Writing Samples

I have been watching this bird for months, and I think I’m not crazy. My husband thinks I am, but this freaking barn owl is not normal. I don’t care what anyone says. It’s got human eyes, and it looks at me.

I first noticed it six months ago. It was just after Christmas Eve, and I had spiked eggnog in my cup. The kids were asleep, and Chris, my husband, set out the presents for everyone before watching whatever football game was on. I saw it on a ledge of a tree. I thought it was cute at first. In an instant, it was looking at me, its golden eyes bright and unblinking on the backdrop of a dark black night. And it was still. You know how birds sort of have that jumpy nature to them? This owl was stone still; It didn’t even blink. Like a carefully carved statue.

I looked away to call Chris over. When I looked back to check on the owl, it was gone without a trace, leaving behind only dark green leaves swaying in the winter wind. Chris told me it was all in my head. The eggnog was getting to me; he suggested. I thought, sure, yeah, that sounds about right, and I left it alone.

I saw it a week later. Same owl, same perch, and same stillness. Every time I called for someone — anyone — to come and see this strange bird, the damned thing disappeared before they arrived. I never saw the owl fly, per se; I never saw it move at all, even. It was on that perch one minute and gone the next. No trace, feather, or distant hoot left behind in its absence.

I’ve taken to staring at it for hours now because as long as I don’t look away, it doesn’t move. After too long, I blink too long or fall asleep, and it disappears again. I won’t see it for a week or two. Maybe a month if I’m lucky. And then boom. It’s there again, staring at me.

I’ve noticed its eyes more now that I have binoculars, and I think they’re human eyes despite their odd color. They look too real and vivid. They stare at me, even through the binoculars, and it freaks me out, looking directly into my eyes like it knows me and knows who I am underneath everything. I pull them off, and by the time I drop the binoculars, the owl is gone again.

I think it’s getting closer too. It perched far away on the distant side of my fresh, manicured lawn. But after some time, and the more I looked, the more I noticed it was getting closer. Or was the tree getting closer? I’m not sure, but it shouldn’t be physically possible. An owl can move just fine; a bird moving seems hardly worth one’s notice at all, really. The tree moving caused the greatest amount of concern, sending chills down my spine every time that tree crept closer and closer.

It’s right outside the window currently. I don’t even need to look at it through my binoculars. I haven’t needed to for weeks. It’s staring at me like it always does.

There’s a knock at the door; I can’t help but whip my head around to look at it, the sound knocking me off of my center. The owl’s gone, of course; I know that before I turn back to look for it.

I elect to answer the door, and when I do, I see a long, pale, and striped feather. It is the feather of a barn owl, laid perfectly along the coir welcome mat. 

I keep finding them now. Throughout the house. There are feathers everywhere; I even found a feather in my mouth last night. After I threw it up, I called my husband, but he claimed he didn’t see it in the bowl. When I looked, the feather was gone, replaced by bright, chartreuse bile. I begged him to listen to me. I pleaded, screamed, and cried. Every time I asked him to listen to me, to trust that what I was seeing was true, he called me crazy, psychotic, or hysterical. Maybe I am going crazy. Perhaps he’s right. 

I can feel the thing’s claws digging into my stomach, curling into my intestines and nesting beneath my breast. The owl’s inside me now. I can’t hear it hooting, but I can feel it. Sitting just below my lungs, still and unmoving. Though I cannot see its eyes, it is looking at me, those hollow, orange eyes boring into everything I am. It won’t stop looking at me. I wish it would stop looking at me.

He was not sure who moved first or why they did, but they crashed into each other like the waves of Nazare. His arms wrapped around her, desperately pulling her close. Their lips joined, and it was pure, carnal bliss between them, the tension of a literal century between them. Her own lithe, murderous hands gripped at his shoulders, forcing him down to her level so that they might kiss properly. No words were spoken between them. They were above that, letting their actions speak the loudest.

She leapt into his arms, the robe around her body falling away and displaying her ashen skin to the moonlight filtering through the window. He took only a split second to admire it — to admire her before he simply sat her up on the single desk in the room. She stripped him down to nothing, pulling his clothes from his body with singular determination. He allowed her, simply pressing their cold bodies together once she had achieved her goal. 

He tilted her face up to look at her, kissing her again. The point of his fangs raked across her soft, pallid lips as he hungrily devoured her. He cradled her so gently despite not needing to. She would not break under his touch, and yet, he touched her reverently, praising every spark between their skin. Their noses brushed gently together, both Lasombras lost in one another in that second. They were neither Camarilla nor Sabbat. They were not warriors nor were they at odds. They were perfectly content, hands exploring where fists and blows had once landed. Kisses laid upon each and every invisible bruise they had inflicted on one another. 

His hands raked along her lithe body, pulling and holding her with reckless need. Her own hands were equally as explorative, gliding along the planes of his body. Between indulgent kisses, they simply held one another, her nails raking across his near translucent skin. He ducked his head, dragging his fangs along her throat carefully. He laid a kiss upon her jugular, so close and able to rip her throat out with his teeth. She paused for a moment, tense.

The moment passed when he moved his kisses up behind her ear. 

“Perhaps this time, we do not try to kill one another,” she breathed, tilting her head just so to catch his eye. Their heavy petting stopped for a moment, but she kept a firm grip on his strong shoulders. His hands stayed firmly on her thin waist.

Silence permeated the room. Was he not a man? Beneath it all, was he not still a person that desired? A person that craved?

“As you command,” he whispered, hooking his arms beneath her knees and hoisting her up into his arms. She simply pointed into an adjoining room, and he carried her as she directed, barely taking in his surroundings as he nestled her into the plush black and maroon sheets she had on the canopy bed in the center of the room. Surrounded by dark chiffon drapes over the top, it felt like a dream.

He slotted himself against her, settling between her soft thighs and pulling her leg up and around his waist. He ran his hand along the smooth expanse of skin, memorizing every bump and curve that graced her figure. He placed kisses along her collarbone, descending to the valley between her breasts with ease. He cupped a handful of her flesh, squeezing and earning a heady chuckle from her plump lips. He was thankful that he drew no breath; he would have lost the air in his lungs at her whining quite some time ago had that been the case. 

She raked her claws along the expanse of his back, admiring the muscles beneath his ivory skin. They simply held one another, relishing in the soft touches they did not get as frequently as they perhaps needed.

He finally broke it and broke the skin, fangs sinking into her shoulder and drinking. She let out a cry, unsure if his bite hurt or not. Still, she held his head close, allowing him to feed from her. It was better than anything else in the world, sending shivers through her body as she curled against him, reaching for his strong arms. He yielded to her, allowing her to take him by his wrist and sink her own fangs in. A low, guttural moan escaped his lips when she bit, his eyes squeezing shut tightly. If this had occurred during their first meeting, he would not have bothered fighting her. He would have had her right there in Karl’s haven. 

He was not normally a messy eater, but feeling her feed on him had affected him more than he expected. He closed the wound on her shoulder, and she did the same for his wrist, sensing his desires and meeting his lips in another passionate kiss. They clung to one another desperately, his lithe fingers digging into her black locks and pulling her closer. She responded in only soft whines, a contrast to his contented silence. He would not say a word or make a sound if he could help himself. He wanted to memorize all that she gave him. 

He made his descent once more, moving farther this time and kissing along her stomach and further down still. He buried his face between her thighs, eliciting a few groans of pleasure from his work. He was a meticulous lover when he allowed himself to indulge, and he felt quite indulgent that evening. He pulled away to bite into her thigh, drinking deeply as his fingers replaced his tongue. The noises she made were from her chest, loud and agonized. She practically screamed from hedonistic pleasure, reaching down and holding him against her thigh as he gave her the pleasure she knew she deserved. Her hips bucked against his jaw, her cries reaching a fever pitch. Tears of red welled in her eyes until — 

“Archbishop? Are you alright in there?”

A voice unfamiliar to him called from behind the door. She halted his supper, letting out a scream of frustration as she cradled his head against her leg. He continued to move his fingers, glancing up at her with a devilish grin. She lightly slapped his shoulder.

“I’m fine! Leave me be, Silvio!” She called back, anger in her voice but a smile on her face. 

“Yes, ma'am!”

It was quiet after that, and he attempted to return to his ministrations, sending her back into the throes of mewling pleasure. She did not allow him to retake his position, though, using her strength to flip him on his back. She straddled his body, and his hands slid along her thighs gently. He looked up at her, jaw coated with her vitae. He flashed his teeth at her, a smile most macabre.

“You look like the cat that ate the canary,” she cooed, running a finger along his nose. He laughed quietly, playfully nipping at her finger. 

“Perhaps, I am.”

She took his wrist again, biting into the flesh and sipping slowly. His eyes shut briefly, and he let out a soft groan at the feeling. His body moved against his will, hips pushing up as he took in the sensation of her taking in his vitae. She was mesmerizing, and he could not help the affection for her that washed over him.

“My god, woman,” he huffed. “You are insatiable.”

“As are we all,” she breathed, kissing the wound on his skin closed once more. He pulled her back into his arms, kissing her again and humming against her lips.

“You taste delicious,” he purred.

“I know.”

Fates are determined by the flip of a coin. On one side, a rebel wins the day, rubies cascading through the bitter blue sky like a rain of fire. On the other, a dragon roasts the stag he devours in the waters of the Trident, leaving the rebellion and the man who heralded it rotting and bloated.

Fates are determined, not by the gods; they are determined by the sweat on a man’s brow and by the blood on his steel. The red priest may die as swiftly as the maester. The driftwood gifts of the Drowned God wash away and rot just as the silent weirwoods of the North watch the impoverished who pray with impassive, cold, red eyes. 

In 283 AC, the blow that caved Rhaegar Targaryen’s chest in did not land. Robert Baratheon was perhaps too slow or poorly swung in the din of battle. The songs claim the gods of Old Gods of Valyria reached down from their lofty place in the skies and moved  Robert’s hammer, but the truth, which is often less gallant than fiction, is that Rhaegar Targaryen moved faster than his opponent.

Robert’s Rebellion was quashed. All with one cut of Rhaegar’s sword, digging into Robert’s throat. The Mad King, who held his throne with an iron grip, clung to it for one more week before he was imprisoned in the second levels of the Red Keep by his own son for the months leading to his dethroning. Rhaegar held a Great Council, the first in 50 years, to dethrone his father and ascend to kingship himself. 

None opposed him, not even those whose families had been a part of the rebellion just months ago, and peace was tentatively restored to the Realm. But those who scheme work best in war, and peace is only profitable for so long. Peace breeds complacency, and complacency is a hotbed for war. Houses can be made or unmade, and your house is no different. Play the game of thrones. Win or Die. There is no middle ground.