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Reflections: The truth between the lie.
“He asked me once, ‘what did I know of love?’” Catherine looked wistfully into the distance and blew the cigarette smoke from her lips. It writhed like a serpent in the air and was gone. “I told him that I knew everything about love. Everything. But that wasn’t the question that he was asking me, I said. It’s not what I knew of it. It’s whether I’ ( Read more... ) -
This just in....
Tonight an investigation is underway at the site of a popular nightclub. Club Duvet was the site of a horrific explosion that rocked the exclusive rooftop club in central Los Angeles at around 2am on Monday night. Fire and debris rained down below and the streets surrounding Duvet have been closed for the past two days. Businesses on the perimeter ( Read more... ) -
Padam, Padam, Padam...
What could one do? What could I do now that it was too late? There is a moment, it is a split second when you realize that you are heading into a car wreck that you can hit on the brakes, swerve, perhaps, and nearly miss hitting an oncoming car. Now? I was a car without brakes, strapped into a plan whose course another steered. I just chose to ( Read more... ) -
Humanity
From the private journal of Catherine De Volanges
We are all being used and so, it is only in that pile of remorseless excrement that our own ability to use others grows out of, stronger, thanks to the very fertilizer that fed it. And if your elders are of the Tremere, you best cultivate your interests out of their own, allowing the roots of your ( Read more... ) -
Shades of Black
Continued from The Darkest Light
Los Angeles, California
mid-2011
This evening
Watch. Wait. Listen, he taught me once. He said, à l’œuvre on reconnaît l’artisan. You can tell an artist by his work. All you had to do was wait. Each brush strokes reveals a master’s hand, so unique that it would point to the creator, himself. But how terrible would that ( Read more... ) -
TN March CDE---BLURB
[Describe your muse looking at an old photo]
The photo was yellowed, edges drawing together in a finite curl, so much so that my fingers had to smooth it out carefully, each time risking to break off the crust of paper along the side. Pale and ghostly, as if it contained the very soul of the person peering out at me, the photo paper ebbed and ridged ( Read more... )