while it’s still fresh. Come to find out, we were doing somatic work all along, in small doses. That’s how somatic experiencing works: processing the trauma in small, manageable doses.

What is Somatic Experiencing?

Trauma is a fact of life…but it doesn’t have to be a life sentence.

A single brief exposure to an overwhelming event can throw a normally functioning individual into an abyss of emotional and physical suffering.

Whether or not a person rebounds from this dark edge of near insanity, or tumbles more deeply into the ”black hole” of trauma (or even exactly what causes it), has been an enigma to modern psychiatry.

Somatic Experiencing®(SE)is a naturalistic approach to the understanding and healing of trauma developed by Peter A Levine over the past 40 years and taught throughout the world. SE®is a clinical methodology based upon an appreciation of why animals in the wild are not traumatized by routine threats to their lives while humans, on the other hand, are readily overwhelmed and traumatized. Fortunately, the very same instincts (and related survival based brain systems) that are involved in the formation of trauma symptoms can be enlisted in the transformation and healing of trauma. Therapeutically, this “instinct to heal” and self-regulate is engaged through the awareness of body sensations that contradict those of paralysis and helplessness, and which restore resilience, equilibrium and wholeness.

(From somaticexperiencing.com)

The difference is that animals are free to work through the trauma, but humans living in a severely dysfunctional society that shames and silences victims, urging them to “let it go” and “think positively” rather than process their trauma “our bodies cannot complete the natural process.”

One example that hit me really hard in reading over some of Dr. Levine’s work was an analogy of a cheetah hunting an impala, chapter one of his incredible book Waking the Tiger. Here is an excerpt:

A herd of impala grazes peacefully in a lush wadi. Suddenly, the wind shifts, carrying with it a new, but familiar scent. The impala sense danger in the air and become instantly tensed to a hair trigger of alertness. They sniff, look and listen carefully for a few moments, but when no threat appears, the animals return to their grazing, relaxed yet vigilant.

Seizing the moment, a stalking cheetah leaps from its cover of dense shrubbery. As if it was one organism, the herd springs quickly toward a protective thicket at the wadi’s edge. One young impala trips for a split second, then recovers. But it is too late. In a blur, the cheetah lunges toward its intended victim, and the chase is on at a blazing sixty to seventy miles an hour.

At the moment of contact (or just before), the young impala falls to the ground, surrendering to its impending death. Yet, it may be uninjured. The now limp animal is not pretending to be dead. It has instinctively entered an altered state of consciousness shared by all mammals when death appears imminent. Many indigenous peoples view this phenomenon as a surrender of the spirit of the prey to the predator, which, in a manner of speaking, it is.

Physiologists call this altered state the ‘immobility’ or ‘freezing’ response. It is one of the three primary responses available to reptiles and mammals when faced with an overwhelming threat. The other two, fight and flight, are much more familiar to most of us. Less is known about the ‘immobility response.’ However, my work over the last twenty-five years has led me to believe that it is the single most important factor in uncovering the mystery of human trauma.

Nature has developed the immobility response for two good reasons. One, it serves as a last-ditch survival strategy. You might know it better as ‘playing possum.’ Take the young impala, for instance. There is a possibility that the cheetah may decide to drag its ‘dead’ prey to a place safe from other predators; or to its lair, where the food can be shared later with its cubs. During this time, the impala could awaken from its frozen state and make a hasty escape in an unguarded moment. When it is out of danger, the animal will literally ‘shake off’ the residual effects of the immobility response and gain full control of its body. It will then return to its normal life as if nothing had happened. Secondly, in freezing, the impala (and human) enters an altered state in which no pain is experienced. What that means for the impala is that it will not have to suffer while being torn apart by the cheetah’s sharp teeth and claws.

Most human cultures tend to judge this instinctive surrender in the face of overwhelming threat as a weakness tantamount to cowardice. However, underneath this judgment lies a deep human fear of immobility. We avoid it because it is a state very similar to death. This avoidance is understandable, but we pay dearly for it. The physiological evidence clearly shows that the ability to go into and come out of this natural response is the key to avoiding the debilitating effects of trauma. It is a gift to us from the wild.

I read those words and I broke down crying. Uncontrollably. Freezing is the most common response to trauma, including rape. Through victim blaming and other secondary traumas from this rape culture, people, police, even some horrible therapists blame the victim for not fighting back, for not screaming, for not saying NO, forcefully and loudly. The most common response is to freeze, a mixture between disbelief of what’s happening, the mind’s way to protect itself from the trauma, and a resignation to one’s fate in hopes of survival. It’s instinctual. It’s natural.

Rape victims are habitually blamed for it.

I was.

Traumatic symptoms are not caused by the ”triggering” event itself. They stem from the frozen residue of energy that has not been resolved and discharged; this residue remains trapped in the nervous system where it can wreak havoc on our bodies and spirits. The long-term, alarming, debilitating, and often bizarre symptoms of post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) develop when we cannot complete the process of moving in, through and out of the ”immobility” or ”freezing” state. However, we can thaw by initiating and encouraging our innate drive to return to a state of dynamic equilibrium.

Let’s cut to the chase. The energy in our young impala’s nervous system as it flees from the pursuing cheetah is charged at seventy miles an hour. The moment the cheetah takes its final lunge, the impala collapses. From the outside, it looks motionless and appears to be dead, but inside, its nervous system is still supercharged at seventy miles an hour. Though it has come to a dead stop, what is now taking place in the impala’s body is similar to what occurs in your car if you floor the accelerator and stomp on the brake simultaneously. The difference between the inner racing of the nervous system (engine) and the outer immobility (brake) of the body creates a forceful turbulence inside the body similar to a tornado.

This tornado of energy is the focal point out of which form the symptoms of traumatic stress. To help visualize the power of this energy, imagine that you are making love with your partner, you are on the verge of climax, when suddenly, some outside force stops you. Now, multiply that feeling of withholding by one hundred, and you may come close to the amount of energy aroused by a life-threatening experience.

A threatened human (or impala) must discharge all the energy mobilized to negotiate that threat or it will become a victim of trauma. This residual energy does not simply go away. It persists in the body, and often forces the formation of a wide variety of symptoms; i.e., anxiety, depression, psychosomatic and behavioral problems. These symptoms are the organism’s way of containing (or corralling) the undischarged residual energy.

Animals in the wild instinctively discharge all their compressed energy and seldom develop adverse symptoms. We humans are not as adept in this arena. When we are unable liberate these powerful forces, we become victims of trauma. In our often unsuccessful attempts to discharge these energies, we may become fixated on them. Like a moth drawn to a flame, we may unknowingly and repeatedly create situations in which the possibility to release ourselves from the trauma trap exists, but without the proper tools and resources most of us fail. The result, sadly, is that many of us become riddled with fear and anxiety and are never fully able to feel at home with ourselves or our world.

Many war veterans and victims of rape know this scenario only too well. They may spend months or even years talking about their experiences, reliving them, expressing their anger, fear and sorrow but without passing through the primitive ”immobility responses” and releasing the residual energy, they will often remain stuck in the traumatic maze and continue to experience distress.

Fortunately, the same immense energies that create the symptoms of trauma, when properly engaged and mobilized, can transform the trauma and propel us into new heights of healing, mastery, and even wisdom. Trauma resolved is a great gift, returning us to the natural world of ebb and flow, harmony, love and compassion. Having spent the last twenty-five years working with people who have been traumatized in almost every conceivable fashion, I believe that we humans have the innate capacity not only to heal ourselves, but our world, from the debilitating effects of trauma.

Dr. Levine demonstrates how PTSD is created with his famous slinky metaphor, showing us how the energy created by the trauma is contained inside us, wreaking havoc on our nervous system. This creates what we’ve come to know as PTSD.

Find out more information about SE and healing from a variety of traumas from Beyond Trauma. Get your copy of Waking the Tiger or other works by Peter Levine, like Trauma-Proofing Your Kids, from Amazon.

ACE Study and Scores

The second link from SR’s blog that really touched and validated my experience was to the ACE Study. What I thought for 30+ years was just normal child rearing was, in fact, child abuse. It has been identified as such by more than one therapist in the past year, and this ACE Study confirms it as well. It explains why my experience with PTSD is chronic and complex.

ACE stands for The Adverse Childhood Experiences Study, conduced by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention and Kaiser Permanente. It shows, among other things, how childhood abuse contributes (may be the sole cause of) social, emotional, and cognitive impairment; choosing an unhealthy lifestyle; disease, disability, and social problems; and even early death.

You can take a little test to discover your ACE score, to which many of their articles refer. The questions are as follows:

Did a parent or other adult in the household often or very often…
Swear at you, insult you, put you down, or humiliate you?
or
Act in a way that made you afraid that you might be physically hurt?


Did a parent or other adult in the household often or very often…
Push, grab, slap, or throw something at you?
or
Ever hit you so hard that you had marks or were injured?


Did an adult or person at least 5 years older than you ever…
Touch or fondle you or have you touch their body in a sexual way?
or
Attempt or actually have oral, anal, or vaginal intercourse with you?


Did you often or very often feel that …
No one in your family loved you or thought you were important or special?
or
Your family didn’t look out for each other, feel close to each other, or support each other?

They continue through ten questions from there.

They have many publications linked from their site, like “The ACE Study: Depression and Suicide” and “The Hidden Epidemic: The Impact of Early Life Trauma on Health and Disease.”

If you or someone you know experiences symptoms of PTSD, please research these things further and find the help you or they need.

What was done to us was not our fault; however, our healing is our responsibility.

May you find peace.

Filed under: Trauma & Recovery Tagged: ace, adverse childhood experiences, author, broken heart, child abuse, chronic stress, fear, grief, heal, healing, intimacy, love, o.m. grey, olivia grey, peter levine, ptsd, rape, rape survivor, recovery, relationships, romance, sex, sexual abuse, sexual assault, shattered, slinky, somatic experiencing, somatic therapy, tonic immobility, trauma