Monolaith ~ A Short Story

It's a family tradition young Holly could do without . . .

Monolaith

Make them pay. Make them all pay.

The raspy voice carried through the attic, drowning out all other sound. Holly Denton shook her head and covered her ears. Her face contorted into a pained grimace as the whisper echoed around her. Huddled on the dull floorboards, knees drawn to her chin, she rocked among the cobwebs and cardboard boxes. Dust particles swirled in the confined space, dancing through a narrow moonlit beam. They made her nose itch and clung to her damp face.

Fresh tears cleared a path down her grime-covered cheeks when the first screams pierced the silence. Holly jumped at the sound, her shoulders hunching in a defensive cringe. Her teeth sank deep into her lower lip to keep from crying out. If she did, they would find her, and like always, they would blame her for things she didn’t do.

The staff always treated her as if she were a leper, and the children weren’t much better. She always got blamed when something went wrong, or someone got hurt, even when it wasn’t her fault. Sometimes it was, though. Like when Sally Peters fell out of the tree and broke her arm. Holly hadn’t pushed her, but she had wanted her to fall, and deep down, she supposed that was the same thing.

The attic grew hotter, the air stifling. Small beads of sweat formed along the child’s brow. She crouched in the corner and rocked faster. Acrid smoke rose through the floorboards and an ominous amber light flickered below. Terrified, she let the first sob burst free.

Keening wails pierced the night, the noise sharp and unending. She could hear the sound of feet pounding against linoleum, the noise roiling like rolling thunder through the orphanage. Holly’s own fear mounted to unsurpassed heights as she clamped her hands against her ears in a futile effort to make it stop. It didn’t stop though, and the attic gave birth to worse terrors.

The rough, wooden planks grew hot beneath her bare feet, making her toes curl. Pain made her eyes flare. It was then that she noticed the shadowy figure perched on the cedar chest. Her eyes burned, watering from the thick plumes surrounding her. Certain her mind was playing tricks, Holly blinked. Once, twice … but the figure remained.

Dim, yellowed eyes peered back at her through the tainted haze. The creature, no bigger than a six-year old child, sat poised in a gargoyle stance. Sallow grey skin, as thin as parchment, stretched taut over gaunt limbs. It remained motionless, watching and waiting, its serpentine gaze filled with predatory cunning.

Holly screamed, her lungs filling with the noxious cloud crowding the attic. Hitting her hands and knees, the child coughed and wretched in a violent fit. Back bowed, she managed to suck in a few ragged gulps of toxic air. It made her head spin and the dismal gray haze grew thicker.

A quiet rustle carried over the sound of her heart hammering in her ears. Turning her head, she watched in horror as the creature unfurled its wings with a stretch. A delicate spider web of veins ran through the thin flaps of skin, illuminated by the eerie light oozing through the floor. Riveted with unspeakable fear, Holly’s gaze traced the outline of each wiry bone, much thinner and smaller than her own. An animalistic whimper tore from her throat. In a desperate bid for comfort, her fingers sought the familiar circle of the pendant dangling from her neck.

Her grandmother had given her the jewel on her seventh birthday, along with a warning that made Holly’s inside quiver like jell-o. “This will protect you against the Monolaith, child. Wear it and keep it safe. He watches you and waits for the day he can make you his.”

“Mother! I will not have you filling my daughter’s head with such filth!”

“It’s not filth, Doreen; it’s true! This thing has haunted our family for generations. You know it and I know it.” Her grandmother’s voice dropped to a low whisper, one not meant for Holly’s straining ears. “It wants your daughter, Doreen. She’s the chosen one, the one born beneath the ninth moon.”

Holly shook herself free of the memories and took a step back.

The beast settled back on its haunches, its wings flattening against its emaciated body. Thin lips pulled back in a chilling spectacle of a smile to reveal unending rows of jagged teeth. Holly reared back and pressed deeper into the corner. Strangled noises worked their way from her throat, a mixture of pain and helplessness as the planks underfoot grew hotter.

Only I can save you now, child.

Startled, Holly searched for the source of the voice. It sounded from everywhere and nowhere all at once. The figure regarded her with a knowing gaze, its eyes unblinking. It dismounted from its perch, its feet hitting the floor with a soft thud.

Her grip on the necklace tightened.

It is like before, yes?

Dim recollection settled over her, diluted memories of past nightmares . . . of the shadowy form soaring alongside the car the night her parents died. She remembered watching it with an odd mixture of wonderment and fear, her head craning at a painful angle when it eventually looped out of view. Mere seconds after it had disappeared from her sight, the tires screeched, her parents screamed and, as the car rolled, her world shattered.

For the first time in months, she recalled the grated whispers that had sounded against her ear as something pulled her from the gnarled metal prison of the car. Broken glass and blood surrounded her like macabre jewels, fractured reflections of diamonds and rubies. The pain was unbearable and her terror immense as she lay there, screaming in anguish for her mother or her father. They lay immobile, not breathing, not speaking, blind to her suffering as Holly plead for help.

That was when the cool, leathery fingers curled around her arms. Something whispered against her ear, its breath reeking of damp earth and mildew: Embrace me, Holly. Accept me and I will save you, for I am yours, and you are mine.

Scared, wounded, and alone, she had.

Unable to draw any oxygen from the oppressive air, Holly’s head started to spin. Sirens sounded in the distance, a faint chorus above the screams and sobs echoing from every direction. The orphanage shuddered; the attic pitched and swayed. Everything started to fade into an enveloping black haze.

I am your fate. I am your destiny. Come, embrace me. No time remains.

Common sense warred with the instinct for survival. A long moment passed before Holly managed a weak but acquiescent nod. Her blonde head bowed in an attempt to avoid making further eye contact with the creature. She heard the rustling though as it neared, a sound like burnt paper being crumpled into the wind. She smelled the sickening sweet stench of her own roasting flesh mingle with its fetid breath. Pain and fear enveloped her … and then, Holly felt no more.


                                                              ~ † † † ~

Blinding white lights and a symphony of beeping machines greeted Holly upon waking. She squinted against the invasive glare, her face wrinkling from the harsh antiseptic odor permeating the room. Long, clear tubes dangled from a metal stand. They wormed needles under her skin and crept up her nose to release a cool stream of air. Soothed by her ability to breathe and the lack of pain, she let her cheek settle against the crisp pillow and closed her eyes. Once again, the creature had kept its word.

She stirred sometime the next day, disturbed by the zipping sound of opening blinds. Dazed, Holly propped herself up on one elbow and shielded her eyes from the sun with the other.

“Good morning, sunshine. I’m glad to see you are awake. There for a moment, I almost lost you.”

The soothing voice washed over her, striking chords of familiarity she could not place. Smiling, Holly greeted the handsome man with raven curls. She stared unabashed into his pale green eyes, mesmerized by their hypnotic pull. He broke the spell with a disarming smile and crossed the room in long strides.

“Who are you?”

“No one of importance, Holly. At least not yet.”

Confused, she dropped back against the pillow. “How do you know my name?”

She closed her eyes, her head pressing into his touch as he ruffled her hair. The orphanage, the fire, it all felt like a bad dream. She had some recollection of huddling near the lower stairwell, hazy beams sweeping through the darkness, shouting, and the feeling of strong arms carrying her to safety.

Holly’s cobalt gaze studied the stranger, searching for any features that might trigger her memory. “Are you the one who saved me from the fire?”

“All in good time, sweet child.” He lifted her hand in his and his fingers pressed something cold against her open palm. “I believe you lost this.”

She stared at the pendant, a flood of gratitude surging through her. Her fingertips traced a reverent path over the knots surrounding the polished circle of agate. The precious heirloom was the only thing besides blurred memories that Holly had left of her parents and family. Tears welled in her eyes and she clutched the necklace tight in her fist.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’re quite welcome, my dear. Now, you need to get some rest.” He seemed to sense her sorrow, for his lips pulled into an empathetic smile. “Don’t worry, angel. We’ll see each other again.”

Holly’s golden brow furrowed. “How can you be sure?”

His hands spread in an opening gesture. Eyes as hard and cool as granite remained riveted to the necklace in her hands. “Fate. I’m a strong believer in destiny, Holly. When the time is right, we shall meet again.”

He turned and headed for the door. Not wanting to be alone, she couldn’t resist one more question. “How will I know how to find you if I don’t even know your name?”

The man paused. “You know all you need to know, Holly. My name is not important.”

His voice became a raspy whisper. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled and stood on end as his head craned with slow deliberation. He smiled at her, revealing rows of jagged teeth.

“I am the Monolaith. I am the eternal nightmare from which you cannot awake. We are together as one. I am your fate. I am your destiny.”

The chilling mantra crashed into her, jarring her from the false security of her world. Somewhere in the distance, emergency alarms sounded. There in the room, Holly heard the faint rustle associated with death and destruction. The Monolaith had come again, determined to claim his captive bride. He would never stop, and as her grandmother warned, she would never be free. Fear cinched Holly's heart into a knot. The Monolaith pressed closer. Its cracked lips stretched into a feral grin. She smelled the creature’s putrid stench, felt its searing breath roll across her skin . . . and screamed.


WC~ 1868

© Copyright 2010 Adriana Noir

To Be or Not to Be: On Editing

I read a lot, as most of us (not just writers) should. Sometimes, I wonder how a traditionally published book ever made it past the editor’s desk, let alone the printers. Other times, I’m left in awe, and that child-like voice inside me whispers that it wants to write like that when we grow up. Often, on Amazon, I cringe.  (Admit it. You know you do, too!)

Writers are often vain. We tend to think the world revolves around us. That’s what happens when you spend countless hours dwelling in a place where a fictional variation of it does. After all, we hold the power of life and death in our hands—entire civilizations rise and fall beneath our fingertips, and if we stop typing, time becomes suspended. It’s easy to see how one can become slightly delusional. But what I don’t get is where the illusion of perfection creeps in. (Is that before or after Act 2?)

It doesn’t matter how fantastic your book is. Even the greatest story ever written doesn’t stand a chance with poor editing. Sadly, most of the mistakes out there are sloppy, careless ones that would have been caught in the most basic of read-throughs.

Now before you start whining that not all of us can afford a professional editor, let me say that I get that. I really do. A proofreader alone can cost anywhere from $20-35 dollars an hour. An editor goes for $65 or more. But, even those with limited budgets could (and should) pass their work along to a trusted source for close scrutiny. This could be a friend, a family member, members of your critique groups or online communities . . . the possibilities are endless.  Use them!

We pour over our work for hours. Our eyes are keyed into our brains. It is far too easy to skim over a word and insert what we know should be there. Our minds know what we meant, and therefore send incorrect cues to our eyes. ‘The’ seems to fit, even if we meant ‘there.’ The plot might have holes, but again, we know what we were trying to convey, so our mind fills in the blanks. Our readers do not have the benefit of seeing the movies that play out in our heads. If we fail to describe character motivation, they will never understand what drives our cast, even if it is crystal clear to us. Tense shifts, inconsistent POVs, missing apostrophes, incorrect homonyms, and shoddy punctuation usage will all throw your valued reader into a frustrated tailspin.

Just as we all have our strengths, we also have our weaknesses.

It doesn’t matter if you are sending your novel to agent #1 on the top 100 list, or going at it your own on Kindle. Brown & Little to Amazon alike, it is still your job, your duty, to make sure you put out the absolute best product that you can. This is your vision, your name . . . and believe me, your reputation is at stake.

Before you scoff, and tell yourself that you are infallible, let me ask you this: Would you send your child off to school without the supplies he or she needed to succeed? Would you show up to an important job interview wearing a stained wife-beater and cut-off jeans? If the answer is no, think about these small revelations and let them sink in. (If the answer is yes, please call me up the next time you have an interview. This is something I would really like to see!)

The truth is, your book is no different. It’s a tough world out there. Do what you can to make sure it succeeds. At the very least, please give it a fighting chance. It, and you, deserve it.

~Best wishes and lots of love~

Adriana

The Dreaded Sequel--What Now?

As most writers will probably tell you, the process of finishing a book is exhilarating . . . and exhausting. For a brief moment, you feel like you have just conquered the world. And in a way, you have. It’s the process that comes afterward that no one ever warns you about. No matter what venue you take, the final edits, the polishing—the packaging and marketing strategies, all of them pale in comparison to the next step: writing the next book.

Maybe it’s different for authors who jump headlong into some new, shiny project. You really have no expectations to live up to there, no established voice to follow. You’re starting from scratch.

I am starting from scratch too. For the hundredth time. In the past few weeks, I have scrapped and rewritten twenty-thousand words or more—all because of the dreaded sequel.

When I first started Requiem, I had no idea how long of a story it would be. Like most of us, I was compelled by the voice whispering in my ear and fascinated by what it had to say. What I thought would be a short, character-driven story evolved into something much more. About halfway through the process, I realized not only did I have a novel on my hands, but a three part series. Maybe more.

Awesome.

I LOVE these characters. They are fun and intriguing. That, my friends, is not the problem. The problem is that I love the first book a bit too much. (Is such a thing even possible?) Though the second book is plotted out, nothing I pen quite measures up in my eyes, and I am terrified, yes terrified, that other people will look at the sequel and see the same thing. The last thing I want is people looking at me with pity in their eyes and asking what happened.

Is this sort of crippling fear and doubt normal, or have I just lost my mind? Does it extend into new projects as well, or does this vile plague only afflict subsequent books in a series?

I would love to hear your thoughts and any suggestions you might have. Believe me . . . desperation is starting to set in.

~Adriana

My Holiday Wish

Two more days. I keep telling myself I will survive, but at the moment, it seems impossible. I didn’t mail out cards this year. I figured if I start now, people might keel over from the sheer shock of it all. There’s last minute shopping to be done, and the wrapping . . .  sweet Beezus, the wrapping. While I adore spoiling the pygmy humans in my family, there is much to be said about having an entire room stuffed FULL of presents.

Every year, I promise myself I am going to scale back . . . and every year I end up here.

I often wonder how Christmas became so insane. So stressful. It certainly didn’t feel this way as a kid. There has to be more to it than the fact that it wasn’t my wallet taking the heavy hits. Where did the magic go? That warm sense of wonder that used to fill everything, until the entire world felt like it was bursting at the seams with love and excitement?

I miss that.

I take sincere joy out of giving. The entire process makes me smile, from picking out special presents, to the wrapping and unwrapping and the grins that follow. There’s something to be said for making someone’s day, or even a minute just a little brighter. I would rather feel that bliss than receive anything in return. But (and there’s always a but, isn’t there?) it never feels like it’s enough. Despite that room brimming with gifts, I want to give more. There are still things I would like to buy. It honestly feels as if all the presents in the world could not cover, or even begin to express the love I have for those I hold dear. The precious pygmy humans who brighten my day with their smiles, the parents who have given me so much, sacrificed so much, and ultimately shaped me into who I am. (For better or for worse, they tried and did the best they had with what they had to work with here people!)

My friends, the countless people who read my work or support me in any number of ways . . .

It’s. Just. Not. Enough.

How do you package love? Gratitude? Any emotion that cuts clear down through your heart and soul and nestles into bone?

You can’t. You can only bleed yourself dry trying. I do . . .  and I only wish I could do more.

I have come to realize that the most precious gift we can give anyone is ourselves. Our love, our understanding, our compassion—our willingness to take time out of our day and spend it with another. These are things that can never be bought or sold, but they are the only gifts that keep on giving. The ones that will never wither, break, or expire with the passing of time. These are the things on which we are forged, and the only things that will remain, even after we are gone. Love and the memories we share.

I wish you all a very wonderful holiday season. I hope your memories are good ones that will fill your hearts with joy for many years to come, and may you and your loved ones brim with hope, joy, and love.

~Best wishes always~

Book Lovers & Thrifters: Check This Out!

The other day I was talking to one of the people brave enough to associate with me and call me friend.  (Trust me--I am proud of these rare and special folks. It’s kind of like finding a unicorn. ) She was kind enough to point out that Amazon offered a free version of Kindle, directly through their website. Granted, you download it onto your PC, but you can still use it to buy all the nifty little goodies out there that Kindle has to offer. Needless to say, I was delighted. I LOVE books. I devour them like a starving man at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

The library in my hometown is so small that you could spit from one side of it to the other—and probably without hitting any books. Chances are, if I want to read something from there, I’m going to have to put in a request through Cleve-Net and wait…and wait…and wait some more. The last book I requested, I’d all but given up on and forgotten when it finally arrived four months and several grey hairs later.

I am not the world’s most patient person. That, my friends, was my own version of personal hell. Well, maybe that or being forced to listen to polka whilst being immersed in a coffin full of spiders.  The point is, my library is SLOW, and I often don’t feel like waiting the week or whatever it can be to get books in the mail when I order them. I’m an instant gratification kind of girl and this free Kindle edition with its whisper-net technology, where I could browse, buy a book with one click, and have it in the time it took me to blink was AMAZING!

Even better yet, was the Kindle Top 100. Every hour, they update these lists and you can see the top 100 paid best-sellers and the…get this… *cues lead in music* Top 100 FREE! O.O  That’s right, not one penny. Not one stinking penny!

In today’s economy how can you beat that?

Not only do they offer many classics from Treasure Island, Pride and Prejudice, Alice in Wonderland, Uncle Tom’s Cabin and many more—but they also have books by established award-winning authors, and brand new ones still hoping to make a name for themselves.

I browse these lists daily. (As hard as it is, I DO manage to avoid the hourly updates…at least for the most part.) Even though my friend pointed out their Kindle application, she had no idea they offered so many free selections, and I just wondered if any of you bargain hunters or book lovers out there knew about these deals as well.

If not, now you do. You may repay me in chocolate or words. Either will do.

Check it out. What have you got to lose?  Click here for free Kindle

Top 100 Freebies

~Best wishes and happy reading!~

Book Review: The Devil's Weekend

The Devil’s Weekend is a fast paced horror novel with a unique premise that will leave readers on the edge of their seat. I was hooked the moment I read the introductory blurb.

Oliver Ignis is everything we’ve come to know and fear about serial killers. He’s merciless, brutal, and very much in love with his mother. If Dahmer and Norman Bates ever had a love child, Oliver would be the end result of that unholy union.

His life is revealed through flashes of the past and present, from his experimentation with animals, his tragic upbringing, and his murderous bender. He’s a complex being that I came to both pity and fear. As monstrous as his actions may be, the author has an uncanny way of reminding us that there is still something very human and vulnerable beneath.

He encounters the Devil, who presents himself in a wide array of manners. Personally, my favorite was the attractive and debonair man who manipulates his victims with ease. As one would expect, the Devil know what he wants and exactly how to get it, but he offers Oliver the deal of a lifetime. In exchange for his soul, he will allow Oliver an entire weekend to kill without any chance of getting caught or harmed. He will also reunite Oliver with his beloved mother, whom he has not spoken to or seen in years.

What ensues is a terrifying killing spree, shown from both Oliver’s POV and the townspeople he hunts. The story is fast-paced and action packed, giving the reader little time to catch their breath before they’re thrust back into the thick of the horror, and the end results will leave you stunned.

This isn’t just a tale of death and killing. It’s a haunting story of humanity, love, and the loss thereof. Some people find their way, while others lose it, and the Devil witnesses it all. While scary, it is also a thought provoking read that appeals to the psychology behind humans and why we behave the way we do.

Jim Bronyaur has a very crisp and clean writing style. His prose isn’t fancy, but more of a minimalist approach which lends to the frenzied time frame. After all, Oliver only has one weekend in which to accomplish his deeds and thrust the small county of Butler into a nightmare of which the world has never seen. Only a small handful of typos mark this otherwise flawless work, and given the gripping plot, and fascinating characters, it doesn't detract from the overall product. I still give this book a solid 4.5 out of 5 stars.

I highly recommend this story to anyone looking for a suspenseful and thrilling read. It will chill you to the bone while also making you think. If you’re looking for a fast-paced and exhilarating read, pick up a copy. You won’t be disappointed!

To purchase a copy of The Devil’s Weekend, click here Also, don’t forget to stop by Jim’s website, Facebook, and, Twitter. I’m sure he’d love to hear from you!

 Best wishes and happy writing!~

Book Review: Dance on Fire

This truly was a spectacular read from an author that I fully expect to see emerge as one of horror's rising stars. The first thing that struck me about this book was the author’s prose. It’s beautiful, almost poetic, but not overly done. It has a wonderful flow and rich descriptions that will draw the reader in, immersing them in mood and setting. (In fact, I decided to read this book after listening to a reading of the first chapter. After hearing the first few lines, I was hooked.)

Things start off quickly, leaving no time for boredom. We watch a creature prowl the night, silently stalking his victims. Or is he? Right off the bat, two cops are brutally murdered and the entire town of Kingsburgh is sent into a tailspin. Who committed this vicious attack, and why?

The book centers around Nathaniel, a vampire who was turned centuries ago when his family was murdered, a young cop, Michael, and his wife, Barbra. They are an interesting cast—an eclectic mix of people that James Garcia Jr. took time to develop and breathe life into. You won’t find one-dimensional characters here. Not only did I enjoy reading about each one, but I cared what happened to them. The supporting cast is pretty interesting as well. I think many readers will get a kick out of the overly ambitious Mayor. *laughs*

Dance on Fire is a mysterious page-turner that moves along at a fast pace. It takes many twists and turns, giving the reader plenty of opportunities to guess who or what is really stalking the small town of Kingsburg, California, and even the town itself is laid out and built upon a solid foundation. This story is a well-balanced blend of horror and suspense, and though it’s referred to as a Christian crossover, the religious undertones were subtle enough that they won’t encroach or offend those with agnostic or different views.

My favorite thing about this book was how Nathaniel’s history was revealed bit by bit in a series of flashbacks and memories. My excitement grew every time a date in the 17^th century cropped up because I knew I was in for a special treat. His was an enthralling tale, both heartbreaking and horrific. One can’t help but feel for him after learning of the trials he endured at his maker’s hands.  James did a fantastic job casting the reader back in time, enveloping the senses, and painting vivid pictures.

Vincent is the opposing force in this book and a wicked force to be reckoned with. He sends cold shivers down the spine whenever he makes an appearance and his determined hunting of Nathaniel is as ruthless as it is riveting.

I don’t want to give too much away, but believe me when I say this is a great mystery packed with suspense and chills at every bend. Once I started reading, it was hard to put down. I’m definitely looking forward to purchasing the second book in this series. Dance on Fire is well worth the read and James Garcia Jr. is certainly an author I'll be keeping my eye on in the future.

View his blog here. along with his official Twitter and FaceBook pages. He'd love to hear from you. Click here to listen to a reading of Dance on Fire and purchase a copy.