Michelle C. Hillstrom's Blog, page 12

An Excerpt from “The Possessive Kiss: Victoria’s Story (Book Two of The Kiss Series)”

[image error]An Excerpt from Chapter Five of  “The Possessive Kiss: Victoria’s Story (Book Two of The Kiss Series) © Michelle C. Hillstrom

True to her word, Polly brought a potion in a glass vial to Victoria that evening when she came in at her usual time to assist her mistress in the bedtime preparations. “You must do exactly as Polly tells ya, mistress. You must wear a white night gown and braid ya hair into three braids weaving these red ribbons into da braids. Light a candle at each direction placing one in the north, south, east, and west centered position of your room. Then lay upon ya bed and recite these words: Moutre m ‘chemen an, o vanyan sòlda youn. Montre m ‘sa a se verite. Ki moun ki se renmen an pou mwen? Sa a se sa m ‘mande nan nou. Then you put one drop of the potion on the bottom of each of ya feet. Afta dat, drink da potion and you will sleep a deep sleep in which the mighty one will give you the answers dat you seek.”

Polly sat with Victoria for a while longer redundantly repeating the spell and instructing her mistress in the appropriate pronunciation until they were both sure that Victoria had it correct. The hour grew late and Victoria began to prepare herself for the ritual. She washed herself in the blue and cream basin that depicted a picture of the French countryside then brushed and braided her thick, blonde hair into three braids with the red silk ribbons. She dressed herself in one of her white lace trimmed nightgowns, placed and lit the candles as Polly had instructed her to and then crawled up into bed.

Victoria recited the words exactly as Polly had instructed her earlier that evening. Continuing to follow the elaborate procedure Victoria placed a small drop on each of her feet with her finger, and then tossed the voodoo tonic back. It tasted astonishingly bitter and sugary at the same time, and it was thick enough to coat her throat. She could feel the liquid as it oozed its way down to her gut before it settled there uncomfortably. Clutching her stomach, Victoria then laid down and easily fell into a deep slumber mere moments after her head hit the plump feather-down pillows.

A thick, murky vapor filled the immediate atmosphere making it nearly impossible for Victoria to see what was happening around her. The light and shadows played upon one another in cruel trickery by hiding and illuminating shapes and shadows that would appear and disappear with each ticking second. Victoria was standing upon a dirt pathway in an unfamiliar wooded area. The trees were strange and foreign to her, for these were not trees that were native to Louisiana. The trees proudly displayed their fall foliage as they shrouded themselves in vibrant leaves of red and orange. A ticklish breeze fluttered through the leaves making the strange trees dance an exotically shaking jig.

A sulfuric scent burned Victoria’s nose and throat. It left an acidic taste in her mouth and had her mentally begging for a drink of crisp, fresh water from the well. As she walked further through the smoky air, Victoria’s exposed skin began to itch and burn. Her nose and eyes began to water and the spots upon her cheeks, where she wiped away tears, stung so bad it was as though Cooksey had taken kitchen knives and slashed her face. Voices were calling to her, but in a strange language. It wasn’t English; she wasn’t sure that it was a language she had even heard before, but somehow she understood what they were saying. She followed the voices and found three hooded beings standing inside a ring of fire.

They were frightening figures in their cinnamon hooded robes. Dark hollowed emptiness filled the space where heads should have been. The middle figure began to speak in that strange language that was full of hisses and clicks. “You cannot live a full life if your heart has no scars to show. That is why you are tested in life. Sometimes you have to dance within the flames of danger and mystery to find fulfillment.

“A fulfilled life that is lived outside of society’s norms can lead to unfavorable attention, therefore you must be strong, and you must be able to face the sorrows and the shame that comes with the non-conventional life, a life full of desire and passion. You must know that where there is desire you will find flames. That is what desire is made of, internal flames and the object of your desire is the incendiary. Be watchful child, for where there are flames someone will undoubtedly be burned before it is all over.

“With that said, you are not weak for believing that love might exist. However, before we can reveal your path, you must prove to us that you are willing to forsake it all. Right now, you are standing where it is safe outside the ring of fire, but it is a metaphor for your life. You can choose a safe life in which you are guaranteed to survive to a ripe old age in comfort and security, or you can choose a life that is consumed by the love that is burning deep in your soul. So, which do you choose, mortal? Tell me, do you choose stability or do you choose love?”

Victoria leapt through the fire exuding more bravery than she felt. She stood before the hooded figures. Inside the flames, all of her orifices stopped burning. She breathed easier and was able to speak clearly. Throwing her head back and raising her hands to the hazy sky, Victoria shouted the determined proclamation clearly for all to hear, “I choose love.”

The flames burned hotter and brighter; they rose higher toward the sky growing taller than Victoria, taller than the three hooded figures. “Very good,” The hooded figure in the middle bowed its head to her. “So mote it be.” The three figures vanished and the flames dimmed down. Soon they were nothing but burning embers. The embers then began to move. They were leading her somewhere, creating a trail for her to follow. Victoria began to pursue the embers and soon she heard new voices calling out to her (in English this time). It took a few moments before she recognized them as the voices of Christopher and Wesley.

Victoria ran towards Wesley’s direction barreling right into his chest, but when she looked up, the face changed and it was that of Christopher. He wore a ferocious and frightening scowl, an expression that she had never seen upon his face before. She again heard a man call out her name from behind her and she turned. There was Wesley, once more. She again tried to run to him, but her feet were suddenly weighed down as though she were stuck in mud, stuck in the swampland behind her house.

Victoria struggled forward, reaching out to him. The more she struggled the more she felt stuck, the more it felt as though she were sinking deep into the boggy mud of a swamp and the swamp sucked her feet in deeper and deeper, weighing her down more and more. Then, she heard gunfire and explosions. She called out to him. “Wesley! Wesley!” Then she saw him jerk back, grab at his chest, and a red spot began to form and spread. Wesley buckled at his knees and fell to the ground. He stretched his arm out to her, beckoning her to come to him as pain carved itself across his face. Victoria tried to break free, but Christopher was holding her back preventing her from reaching Wesley, keeping her stuck in the muck.

Victoria awoke with a gasp. Her heart raced and breath came in short gasps. The potion did its job through that very strange dream, which left her feeling panic-stricken. Victoria now had the answer that she sought.

Excerpt from “The Faithful Kiss”

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Excerpt from “The Faithful Kiss( Book One of The Kiss Series)” by: Michelle Hillstrom ©

I ran through the dark, wet fog. The dampness clung to my silk ball gown and something was following me. Something else was out there in the night with me, and it was evil. I was lost. I had never been to this part of town before; the panic continued to drive me even further into the dark night, disorienting me. I was never allowed outside alone in the daytime, and definitely never at night. Everything looked the same. Everything looked terrifying. The house where the party had been must be far away from here, but I had long since lost my sense of direction. Without a better plan, I continued to follow the road ahead, and soon I heard music and laughter. I had to make it to the building where the lights were shining and welcoming me in, before the stalker caught me. Light equaled safety, music and laughter equaled happiness. Surely, I would be safe there.

The scene changed — more like fast-forwarded. I was still in the same wet dress and I stood outside of the lit building, but now I felt myself being lifted up. I found myself sitting atop of a horse with a man holding me close to him, allowing me to absorb the warmth that his body offered. Peace filled me as the dream faded away.

I awoke and the peace that my dream had brought me disappeared. I held back a sob as I realized the dreams would continue to haunt me. I may have escaped home, but I could not escape the dreams.

I’ve had strange dreams most of my life, dreams that seemed more like memories than dreams, and they always took place during the antebellum era. The dreams had become more frequent since the night of my Senior Prom when my boyfriend, Tyler, and I had been in a car accident. Tyler had been thrown from the car and killed instantly, and I had been left in a coma for a week. These strange dreams plagued me the whole time that I was in the coma. The dreams were so vivid and all-consuming that I was very confused about who I was and where I was when I awoke.

I feared that I was cursed with the madness that plagued the females in my family. I was the only one that seemed to have these types of dreams about the past, though. My aunts, great grandmother, and others who had been admitted to asylums had visions about this demonic red – haired woman that threatened to harm them. In fact, the visions were so vivid that the women often had scratches, torn out hair, and other wounds that they obviously had inflicted upon themselves. Thankfully, I had never seen this woman in any of the dreams that I could remember. I found it strange that the madness was so similar throughout the generations; however, I am sure that it was due to the fact that we had all been fed the same creepy legend about our family since childhood.

I thought a lot of things that were said about our family were pretty ridiculous; however, one thing was for sure, a lot of mishaps in my life were hard to explain. The truth of the matter was that the car accident was not my first brush with danger or death. I had more near death experiences in my eighteen years than I could count on both hands. My superstitious side of the family said it was just another part of the family curse, because the visions or hallucinations of the past were a regular part of the danger, and the visions and accidents always seemed to come as a pair.

I used to tell my mother about the visions after near drownings, falls down the stairs, and mishaps in the kitchen, until the day that I overheard her on the phone contemplating sending me to an institution as she discussed the various options with my father on the other end. I stopped telling them about things after that, so everyone assumed that I no longer had the dreams and that I had forgotten about them. I refused to fall to the madness and be locked in a padded cell like my predecessors. Being locked away and forgotten like that — that was my biggest fear, along with the idea that I would not be able to tell the difference between my dreams and reality.

With these nerve-racking thoughts on my mind, I did my best to roll over and fall back to a fitful sleep. I didn’t want to be tired for my first day of college, but the sun had begun to crown before I fell back to sleep.

The first day of class was muggy and cloudy with the air as thick as a steam room. West Texas rarely experienced such weather and the uncomfortable humidity had me begging for rain as I continued to contemplate my dream during my trudge to class. I walked along on the swarming sidewalk that wove its way across the Tulip Poplar-lined campus. Even though I wore Soffie shorts and an athletic top, like most of the other female members of the student population who were trying to survive the heat, I was sweating by the time I entered my first lecture. The air conditioner hit me as I walked in, the classroom felt like an icebox and provided welcomed relief.

Calculus was the one class that I had been dreading upon realizing that it was a required course for my major. Why Calculus was a required course for a History major was beyond me, but I sure wished that it wasn’t so. Math and I were mortal enemies. Whenever teachers passed out the student information papers at the beginning of the semester there was always the question ‘Is there any reason that you will have a difficult time in this class?’ my answer was always ‘Math is my evil nemesis.’ I thought it was funny, but I found the majority of math teachers did not have a sense of humor.

The Calculus Classroom was small and institutional. The walls were vacant and uninspiring with a large blackboard and projection screen in the front. There were about fifteen other students sitting at the long table desks arranged in tiers (or stadium seating) descending toward the lecture area. I recognized one face immediately.

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If you enjoyed this excerpt you can find the rest of “The Faithful Kiss” as well as “The Possessive Kiss: Victoria’s Story” at this link:

Books by Michelle Hillstrom

Writer’s Life Update

[image error]I’ve been busy the past few weeks working on building a larger following on Facebook and Twitter, promoting my third book “A Kiss of Betrayal: Élisabet’s Story,” and working on one of Holly Lisle’s flash fiction classes.

“A Kiss of Betrayal: Élisabet’s Story,” is the third book in “The Kiss Series,” which is a New Adult Paranormal Romance Series. This book is the life story of the villain from the first two books. It has been fun to write with the intent of making my readers fall in love with the villain, or at the very least to feel compassion for her at the end. Also, I like the fact that by writing this book, I am illustrating the reality of there being at least two sides to every story. To promote AKOB I have been putting together character introductions and posting the pictures on Facebook.

Since I am trying to build up my Facebook following and trying to promote this book (which will be released later this year) I decided to run a bit of a FB campaign encouraging my friends and followers to invite their friends to like my page until we reach 375 followers (which is about 50 new likes). I will release the book trailer for AKOB as their reward when we reach 375 followers.

The Holly Lisle Flash-Fiction class is something I am working on with a few of my writer friends. They are the ones who introduced me to the awesomeness that is Holly Lisle and encouraged me to do this class. I really haven’t worked on it as diligently as I should, but I still have made some progress and it has gotten my brain to think and work differently than it usually does. I have come up with a few short story ideas and characters due to this class. I hope to share them all with you shortly.

If you are interested in contributing to my effort to reach 375 followers on FB and would like to learn more about “The Kiss Series,” you can follow me at: https://www.facebook.com/TheKissSeries?ref=hl

"The Faithful Kiss" Book Trailer

I've created a book trailer for my first book "The Faithful Kiss." Check it out on youtube and let me know what you think! :)

XoXo
Michelle

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A8rRMuQGqrs

"The Faithful Kiss" Book Trailer

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A8rRM...

"The Possessive Kiss: Victoria's Story (Book Two of The Kiss Series)

The second book of The Kiss Series is now Live! Don't forget to grab your own copy!

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A Well-Adjusted Artist

I'm sure that there are many people out there who read my stories, my Facebook posts, the lyrics to the music that I listen to, my blog posts, and just my everyday jibber-jabber and they must think... 'DAYHUM! Bitch is cray-cray!' Well... DUH! I'm an author, an artist of the written word. Have you ever heard of a well-adjusted artist? I've heard of a starving artist and a tortured artist but I ain't never heard of a well-adjusted artist.
As I have said before, I put a lot of myself into my works. They may appear to be fluff novels for young women all about vampires, ghosts, witches, reincarnation, and love, but there is something deeper too, if you pay attention. Death, drug addiction, grief, religion, mental illness, suicidal tendencies, abusive or otherwise unhealthy relationships; all things that I have been confronted with in my own life.
Right after high school, well actually I guess you could say that it began in high school, I fell into a downward spiral within my life. I shut out all of the people that cared about me and fell into the wrong crowd. Without the people that cared about me around, there was no one to pull me back from the precipice, no one to catch me before I hit rock bottom. There are things that I have done, said, experienced, done to people, and had done to me that I have never told anyone. Not even my best friends or family.
But I like to think that as any good emo, tortured, sick, demented artist that I have found the silver-lining to these dark clouds that filled my younger years. I went through all of these things in my life to lead me to the place that I am now. A place where I can use the darkness to create something good. I can write my stories to entertain and to forewarn or even help heal. Maybe someday a young girl will read one of my stories and see herself there, and maybe my words will touch her and help her, even if it is just to bring a smile to her face for a few seconds. In the darkest of days, a smile like that can illuminate the way to healing.
So, who wants to be a well-adjusted artist anyway? All the good ones are bat-shit crazy like me.
XoXo
Michelle

Forgiveness

© Michelle Hillstrom
 Forgiveness
How can I ask for that which I don’t deserve
So much time has passed
And still I can’t work up the nerve
I can make excuses
Explain the downward spiral
But nothing can excuse
The abuse
You received at my hand
I used you and took you for granted
Left you there that night
Standing high and dry
To run to the one I thought was my knight
A friendship spanning four years
Now ten have come and gone
Each time your name appears
I wonder if this will be the day
When I can finally say
I’m sorry.

Writing is a Reflection of My Life

As an author I often write myself into my stories and pull upon personal experiences. In doing so, I have to reflect upon my life, the good, the bad, the memorable, and the sad. I reflect on the various situations, my feelings about them, and I reflect upon myself as a person. Because of all of this self-reflection, I feel that I have grown a lot as a person especially compared to who I was in junior high, high school, and even from just a few years ago.
Since I write stories about people in their high school and early college years, these are my years that I reflect upon most frequently; which probably makes my Facebook friends think that I am a crazy person who is still stuck back in my glory days, since I frequently reference or mention things from way back then, but oh well, just a hazard of the job I suppose.
Due to these reflections, I have realized that I wasn't always a very nice person back in my teenage years. In fact, sometimes I was down right mean, narcissistic, selfish, and well, plenty of other not nice words that would not be appropriate to write. There's one person in particular whom I regret the way that I acted towards and used them back then. He was a great guy that I always had fun with and always turned to in between boyfriends, but I never actually was in a relationship with.
So now looking back, knowing how I probably hurt him, especially one night after hanging out with him, having a lot of fun, I just straight up walked out on him to go try and make up with my boyfriend that got mad at me for dancing with this guy that I am talking about.... Now I feel like I want to apologize to him, but we haven't really kept in touch, other than simply being Facebook friends or Facebook "acquaintances" if you will since we never really communicate through Facebook. But I wonder if since it has been ten years, if it is too late to apologize.
Is there an expiration date on apologies? Would apologizing now be more selfish than kind? And who knows, maybe the guy is totally over it and would think I am a total freak for even bringing it up, or maybe it would be unkind to even bring it up now... Maybe it really never even bothered him that much in the first place... As a female, I have never been that good at understanding what is going on in the mind of a guy, thus the reason my stories are always from the girl's point of view and the reason I have such a disastrous love life to use as inspiration for my books.

So what do you think readers? Is there an expiration date on apologies? Are there people from your past that you want to make amends to?

XoXo
Michelle

Don't Speak

Some people would be surprised to know that I am a very shy and introverted person, while others would be surprised to find that I can, at times, love being the center of attention and can be very charming and talkative. I do in fact have these two very different personalities.
From a young age, I loved being up on stage performing. I would sing, dance, and put on skits at family reunions and school recitals. In junior high, I partook in dance, choir, and theater and continued dancing through high school. I could spend hours on the phone with friends who I had just spent all day with at school. I tended bar for a long while and learned how to flirt and charm customers for tips. In my various customer service jobs, I learned how to start up conversations with customers and make them feel genuinely welcomed and taken care of. I can stand in front of a classroom and lecture and give speeches and presentations like a pro.
But, there is the other side of my personality that not a lot of people see. That extroverted side wears me out. When I get home for the day, I am exhausted and don't want to talk. I hate talking on the phone and would prefer to text, mainly because most of the time I just really don't have a lot to say. I learned to be quiet while at Marine Corps Basic Training. We were not allowed to talk and it was because of this that I learned to be comfortable in the silence. I learned the value of thinking before speaking and the value of being comfortable in your own company. Not every thought that comes to ones head need be shared
It is in these silent moments that I best observe human nature and am able to create my characters and my stories. I sit quietly and have an ongoing monologue with myself very similar to that of Dorian Gray on "Scrubs" or 'R' from "Warm Bodies." I talk to myself in my head and work out stories or personal problems and situations.
I feel that being a silent person like this helps me to be a better friend too, because many people in my life are talkers and because of my silent persona I make a good listener. Put me and another silent type side beside however and it can be a bit awkward if they aren't someone that I can feel comfortable sitting silently with. Nor can I pull out my extroverted personality at the drop of a hat if I am not prepared for it, which can make it a bit awkward when I am around a guy that I like, I suddenly clam up and become a scared little school girl.
So basically, just know that if I don't talk to you much, it is nothing personal. I probably feel really comfortable around you or am simply concocting my next story, or who knows, if you are a good looking guy I just might be crushing on you.
XoXo
Michelle