I have been somewhat lax on this site of late, failing to announce new books that have come out, not posting in general. So, for the coming Wednesday in October I’ll be announcing the books and stories that have come out over the past few (more than few in some cases…) months.
So to start, The Ravening Season.
I’d love to tell you exactly where the inspiration for this came from, but I wrote it so long ago that what exactly set me down to write it remains a mystery. Though if I think back, the act of writing this one remains an almost mystical experience, one of those times that the story seemed to pour through me rather than dictated by much conscious effort. Part of me remembers wanting a dream-like quality, but I’ve wanted a dream-like quality before and have tossed the unfinished draft aside in disgust.
This was different. The words flowed, and story came together, and it was done in a matter of days and never once felt like a chore. If all writing could be like this it would be marvelous.
What is it about? The Ravening Season is a dark fantasy, where a man finds a young woman in a glade and continues to visit her, entranced by and attracted to her, and over time, as the seasons changes so too does she, into something far darker than he had thought of her. That the story took such a dark turn and came to me as if out of no where is a bi startling but it is a work I’m proud of.
And isn’t that cover just gorgeous!
The Ravening Season will also appear in the erotic horror anthology Strange Appetites, coming just in time for Halloween 2014!
When he saw her in the glade, he went to her, believing her to be a creature he could tame and claim as his own. He was drawn to her youthful beauty, her sweetness. But as their relationship grew, so did her appetite, and before he knew it, he was in thrall to a creature whose claws and teeth would likely bring his downfall. (F/M)
Please see the Forbidden Fiction webpage for The Ravening Season for an excerpt and content notes.
Through the snow, he ran. But there is no speed in a fresh drift, unmarked, untracked by another. Had he some path to follow he may have gone quicker, but the snow came up to his knees, and all he had was the snow-slabbed land and the forest of white birch, skeletal hands clawing at the sky. As it was, he clawed at the fragile snow that offered not stability, but the illusion of solid form.
He was hunched over, chest heaving, his breath puffs of white lost in the landscape. Never had he been so aware of his black coat, his black boots. How little they protected him now. They warmed his body, yes, now hot from the running, scarpering trudge. But behind him, she came. And his black clothes were a spot on a map of shining light, and he had ploughed the way to reach him. As he passed through the sharp, bare birch, he came to an oak. The looming thickness overwhelmed him, and he sunk to his knees, hands in his face to shut out the colossus of the tree and the brightness all around, and thought;
I have paved the way for my own death.
It was not long before the whisper of her steps was behind him. He would not turn to see her, for perhaps if he did not look, she might vanish like a snowflake.
She was not so delicate, though. Her hand dropped to his shoulder. He was too afraid to be surprised, but still proud enough to wipe his face, and peer up at her, with her claws and her icicle teeth.
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