Daniel stood in his kitchen staring at the news reader in the crystal ball on the table.

“To repeat our top story,” she said with a stunned look on her face, “The musician David Bowie passed away after an eighteen month battle with cancer.”

Daniel shook at his core. The song Spaceman echoed through his head. A hero had fallen, leaving him empty. The news didn’t make sense. Bowie had a new album out. How could something like this stay a secret, especially in this day and age.

The fire in his heart cooled like the life was going out of him.

He knew he was running. He could feel his feet pounding on the carpet, the concrete, the grass, and then he leapt into the air. The sound of his shirt ripping screamed for him as his wings grew from his back. He couldn’t make a sound otherwise.

His wings flapped out of pure instinct, carrying him higher into the sky.

Tears froze on his now scaly cheeks. He tried to scream, but only fire came out. Streaking across the sky, he poured his heart into the flames. Even the heat couldn’t warm his heart.

The music continued to play through his mind. Songs who built his strength and comforted him in sorrow. The words that soothed his loneliness reached through him.

Finally, he screamed. The deep, resonating roar echoed off everything.

Daniel felt the eyes of everyone on the ground looking up towards him.

Closing his eyes, he just felt the wind rush over his body.

Why hadn’t Bowie been given a pearl? Why couldn’t he live forever?

Daniel’s heart hollowed out.

“People stared at the makeup on his face…” the words of Lady Stardust entered him.

The words were sweet, bittersweet. Each note fell over him like a tear from heaven.

Flying down into the woods, Daniel collapsed onto the cold earth, and curled up in tears. He couldn’t figure out why he was so torn up. He had never met the man… They did have a relationship though. That music made him who he was as much as his DNA.

All his life, he just wanted to be Ziggy Stardust, this wise rocker who came to save the world through song. He used to stare into his mirror as a child wondering if Jareth would come and take him if he was a bad kid. The Outsider voiced his own sense of alienation from the world around him. Every note, every word spoke to a moment in his life. The loss of such songsmith made scared him. Who would write the new songs he needed? Who would be the voice to carry him through the long nights ahead? That was his real source of sorrow.

Daniel wondered where his life would find meaning without the right words behind him. Then he laughed.

“You stupid pink, monkey bird.” he said to himself. He shook his head, and looked up at the sky. He jumped up and soared over the world. The sun warm on his skin.

Robert shuffled down the road. Pain gnawed at his bones. I need to take a break. Too much time on the road. His thoughts burned his mind. His brown skin darkened as the sun went down. Too tired to think. Too tired to walk. Too tired to... Breath.

This wasn’t the first time he wore himself so thin. He pushed himself hard. He had to. The depression wasn’t over in Mississippi, at least not for him. Part of him felt it would never end.

The hot August air hung thick. Everything that didn’t wreak of mildew wore a cloak of dust from the road. It was almost like a second skin. He unbuttoned the top three buttons on his shirt. Sweat dappled his undershirt. He pushed his hat higher on his forehead. The air was so thick.

He’d walked this road many times. It never got any easier. Soon, he would dull the pain with a strong drink. He didn’t really care what was in the glass, so long as it took his mind away.

Maybe, if I’m lucky, I might even find a nice girl to spend some time with. I just hope she isn’t too nice though.

Someone hen-picked a guitar.

Robert stopped. The song was familiar, but he knew he didn’t know it. He looked around and saw the flickering light of a campfire on the bank of the Yalobusha River.

They’re good. He tapped his foot to song. They got a broken heart. You can’t fake that sound.

He approached the fire slowly.

Whoever was playing had their back to him. Their long black hair cascaded down their back in effortless waves. Silhouetted against the fire light, they were thin, almost fragile looking.

The scent of roses and burning wood filled the air.

Looking around, he couldn’t see any roses.

“Robert?” a melodious female voice shook him to the core.

Dread overshadowed him.

He wanted to run.

His legs didn’t respond.

Nothing ever frightened him like her voice did.

This must be how a mouse feels when it sees a cat.

“Come now, Robert,” she stopped playing the guitar, and patted the ground next to her. “Join me.”

How does she know my name?

“I asked you to join me,” she patted the ground again.

He walked towards her. He couldn’t help himself. He didn’t want to, but his body wouldn’t stop. His leg carried him closer until he could see her face.

Her skin was smooth like porcelain, and whiter than bone. Her face was round and doll-like, and her eyes black. Solid black. No whites, no color, just black.

She smiled at him in a way that made him even more uncomfortable. “If you don’t want to sit, I’m alright with that, but it would be rude.”

He sat before he knew what he was doing.

“That’s better,” her smile widened. “I’ve been wanting to meet you ever since my sister told me about you. You really are quite a musician.”

“I just play the guitar and sing.”

“Don’t be so modest. In my life, I have met many people who sing and play guitar. You are special.”

“Really? I don’t see anything all that special about it.”

“Don’t lie.” Her face turned stern, frightening.

Did fire just flash in her mouth?

“Don’t be afraid, Robert,” she said overly sweet, “If I wanted to hurt or kill you I would have done it by now.”

Shaking, “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Honesty.” She shrugged. “There is no point in lying. I want our relationship to be built on truth. Can you do that for me, Robert?”

“Are you a devil?”

Her laugh sounded like tin scraping against wood in a thunderstorm. “No. I am no devil. I am drakos vasilissa... Let’s just say, I am very old, very powerful, and a big fan of yours.”

That wasn’t really a no.

“I am glad you like my music, Miss.. Ma’am, but I am not someone someone like you should be interested in.”

“Lady Wyntor, and you are just the kind of person I am interested in, ever since I met the father of songs by the shore of the Hebrus. Your kind have always been of interest to me.”

“My kind?”

“Geniuses. Musicians with the power to bend the soul to their will. I sent Wolfgang to check you out, and he said that you would be perfect.”

“Wolf gang? Lady Wyntor, it has been a pleasure meeting you, but I have to get going. I am not feeling well, and I need to rest.”

She smirked. “What if I could promise you that if you stayed with me, you would never be tired again. Never grow old. Never get sick. Never die.”

“Then I would say that you are a devil.”

She stood up. The men’s shirt and trousers she wore didn’t fit well. “A devil has rival, and is lesser than him. I have no superior. I have no rival. I am Astraea Kathari, the Nightslayer. There is none like me. Even among my brothers and sisters, there is none like me.”

Fire licked her lips. Her teeth glowed like iron fresh from the forge. White leathery wings ripped from her back.

Robert fell over. He tried to scramble away.

“This is why I don’t usually collect myself. You mortals have no respect.”

Flames spewed from her mouth, and curled inches away from his face.

“I meant no disrespect.”

“I came to offer you the gift, and you call me a devil.”

“In my defense, lady,” Robert pointed at her wings.

She laughed. Doubling over, the flames from her mouth set the ground under her feet on fire. She laughed harder.

“You might have a point.” She chuckled. “I like you. You insult me and make me laugh. You will be a good addition.”

“To what?”

“My collection.”

She jumped into the air.

Her clothes exploded off her body as it grew and deformed.

White scales covered her elongated serpentine form. Her face twister into something that looked like a short alligator muzzle, but with whiskers and a lush mane.

Robert scooted away, trying to get to his feet.

One of her massive clawed hands wrapped around his waist, and she slithered up into the air.

He struggled.

His fists couldn’t dent her flesh.

He screeched at the top of his lungs.

He inhaled.

The air was thin.

Panic consumed him.

He screamed for help.

He inhaled.

His lungs burned.

Stars flashed in his vision.

Darkness. He was gone. She took what she wanted.

If you would like to take part in the next hangout, join the Google plus community and be ready next Friday at 4 PM Central for the next one.  Community members will be invited to join the video chat, the first nine will get in, and anyone else will be able to watch or join in the chat room.  If you just want to be in the chat, join as a watcher.

In this hangout, we discussed what has been going on, In the Light of the Moon, Wand and Weaver: the Pearl, and The Long Winter.

I look forward to your questions and comments.

I cannot rest when the sun sleeps. The moon mocks me with her hallowed glow. I can hear the whispers of the long dead Night, her inky black blood cries out to her brothers and sisters and father. The pale shadow of her memory calls out for vengeance.

Joseph and Tara know, or at least they should. What? You think I haven't told them? Of course I told them.

The sallow faces strained to peer through the darkness like a lost child wandering through the fog. They are hungry, but they lack the power to feed.

Why would they believe me? I'm just an old man, dirty halfbreed who is afraid of the dark.

They don't care that I am older than their families. I fought against the Thule in the last great war. I survived the Black Death. I remember when the covenant was made. I remember the fall of Night. Do they care, of course not.

The old man rambles on. They think I don't hear what they say about me, but I do. It doesn't matter. The shadows are growing darker, the nights have lost their heat, and the faces watch whether we want them to or not.

Their eyes sunk in so far in their heads the abyss itself stares at you. Their skin so tight, thin, and yellow, not because they are sick or hungry, but to catch the eye of their wandering prey. Horrid creatures given tongue by the preachers of death. There are so many of them. They encircle me every night longing to feed, yet they don't.

Maybe the blood that trickles from their mouth is a sign of their weakness, or maybe they are feeding. A school of terribly slow piranha nibbling at the edges of my soul. I have been weak lately. I counted it to my age, but maybe they are causing me to fray around the edges.

They know that I am watching them. Like Cassandra, I sound the alarm, but who is going to listen to the old man. Maybe they don't have the strength to devour me all at once? So every night, they come and wormed their way deeper into my soul.

Why won't Joseph listen? He should know that the minions of Darkness are out there. They have always been out there, biding their time and looking for weakness.

I can hear them coming again. Like rats in the walls, they are scratching, digging, burrowing their way through. I've come to expect them. They crawl in every night. They aren't afraid of my lamps or my candles. My lights just make them harder to see, but I can still hear them gnawing in the shadows.

Their faces twist and distort in the flickering light. What Eikon have I offended for you to torment me like this? I can hear its growl. I've never been able to hear that before.

Rumbling through the floor and reverberating in the walls, the low, gravelly roar of an angry beast. Is that why they are here?

Have you been burrowing a tunnel, so I might fall into the demons throat? Is that the end you have prepared for me? An ignored prophet devoured by the beast, he tried to warn the people was coming.

Come, then! No matter how many of you pale spirits come to torment me, I will cry out. I will warn the people, even if they don't want to hear it.

2013 is going to be a very big year for us.  Wand and Weaver: The Chain is out of exclusivity, which means it should be available on your Nook and other favorite bookstores soon.  We are even working on an audio version that will be available from Audible.com and as a podcast.

Work on book 2 proceeds on schedule, and I can't wait to get it into your hands to see what you all think of it.  For those of you who have asked, it will pick up right at the end of The Chain and go on to explore the relationship between Daniel and Lady Oban.

We have also decided to release a serial, to be called Our Solemn Hour, that will show events taking place in the wider world.  I'm very excited about the series, and hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoy working on it.

In addition to all that, I have started publishing prose poems and flash fiction, as well as original artwork, in the Dragons of Night setting over at medium.com.  These are part of my daily warm-up routine, and I thought it would be fun to share them with you all.

As always, I love getting feedback from everyone.  If you have any questions or comments, feel free to hit me up on my various social media profiles, or use the contact page to get in touch with me directly.

I hope you are as excited as I am for all of the new things coming to Dragons of Night this year.  And since I can't say it enough, thank you so much for your love, care, and support

She dances. He dances. One in body, form, and action. His face set in her smile, her eyes painted over his. The rhythm, the motions, guided by the music, driving her deeper into the trance.

The room swells like a sea at the tug of the moon, receding like a tide forsaking the beach.

Light filtered through her skin, he was no longer there. Life glittered through her skin, she was no longer there. Only the dance remained. Her arms, prayers to the heaven. Her legs, freedom from earth.

Beat, the drum moved her. Beat, her heart moved her. The beat took hold of the room. Many danced as one. The heat of their breath caressing their skin. Clothes slid over their bodies.

The light wove them together with the pulse of the music. One body, groaning together for the release of joy. One heart, bound in the moment, crying out for a place called home. One Spirit, feeling the fullness of the moment.

The shadows howl outside. The darkness looks through the window. The dancer hears and sees, but there is no fear in the dance.

It's not something you buy
Let me fill myself with tears you cry

You know I am in a fun mood when I open a post with a quote from Black Sabbath. I've had Wishing Well stuck in my head all week.

As a writer, I want to entertain people, but I also want to share something intensely person. Something that con only be shared through stories.

I love it when I hear from you all. You make all the soul searching worth it. But, I feel a strong urge to be original. To tell stories that are different from the ones I read, watch, and listen to.

The problem with originality is getting other people into it. I read the reviews and so often they make me smile.

As I work on this story, I wanted to return to the things I love. You can really see that in Wand and Weaver: The Chain.

The other problem with my struggle for originality is that it fills my head with more stories than I know what to do with.

So, I think I have seen a way forward. Wand and Weaver is a bigger story than I can easily tell, but I think I have found a way to do it.

I have changed my focus for the serial. I am going to tell a story that parallels the main story so I can give you all a fuller image of what is going in in the world.

I'm still not sure what I am going to do with the story if Amazon Serials doesn't take it. I am looking for options if you know about any.

What other stories in the Dragons of Night world do you want to read? Let me know.

I've been working for a couple months on a new story, and I fell into the same whole I always do: too much prewriting.

I don't just outline, I dig into every character and setting element, and while some of that is necessary, it can easily get out of hand.

When I say every, I really mean every. I get really involved with the setting and start looking at more and more of the ephemera of the setting. I once wrote 90,000 words of backstory for a 54,000 word story.

I talk to my friends about the iceberg effect of my writing style. For my previous series, I wrote 10 words of backstory for every 1 word of story.

Now that I am starting to do it again, I am at least happy I can see it this time. I am not sure what I want to do about it.

Part of me thinks I should post it all on the site, but, as I learned with Dragons of Night, it takes a lot of time to edit the material and make it reader-worthy.

I might continue to do that, but as for this project, I am going to pull back and focus on the story.

I am curious what you all think. I am open to suggestions.

What he means by Barbarian is not an ethnic group or even a particular class of individual, but is simply a person unburdened by the the social norms and rules of “polite society.”

If that doesn’t make sense to you, check out The Importance of Being Earnest or An Ideal Husband by Oscar Wilde, or the BBC farce, Keeping Up Appearances, where the humor is based on a how people are forced to act within the gilded cages of polite society.  They are not Barbarians.

On the other hand, check out Almost Famous, Farscape, and Firefly to see Barbarians at their best.

Barbarians have Honor

What makes barbarian society possible in the absence of etiquette and mores of polite society is that integrity and reputation are more important than social standing and lineage.  If you are a renown liar, it doesn’t matter who your father is or what company you work for.

Cultured society, by definition, adopt certain norms of speech, action, and etiquette.  The end result is a subjection of the natural state of an individual to the homogenized whole.

In its worse extreme of a cultured society we get Stepford Wives and 1984.

The Problem with Words

It is hard to talk about these things, because English is biased against me.  I mean, a good person never does anything beyond the pale, right?

“Beyond the pale” refers to the people outside of the British controlled area of Ireland.  Norman/English conquerors felt that they were better than the Irish, so the notion of Irish culture, language, and people were denigrated.  The Statutes of Kilkenny (1366) forbid English people from marrying the local Irish, talking like them, adopting their culture or language, or even riding a horse like them.

The idea of the Irish as barbarian is not the only racist problem with the language, but is a fair example of it.

The word barbarian itself derives from what the Greek thought non-Greeks sounded like when they talked.

I love the word barbarian, but you have to bare in mind that I am referring to something different from the idea of a culture different from my own.  I am using the word cultured to mean the sort of cultural fundamentalism that institutes a polite, public image and rituals to reinforce it to mask the inherent hypocrisy such an institution requires.

Are barbarians civilized?  Uh, well it depends what you mean by civil or civilized.

To quote Robert E Howard, “Civilized men are more discourteous than savages because they know they can be impolite without having their skulls split, as a general thing.”

Violence and Barbarism

One of the reasons I am bending towards the use of the word Wildness as apposed to Barbarian is the association of violence with barbarism.  In English, the two words are synonymous.

With all respect to Mr Howard, I don’t think the threat of violence is what marks the difference between cultured people and their uncultured counterparts.  I think the difference is born out of respect.

Anarchy and Subculture

The punk and goth movements that I grew up in are modern “urban barbarian” movements.  They were both anarchistic, and rejected the accepted culture, not just the pop culture.

**The following represents my person experience, and to hell with all the pop culture stereotypes.**

In high school, I got into punk.  For us, it was part rejection of social norms and part an attempt to express our individual identities.  It was born out of frustration on many fronts.

We were confrontational, and anyone who saw us dancing at a show or a club could easily be excused for thinking a riot broke out.  For us, the violence of the pits was a pressure valve that exorcized our anger in a controlled way.

I am not sure I could explain life like that to an outsider.  The encouragement of individualism and honesty is something that I have taken with me my entire life.

In fact, the only person who has ever betrayed me was an average pop culture hipster who tried to fit in, but always read as trying too hard.

Open revulsion was accepted, but insincere politeness was derided and used against people to prove they weren’t trustworthy.

Wildness and Empire

“The story of Romulus and Remus being suckled by a wolf is not a meaningless fable. The founders of every state which has risen to eminence, have drawn their nourishment and vigor from a similar wild source. It is because the children of the empire were not suckled by the wolf that they were conquered and displaced by the children of the northern forests who were.”

I never thought I would ever quote Thoreau, but that one is just too good.

While I have been singing the praises and virtues of the barbarian, it is important to see their effect on the world.  The American Revolution was born in the Colonial Taverns.

So was Thomas Jefferson a paragon of wildness?  Some quotes:

“A coward is much more exposed to quarrels than a man of spirit.”

“A wise and frugal Government, which shall restrain men from injuring one another, which shall leave them otherwise free to regulate their own pursuits of industry and improvement, and shall not take from the mouth of labor the bread it has earned. This is the sum of good government, and this is necessary to close the circlue of our felicities.”

“Dependence begets subservience and venality, suffocates the germ of virtue, and prepares fit tools for the designs of ambition.”

“Honesty is the first chapter of the book wisdom.”

“On matters of style, swim with the current, on matters of principle, stand like a rock.”

Okay, so he may not have had a mohawk or listened to the Germs, but I am not asking if he was a punk

Wildness is all about natural, native state of things.  If integrity (living honestly), respect (not forcing everyone to copy your patterns of life), liberty, fierceness/relentlessness, and fearlessness as the measure of wildness in a person, I think he makes the grade.  He may not have been a party animal, but that is a personal trait, not a requirement.

Thoreau was right (wow, I said that), Wildness builds and conquers empires.  Makes you think about the effects of Valley Forge on the army in a different way doesn’t it.

I was frustrated beyond words.  My last book had made a splash with Horror Fans, and I couldn't get the cult success of Phara-un out of my head.  It was a limited run, and it is no longer available anywhere, but people constantly asked me about it.  I wanted to continue it.  Words wouldn't flow.  I was blocked.

That night, Brian and I went out shopping.  About half way through the store, I had an strange image pop in my head.  I sat in one of the benches in the back of the store, and opened EverNote, and added a strange note.

I could feel my skin crawling. Something strange lingered in the air. A musky bouquet wafted down from somewhere, muscling out the odors of the city.

He looked up, knowing what he would see, and there it was atop the Redd-Bishop building- an enormous black dragon perched on the pinnacle with its wings out stretched. He doubted anyone would see it. Its scales blended perfectly into the skyline. In a moment it was gone.

Relieved, he took several steps towards the restaurant before he paused and looked again at the night sky. What is a dragon doing in the city? He thought, then realized he probably didn't want to know the answer.

Hmm, there might be something there.  I titled the note "Dragon Knight- Nathan".  I rushed out to the car and tried to capture more of the idea.  It didn't work.  I ended up just reading these three odd paragraphs over and over again.

The next day, I remembered a note I had in one of my notebooks for my Space Opera Setting:

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I am not going to say that it was necessarily an original idea, but it awakened a new idea in me.  The idea had merit, whether it had a future or not.

I started playing with the idea, and experimenting with new formats.

I wrote that post March 5, 2010, and explored the idea of a Epistolary Novel, crossed with a blog and a magazine until November 29, 2010.  I still like the idea, but it felt forced and unnatural.  I even explored doing an ARG (Alternate Reality Game) for a while, but again it felt strange and wrong.

During this period, I asked myself a very important question:

That one badly paraphrased Shakespeare quote changed everything, and made be delve into world history and construct a world that developed a parallel history to the one we know, and gave a spin to special events.

This early seed of an idea eventually grew to the world I am sharing with all of you.  I can only hope you love it as much as I do.

I am so happy that Sharon Needles won RuPaul's Drag Race this season for so many reasons.  Some of them are selfish, and others are not. 

I rooted for her from the beginning.  Her drag is flawless, spooky, and filled with charm and humor.  She really is the lost member of the Addam's Family.

I see myself in Sharon

When Sharon talked about her life, I heard my own life story.  I was the spooky kid.  I was the freak in school.  My love of horror and deep depression almost got me kicked out of school.

It is so very important for us freaks at heart to come out of the closet and embrace who and what we are.  We all have  a dark side.  Some of us choose to face it head on, others choose to run away.

This beautiful image is available for purchase on Sharon's site.

Sharon proves we can face our dark sides with grace, humility, and humor.

SHARON'S WIN VALIDATES MY WORK

I know that is an incredibly selfish thing to say, but I have spent the last 2 years working on a new world and novel that features Drag Queens in a Supernatural Horror/Dark Contemporary Fantasy setting.  I've had quite a few people tell me I am nuts.  Drag Queens are glitz and glamor.

Sharon's win proves that Drag can be spooky, sometimes serious, and always fun.

I've wrestled with my own demons of doubt.  I posted early drafts and Scribd, and most readers checked out at the first mention of drag.  That frightened me, but I just have to tell myself that those people are not in my target market.

Sharon's win gives me the courage to follow my heart, and freak out the haters.

Thank you, Sharon for inspiring me and countless others.

Long live the Queen, after all Vampires reign forever.

It has engendered a new debate in me about about how much to share about my creative process. As usual, I have a lot of inspirations feeding into this project, and I feel like they will be obscured in the final version so that the story and its elements are uniquely mine, but with some of the more recent copyright claims going around, I am seriously waiting for someone to claim a right to inspiration.

You might think that I am being overly cautious about this, but after the recent Rhianna S&M case, I don't think that is too far fetched. I might share them, just because that is my instinct, but I'm curious to see how it will all play out.

The Wand and Weaver mini-series is in editing, so hopefully you will all get to see it soon. If you are interested in beta-reading it, let me know. I am really looking for notes on the stories. I like them, but they are very different from the kind of stories I already write."