The last victim lay, crushed and eviscerated, beneath her second floor balcony. A red trail led up her trellis. Shed fur and nails clumped upon her chamber floor. She sat, quill to parchment. Blood dripped from her jaws to stain the paper and foul the feathers pinched in her fingers as she wrote:

I Would Cease…

I would that this renegade heart
Cease within my breast
That I might be free of its permanent pain

I would that this severed soul
Cease its tattered bleeding
That I might be free of this venom not my own

I would that I not be this beast,
Cease to be that, which I most despise,
That I might not suffer such sanguine savagery

I would that I had died when he left me,
Cease in my quest for life
For in the blessed death of sleep I would be free

I would live this life no more
Cease the slaughter I embraced
For alive, alone, my heart howls in silence

I would cease…

~by Sariah DuShayne, upon the hundredth full moon

UPDATE: "just a quickie"

OMG

Nearly halfway there! I am SO totally fried. I wrangled out 20 pages of rewrites yesterday!! My brain is banging a wicked tattoo in its case, my eyes ache and my ears are ringing from compulsive Hinder pumping through them. Ahhhh, the life of a published (soon to be) writer. :)

Fantasy is a force to be reckoned with in comparison to my usual erotica. I would so much rather play in the in the sanguine shadows of dark desires...

Somewhat hollow

fingers aching from the strain

eyes closed on reality

brain numbed by the pain

blood running

down my flesh and my throat

another victim fallen

I pick myself up and move on

One last Sariah post...

**Okay, I lied. I am gonna post one more thing... Another Sariah post. She's been insistent throughout, and I cannot easily turn away. But, I can attempt to tame my Bitch...**

This piece follows after my post Catty Continuation: Sariah's true mate, directly after the lionen Were/Sariah love scene...

The moment of bliss was brief.

He collapsed beside her, the graceful feline form flowing from him. He was the same man; same body, same ruddy brown hair and cocoa eyes. His face was as beautiful as the night of Xander's attack. Yet now it was haunted, melancholy; guilty even. He reached out to touch her cheek but stopped, the warmth of his flesh whispering against her skin. A tear slipped down his own. His bottom lip trembled.

"Sariah," he whispered. He tried to speak more, but a sob caught in his throat. Then, he did the unthinkable. He pulled away from her. He sat in an awkward cross-legged position, covering the part of him with which he had touched inside her.

"Stuart, what are you doing?"

"I… I'm sorry, Sariah. It's not what I am doing, but what I should not have done. I should not have come back. I should have never allowed you to love me... again… never allowed you to cloud my heart."
Sick shock settled into Sariah. His words hurt worse than any physical injury; they cut deep, tearing at her broken heart. She was struck silent, unable to retort, unable to speak. She rose up onto her knees, beseeching him with her posture. She reached for him, and he inched back, allowing only the barest tip of her finger to touch his skin. Tears bled from her eyes. Her heart convulsed in pain unknown. She was losing him. "Stuart?" she murmured. "I don't understand how you can do this to me. Why did you even touch me, touch my heart again? Please… come here."

"I cannot." Dark loss rang in his voice. "I don't know… I couldn't help myself, Sariah, but I do not want to love you again – still. It hurts too much, Sariah."

"But, we are free to be together now. Xander's gone, I saw to that."

Stuart actually flinched. "I know – I watched you exact your vengeance on him. Slaughter solves nothing, Sariah. I cannot come back to you knowing how many lives, how many men you've destroyed in your quest for vengeance. Knowing what you've become, I cannot give my love, my heart and soul, to you."

Anger trickled in to taint her shock.

Her teeth ached to sink into something, to gnash out her pain. Breath came and in went in hurried, hurtful gasps. Her hands balled up into hard, horrid fists. "You cannot give your love to me?" She sniffed. "You have been alive and had my heart all this time. I never wanted it back, nor do I now. Even if you don't want it, you can keep it. A heart is no good to me broken."

An uncontrolled sob stole its way from her throat. Sariah covered her trembling lips with a hand gone cold. She felt suddenly very naked and ashamed. If she could have taken those words back, she would have. But his words still cut into her. She crossed her arms over her bare breasts and turned from Stuart. She tilted her head down, her hair cascaded forward to curtain her emotional breakdown. Hot tears of heartache streamed down her cheeks.

She did not hear him leave over her own keening. Her only true love crashed back into her life, filled the emptiness in her soul; and as suddenly, with a few words he ripped that away. Her heart, which she had shored up with righteous rage, was dying away within her. She knew nothing but ache, breathed nothing but loss.

Sariah tipped her head back and loosed a howl if ringing pain...

**Now that I've poured that pain out, I am going to turn my mind to Fantasy... Ciao.**

BITTER

Hunting-tip arrow
Breeches the heart,
Defunct meat brings only
Carrion. Am I dead?

Hanging in the balance
(be not too panglossian)
a word suffices to incline the scales to
Madness…

Stumble.
Where’s the rug??
In your hands, don’t
Negate.

The bird twitters in her glided cage,
But she cries when the door is opened.

Ironic.

Security,
Indian gift, indian giver?

Am I to smile??

The Bitch is back... (Sariah snippet)

**Yes, Everyone, your favourite werewolf bitch is back in the posts. All I have to say, as the author, is when in sour mood, kill something...**

Sariah dove into black maw of the shop's damaged door.

She rolled, shoulder-spine-hip and up onto her feet. She sidestepped the light pouring through the open frame and cast about for a closet, a cupboard; anything which might contain clothing. There in the corner of the cluttered, dingy backroom stood a small row of lockers.

Padlocks reflected flashlights outside the building as Sariah axe kicked one of the locks off. She wrenched the door open and ransacked the locker.

Hands full of durable twill and denim, she ran for the bathroom. She slammed the door, and forced the bolt into the lock. Sariah trained her ear to the door, listening for others in the shop as she pulled the stiff clothes over her sensitive skin. The denims slipped off from her hips, and the collar and sleeves of the shirt gave her a bedraggled look. The collar brushed her chin. Cheap spicy odor wafted up her nose. She gagged.

"What the hell kind of cologne is this?" She snorted.

She clapped a hand over her mouth and struggled to hold her breath as she stood in the locked, darkened bathroom. She heard footsteps outside the door. The door knob jiggled. The door rattled behind a banging fist.

"Damn thing is locked!" Someone cursed.

No shit, Idiot! Sariah snorted to herself; then suffocated on the stench her snort brought in. She huffed for breath, her hand still over her mouth.

Again, the door rattled. The same man swore.

"There's got to be keys somewhere," his companion said. "Start looking!" The second speaker seemed more level headed. Too bad he was a male.

Sariah's acute hearing took in their departure. She cranked the lock open, shoved the door and ran down the two patrolmen. She caught up the first before he could turn to face her. Her hands smashed against his temples, her arms wrenched viciously, and his neck broke between the first and second vertebrae without so much as a whimper. Her eyes flashed like an animal's as the remaining man aimed his flashlight at her.

She could see him, quivering where he stood, holding the flashlight in shaking hands. Controlled change was useful, and fairly painless. It was time to play…

She snapped her hands out, her Were claws ripping through the tips of her fingers. Her jaw elongated, drool dripped from between her fangs.

"Little pig, little pig," she mocked the officer, "Let me in!"

He squealed in fright, dropped his flashlight in favor of his gun. Sariah charged. The muzzle came up, pointed high and to the right. The hammer came down. A bullet ripped through her shoulder, the force knocked her back to her feet.

No silver.

She laughed only, and then lunged.

He brought up a knee toward her midsection and Sariah cut through the thigh muscle down to the femur. He yowled in pain and yet still fought to use his nightstick as her jaws settled into his shoulder. One good wrench of her neck and his struggle for the club was over; the shoulder separated from the socket. He threw his good arm up, but it was scant defense against this woman scorned. She raked at him with her elongated claws, snapped at him with her Were jaws – a side swipe across his stomach, upper cut to his jaw, and then silence.

His body crumpled as it followed his spilled innards on their outward path to the floor.

A fourth man fell beneath her that night – bloodied, ravaged, disemboweled – just like she liked them. She stood, focused her mind and forced her hands and face back to normal. Sariah smiled. Her stolen clothes remained clean. She squatted down, scooped up her last victim's arm, using the sleeve to wipe the sanguinary slop from her fingers and mouth.

"Stupid ass men," she spat. "You should have stayed out of my way."

Shattered Dreams...

Was it
nothing but
"silver-tounged tenderness?"

(lulled,
bemused)

Was it only
sugar-coated words, and
honey-dipped tounges?

Or, the
heat,
rhythm,
throbbing
lights,
pulsation,
sensation,
fascination?

It was prevarication,
lies.

Hurt
twice again,
once again,
over again,
again.

Pain
thought once
disregarded thrice
overlooked twice

Smiles??
Only stained memories,
shattered dreams, and deceit.

UFC Ultimate Fight Night

**Self indulgent post of a different sort. If you don't follow MMA/Ultimate Fighting, you might want to go away and come back tomorrow**

I don't know why they called it "Ultimate Fight Night." Maybe Ultimate Clinch Night. No bombs dropped, no submissions, no knock outs. I'm glad I didn't waste a beer on this one.

• Chris Leben had a match with Luigi Somebody-Italian. Chris is supposed to be this kick-ass, take-names fighter. Well, not last night. I was disappointed at the lack of action. Chris won it be decision.
• Joe Stevenson fought Josh Neer. I expected Joe to win. He had such a strong showing in the second season of Ultimate Fighter, he beat one of my favorites. Call him Mr. Submissive, I guess, because he tried more submission moves than I've ever seen in a fight. Neer dropped elbows, land a few hits, and won it by decision. (The blood on Joe might have been the deciding factor, bright red in dyed blonde.)
• Rashad Evans (MI native) won against a bigger guy, with better reach. But, again, not much action, more clinch. Rashad would shoot, take his opponent down, get him half guard and do nothing with it. Maybe Rashad won because he has better conditioning in his abdominals...
• Keith Jardine and Stephen Bonnar was the best fight by far. Still a lot more dancing than I would prefer (in a ring!), but at least they made the fight worth watching. Jardine unloaded leg kick after leg kick, effectively taking BigMouth Bonnar down a notch or two. Jardine pressed the fight, landed more punches. He should have won. SHOULD HAVE. F*cking Bonnar won it be decision. Dammit. I think that was all a popularity contest.

The first episode of The Ultimate Fighter 3 was a great way to end the night. The new stable of fighters has promise. Although I am eager to see the redhead on Shamrock's team get his mouth shut for him. I hate ego. We've seen that the more smack a fighter usually talks, the less they do to back it up. They've mixed things up this season, adding Canadians and two shaved-head Britons to the mix. (Funny, with the Brits, they have subtitles running, like the average American won't be able to understand them.) Also, there's no 'challenges' this season to see who wins the right to pick the fights. That goes by coin toss, and who wins the fight chooses the next. There's new coaches, too. Tito Ortiz and Ken Shamrock. They hate each other. It's awesome!!

Although, honestly, I never liked Shamrock either. I think he's a pretentious bastard. I like Ortiz so much better. Ortiz might be more cocky, but he backs it up. And, Ortiz is a better coach, he choose his guys by their heart, their desire to win and potential to 'be a star.' Shamrock choose whomever he thought could beat Ortiz's guys. Ortiz is also not 'tearing his guys down' first. He's in there, wrestling with them, sparring with them. He's learning his guys by working with them, not by standing back with a clipboard watching them and barking orders.

I am anticipating a great season, lots of tension, and gods willing, some good fights... And I want Oritz to lump up Shamrock at the end of it all. (again!)

WTF in a bowl

OMG Okay, so I won't try 'authentic Indian cuisine' again. And, no, not Native American 'Indian;' but back of a f*cking camel in hot ass India, Indian, red-dot on the forehead, towel turban wearing smelly horny men, Indian. (Don't go on Ryze if you're a woman and you don't want men Indian men to call you a Goddess. I mean, I KNOW that I am, but they don't need to tell a married woman that.)

On Friday, the family decided to see ICE AGE 2 (Diego RULZ!! Here kitty kitty... I even have a stuffie of him now!) As we were already 'out,' DH decided to 'try something new' and 'broaden our culinary horizons.' Out of town. A highway drive away from home. NOT a good idea for anyone who has suffered IBS symptoms. New food and highway travel are a recipe for disaster.

A new restaurant opened in nearby Swampland, MI. (about a 20 to 30 min drive from home) I'm not one to stray far outside my norm when it comes to eating; not if I want the food to stay where I put it, anyway. It's all about GASTRONOMIC DISTRESS, also known as gastroinestinal pyrotechnics, to put things mildly.

The door opens, and we are met with high pitched pig-squealing bitches belly dancing on a TV screen mounted in the corner. Wonderful start. Thank gawd they have pretty clothes. I'd kill for a figure suitable to wear one of those outfits. Anway, nothing on the menu looked appetizing. Ironically, I have a talented tongue... a real proclivity for pronounciation (what did you think I was gonna say?? gutterminded people... LOL) And even though I could produce a fair imitation of their dialect, my guts couldn't process their damned food.

The pashawar naan was great, a flat bread with fruits and nuts baked in, but that's where the goodness stopped. The entrees were f*cking scary. Well, the rice wasn't, but DAMN the steaming sh*t in those bowls... Ew! I ordered some kind of lamb something... Put it this way, it smelled like an unwashed arab man's armpits and look like it had been forced through one of his orafices. WTF? Chunks of lamb, stewed, aldulterated in some tomatoe something pasty sh*t, with chunks of tomatoe, onion and green peppers. And, that's just what I could identify!

I masitcated as much as I could, which wasn't much at all. My guts kind of clamped, and began to gnarl as I sat. I tried a suck of mango shake. I hate mango. But I was desparate to wash that crap out of my mouth. By the time we left, I felt like I was going to explode, one way or another.

We flew through a Dollar Store to get some Immodium. I grabbed the wrong damn box!! I thought for sure I was going to DIE. I think at one point I wanted to. It was at then that I made my mind work. "Mind over matter," they say. I am very strong minded; some might say that I am damn stubborn... (shuttup, those of you who do) So, I decided to force that misery away. I'm okay... I'm tougher than this... I'm okay.

It worked.

And I learned something. More than never to eat that sh*t again. If I can control those gut wrenching IBS syptoms, I can do anything I put my mind to.

Anything.

UNDER ARREST: the pictoral

THE OFFICER

THE APPREHENSION


THE USUAL SUSPECT

**Am I bad? Oh, Yes, very, very bad...**

Alex TAGGED me!

**Lovely, beneficiant Alexandra tagged me the other day and I missed it...**

Four jobs you have had in your life:
1. Cashier
2. Waitress at a meatmarket
3. Bouncer at same said meatmarket
4. Submissions editor for a literary agency

Four movies you could watch endlessly:
1. The Mummy
2. The Mummy Returns
3. Underworld
4. Pirates of the Carribeanan

Four places you have lived:
1. Swamp land, Michigan
2. Scary neighborhood, Michigan
3. Teeny Tiny house, Michigan
4. Here

Four TV shows you love to watch:
1. Amwerica Idol (GO, Chris!!)
2. WWE (sick of McMahon, though)
3. TNA (when I'm awake)
4. UFC (when it's on)

Four places you have been on vacation:
note: I was 'talked to' about my previous answer in my LJ. The amended list is:
1. Camping
2. Sea world, Ohio
3. Camping
4. Milwaukee

Four BLOGS you visit daily:
(there are WAY more, but I'm trying to stick to the rules...somewhat)
1. An Innocent A-Blog (brilliant Bernita)
2. Lady M Writes (love ya!!)
3. The Wry Writer (smooches)
4. Candice Gilmer's World (sister Aphrodite girl!)

Four of your favorite words:
1. Passion
2. Pain
3. tumescent
4. determined

Four places you would rather be right now:
1. In bed with my man
2. Hot shower
3. Coffee pot (addicted, yes, I know)
4. somewhere else

Four people to be tagged:
Not that I am not terribly curious as to what y'all are like, I'm not in a thinking mood, so I'm not tagging anyone today. Run, frolick, live free!

A question...

Sorry, no snippets today. I have a question to pose...

Why, when we are out-of-sorts (irritable, grumpy, tempestous, cranky, for me, bitchy), do we strike out at those who least deserve it?

And to make this post somewhat writing related, do you ever have your characters behave in a similar manner, give them less-desirable traits? If you're a reader, how do you feel about a character with flaws like that?

We aren't perfect; coloured with everything from temper to regret for such; does literature represent those shades? Does art imitate life??