The Reader's Challenge & Promise

You may read the extended tale,

begun with 'Dancing Near The Fire'

but only if you agree,
to heed the restrictions that do apply to thee

Guides~
Please protect actual people
from harms that may be caused
by my active imagination.

No part of this publication (except title information, and authors name or psuedonym) may be reproduced, or transmitted by electronic mail, recordings or scanning without permission by the author or publisher or service provider; unless stated otherwise by the author; except as permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act.

The author will allow:
- Online referencing
- Brief descriptions of the completed work under 10 paragraphs and less than 1000 words

The characters in this tale are based upon the author's imagination.

The author request that the copyright restrictions be recognized.
Do you the reader, upon your honor, agree to not print or hand copy the text upon this screen? Do you also agree to heed copyright restrictions that protects the author's work?
If you agree, than you are free to read...as before, readers were invited to read...gothic poetry.

Dancing Near The Fīyər

by (pseudonym) TreshaMae M. Dews

Dancing Near The Fī-yər by TreshaMae M. Dews is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Part I

My grief was black like the starless night, and heavy.

It hung in my belly like runes tossed upon a cold, stony floor. All day my grief consumed me, crushed and squeezed me, until I could barely breath.
Then, slowly, my grief melted like ice turning to water.
It turned into a burning pool in my belly, a burning hotness that spread outward, fanning into a flame burning beneath my skin.
This heat pulled me, like a maganet being pulled by the poles of the Earth.

It pulled, and I ran, free and wild, chasing the shadows in the dark night.

It was raining. My clothes clung to me like a second skin.
I chased the shadows through the woods, feeling the slap of branches on my cheeks, feeling the sting of thorny vine. I ran mad, letting the burning carry me.

I ran until I saw a fire in the distance. Although I was burning, I was also cold, wet flesh.
I neared the fire, hiding behind the trees.
I saw a tall figure hidden behind long flowing robes.
I would have turned away, and ran back...but I heard music…
Music?
Through the rain I could hear the soft, high whine of a violin, and the rhythmic, steady beat of a drum.

The music enchanted me. I know no other way of describing the sounds...like air mingled with earth. It was like the wind playing upon your face while your fingers dug deep into the ground, like roots...downward branching webs.
Where was this music coming from?
I wanted to dance. I wanted to glide on my toes and shake my hips wantonly.
Within minutes, I was dancing around the fire.

And I was not dancing alone. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the tall man dancing beside me. His body shook, like the leaves quivering in the wind.
Facing him, I discovered a beautiful man, with skin the color of chocolate and hair the color of coal.
His eyes were black, and they burned intensely.
They made me feel lost…and found.
Around us the wind parted the trees like bothersome weeds. Orange sparks flew into the air, like delicate fireflies, as we danced.

Like a red wood tree, his long and slender arms lifted, arching towards the sky. We danced around each other slowly, circling around the fire.
For once, I let my passions guide my feet. My stomps matched the beating drum, and the whistling wind.
I don’t know how long we danced, face to face, arm length apart, but as the music slowed we slowed too.
We circled each other, almost touching.

I could see every line on his smooth face.

He extended his hand, I touched it.
A tiny shock.

As is a spark of electricity has passed from his fingers to mine.

His hand was cold.
Yet touching his hand felt like home, if home were a peaceful, ice covered mountaintop.
His fingernails were yellow.
Like family, the touch of his hand calmed me.

I felt like I was floating around the fire, like a child, floating in a swimming pool.
Don’t be afraid little one, I heard a deep clear voice say.
I mean you no harm.
His lips had not moved.
I yanked back my hand.
“Who…what are you?” I asked, my voice soft and unsteady.
You are safe, the voice inside my head replied.
I stared into his black eyes and my fears faded.

Again, he held out his hand. This time I clasped it firmly.
Suddenly, the world was turning.
The fire, the wind, water, the night sky, all spun around me.
When it stopped spinning, I was in another place.
I could hear the sound of waves crashing against the shore.

I felt sand under my feet. I could smell salt in the air.

The fire was gone, so too the rain.

The sky was now clear, lit by a luminous moon. I spotted black sand dunes in the distance.

A warm breeze blew through my hair. I stood upon a beach, and the stranger stood beside me, holding my hand.

Maybe it was my grief still fresh in me. Or maybe it was the soft moonlight upon the desolate beach.
Maybe it was the burning sensation returning, or a moment’s temporary madness.
Whatever it was, I pulled the tall man down to my face and kissed him firmly on the lips.
He kissed me back.
His lips were cool and soft, tasting like clove cigarettes. Our kiss deepened. His tongue slowly explored the insides of my mouth, sliding like gentle water over smooth ocean shells. He gently sucked my bottom lip, then made his way to my earlope, gently pulling with his hand.
My knee went weak, my mind filled with gentle humming, my mind and body felt alive with tingling sensations, like sweet intoxications.
The world did not exist to me, just the movement of his tongue over my hypersensitive skin.
I closed my eyes.
His fingers rubbed through my hair, then up and down the back of my neck.
I tilted my head back, leaning into his solid body.

Ouch!
Something had punctured my neck with a needle...or a bite.
He’s hungry.
Panic. My blood pumping through my veins.
I opened my eyes, touching my neck.
I expected I’d feel myself warm and wet. I felt nothing but moist sweat.
I looked around, slightly dazed, sweat on my neck.
We were back in the woods.
The fire was still burning, the rain was now a gentle mist.
Where was the beach? Was I dreaming?
I felt his cold hand, still holding mine.
“Are you afraid of me?” he asked, his lips moving.
“Yes…no.” I lied.
His right eyebrow lifted.
“Please, come with me,” he said, “We should get out of this rain.” He smiled. “Take my hand.”
“I can’t,” I said, “I don’t even know your name.”
“Call me Armand.”
“Armand,” I repeated, “I’m Dulie.”
His name rolled around my mind as I followed him down a path through the woods.

Dancing Near The Fīyər : Section 2

“Dulie.” He whispers her name with satisfaction, savoring the sound.
Dulie…like Jule.
He asks himself, am I her Romeo?
When he had his arms around her, he could feel the warmth of her breath, the fiery heat of her skin, the moist, warm sweetness that was the inside of her mouth.
She almost drove him into a blood lust.
Dulie…am I your Romeo? He wondered.
Me. Armand…well Arnold Darita to be precise. Arnold…a name now lost to him.
“Silly me.” He says, then laughs.
Who ever heard of an undead Romeo?

He had not been called Arnold, his old name, in several years. That part of his life was now a distant memory.
How silly he was.
He remembers staring into his bathroom mirror, wishing he could wash his acne like washing away a dirt stain.
How silly he was.
He remembers staring into his bathroom mirror, wishing his pimples would go away.
Now his skin is smooth, although he may never stare into a mirror again.
He tried to see his image reflecting off the pool of water collecting in a puddle.
He is like foolish Narcissus, falling in love his reflection in the waters of the river.

He remembers how foolishly romantic he was.
He wanted to be John Lennon, loved by his own Yoko.
Make love, not war!
Give peace a chance!
In his old life, he was obsessed with non-violence.
It was more than an idea, or a passing fancy...it was a life choice he embrace with his heart.
Ahimsa.
He considered himself friend to all animals.
He refused to eat meat, even going so far as to boycott leather.
Most days you could find him, passing out flyers in his rubber sandals.
Fight the power!
He even refused the wild honey regurgitated by the flower-lov'n bees.
He use to snack on chips fried in peanut oil, his favorite snack.
He was a foolish romantic.
Now he felt like a predator, hunting to survive, hungering for what is fresh and salty.

He almost bit Dulie. She was so soft. He wanted to kiss every inch of her skin, feeling the faint pulse of blood flowing beneath it.

He smelled her first. He was hungry. He was hunting. He was unaffected by the storm. He started a fire, not out of need, but out of loneliness. He watched the untamed fire lick the small branches. He watched the blue and orange flames dance.
He wanted to feel human again, lulled by warmth and the beauty of fire.

Then he smelled her.
He caught the scent of lilac soap, mingled with sweat, mist and her unmistakable human scent.
He didn’t want to scare her, so he kept his face turned towards the fire.
But he drifted into her mind.

It was like the color Indigo.
He could feel her sadness, her thoughts raced like her passions. Her emotions felt untamed, and intense, like a wildfire…wild and hot like the fire burning, or the wind fueling the storm.
In her mind he could feel love like poetry.
He pulled it, strand by strand, until it became a tapestry of sound, her music mingled with his own.

He dewitched her.
He helped her embrace wilder emotions, dissolving her inhibitions, one by one, allowing her to slip into a more primal state.
He let her enact her dreams.
As she danced near his fire he felt enchanted. He felt captured by her shaking hips.
He felt hunger return strong in him...more than hunger.
She was beautiful, she gave energy, she was free.

He joined her dancing, celebrating their freedom.
He was enticed by her green eyes.
He loved her black hair, stained with blue hair dye, bluish whenever she flipped her hair.
As she twirled and stomped, his eyes caressed her curves, lingering upon her firm breast, her curvy hips, her long neck.
She wore wet blue jeans and a black v-neck sweater.
A pentagram hung from a chain around her neck.
He knew it was not silver.
He hated silver.

Dancing Near The Fīyər: Section 3

I followed Armand like a blind seer.
The path led into darkness.
He held my hand.
A soft spray fell. Dark clouds filled the sky.
Armand tugged at my hand, and I followed, meek as a mouse, asking not one questions as we walked the dark twisting path.
I felt warm. My stomach fluttered, as if brushed by a hundred butterflies.
I was still spinning as I remembered our kiss.
I wondered if my warm cheeks could be called an ‘afterglow.”

The path ended at the bottom of a small hill near a well lit parking lot.
As we walked towards the streetlights, I slowly returned to my sanity.
I trusted Armand. At any point, he could have hurt me back on the path.
Instead, he had led me to safety.
I was willing to follow him a bit further…but how far was I willing to go?
I half expected Armand to lead me to a sleek limousine, or a long black hearse.
To my surprise, he led me to a tiny green car.
“Is this your car?” I asked, disbelief in my voice.
“Yes. It’s a 1966 Volkswagen Beetle. My first car. Get in.”
He opening the door, “It was a gift from my parents.”
“Cool.” I said politely, “Antique cars make excellent gifts.”
Armand’s face looked puzzled for a moment.
“Antique…yeah, something like that.”

We drove down the deserted highway.
“Dear Prudence” played on the car’s tape deck.
I nodded my head, I wanted to greet the brand 'nu' day...
Armand sped like a madman chasing elusive demons. I think he tried to impress me.
It stopped pouring. I rolled down the window, letting the cold night air whip across my face. My hair blew around me like a soft cloud.
"The Moon is out, the stars out tu…" I sang.
“So beautiful, so are you.” Armand said, his eyes glancing at me. The butterflies in my stomach fluttered.
“Would you like to get a cup of coffee?” He asked.
A big smile stretched my face. What do you say to a guy you barely knew…who danced in mist from clouds?
“I’d love a cup of Jo.”
…won't you come out to play…

We pulled into the local diner parking lot.
A sign said: “The Ratt Open every 24 Hours.”
'The Ratt' was notorious for it’s shady hygiene, and eccentric crowd.
It was the only restaurant still open.
'The Ratt' looked like a pancake house, except for the huge grey rat painting which hung off it's roof.
Because it was nearly Christmas, the outside was decorated with silver and red tinsel.
When we walked in several people turned to stare.
Our clothes were wet, our shoes were muddy, and Armand was still wearing his robes.
How odd we looked.

“I like the way you dance.”
That was the first thing Armand said after we found our seats.
My cheeks warmed.
“You dance like a graceful bird.”
“Yeah…like a chicken.” I joked.
“No, you were…are…really amazing.”
“Thank you.”
I didn’t know what else to say. The conversation dropped again. I looked up to see Armand staring at me.
Embarrassed, I looked down at my mid-night black fingernails.
Then, feeling bolder, I looked into his eyes.
They were black like the night sky.
He held my stare.
Warmth spread downward.
My heart beat faster.
“Your eyes are beautiful. They are like tiny green oceans.” He said softly.
Suddenly the waitress appeared. She was a tiny woman with blond hair, yet her black hairs showed at the root.
“Hey honey, can I get you coffee?” She asked, handing us two menus.
“Yes…” Armand started.
“Black.” she finishing. “It’s always black. What can I bring you?" She asked me with a smile.
“Can I get a coffee with cream and sugar.”
“Sure. Two coffees. Would ya’ like anything to eat?” She asked.
“No, thanks.” I answered.
“I know...nothing for you,” she said to Armand. “You all let me know when you need something." Her head turned towards me. "I’ll bring your coffee.” She smiled then walked back to the diner’s kitchen.
We sat.
“Did you know drinking coffee is known to make people dead sexy?” Armand said with a mischievous grin.
I laughed. “Do you drink alot?”
“Yes, I do. Coffee ups my sex appeal. Gives me energy.” He grinned, then reached across the table to cover my right hand.
I felt lost.
When I looked down I stared into a cup of coffee.
My delicious brown brew, with cream, looked like a brown cloud.
“Dulie, tell me your initials.”
“D.C.T.”
"Can I call you D.T?"
"D.T, that's easy."
We sat holding hands.
I asked him playfully, “So...why are you dressed in brown robes?”

A Christmas song played on the jukebox.
A country song about snow, and a lost present from a past lover. “I do everything in these robes.” Armand grinned.
“I’m pulling your leg. I wear them to keep warm.”
Before I could say another word, he asked me a question.
“What were you doing outside in the woods at night?"
“I was…well…” I stammered.
“I was…” I started, then stopped midsentence.
Armand’s mouth was opened
His attention was focused near the front door.
I turned to look.
A beautiful woman had walked in.
Her complexion was flawless.
She was the color of coffee ice cream.
She wore long purple robes.

Dancing Near The Fīyər: Part 4

He watched Anais walk in, bringing the cold winds behind her.
She picked the wrong night to visit 'The Ratt'.
Armand was feeling human.
He was lulled by the presence of men, enchanted by Dulie’s sea green eyes, black coffee, her soft warm hand, and the faint sound of many heartbeats.
Not that Anais didn’t have a heartbeat, who knew what magic animated beautiful Anais, she didn’t have a heart.
She was dressed in ceremonial robes. Murex purple, her favorite color.
She was hunting.

“Armand.” She greeted him sweetly, his name rolled lightly on her tongue.
“Anais.” He said coldly.
“Sweetie, I came here looking for you.” She purred. “I thought I’d find you in this…dump. Why you keep company with this crowd, I’ll never know.” Anais’ head tilted. “I don’t believe I’ve met your little friend.” She smiled sweetly in Dulie’s direction.
Next to Anais’ tall frame, Dulie was little.
Armand kept silent.
I’m Dulie Townson.” Dulie said with a wide smile. She extended her hand, but Anais ignored it.
‘Dulie, such a romantic name. It fits you well. You may call me Anais.”
“Anais, glad to meet you. You also have a wonderful name. Did you know... your name is famous? Were you naed after Anais Nin? Dulie asked?
“No, she is named after me.” Anais laughed, tossing around her black curls.

Anais invited herself to his table. She sat next to Dulie.
Her scarlet fingernails scrapped across the table top.
She smelled like Daphne blossoms.
“So, tell me, how do you know Armand?” Anais asked.
Dulie blushed. “We meet earlier in the woods.”
“Really.” Anais’ eyebrows shot up.
Anais glanced at Armand, a question in her eyes.
“Do little girls like you play alone near the woods?”
"I’m not a little girl,” Dulie said firmly, “In fact, I think we’re the same age. You don’t look a day older than twenty-five.”
“So close.” Anais lied.
“So were you alone?”
“Anais...” Armand said softly, giving fair warning.
“You have to admit, this is a strange tale.” She replied.
“This night has been more than strange,” Dulie said, “but oddly enough, it feels…right.”
“Wonderful.” A small smile played on Anais’ face.

“How do you know Armand?” Dulie asked Anais.
“Armand is like my brother. We are a lot alike.”
“We’re also very different.” Armand said, remembering Anais’ little cruelties.
“We are more alike than you think.” Anais said softly.
"Armand, we are not perfect."
Anais turned to Dulie, "I met Armand in the university. In those days, he had an interest in Science…”

He sat back, wary but relaxing. He half-listened. Anais’s tale was half-true.
His life could have been different, had he not met her.
While Anais talked, a song came on the jukebox. A old blues. A remake of a song forty years old.
Different singer, same tune.
That was a soulful song.
The tune played when he fed on blood for the first time.

He still remembered the hunger. The pain in his stomach.
His growling voice.
The sharp pain he would never forget.
He was sick. He was nauseated and weak.
He hadn’t eaten.
Not that he didn’t try to eat. He wanted food, but was repulsed by the food's rancid smell.
His body rejected everything he ate anyway, except water, he could keep water within hisself.
He though he was going to starve.
He didn’t want to die.
He was mad with fear.
He looked in the bathroom mirror expecting to see his emanciated face, see dark circles under his eyes, lines across his forehead...he couldn’t see his-self...there.
He thought he was disappearing, thought his life was a dream, chasing a dream, but he felt real, and he smelled real, like vomit and sweat.
The blisters on his skin looked like paiper tears, he felt tears…deeper than paiper-cuts...
He was hungry, he was angry, and he was afraid to leave his apartment.
He may have died alone, but one night, as he rambled to himself in a rage, he accidentally bit the inside of his own cheek. He tasted his own blood, his sweet and saltyness, full of life.
He felt joy, although his darkest fears had come true.

Two days later he was creeping around the trailer park, on the edge of town.
He felt like a hungry ghost, disappearing, but still hungry.
He wanted to live, not waste away.
He needed to know, was he a monster?
Did he need blood?
There was a full moon that night. His hearing and eye-sight had sharpened. He could see twisted forms hidden by shadows.
He chose the trailer near the woods.
“On the mailbox, in front, the name Oscar in gold lettering.
He planned on breaking the door’s lock, but when he got to the trailer, he was afraid. All he could do was look through the open blinds.
A tiny light was left on above the stove in the kitchen.
A woman slept on a sagging brown sofa.
An empty beer bottle next to her on the table.
He heard music through the trailer, she had left the radio on.
A scratchy voice sang.
He stood outside, still like a statue.
He could hear every note, every beat, he listened to each cracking word.
When the song ended, he walked to the door. He turned the knob, the door opened.

Inside smelled like rotting trash and beer. Old newsprint was left scattered on the floor. He was hungry, yet wary and a little afraid.
It was not the time to turn back.
He stood over the sleeping woman.
She had silver in her hair. Her face was lightly covered in freckles, wrinkles around her closed eyes. Armand saw wrinkles etched in the corners of her eyes, the bird of ages awoops... crows feet.
To Armand, in his newly transformed state, she was beautiful.
For a second, the song replayed in his head, then it was gone, replaced by pains in his ribs.
In a flash, he gripped her head, burying his teeth deep into her neck.
He though he hit her Jugular vein. He flet warm blood tickle down his mouth.
He drank. She struggled.
He drank until she stopped struggling.
He could have stayed there, his mouth pressed to her neck, but something strong in him pulled him away.
Blood covered his hand and shirt.
To clean the blood away, he reached for cloth. The doorknob felt cool. His hands grabbed fabric that felt dry and smooth, his fingers warming.
He ran from the trailer, running deeper into the woods.

He thought he killed.
He acted like a man who had killed.
That act of violence was more sickening to him than his vomiting.
As he ran, he imagined his strength returning. He felt euphoric with energy... as his mind started to clear. He ran like a lion, leaping over rocks and broken branches. Inside, he felt savage, like an animal on the run.
When he stopped, he felt good.
Was he a monster? Was he acting like one?
Under the moon’s light, he saw dark dried stains on his hands and fingernails.
His fingernails looked painted black.
The fabric in his hand looked electric blue with black and red underlining.
He wanted to make a vow: he wanted to not kill. Not for blood. But fter what he just did, such a vow sounded like baloney, hallow to his ears.
Yet, he wanted to be a giver in this world.
He didn’t want to be a taker.

The song had ended.
Dulie and Anais were staring at him.
The conversation has stopped.
“More coffee, ladies?” He asked, looking suddenly attentive.
“Yeah, one for the road. Can I get mine to go?” Dulie asked.
“Yeah, I have to get going as well. Can you give me a ride?" Anais asked.
“Sure, no problem.”
He signaled to the waitress, then took out his wallet.
He left a crumpled five dollar bill on the table.
He always tipped waitressess.
He left 'The Ratt' with two beauties following him into the fading night.

The Reader's Challenge & Promise

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

DNTF Pictures

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Dancing Near The Fī-yər: Part I

Pre-warning ...