Maybe it’s a sign of all the work I’ve been doing, tucked away here, writing.
Maybe it’s due to the fantastic work that my first readers have been doing on my stories.
Maybe it’s in honor of the new season of True Blood… (which I managed to catch the first episode of online over at Watch True Blood. I have no idea if that website’s even legal, so if it’s not, don’t tell me, please. True Blood and Lost are the only two TV shows I’ve cared about watching in… well, years. So to have it available online just made my freaking morning.)
Most likely it’s a combination of all three and more. The news? I just heard that my sung-sweet lesbian vampire story, “Heatsong,” has been accepted for an upcoming anthology collection by Torquere Press. Torquere is a fantastic publisher of GLBT erotica, romance and young adult fiction, and I’m delighted to be included among their stable of writers.
I’m also really glad they found it in their hearts to take on “Heatsong,” since it isn’t your typical “vampire” story by any means. For one thing, it’s more prose poetry than story, told in the narrator’s near-song voice, although it has a plot. (And, no, she doesn’t sparkle. Not one little bit.)
Here’s a snippet of the story, pulled right out of the middle. I hope you enjoy it! And, of course, I’ll let you know as soon as the collection hits the shelves.
Language of the forest, you learn like any other. Listen, bear witness. Soon you know what spiders say, scuttle cross the spit-dried dirt, spelling and spilling their true intent. Know what the wolf howls to the moon, snout sky-faced and teeth-split, calling. You tilt your head just right, the moths wing-whisper of the approach of another, take that white-light flight into the center of the overhead lights, flickering red and orange, casting the sunset kind of dark into the forest’s night.
A branch crackles. Not near. Another. Closer. Foreign breaths snuffle-snorting away the smell of dark, smell of light. I wonder if Sachi’s new ones catch the scent of shadow, how it long lingers in the nose, in the roof of the mouth, spider-spun and dirt-dusted. Course I know they don’t, or they wouldn’t come.
“A’most here,” Geena says. No longer sun-slowed, heat slicked, her toe tap-tap against the wood, hammock going faster so it creaks just kinda, a cricket rubbing its legs together in a low, slow ask for mate or prey. A whisper of wings through still air, echo and call. But I can’t hear Stachi, drill and beat of her breath. Not yet. Not yet.
“I can hear them.” Kyle’s ears, better than both Geena’s and mine. He pulls his long legs in, scrape of skin over concrete, barely a sound. His eyes open fully, his chest rises, but that’s all. The rest of him still, still, still, like it was hot day and not quick cool night.
I don’t say nothing. I never do. Words belong to ones like Geena and Kyle. Their mouths still form something to say, pushing letters and words and sounds out between lips and teeth, their curling tongues. Out, out of their mouths. All those words and sighs, cries and slow, hot breaths.
My mouth is quiet. My mouth is only take. Hunger that inhales and inhales, swallows whole.
Kiss kiss bang bang, s.
“All writers are vampires.” ~James Gandolfini