i’m not alone in my dry spell.  one immediate desert companion (immediate to me, at least) is the gloriously dark angel Raziel Moore over at The Erotic Writer.  yesterday, he posted this post about a little challenge he’s set himself for the month of April.  if you go read the post (and i urge you to – there’s a really, really delicious scene in there), you will see that the challenge is to write for 15 minutes per day.  sounds easy, no?  no.  what follows took me far longer than 15 minutes to write, but i admit it was hampered by the fact that i am currently live streaming Florence + The Machie from the Albert Hall, and i keep crying.  love that woman.  but i almost didn’t turn my computer on at all.  thinking, as always, “Well really – what’s the point?”

the point is this:  to write. fucking. something. 

anything.

so i did.

the pitter patter of her heart betrayed her.  the moisture on her parted lips damned her as she gasped a tiny breath.  tail coiling, the demon sat astride her chest, half gilded with sodium flare, half charcoal silhouettte.  she knew, and he knew, that she was no longer asleep.  the slow, serpentine smile curving his lips indicated his amusement at her terror.  arms pinned to her sides by his crouching legs, feet pinned by the blanket tucked under the matress, she was held immobile by more than just her night terrors, this time.  this time, her darkness had emerged to claim her.

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