Fibonacci Tales: Vampire Tales

By eLBe

Fibonacci Tales are fiction written in the format of the Fibonacci sequence, hence the name Fibonacci Tales. What Fibonacci did is plug a 0 and a 1 and set the rule to always add the next two numbers. Each Fibonacci Tales book has:
two one-page chapters,
one two-page chapter,
one three-page chapter,
one five-page chapter,
one eight-page chapter,
one thirteen-page chapter,
one twenty-one-page chapter,
one thirty-four-page chapter,
one fifty-five-page chapter,
and one eighty-nine-page chapter for a total of 232 pages per book.

Fibonacci Tales are written for all ages and in paired sets of books. The first pair of Fibonacci Tales books are Fibonacci Tales Vampire Tales and Fibonacci Tales Knights Tales.

The second pair of Fibonacci Tales books are Fibonacci Tales Dust Tales and Fibonacci Tales Mother Tales.

The third pare of Fibonacci Tales books will be called Fibonacci Tales Cat Tales and Fibonacci Tales Goddess Tales. These books are works in progress during mid-September 2016. The author expects to complete the third pair of Fibonacci Tales books and available around early to mid-2017.

Fibonacci Tales books are designed for electronic book reading. Each pair of books includes music callouts that are essential to the stories (music has the power to calm the savage beast), and therefore, Fibonacci Tales books do not lend themselves to printed book format.

Plus the cost of printing two pairs of books and pressing two CDs for each pair of books would not be cost-effective, and it would be an outright irritant for the dear reader who would have to advance the CD one tune at a time and stop the CD before the next tune began as CD players are designed to do. I would utterly hate to read Fibonacci Tales in printed book format. For that reason alone, scratch the idea of publishing Fibonacci Tales in physical book format. I will not agree.

On the plus side again, I have two disinterested readers who will read and comment on Fibonacci Tales books once they are available in e-book format.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524546083

eLBe

When I was age three to four, I became wickedly angry about something, and Mom was no help. I went to the source, and I demanded to know why I agreed to come here and why I agreed to do this! The master said, “You have not because you ask not,” and I took that to heart. I asked. The divine one replied, “I can tell you everything you want to know about why you came to life, what you agreed to do, and even why you agreed to do that, but then you will have to forget.” “Why will I have to forget?” I demanded. The DO was silent for an infinite eternity then replied, “So that you will live and experience the pain, the anger, the injustice, the slings and arrows of cruel fate that befalls humans in one way or another, at one time or another, while they still remain in their body, mind, and brain. Their earth suit. “The spirit that inspires (the breath of life) and animates (quickens) the earth suit into life is, was, and always will be, infinite and eternal. A wise man once said, ‘God is a circle whose center is everywhere and whose circumference is nowhere.’ “In truth, man cannot be outside of the presence of the divine. Yet, in the conscious mind of man, the source of all and everything is ‘out there.’ It does not indwell the body, mind, and brain of man. “I gave mankind intelligence, reasoning power, and choice. Those gifts are placed into the conscious mind of man, where the co-creator lives. Man most deeply trusts linear thinking. Paradox. “To give perspective, the electromagnetic energy of the heart center is five thousand times greater than the electromagnetic energy of the mind. The paradox is not opposing opposites. It’s more of a two-step. “The co-creator mind is designed to collect the facts, figures, and data points of the physical plane, even empirical evidence. It is designed to consider possible outcomes—the likely ones, the lovely ones, even the really nasty ugly ones—and take all that evidence to the heart center and be at peace with it there until the conscious mind knows what it wants, why it wants it, and all the ways and reasons that the co-creator chooses to make the world a better place than it was before. “That’s why you must forget now because only you can load up the co-creator mind of yours with all the good, the bad, and the ugly experiences of life. Only you can teach and invite your co-creator mind to join you in the heart center, and you can do that only when it is your time to do what you came to life to do. “Then will you write Fibonacci Tales books.” 2016. “Welcome home again, crone of mine. Now is the time that you remember everything you forgot when I answered your questions of why you came to life and what you came to do. “Now it is time to accept, and to know that you are eLBe. That eLBe is the author of the Fibonacci Tales books. That the Fibonacci Tales books will change the world, one reader at a time.”

Book preview

Copyright © 2016 by eLBe.

ISBN:      eBook         978-1-5245-4608-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 09/27/2016

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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CONTENTS

Vampire Tales

Post Mortem

The Perils of Liberty

The Death of Uncle

Grandpa’s Rocker

The Curious Cow Murders

What We Must Not See

The Rape of Dinah Redux

The Making of Mati

Vamp Act Rebellion

The Cellar

My Master’s Mark

Post Mortem

I died

of a ruptured appendix

five days

after he hit me

for the last time.

The Perils of Liberty

My sons are soft; they’ve lost their bite and passion. They refuse their power and our ancient heritage is lost for want of practice and devotion. The god of this land is potent for many seek to appease him by yielding their power and the free use of it to an external god. Fools! Like my sons. They would be gods but for this benighted land of liberty. Instead they are sheep, beholden to an outer and peculiar god…, this odd god to whom my sons bend knee! Bah, freedom! An ordinary fate befalls my people in this land where equality is king and none dare command for the infamy of being superior. What deceit equates a peasant with royalty, what lie requires the gifted to bow to the rabble and their rabbi of restraint?

The masses of this land know nothing of power and how to wield it. Power does not lie in equality despite the prattle of pompous priests and prelates drunk on the absinthe of uniformity. Nor does power hide in the puzzling parables of a barefoot preacher in a homespun robe, nor authority in the belief that all are sons of God.

A slow smile softens plum colored lips and he puffs a satisfied laugh, ‘still, the rabble who found a faith of appeasement in the puzzling parables were wise enough to not profess that all are sons of God. They would then forfeit all their pleasure in destroying those who speak another truth. The common man is protected from the perils of independence and self-reliance by the vigilant verdicts of those who believe.

That is wise after all. When all are equal none have authority to command; none obey, and nothing is done nor ever achieved. A republic indeed, Plato was a fool…, as toothless as my sons.

… And their wives, smiling harridans with the stink of Hades in their proud mouths, and their hands too pretty for work and skin too tender for sun. They are a waste of food and bed, every one.

They would take my sons from me…, from this land I homesteaded for us. They will take the sons of my sons too, and go away live their own life on their own land in their own way…, away from this consecrated land where my sons and I may sleep in peace.

They would take the very life I built here…; rip it to shreds…, to have their own…, their own god of independence! They flout and corrupt ancient powers to have their own way, their own life.

I won’t have it! My grandchildren will learn and come of age in this house, on this land, and they will master and wield the powers of my clan and kin.

The Death of Uncle

Girl, Hester’s voice is urgent, nearing alarm, I need help, now." She hears a chair push back and a quick pace to the mud room. He will die…. He must not die in this house. Jacob, hear me, wherever you are, come now, I need you now.

Fear tears swamp her eyes as she presses the blood soaked towel to the curve of his neck checking the fountain that jet from paired holes with each heartbeat. The carotid artery is breached, her mind shrieks in silent dread!

Mom…; Hester turns to see the girl’s stare locked on the towel weeping scarlet what do you need?

Turning from the impending death of innocence to the animal brawl for life, Hester replies with unexpected calm Get the big metal bowl and all the bath towels, hurry.

What’s wrong with Uncle?

Go now. To soften the command, she adds I’ll tell you when you’re back, hurry now.

All of them? the girl repeats vacantly.

Yes. Now, Hester snaps, and hears the girl spins away on silent feet. Come, Jacob. Come now, come fast, come safe…, I need you…, now. Alone again with impending death Hester keens softly, silently and without grief for spirit’s transient habitation of corruptible human form. She owns and allows the customs that elevate form over spirit while celebrating the release of spirit from the failing body on the altar of a sofa on a mud room wall.

She hears the girl return. Put the towels there where I can reach them. Good. Now shake one out and wad it into a ball. When the girl has done, Hester continues Grab the bowl in your free hand and hold it close to Uncle. When I take away the wet towel and put it in the bowl, give me the one you hold, as though well practiced, mother and daughter complete the exchange, and Hester continues. Take the wet towel to the sink. Run enough water to rinse the blood from the towel and wring it into the drain. Come back as quick as you can, we’ll need to do it again soon.

The mundane sound of running water flushing cloth comforts and steadies Hester. She gently presses the towel to the curve of Uncle’s neck and breathes healing energy to ease the release of spirit from failing form. Invoking her fears of loss and lack, she weeps to flush and cleans her eyes of intemperate separation and isolation. Opening to wholeness, she raises energy to invoke the power of oneness of life and awaken Earth’s natural healing energy.

What’s happening to Uncle? whispers the girl suddenly near.

The inadequacy of a real yet inexplicable truth steals Hester’s answer before it forms. Silent moments pass as they exchange a blood wet towel for a cleaner, dryer one. Before placing the fresh towel, before the heart beats again, Hester exposes the pair of blue rimed holes punched eyeteeth apart into Uncle’s neck. His doctor says its cancer…, a kind that eats deep, and doesn’t spread. It’s eaten into his carotid artery.

The heart beats again jetting blood into the descending towel. It’s eaten through the carotid artery which carries four-fifths of the blood pumped from the heart to the head to satisfy the oxygen needs of the brain. The other fifths of the blood carries enough oxygen to support all the rest of the body in performing its functions.

He will die? the girl asks with the curiously wise indifference of innocence.

He will die.

Oh. Hester smiles at the child’s sometimes profoundly sweet apathy. Will Uncle die here, on the sofa?

No! Hester’s reply is too sharp, too abrupt. No, she says more measured, Daddy will come soon and we’ll take Uncle to hospital to die her mind shrieks, but she does not say.

Grandpa’s Rocker

Grandpa had a rocking chair made for him, ‘large,’ he asserted, ‘for a great man; heavy, for a weighty one, made fit my stature.’ His pride was audible as he stroked the firm sweet curves of its seat and body.

Grandpa rocked his chair every time he needed to make a plan for something going on like a neighbor meaning to fence a part of his open range for grazing cattle or to mark the boundaries of a new field, or for what would be planted in that field, or how that yield would influence the price at harvest, or how to pay for the stained glass windows ordered from Murano for the new church.

Grandpa rocked and considered the size and splendor of other churches in town and the homage to old world values that graced each one, always as large and grand as the combined wealth of the members could buy. Boasting by brick, Grandpa spat as he turned back to his tally and timetable.

Grandpa never allowed his name to be associated with the things he conceived while rocking, even when it showed up in the physical world. A condition of his giving was that a public announcement of the anonymous gift, crafted to stimulate matching generosity, be made from the pulpit one Sunday. Not one to stand at the altar praying loudly, Grandpa retired to his closet where others of power waited and there he quietly and consciously changed his world.

Money was ever in Grandpa’s plans and that is practical and proper. His plans determined how things showed up in life, and an essential element of shaping the world is money. When Grandpa rocked out a plan and adjusted it for the ebb and flow of life and people and places and events, he was often away from the farm and soon changes showed up in our county. Grandpa often said he rocked his challenges into chosen outcomes that yielded outer results…, even if accord among men was not reached. Fear fakes fools faithfully Grandpa often counseled.

Grandpa didn’t rock away problems in the family. Family was his, and as patriarch he was feared, if rarely loved; and family disputes were summarily settled by God’s agent on earth.

It may be that Grandpa never read beyond the Old Testament in matters of man’s relationship to God, or maybe he didn’t learn to apply it; or perhaps decades of bowing to a rigorous and ruthless God managed only by appeasement and lies trained him to cunning jealousy. Grandpa could manage a God of conciliation for he understood the power back of manifestation and the muscle needed so others contributed everything necessary for it. When Grandpa’s plan evolved to management by capable others, he withdrew to monitor from a distance.

After his death, Grandpa’s rocker swayed without reason even when we came to learn who rocked there.

Blood Ritual

Mother bowed up over a monument to a dead man above her kitchen and set her mind and our bodies to clean and clear Grandpa’s space for use as a guest bedroom. Armed with implements of cleansing we marched to Grandpa’s sanctuary on a mission to achieve our objective. Our purification plan proceeded according to an ancient and seldom invoked ritual of spring cleaning.

Sister screeched and grabbed her foot from which a thorn protruded that had no possibility of being in the closed room nor in sister’s heel which now pulsed blood to the floor. As fresh blood fell, Grandpa’s rocker rhythmically thumped its ancient rhythm with abandoned power and force.

Spiritual Eviction

Mother was not pleased with the whole blood activated rocker thing and that led to a very different ritual cleansing, one designed to release sister from the unholy binding by blood. We knew Mother believed long-dead Grandpa was guilty of the attack of the thorn, and I allowed that could be true.

Now mother came with sprigs of sage, vials of holy water, a clear quartz crystal suspended on a chain; and ancient knowledge of evicting evil energies from living spaces. Aside from a faintly unpleasant odor, the burning part was nice and the energy in the rooms did rise as we moved from one to the next. And so it continued both high and low, until we arrived at Grandpa’s room where Mother declared that I would stay outside and not come near the door no matter what I thought I heard. Well, that was such an unexpected requirement I prepared to do it without question, except I’m not an obedient child. The sheer novelty of Mother’s condition won me over and I nodded assent while impressing myself into the side of the bed facing Grandpa’s door. Mother turned, squared her shoulders, and brandishing burning branches, advanced into the lair of my patriarch.

A sub audible clash of energies shook walls and windows as waves of power shocked from the room seeping violently into unhealed psychic wounds, and long dead souls reanimating to wail their unremitting devotion to separation. Grandpa’s voice was theirs now, and it roared thwarted anger and abandon, and fear strode the ages and power stormed and atoms dissolved to reorganize and reorder into never-ending potentialities. What was old was new again and there was no peace on earth.

Following a particularly decisive crash from Grandpa’s room, the door opened a crack and mother backed hastily through and grabbing the knob with both hands, leaned back with intractable resolve. The sound of an enraged bull huffing near the door was trailed by mother’s yelp of shock and pain and yanking of her hands from the knob now radiating livid red. Together we shared a silent moment of zealous denial.

Aloe Vera therapy followed mother locating the key and locking Grandpa’s room - which was accompanied by a hissed chorus of rebukes and oaths of enmity and destruction vowed across time.

The Last Sacrament

The priest came next to evict dark energy from the space where we slept in heavenly peace, by dash of blessed water and intonation of Latin phrases accurately understood only by priests and beasts.

To those blessed with mortal sight and sound, the eviction was uneventful and apparently futile. None of those came to this sacrament where ancient forces clashed polarized energy intent on reshaping the part of the world that was a room above a farmhouse kitchen.

On this day of cleansing the girl was required to wait in the relative safety of grounded rooms…, which were also built by Grandpa to share a space and energy and were in no way shielded from forces unleashed above. Farmwife and priest ascended to the upper room to evict an edgy energy from the earthly realm and seal it against return.

A tempest of time later they descended to earth tired yet triumphant, and the priest drove slowly back to his usual life serving a parish in a small farming town near the geographic center of the contiguous United States. Ho hummmmmmmmmm….

Without a Trace

The day following the spiritual eviction was brilliant with sunshine, clear skies and temperatures inviting open windows and doors, and so it was that the sudden circular wind whirling outside Grandpa’s window siphoning leaves and debris into its vortex caught our attention.

It was cute, this tiny tornado, appearing on the stage of our kitchen window, even the slow snaky twisting of its tail to Grandpa’s window like a beckoning finger was sweet. Then the din began. First was the sound of a nail drug heavily across glass, next, mournful moaning and maddening mewling and angry hissing, followed by the sound of large weighty things flung crossly against walls and floors, and then the bereft keening of fretful fiends.

The little tornado was no longer cute nor sweet but temperamental and trying and I was afraid and slid beneath the table and wished it away while mother watched in astonished alarm.

In a thwoop the sounds overhead exited the window to be sucked into the swirl, and I flew from below the table to see spinning specks of wood surely shaped like Grandpa’s rocker, followed by fractals of sister’s stove and bride doll vanish into the vortex and disperse into the clear blue sky.

When we went above to assess the damage we found nothing out of order or missing except Grandpa’s rocker, the veiled virgin doll, the stove of servitude; and what to our wondering eyes did appear but an unbroken window with un-shattered panes of glass four-square to the frame.

The Curious Cow Murders

Hester’s eyes twinkle as Jacob enters the kitchen putting his hat in its usual place. Did they have to machine tool the filter for you?

He grins taking up a cup and filling it "I think we could have done that faster."

Did you get it at S&W, she tosses him a grin also known as Sit and Wait?

You know you don’t have to wait in the car, you can come in with me.

She smiles. I do know that, husband; and that there are things needing time and talk and that neither pursuit passes well for adults when children are present. Cocking a brow she adds, Just now our young ones are napping and the older ones tend and water the garden.

I thought it was curiously quiet he says slipping his arms around her from behind and I could have some time with my favorite wife.

She smiles, running her hands up his arms to return the embrace. Sensing his energy she asks what happened in town? He buries his face in her hair, drops defenses, and pulls her close against the pain racking his mind and body; she arches against him assimilating the strange bitter weight he bears. When he is still she invites gently come, tell me, and leads him to the table where they sit in silence. The clock marks the passage of time, and below that rhythm Hester hears whispered words so soft she leans close to hear.

…cows killed, one each night of the full moon for the last six months, all within two hours of Jetmore.

She pulls back sharply, puzzled you stayed for hours to hear talk of dead cows? Why?

He is silent a moment then replies tonelessly Brother worked on a rig near Jetmore at this time.

And…?

Jacob fills his lungs pulling himself upright in the chair to look her in the eyes. Sheriff Ben tells me Brother also worked a job near Cimarron before that, and one near Ellsworth before that and in each place there were what the police report as ‘curious cow murders.’ Ben says the police reports go back for more than a year; and the legends Ben calls them, of curious cow murders go back for all the years since Papa’s death, and in each full moon period Brother worked an easy drive of where the cows died.

Hester holds companionable silence awhile, reading in his eyes the connections and relationships he cannot speak and sensing something he will not yet say. With an unexpected reluctance Hester asks how… did the cows die?

Alone. In a pasture or pen or apart from the herd, blood drained out, none on the torn up ground, only the cow’s footprints, and… no one found any sign of injury to the animals.

How does Ben know this?

A couple of months ago the animal was that Hereford steer that won the state championship at the State Rodeo. He was found dead in a corral of the new owner who meant to improve the beef he produced with the genes of his champion. Jacob’s effort at introducing levity fails smashingly. He sighs.

That new owner is also a state Senator, Hes, and he heads the agriculture committee, and holds a chair on the state law enforcement committee. Our Senator had the best stock animal vet in the state autopsy his champion and that’s how the two holes were found.

"Two holes?"

Jacob nods into his hands as though chafing away his words and the memories they evoke. Two holes in the carotid artery…, feeding the brain its supply of life blood. The next thing the vet looked for was poison.

I now know how difficult it is to detect poison when the victim has no blood to carry poison to flesh and organs. I also know that the lack of poison meant the animal was bleed out. It died from loss of blood.

And – was there was no blood on the ground? Jacob shakes his head, and no footprints but those of the champion, and nods again. What does Ben think happened?

Not just Ben now, Hes. Remember the owner of the dead champion sits on the state law enforcement committee he flashes a quick weak grin the state police know about the curious cow murders and are anxious to step in and close the case for the Senator, unless Ben does that first, and quietly.

"Quietly? she gasps. Why, why is this happening after all these years since Papa died?"

Jacob’s face crumples and he sobs silently. "He’s dying. Brother cannot drink living human blood which – I believe – would sustain his body. Animal blood fills his belly but cannot satisfy his hunger nor sustain his life."

What are you saying?

"The cellar, that unholy rite Papa demanded so brother would not die, but be made a vampire and victim in one skin. I changed the ceremony, Hes; I changed the energy of it, by my choice, will and intention.

"Brother will die just as Papa did; and he dies sooner, and wicked painfully, if he drinks living human blood."

Hester gasps he nearly died when he cut his hand and put it to his mouth to staunch the blood.

I may have overdone the geis against drinking human blood. I very clearly intended that the pain of drinking living blood would be persuasively greater than the life energy gained from drinking it. I’d do it again Hes, even knowing this outcome, but I would do it with more Power and less force.

What happens now?

Remember the state police chomping at the bit to get their names on this case even though they can’t talk publicly about it later? Ben says I am to ensure that no livestock dies this next full moon and if I do that, the state boys won’t come in; and if I fail, before the next full moon Ben will help the state boys come after Brother.

What will you do?

I – will be leaving with Ben tomorrow to go find Brother and tell him he must not kill again and what happens if he does. Then we will bring him back here to die.

No. Jacob, Brother cannot die in this house, or on this land her eyes well he must not Jacob. You must tell Ben and make him understand what will happen if Brother dies here.

He won’t, Hes, he covers her hands with his I won’t let that happen. Smiling gently, he adds, Ben will understand everything he doesn’t already know before we find Brother.

How will you find him?

"Ben actually knows where he is and was testing me. The state police have been quietly working with the company that runs the crew to track the one he’s with. The crew’s up near Goodland. We’ll leave shortly after breakfast.

Ben asked if you’d make us one of your ‘famous farmer breakfasts’ is what he called it, bacon, eggs, hot bread or waffles, Ben’s partial to waffles, and lots of coffee.

"He’s taking my husband away indefinitely and without notice and he wants breakfast?"

That’s about the size of it. Ben will drive me, feed me, and put me up at state expense until we find Brother and I tell him he must die quietly now.

She reaches out to him, you speak so cold, she whispers.

I can speak no other way. His eyes wail mute pain into hers until quiet tears fall and neither ever knows who cried.

What We Must Not See

Sitting on the hood of the car, back against the windshield, the girl delights in the bliss of an abiding sense of Oneness with Source and with all expressions of life appearing on the physical plane. She hears the murmur of the evening breeze playing through grasses and the sibilant laughter of leaves tossed and tickled by the cooling air. She listens to the chirps and twitters of nesting birds and the busy buzz of bugs and feels her awareness shift and expand until all earthly sounds resolve into one sound, as point and counterpoint to the cosmic harmony of the symphony of the stars. Miles away a car door slams and good night calls convey the resonant grace of everyday life in town. These homely sounds are underscored by the song of iron on rails foretelling the rumble of a train still too distant to hear; and over and above, resound the healing music of Mother Earth, as galaxies of light echo the harmony eternally issuing from the infinite heart of the universe.

An imminent peril shreds her serenity as the survival instinct focuses and diffuses her eyes and awareness while she becomes more deeply one with the indivisible energy pervading all of life. Securely enfolded in Universal peace, she peers into the dark shadow by the house with a lively curiosity holding the power to quell the quivering dread that is forever awakened in man by encounter with the mysterious unknown. By practice of ancient origin, the girl focuses her left eye into the darkness while shifting the right eye up and away and there she sees a deeply more profound blackness crouched in the ebony shade cast by a rising harvest moon.

A wolf…? The silent words are both curious question and devout denial despite the question mark that follows the words. Darker than night…? Here? Impossible. Wolves don’t live on the plains. Their food isn’t here. The calm assurance of logic dutifully numbering impossibilities comforts the girl and she is not afraid.

Both denial and dread hold the power to reassure and to debilitate with equal efficacy, yet unlike caution, denial is a powerful act of conscious will that denies that physical world appearances and temporal illusions have any power over life whatsoever. By its gift denial awakens the dormant aptitude of Power that trains the mind, promoting both physical and extra-sensory perceptions to a complete mindfulness that exposes the true nature of energy and opens the inner ear to sub audible sounds. Sounds like the sultry silken slaver on eager breath that grates keen against the inner ear alerting nerve endings throughout her body to prepare to fight or flee. Sliding from the car she stands facing the ebony shade in the deep shadow and intuitively knows that neither flight nor fight are viable options now. Held safe in a calmly comforting presence, the girl activates a long-eyed objectivity that suspends all faith in reality, and seeks instead her Spiritual core housing the essence of faith in the power and presence of One Source of life on all planes of existence; and she knows no fear.

Following guidance and curiosity, the girl tracks electric impulses through the brain of the beast, coming to know the impossible intruder as thinker, observer, and actor. Her heart stutters as she grasps the truth that all its forceful energy is focused solely on crossing the divide between the physical and metaphysical planes of life.

Cloaking the light within, her mind contact with the beast is instinctive, intuitive, pre-tactile, and it stimulates a bloom of unexpectedly alluring savors and flavors in her mouth, like the metallic weight of blood on her tongue and the hot the lustful thirst for the warm pulse of it into her mouth. She is stirred and pierced by the violent possessing passion that pulses through her howling for a maleficent purge of destruction that clears space, catalyzes regeneration that forever inspires rebirth and renewal. Shocked power of the beast in the gloom her conscious mind voice wails, he will drain my life energy into himself believing then that he will live long and hold and wield a power he never before dared nor dreamed. She feels more than hears a soft sibilant growl that binds and enthralls her in succulently exposed terror.

Her conscious mind, fully armed and loaded with facts, figures and data points of the physical world, rides to her rescue, bracing and cloaking her in reason and assuring her the vision is only that, a captivating creation of her imagination, and guiding her to simply imagine something else. Braced with reason, the girl intuits that a dire darkness in another dimension cannot harm her.

So long as the shade remains in another dimension, she reminds herself, on another plane, I am safe. She tips a half-mouth sober sour grin, presently however, I face an open portal to another dimension, and a dedicated dire wolf pacing there. The beast probes me for a vulnerability, a fear, a blink of inattention, anything that allows him to leap into this plane…, but that aside, I am safe from harm.

Like stalemate is safe….

Casting a quick glance to the door of the house, she sees all inside, connecting anew with the lights, the shadows, the familiar sounds; and with the peaceful spaces of the enduring harmony of nighttime inside the house. A sibling snaps at another, a parent pacifies, and the house settles again into an familiar harmony and the girl is comforted yet troubled that her family is nesting for a quiet night unaware that dire danger lurks near. For the peace within, the girl forfeits her king.

Why are you here? Her rumbling silent demand arises deep within her, springing powerfully from a nameless knowing that the Beast must faithfully reply, transparent and true, to the voice of power.

In the Mind of Separation

She sees me! That is impossible, I am shifted. Human eyes cannot see the shifted…, unless the Shifter wants to be seen. The beast strides a tight track of internal reason, then bares a toothy grin, except for those with the Sight to see…. They said she had the sight…, the old ones. Even Papa said so. Yet this one does not know her inner light, a curious incapacity for one with Sight. And so she hides safely in plain sight. A pity no one with the Sight thought to guide and train her. Or maybe they too didn’t see.

The scent of anxiety wafts to the shrewd shade and the instinct of hunter, a characteristic power of Wolf infuses and alerts him. Defenseless in her power. His grin is toothy and careless of the drool that slow slides between teeth and over his lips, he tenses sinew and muscle as he turns hot red eyes on the girl impaling and immobilizing her as he knew it would.

In times like these the smile of a wolf induces terror that by ancient mesmeric power immobilizes the victim. The leering beast glories in its mystery, its power, its dire reality, and cannot help but gloat. I am here because thoughts create, niece-s-s-s-s-s-s-s.

"Niece…," the girl thinks, curiously indifferent to the puzzle knotted in the word. The wolf leers at her, head still, eyes locked, body pacing, tail whipping, leering, snarling, snapping and salivating dramatically, knowingly feeding her fear fuel to heighten the drama. I am both the spirit and the nature of your inmost terror on this dark night of your soul when your precious God has abandoned you to a power that is beyond and outside the scope of His authority!

Scrupulous in the use of words, the girl quibbles, nothing is beyond the scope and authority of God. Not even you…, soul sold cheap. Her thought words as soft as a caress, not even you are absent from the eye of God. Now her words are scalpel sharp and sure slashing away false and diseased words. Even my eye sees you and the ways you wasted the gifts of the Father even as the Prodigal wasted his. Yet the Father forgives, and loves and welcomes home the lost lamb, restoring him to abundance and to One love.

The girl paces a small figure 8 countering the path of the wolf, a wise and knowing smile lighting her eyes, cheeks and lips, consciously uncoiling the track wound by the wolf, gently exposing it to the core. You are not willing to do that. Even now. To you reconciliation is weakness. Instead you pig headedly slurp the slops even hogs won’t eat, all the while mumbling like a mad priest that God, not you, is responsible for your self-abasement. You’re just a brat baby in a big body, whining over the exact same consequences of the exact same choices you made before – and over again – ad nauseam. Slapping palms to the hood of the car she demands. Why are you here?

I want in, the compelled wolf snarls thrilling terror, to that plane where you are, its eyes slit on hers pinning her like a moth on a board. You are my entry portal to that plane where I want to be.

Knowing the beast wants