Maybe It’s The Choices

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Sunday September 20, 2015

 Maybe it’s the choices we make. We all start from the same grain but choose different paths. I’ve always thought most of us are only a handful of key decisions from a much different life.” – Ashley Williams

I often find myself asking this simple question, “What’s the difference between a kid who always wanted to be a writer and a kid who always wanted to be a doctor? Or a sailor? Or an astronaut?”

If we are as free as we like to believe, then it makes sense that we are free to choose who we want to be. And then we set out into the world to acquire the knowledge, the wisdom, and the experience we need in order to become the painters, the dancers, the actors, the writers we have always dreamed of being.

As Andy Warhol once said, “Don’t think about making art, just get it done. Let everyone else decide if it’s good or bad, whether they love it or hate it. While they are deciding, make even more art.”

Match Stick Man

To Read The Story Match-Stick-Man Click On The Link Above Tianna’s Books At The Top Of The Page

Or Go To Side Bar, Then PAGES and Click On Match-Stick-Man

Tianna Filley© 2015
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental. Match-Stick-Man Copyright © 2015 by Tianna Filley. All Rights Reserved. No part of this story may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Please, go preview our books, and then please, take the time to purchase one or more of them … thank you!

Our books went on sale July 2, 2014.

You can purchase our books at: http://www.amazon.com/ and type the name, Tianna Filley or D.R. Filley, in the search engine, and our books will come up for purchase.

Or you can click on the title of the book below and it will take you directly to that book:

A Love Of A Lifetime

Twisted Tales Collection

Youthful Musings: Poetry of Love and Loss

Shadows of Premonition

Hearing from you is essential, so if you would like to comment, or have any suggestions, please contact us at – TiannasBooks@gmail.com.
©2014, 2015

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Saturday, August 29, 2015

“A novel is not designed to sit on a shelf; rather, a novel is crafted for the hands of the reader. The reader is meant to open its cover and bend back its pages and make its insides come to life.” — Carley Eason Evans

A part of me wants to believe that I was born to be a painter, with the added touch of drawing. That it was my destiny to become a writer/poet. I can’t see any other way; I can’t see a different path. It makes being an artist something special. The world can’t stop me, simply because I am who I am. There’s nothing that can define me more than being an artist. It’s simple, it’s easy to understand, and it adds an almost transcendental element to art. Even if I’m not posting every day, I am still honing my craft, and working tirelessly to create that perfect piece of art or story. There is no quit, there is no other way. At my very core I am an artist …

As Andy Warhol once said, “Don’t think about making art, just get it done. Let everyone else decide if it’s good or bad, whether they love it or hate it. While they are deciding, make even more art.”

Nearby the Bells
Tianna Filley© 2015
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.
Nearby the Bells Copyright © 2015 by Tianna Filley. All Rights Reserved.
No part of this story may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

 

Ah, I still remember the way she looked the first day I ever saw her. Dressed all in white, just like an angel. I still remember her raven hair, her beautiful eyes–almost black, and turned up at the corners; no doubt a remnant of some unknown ancestry. I remember her paper-white skin; I remember her fragile limbs, the limbs that always felt so delicate, like they would break if I were to touch them. I remember her baby-mouth, rouged to utter blood-like perfection. I remember her always-present laughter.

I remember how she always loved to hear the bells.

The bells of the cemetery–ringing incessantly with the death of an upstanding citizen, tolling through the night until they reached the open window of our little house.

How she loved that sound–morbid, some would say, but beautiful to her delicate ears. She always said that she believed they were tolling for her; that they were reaching out to her heart with their discord, calling her to come to them. Sometimes I would awake in the middle of the night to find her gone. I would walk to the window, still open, and see her white figure floating towards the graveyard. The bells had beckoned her, and she had answered their call. But I always knew that she would come back. She always did.

“Oh, Ascham, the sound! The sound was so beautiful!” she would exclaim upon her return. “Up close, you can feel the sound climbing up through your feet, reaching through your whole body, rattling your frame. It is so humbling, to feel the power of those bells! Please come with me next time they call! It is so beautiful!” Her pale face would turn pink in her delight, in her enthusiasm to have me join her on her late-night excursions to the burying place. But I never went–I had the feeling that she really did not want me there; this was something that she wanted to experience on her own, among the dead. I knew that I would only ruin it if I went with her.

* * *

Our little house lay only one mile, give or take a few yards, from the cemetery. It sat upon a grassy knoll, with a little path leading round and round, until it reached the gravel road below. The road led to town, which in turn led to the city, but before one reached the outskirts of town, one would pass by the graveyard. A weathered old wrought-iron gate, sporting an equally weathered white wooden sign–”Avalon Cemetery”. The fence encircled the entire plot, the only place to enter being the gate, which whined on its hinges, begging for grease.

Catacombs dotted the land, bearing fierce figures like lions and gargoyles–guardians of the deceased. Withered flowers littered the graves, giving the whole place the scent of rotting vegetation, adding to the ever-present lurking smell of death. The lot was well-kept, but that aroma never left. It would, no doubt, linger until the end of time. And then there was the bell-tower–tall and menacing, housing the huge brass chimes, protecting its booty with a look of utter intimidation.

Adrienne loved the place so much. That was why we chose the house on the hill– so she could be near the bells. I never questioned it (whatever Adrienne wanted, Adrienne got), and we moved in the very same day. We made it as cheerful a place as possible, although it still never seemed quite right to me, and we lived there in relative happiness. The place was scarcely more than two rooms–the main room, containing the kitchen, living room, and dining room, and then the bedroom. Adrienne had her heart set upon becoming a mother, and we chose a little corner of the main room for the future nursery. It lays empty till this very day–cobwebs where the cradle should have been, mice taking the place of baby toys. But I never really could let myself enter that corner to clean it.

Adrienne and I never married–she was dead-set against any kind of religious ceremony, save a funeral–but we wanted with all our being to have a child. I’m still not sure whether it was possible or not. God knows, we tried, but never to any avail. I blame myself and my biology, but I know in my heart that Adrienne believed herself completely accountable. I blame that in part for her death.

* * *

I always knew that it would be the bells that claimed her. I could see it almost from the very day that we moved into that house, and heard her laugh in delight when the bells tolled that very night, into the small hours of the morning. At first, I found it the greatest nuisance–my pillow rolled tightly around my head, trying desperately to escape the monotonous symphony, attempting to get at least an hour or two of sleep. But I grew used to it. I had to. But every night that I would wake to find her gone, I would get that sensation–the sensation that something was wrong, that something was plotting to take my beautiful Adrienne away from me.

That night sits in my mind like a memory from yesterday. As all such nights, it was stormy–wind and lightning, and rumbling thunder–but no rain. Adrienne hated rain, so Mother Nature would not have had it any other way on the day of her death. It was the rickety shutters of our bedroom window flying back to hit the house that awakened me from my slumber. The wind chilled the entire room. I got up to close the window, craning my neck and squinting my eyes in the gloom to pick out her figure. I saw a small blur of white at the cemetery gates, watched it slowly proceed through, and latched the shutters. I closed the glass of the window behind me, shutting out the moaning and grinding of the storm outside, and lay back in bed, waiting for her return. But when morning came, and the sun washed away the evidence of the angry night before, the place beside me on the bed was cold and unused, Adrienne having not returned. I almost knew.

She had been without her usual ecstasy at the sound of the tolling. I remember her countenance when the first chime sounded, low and rumbling, building up to a cacophonous blare. She had been utterly without joy, and I thought I saw a tear in her eye. But after endless questioning, she would not give up to me what was the matter with her, and I let her go. Perhaps the bells would make her better. But I should have known, I should have listened to my heart–I should have known that she was not coming back this time.

I remember distinctly. Sometimes I wish my memory would fail me in my old age, as seems to happen to every other man in his 60’s, except for me. I would give anything to have the pictures fade, at least around the edges like so many photographs. But every detail remains vivid in my skull.

I remember walking in the bleariness of sleep into the main room, and seeing upon my entry that the nursery-corner was somehow different. I approached it slowly, seeing a flash of color in the usually dark, shadowy nook. It was a limp flower–a white rose. Its petals hung on for dear life, its leaves had become almost brown as the plant became without life. It looked like it had come from the graveyard. Oh, don’t be silly, I told myself. Things like that only happen in old romance movies, or sentimental novels. But then Adrienne was like a character in one of those books. She always had been so romantic, so fascinated with the fictional world where no one gave a damn about responsibility or simplicity. That was why she had always been so spellbound by the old burial ground. And that was why I had, in turn, found her so captivating.

* * *

I had rushed into the bedroom to find some clothes. I still remember–I had thrown on an old white dress shirt, and a pair of black denim pants. I had pulled on my muddy old brown leather work-boots, and I had dashed out the door as fast as any human possibly could have. I remember the round and round motion of the path in fast-motion, I remember tripping on a stone on the road, and falling to the ground, hands caked with grit, and bleeding. I remember not feeling any pain. I do not remember the rest of the run to the cemetery–I scarcely even noticed the journey at the time.

I recall the wrought iron gate open on its hinges. I remember feeling my heart sink as I heard the first toll of the great bells. It was then that I knew–the bells had called for her, and she had finally given in to their strength and persistence.

I remember the stairs leading up to the top of the tower. Round and round, just like the path to our house, round and round until I reached a rotten floor of ancient plywood, scarred with the footprints of whoever came up here to pull the rope that instigated the sound. There had to be a bell-ringer, the bells could not ring themselves. I had never really thought about it. It had always seemed that the bells had had a life of their own, that they thought just as humans did, that they laughed as others marveled at their huge sound.

The vibration became violent, almost intoxicating and deafening at the same time, as I neared the very peak. I closed my eyes, and let the sound rise up through the soles of my feet, very nearly shattering my bones, until it reached my brain and shook it, like a parent lashing out at a naughty child. I opened them, and there was my beautiful Adrienne, strung up by the rope of the bells, open eyes bulging towards the heavens, neck twisted at an impossible angle. Her long white gown dripped down off her body, not having the same allure on this dead thing as it had had on her lively curves, and delicate limbs. Her long black hair hung down to her waist, caked with leaves and dead petals of flowers, as though she had dozed upon a grave. Smudges of greasy mud scarred her dress, and her bare feet were encrusted with it. The smell of death and decaying blossoms filled the air around her.

I sank to the floor of the tower, debating within my own mind as to how this could have happened, as to how I was to deal with this overwhelming tragedy of the only creature who I could ever have loved. My darling Adrienne, my Dark One, gone forever, lost in the sounds of the bells …

* * *

That was nearly forty five years ago, now. I still live in that house. Or, rather, the deed is registered under my name. I guess I do not live there; so much as I exist in Avalon Cemetery. The iron gates are my front door, the graves are my bed, and the tower is my place to pray. The smell of death and rot is the aroma of my kitchen.

Yes, right around the corner after you enter the gates, about fifty paces ahead, that is where Adrienne lies. She has a beautiful white stone above her head, inscribed with her beautiful name, always kept adorned with beautiful white roses. This is where I spend most of my time, when I am not crouched at the foot of the bell-tower, hiding from those that either come to visit their loved ones, or to taunt me. The crazy old man whose mind was taken by mourning, who sleeps every night nearby her gravestone, the monument to the only woman he ever cared for. I know what they think of me, I have become rather the town curiosity. But I do not care. This is where I belong. I never question it. Adrienne wanted to spend eternity in this place, and what Adrienne wants, Adrienne gets.

They tell tales of how I dig up her bones, kiss her cold lips, and hold her as her skin peels from her body like paper. They tell newcomers to the town that if they come here at the very first break of day, I will be lying in the coffin with her, both of us naked, her body parts crumbling off into dust. I have heard all of the tales. They are not true. I am not crazy–I am just here to find out what I have missed so much.

I take what is left of her, in indelible ink in my aging memory, and I remember. Every night I remember, especially when the bells fill the background, killing all the silence. I remember how badly she had wanted everything in her life to be like a novel, right up until the very end. I remember the corner where the epitome of her perfect life was to sleep; I remember that I have still not cleaned it. I remember when she could not take it anymore, when she could not handle the fact that she was barren for one more moment, and I remember the bells calling her home. I think I can still hear her laughter in the dissonance of the bells, I think I can see her pale skin in the petals of roses. I think I can see the blur of white fabric when a flash of lightning strikes the trees just so, I think I can see the glint of her black eyes in the pebbles on the road.

The bells beckoned, and she answered their call, and now she is home. I do not have to dig her up to remember, all I have to do is look around this place, and I see her everywhere. Or maybe they are right, maybe I am crazy. Or maybe it just doesn’t matter.

Nearby the Bells
Tianna Filley© 2015
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.
Nearby the Bells Copyright © 2015 by Tianna Filley. All Rights Reserved.
No part of this story may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Please, go preview our books, and then please, take the time to purchase one or more of them … thank you!

Our books went on sale July 2, 2014.

You can purchase our books at: http://www.amazon.com/ and type the name, Tianna Filley or D.R. Filley, in the search engine, and our books will come up for purchase.

Or you can click on the title of the book below and it will take you directly to that book:

A Love Of A Lifetime

Twisted Tales Collection

Youthful Musings: Poetry of Love and Loss

Shadows of Premonition

Hearing from you is essential, so if you would like to comment, or have any suggestions, please contact us at – TiannasBooks@gmail.com.
©2014

The End? Noooo!

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Sunday, March 22, 2015

Anyone who says they have only one life to live must not know how to read a book. ~Author Unknown

Thank you, those of you who support me consistently, through my comings and goings. I’m still writing, but here’s to saying ‘yes’ more!

I’ve been writing Blood Dreams for many, many months now, and I am sharing a bit more with you. I hope you enjoy reading this story, as much as I am enjoying writing it! This will be the last bit of this book I share with you. But very soon you’ll be able to purchase Blood Dreams, along with our other books at http://www.amazon.com/ just type the name, Tianna Filley or D.R. Filley, in the search engine, and our books will come up for purchase.

Please don’t forget, writers write to be read.

Please Be Warned:This book does contain some strong language! 18 years and older!

A continuing work in progress
Pami Tianna Filley© 2014-2015

The vagabond ejaculated an icy stream of come into the warmth of her womb. Trista became paralyzed with a numbness darker than death—trapped under miles of glacial ice and eons of volcanic dust, embedded like a prehistoric fossil—trapped in time.

Her pulse slowed, beating the last seconds of her life. A black shadow swallowed her, shrouding her mind. She knew death then, the bottomless abyss sucking her deep into its rapture. It was not what she had imagined. It was not the nothingness, the escape she had hoped for. It was so much more. And, yet she found the realization of this not unpleasant. It was beautiful, glorious, beyond mortal words. It was a feeling of total oneness with the universe. A dark warm comforting place, like a mother’s womb. And she could feel the pull of all matter and energy around her like tiny motes of darkness, swelling, holding her. She did not feel alone anymore. At long last, she felt whole.

His tongue found her cold parted lips and penetrated deep to feed her with his kiss of eternal life.

Drink my darkling. My Trista. His thoughts whispered to her though the tender void, as his dark ancient blood mixed with her own flowed into her mouth from the neatly pierced holes he’d made in his own tongue. Her throat spasmed, and she swallowed the blood. It tasted of stale cobwebs and dark earthen places that never saw the light of day.

The blood rushed into to her, pumping inside of her like the beat of a heart. She fell out of the darkness, away from the warm embrace of death. Yet, she brought a piece of it back with her. She felt her body once again around her. The blood of his knowledge fed her, and with it the natural inborn instinct of the darkling immortals. She caught glimpses of other lives, yet they were so fleeting, so fragmented. She hungered for more. She drank with an insatiable blood lust that left her delirious.

Her numb flesh awoke with a mixture of pleasure and pain; bursting free of its mortal chrysalis like sharp shards of icy sensation.

“Enough, my darkling.” he whispered and gently, he pushed her away.

Trista opened her senses to a new and wonderful night, with colors exploding around her in a vibrant mosaic of light and shadow. Her ears overflowed with a musical chaos, subsonic impulses riveting through her in waves of energy. Virgin odors invaded her senses, leaving her desperately weak and nauseous with their onslaught. She thought that perhaps acid had been slipped into her drink. But, she knew that was not true. This was not a hallucination. The vagabond was for the moment forgotten, as she struggled to make sense of the confusion of her newly awakened mind.

She knew only the strangeness of her new inner sight, the wonder and rapture of her new existence. It was as if she’d been only an empty shell her entire life, an empty vessel awaiting fulfillment.

The sounds of the night beckoned to her, car engines fleeting by, the soft breaths of dreamless sleep, TV’s buzzing their off-the-air drone. These sounds swarmed her like a plague of locusts. The air was thick and alive, smelling of salt and sea and decay. It wrapped its wispy arms around her in suffocation. She choked back a sob as the most profound mixture of emotions sought to overwhelm her. Immense elation to the point of insanity . . . a deep and horrible sorrow that threatened to crush her under its weight . . . and deeper still, lurked a terrible vengeance that wished only to break free, to ravage, to destroy, to fill its dreadful hunger . . .

Yet, these feelings were fleeting and quickly evaporated with the rush of new stimuli. If she did not emerge soon, she would die.

“Breathe!” a voice urgently called against the distance. It was vaguely familiar, and she wanted so to heed to it. She became suddenly aware that someone was shaking her, willing her to breathe. She sucked in a gasp. The air burned her lungs and tasted of static.

Trista coughed up blood, sputtering. The comfort of strong arms embraced her, and a tender hand stroked her head.

“There, there, Trista.” The voice crooned, “You have made the journey back from the land of the ether. You belong to me now . . . Always.”

Trista felt the pressure of lips upon the swell of her breast, as the tiny puncture holes began to heal, evaporating like water droplets into mist. She opened her eyes.

She saw him now, as if for the first time, so strangely handsome, the pale halo of light radiating from his face within the dark cloud of hair. His mouth was smeared with her blood, so red, so erotic against the pale ivory flesh. His feeder teeth were perfect miniature tusks against the pink of his gums. Damnation! But, he was beautiful! Had she even noticed before?

Trista looked up to the sky, her gaze piercing the fog, so that she could define the stars, magnify them, and photograph them in her mind for all time. The sky lay open like a purple bruise, seeping with the approach of the dawn.

Together, they slid down the brick wall, coated in the fine mist of morning dew. Trista felt the mingling of their sexual pleasure run down her inner thighs, perfuming the air with the musty scent of blood and come.

Reluctantly, he let her go, untangling their weak limbs. The vagabond stood. He remained so completely still, that Trista thought he had solidified into a marble statue before her very eyes. She could sense him probing the grey twilight—searching for what—she wasn’t sure. The hairs rose on the back of her neck.

He turned then, becoming animated once more. He lit a cigarette and inhaled, savoring the flavor, then passed it to her lips. His eyes were filled with a deep sadness as he watched her. She knew then that he was leaving her. A terrible ache of abandonment filled her with panic.

“I must leave you now, my darkling angel,” he whispered through slightly parted lips as he brushed a tear from her cheek with soft fingertips. “Trista, you must be strong. There are things that only you can learn now, things I cannot help you with . . . You must see with your own eyes, and you must know these things as one who has experienced them . . . But, I swear to you . . . I will come for you . . . when you are ready.”

“But wait!” Trista began, but her protest was cut off by his look.

“You must trust me Trista. Believe me when I say, my love is yours for all eternity. You are my darkling angel. We will meet again, but I must go now. Staying will only bring you danger. And, already, I have tarried long enough.”

“But, when—when will I see you again?” she whispered hoarsely.

Soon.

The sky behind him began to blush with the approaching dawn. Trista watched as he turned away and retreated, back into the shadows of darkness like the night creature he was. He faded back into the fog, his boot heels crunching on the loose gravel the only sound of his passing. Then silence.

The golden orb of daylight rose slow and steady over the decaying landscape of soot-blackened buildings; tangerine rays burning idle holes through the shifting sway of morning mist. With it, rose the excited chirping of sparrows, fluttering out from their roosts in the overhangs. Seagulls began to circle overhead as far as the horizon of ocean and sky.

Trista imagined the aged stone structures crumbling down around her, freeing the dust of an earlier century to blanket the air—setting the ghosts free at last! She gulped the first salty breath of morning.

A shaft of sunlight filtered down into the alley, where she stood, striking her in the face like a physical blow. The hot white pain seared through her, as she thrust her hands up to shield her face.

She instinctively leapt out of its scorching path, and landed at the top of the unstable fire escape. She broke the rusted lock quickly and opened the steel door, sliding into the abandoned building as it closed behind her.

Trista skipped over the mottled patches of sunlight on the bare wooden floor as it streamed through the cracks of boarded-up windows. She plunged downwards into the bowels of the decrepit structure. Into the damp, murky cellar she fled, where a foundation of stone and earth awaited. Light was unable to invade the crumbling stillness of this dark tomb, yet Trista found she could see easily with her keen, new vision. To the far side a slanting ridge of rock and dirt crumbled down from decaying walls.

Trista moved towards it, and then dug into the moist ground. She was soon buried beneath the cool forgiving soil. At once, a lethargic slumber overcame her, the sleep of the dead, and with it, the dawning of the Blood Dreams.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

Blood Dreams Copyright © 2014-2015 by Pami Tianna Filley. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Please, go preview our books, and then please, take the time to purchase one or more of them … thank you!

Our books went on sale July 2, 2014.

You can purchase our books at: http://www.amazon.com/ and type the name, Tianna Filley or D.R. Filley, in the search engine, and our books will come up for purchase.

Or you can click on the title of the book below and it will take you directly to that book:

A Love Of A Lifetime

Twisted Tales Collection

Youthful Musings: Poetry of Love and Loss

Shadows of Premonition

Hearing from you is essential, so if you would like to comment, or have any suggestions, please contact us at – TiannasBooks@gmail.com.
©2014

Just Some Words

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Saturday, February 28, 2015

“The novelist’s greatest joy is to write the novel, but the novel’s joy lies in the mind of its reader.” — Carley Eason Evans

It has been a busy week and I can’t really believe I’ve actually found a little time to continue writing! I haven’t forgotten you all, and-I’ve really appreciated all the lovely texts, e-mails and Skype chats, and if you haven’t had an e-mail back, it’s probably because I sent them to the wrong e-mail address (box)! They should get there eventually though. (If you never get an e-mail I may not have written you one and this is a little awkward…)

Since my last writing I’ve gained readers from Russia, South Korea, Spain and South Africa. I’m glad to see I have some fellow book lovers around the world. Sorry for the bitty-ness of this post, I guess it’s because there’s a lot to catch up on. I’ll try and get better I promise!

I’ve been writing this story (Blood Dreams) for many months now, and am now ready to share a bit more with you. I hope you enjoy reading this story, as much as I am enjoying writing it! Please don’t forget, writers write to be read. I write for the love of writing … for the joy of reading.

Please Be Warned:This book does contain some strong language! 18 years and older!

A work in progress
Pami Tianna Filley© 2014 – 2015

Shifting his hips, he placed his boot on the stoop beside her and leaned close, engulfing her in shadow. She caught his sweet, musky scent, like a unique brand, like wine, blood and sweat. Ghosts didn’t sweat. He was close now. Trista felt the chill that emanated from him like a cold, dark tomb.

The vagabond pulled a slim joint out of his pocket and smiled at her knowingly. It was cleverly rolled, like a tiny present, the length smooth and straight, the ends neatly folded. He held it up like it was a magical talisman, and searched her eyes silently asking for a light.

Trista fumbled for her wooden matches with awkward fingers. The match struck once, twice—increasing her expectation to panic—then burst forth a blue spark. She watched the flame sizzle a bit, as if time had slowed, and crawl up the sulphur tip to explode into a cool yellow flame. His tongue snaked out to wet his lips as she offered up the match, her cuticle still raw with blood.

He cupped the red ember in his hands and inhaled the pungent smoke, holding it for a moment before releasing it in slow rings that circled her head. The aroma was intoxicating; the marijuana mingling with his distinct male essence.

You are mine, Trista. She had heard the thought clearly, like a hypnotic whisper in her mind, yet his lips had never formed the words.

She swayed. The moist heat of desire flooded between her legs. She pressed her thighs together, aware that his gaze had suddenly focused there, as if he could smell her essence. His gaze lingered uncomfortably, even as her blood began to race in her veins. She could feel his desire as he looked at her, and any apprehension she had felt before quickly vanished.

Trista was drawn to him; yet it was unlike any craving she had ever felt before. Never had she been so aware of her own sexuality. She yearned to touch him, to taste his lips, to feel him filling her. It made her feel vulnerable and reckless, but at the same time she knew she would not be harmed. She was aware that she felt no fear now, even though she knew she should. But, something about him made her feel wanted and safe. There was something so deeply intimate that had passed between them, something only they could share. He was like an opium dream.

He pressed the joint to her lips. Eagerly, she sucked the wet tip and felt the warmth of the drug float through her. She closed her eyes, her sooty lashes fanning her cheeks like dark shadows. As she inhaled the pungent smoke, her mind clouded with a dizzying euphoria pushing a lazy drum of blood through her temples, in a marijuana haze.

She felt his hesitant fingers brush the hair back from her face, then slowly outline her brow, her cheek, her lips. As he drew away, her mouth quivered and a small, silent gasp escaped her throat.

His hand enfolded hers in a cool embrace that was both strong and gentle. He pulled her towards him and led her down the shaded alley behind the abandoned building.

The back of the structure lay in ruin with faded brick and grey mortar crumbling loosely from the walls. Draped high above them, a corroded fire escape hung perilously, threatening to unhinge itself and come crashing down. A steady ooze of dark water crept down the wall from broken eves, staining a long rust smear like dried blood upon the brick.

The vagabond pressed Trista back against the cold stone, the weight of his body firm against the length of her. He urged her jacket from her shoulders and wove his fingers through her silky hair, his palm gently cupping the back of her head. He smiled down at her. This close, his eyes didn’t seem so remote, so cold, and as she gazed into them she felt as if she were falling deep into his soul. He bent his head slowly, his mouth gently brushing the soft fine hairs on her earlobe. Tiny electrodes of excitement sizzled through her.

Trista tugged the loose brown curls that fell against her face, pulling him close. His hair smelled sweet and fresh—not like a street person who couldn’t afford a shower—not like the street-waif goth-boys she was used to. He was all man. His smell, his touch, his body close to hers made her forget all about her short, if unsavory past attempts to find love.

His lips were soft against her neck, his tongue moving in slow, wet circles. God, how she craved to taste his kiss. As if reading her mind, he pressed his mouth firm against hers. A gasp escaped with the parting of her lips as his smooth tongue probed her soft mouth. His kiss was dark and bitter-sweet.

Trista arched up against him, as his tongue traced a lingering path down the pulse of her neck. His teeth scraping faintly over the flesh. Beneath, she felt her pulse jolt. The bold caress stirred a renewed sensation of fearful anticipation. If not a ghost, then what? Yet, she no longer cared, or, perhaps more truthfully, she really hoped for the worst. She wanted him to take her—all of her—even her life. The romantic image of her death made her cling to him more desperately. A corpse could not feel pain.

She moaned at the feel of his palm pressing against her crotch, rubbing, teasing, then with a savage fury he tore open the crotch of her hose. The cool air was a shock to her bared flesh. He guided her hand down to his erection, and Trista fumbled clumsily with his zipper. Oh God, but he was hard—like a stone serpent.

He grasped her fleshy buttocks and lifted her easily, impaling her on the smooth hard length of his cock. Trista stiffened, but as be began to rotate his hips, plunging deeper, deeper, she cried between clenched teeth, “O. . . yes. . . harder. . .”

They ground together frantically. Each time he slammed into her, the breath was forcefully knocked out of her lungs. The back of her skull knocked back onto the bricks with a dizzying intensity, yet she was oblivious to it. His supporting hands cradled her ass cheeks, long fingers meeting in the hot wet crevice of her pussy lips as he spread them apart.

The vagabond lowered his mouth to the swell of her breast to taste her salty flesh. His growl deepened into a savage rumble that vibrated through her. His sharp teeth pierced the soft mound of flesh to the artery deep below. At last, just as she had feared and desired, he would take her life. Not a ghost, but a vampire!

Trista saw violent red explode behind her eyes, like the sun radiating through the thin translucent skin of her eyelids, revealing the intricate web of veins enclosed by vermilion hues; expanding, encompassing her entire being in a heated agony. Remotely, she felt her pulse quicken, as her blood passed between his possessive lips in hot jerky spurts. Her mind became suspended on the eclipse of intense pleasure; the darkened alley conjuring a red ocean of passion enveloping her.

Intense fullness surged within her clitoris arousing her to tormented agony as a piercing cry erupted from her. She stiffened, and then went limp, as the delicate tissue of her arousal streamed with pleasure.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

Blood Dreams Copyright © 2014-2015 by Pami Tianna Filley. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Please, go preview our books, and then please, take the time to purchase one or more of them … thank you!

Our books went on sale July 2, 2014.

You can purchase our books at: http://www.amazon.com/ and type the name, Tianna Filley or D.R. Filley, in the search engine, and our books will come up for purchase.

Or you can click on the title of the book below and it will take you directly to that book:

A Love Of A Lifetime

Twisted Tales Collection

Youthful Musings: Poetry of Love and Loss

Shadows of Premonition

Hearing from you is essential, so if you would like to comment, or have any suggestions, please contact us at – TiannasBooks@gmail.com.
©2014

Because He Inspires Me

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Monday, February 17, 2015

Far away there in the sunshine are my highest aspirations. I may not reach them, but I can look up and see their beauty, believe in them, and try to follow where they lead. – Louisa May Alcott

I sincerely apologize for not updating this page in a few months. Life at times becomes quite busy. My husband is always encouraging me to write, so I have found some time between all else to continue my writing. I’ve been writing this story (Blood Dreams) for many months now, and am now ready to share a bit more with you. I promise to update more often! I hope you enjoy reading this story, as much as I am enjoying writing it! Please don’t forget, writers write to be read. I write for the love of writing … for the joy of reading.

Please Be Warned:This book does contain some strong language! 18 years and older!

A work in progress
Pami Tianna Filley© 2014 – 2015

Chapter One

“The Immortal stood frozen amidst
The vast rock of eternity; times
And times; a night vast durance:
Impatient, stifled, stiffend, hardned.”

-William Blake, The Book Of Los 11:1

Sunday morning. That frail, fading time of quiet twilight. Niagara lay desolate beneath a blanket of dank grey fog. Slate mist lingered close, hugging the inky asphalt like a cool damp lover, whispering promises of bittersweet lust.

Trista sauntered down the dirty narrow street, black boots scraping harshly against the naked pavement, echoing down the barren alleys. Sewage water—dank and murky—flowed up from the open grates and flooded the gutters. An empty chip bag floated by like the wilted sail of a child’s newspaper boat, down past rusted steel, to the underworld below the city’s asphalt roof. Down to a murky river of human waste, where rats dominated like greasy-haired pirates over their soiled treasures of used tampons, dull syringes and latex rubber condoms.

She stumbled drunkenly over a litter of beer bottles smashed in the gutter and fell to her knees. As she pushed herself from the damp cobblestones, staggering slightly, she attempted to brush the bits of gravel and glass from her knee through torn fishnets.

Despair clenched her heart tight, making it hard to breathe. She felt so tired; lost and so utterly alone. It hurt too much to think of it—that terrible desperation—so she drank to fill the hungry void with intoxication. Yet the void lay open and raw like a fresh wound, ripe to engulf her.

Trista slumped down upon the cement stoop of an old, abandoned building. Easing back on leather-padded elbows, she stretched her long lean legs out before her. Absently, she picked the drying scab on her knee beneath the torn fishnet, and watched as fresh blood seeped up to form a perfect crimson droplet. Such a beautiful color. She poked her finger into the blood and smeared it over her full lips. Her tongue snaked out to sample the rich dark flavor. She loved the taste of it, the thick cloying texture, the way it clung to her gums, and tingled along her taste buds. She felt a dizzying euphoria sweep over her.

Third Street, once so familiar, became suddenly strange, as if she were seeing it for the first time. She gazed at the soot-darkened buildings—buildings darkened by age; darkened by the explosion that long ago had rocked the harbor and added to Niagara’s tragic underwater graveyard of sunken boats off the coast. History seeped out of the dark crevasses between the huge granite stones. History? Or was it ghosts—she couldn’t be too sure. Niagara had so many ghosts . . .

An eerie sensation of being watched crept inside of her like an unwanted splinter lodging deep under her skin. She squinted up at the building across the street. For a moment, she was sure she had glimpsed a dark silhouette behind the dirt-streaked glass. Then it had vanished. She laughed uneasily, yet, the feeling of being watched persisted . . . something lurking in the shadows . . . watching her . . . waiting . . . A ghost? She shuddered.

Trista hugged the reassuring weight of the biker jacket around her shoulders. She glanced down at her knee. Suddenly, the blood was too red. Her vision reeled and she experienced a sweeping nausea. She placed a cold palm on her face, trying to hold on to reality, and breathed in deeply. Slowly the swirling colors behind her eyes faded back to grey.

God, how she craved a smoke! She bit the loose skin from around her nail bed, studying the blood that began to seep from it, and sucked it absently from her finger. This nervous habit often soothed her, but now it only made her hungry.

Her gaze shifted to the shadow of movement in the corner of her vision. A dark, lean form emerged from a narrow alley. Wraith-like it hugged the mortar and brick under the cover of dense fog. It seemed an apparition of the mist, wavering slightly, its solidity weaving in and out of the grey gloom. Maybe it had been a ghost. Alarm needled the back of her neck. A rush of adrenalin flooded through her. Yet, underlying that was her curiosity . . . and a strange sense of relief; as if this ghost would become her salvation.

Then he materialized out of the shadows and stood physically before her. A vagabond, not a ghost at all. Silently, he observed her from under a loosely curling mane of hair. Wispy strands fell down to veil observant eyes.

The vagabond approached her slowly, sensing her apprehension. He crossed the street with long, casual strides, his boots treading confidently forward, soundless in their advance. Long arms hung limp and skeletal from his tattered flannel sleeves. Faded jeans boasting thread-bare knees molded to his legs and hips.

He stopped before her, poised with one hand on his hip and his pelvis thrust forward like some bohemian god. Tilting his head to the side, he revealed the intensity of his gaze. The corner of his full mouth raised in a lopsided smile that hinted of sarcasm.

Trista wiped the moisture from her upper lip with a shaky hand. Okay, ghost. She thought. Here I am. There is nothing you can do to me that hasn’t already been done. . . Except to take me away from this life, and that I welcome.

His grin broadened sheepishly, as if he read her thoughts. Then his icy glare fell back on her, penetrating her deeply, exposing her, and she shivered. His eyes were like glaciers, deep and ancient. They seemed wise beyond his years. And something about them made them appear unnatural within his smooth, boyish face. His eyes were like that of someone who had seen too much . . . felt too much pain . . . known too much sorrow. They were just as she imagined hers often looked—just like how she imagined a ghost’s would be. Perhaps they both had the souls of past sorrow. Yet, he was real—flesh and blood standing before her . . . If not a ghost, then what?

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

Blood Dreams Copyright © 2014 by Pami Tianna Filley. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Please, go preview our books, and then please, take the time to purchase one or more of them … thank you!

Our books went on sale July 2, 2014.

You can purchase our books at: http://www.amazon.com/ and type the name, Tianna Filley or D.R. Filley, in the search engine, and our books will come up for purchase.

Or you can click on the title of the book below and it will take you directly to that book:

A Love Of A Lifetime

Twisted Tales Collection

Youthful Musings: Poetry of Love and Loss

Shadows of Premonition

Hearing from you is essential, so if you would like to comment, or have any suggestions, please contact us at – TiannasBooks@gmail.com.
©2014

Don’t forget

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The novelist’s greatest joy is to write the novel, but the novel’s joy lies in the mind of its reader. — Carley Eason Evans

Although I haven’t had much time for reading this year, it’s amazing how just a few pages of writing a night adds up! Please don’t forget, writers write to be read. I write for the love of writing … for the joy of reading. At any rate, please don’t forget, a book is meant to be read — once it is written.

Please Be Warned:This book does contain some strong language! 18 years and older!

A work in progress
Pami Tianna Filley© 2014

Prologue Part 1

The twilight sky lay open and angry like a deep purple bruise slashed by red wounds. The sun slowly dipped into the horizon of dark blue water, smoldering for a moment it seemed before being extinguished by darkness.

Trista leaned upon the rail of the Peace Bridge and gazed down into the blue water of the Niagara River. She took a long swallow of Southern Comfort and winced at the syrupy sweetness as the warm liquid burned down her throat. The buildings on either side of the bridge were lit from within and the windows stared like vacant eyes. Their reflection shone upside-down upon the smooth water and Trista felt as if she’d fallen into some strange alter-universe where everything was reversed. She knew this was only an illusion, but she was not willing to let it go just yet. Below her, the blue water moved like a huge, luminous snake, each reflection of light a glowing scale. She wondered absently what it would be like to be swallowed whole by a snake. A lingering suffocation. Slowly churned and digested. She shuddered inwardly.

God she was tired. Just plain fucking tired of everything. She was tired of this harsh existence that masqueraded as life; tired of scrounging for day old food in supermarket dumpsters; of laying her head at night upon the dirty, rat infested floor of some abandoned building, or in a bed of newspapers between two gravestones. She was fed up with the struggle of merely surviving, always having to be strong enough, clever enough, and tough enough. She hated having to bum money from strangers on the street corner, or in the park in front of town hall where the business men came to eat their lunch. She hated their pity, their revulsion, their willingness to ignore her, and their reluctance to understand. She hated them and what they represented. Yet, she knew no matter how much they loathed her, most would pay her to have sex with them. She had learned this early on. They were all pathetic hippocrates, disguising their vile natures behind the mask of propriety and social acceptance.

But, most of all she was tired of being alone.

A terrible emptiness lay like a festering sore inside of her. She drank to fill the hungry void with intoxication, but lately it seemed, she could not gorge it enough. Alcohol could not dull her pain and despair any longer, and the void grew ripe and ready to engulf her. The snake was ready to swallow her whole.

Trista lit a match and cupped it against the wind to light a cigarette.

“Happy fucking eighteenth.” she said lighting the end of the cigarette as if it were a birthday candle. She kept the flame cupped in her hand and made a wish. Give me strength, she mouthed silently. The wind took the match and it fell down into the darkness, disappearing from her sight before it ever hit the water.

The memory of her sweet sixteenth loomed in her mind, even though she fought to keep it buried. She had been living with foster parents—what was it the seventeenth or eighteenth foster home? She’d lost count—for less than two months. They were the model, middle-class family, nice three bedroom home, two-car garage, a stay-at-home mom who volunteered for Help-Hotline twice a week, and a nine-to-five Dad who mowed the lawn every Sunday. Three foster daughters, all from broken, abusive homes, all in need of the love and care that they could provide. To all outward appearances, they had a perfect, happy family. But, at night, behind closed doors, the reality of their existence was revealed.

That night, Trista found out firsthand why Cara whimpered late at night through the walls of her bedroom. What she had imagined to be simple nightmares had turned out to be real life terror.

It happened one night, when she was just about asleep, and the creak of the bedroom door awoke her. Her foster-dad, William, entered the room and crawled into bed with Stephanie. Trista could hear Stephanie whimper as William raped her. She heard his gruff whisper telling her to be quiet. Trista hid her head under the pillow, trying to muffle the sounds, trying to blot out her terrible discovery, and pretended to be asleep.

The next day, Stephanie avoided her, and William acted as if it were just another day. Well, it was for him. This continued for several nights, with William entering the room, forcing himself upon Stephanie as she silently suffered. Finally, one night, Trista could not take it anymore.

“Leave her alone you bastard!” Trista said through clenched teeth.

William turned and looked straight at her, an ugly sneer on his face, the bed squeaking beneath him, and Stephanie cold and stiff like a broken doll.

“Don’t worry, kiddo,” he slurred, “Your turn is coming soon.”

Trista was horrified. She turned over and cowered beneath her sheets, wishing he would just go away. Soon, his promise was fulfilled.

It was a week later, and the family was celebrating Trista’s sweet sixteenth. It sickened her how casual and normal they seemed during the day. Sometimes she wondered if she were only imagining it all, like living in a dream-world, except this was more like a nightmare. But soon her fears were realized.

William entered the small bedroom about midnight. The hall light silhouetted his large frame, and his shadow lurched forward as if to grab her. He had been drinking and the smell of sour whiskey filled the room.

“Stephanie.” he ordered his voice cold and even, “Go sleep with your sister tonight.”

Stephanie got quickly out of bed and left the room. William closed the door behind her.

Trista was frozen with fear as she lay clutching the blankets up around her neck. She stared wide-eyed at William as he stumbled towards the bed.

“You’re only sixteen … but you’re my teenage queen, you’re the prettiest and the loveliest girl that I’ve ever seen.” William sang softly, as he plunked down on the bed.

Blood Dreams
A work in progress
Pami Tianna Filley© 2014

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

Blood Dreams Copyright © 2014 by Pami Tianna Filley. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Please, go preview our books, and then please, take the time to purchase one or more of them … thank you!

Our books went on sale July 2, 2014.

You can purchase our books at: http://www.amazon.com/ and type the name, Tianna Filley or D.R. Filley, in the search engine, and our books will come up for purchase.

Or you can click on the title of the book below and it will take you directly to that book:

A Love Of A Lifetime

Twisted Tales Collection

Youthful Musings: Poetry of Love and Loss

Shadows of Premonition

Hearing from you is essential, so if you would like to comment, or have any suggestions, please contact us at – TiannasBooks@gmail.com.
©2014

When Inspiration Strikes

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Sunday, September 28, 2014

The love of books is a love which requires neither justification, apology, nor defense. – J.A. Langford

A few months ago my thoughtful imagination decided to keep at me with a new story idea, and I wanted to write it down so I didn’t forget it. I was reading something about vampire stories while having breakfast, and began thinking about all the accommodations we would have to make for immortals if they suddenly decided to become a part of human life. Perhaps I will return to this story someday after I finish writing “In the Midnight of Dreams” … or continue it as a blog project as the mood strikes me. Not sure yet. 😉 In the meantime you may find this mildly interesting.

Please Be Warned:This book does contain some strong language! 18 years and older!

A work in progress
Pami Tianna Filley© 2014

You are about to embark on a strange journey, a journey that will take you through time and space, from a world of pristine beauty to the horror of modern day evil, seduction and blood sacrifice.

Darkling’s … Creatures of the night. A clandestine race of immortals whom feed upon the night and the life-blood of mortals. These ancient beings, who have existed since before the dawning of mankind, feel their time is now.

Present Day…

Trista … a somber young woman who seeks solace from the bottom of a bottle, roams the dark pre-dawn streets of an upstate New York town, Amherst. She is drunk, a little reckless and desperately alone.

Alone—that is—until she is seduced by an unusual stranger, a vagabond, who alters her life, or what she has left of it—forever.

Now, kissed by death and plagued by the blood dreams, she is cast out into the obscure world of darkling’s immortals, where she seeks to find her creator and uncover the terrible secrets of a doomed race, only to become the pawn amidst an age-old bitter struggle between two rival brothers.

Jeremiah … the mysteriously seductive Lord Darkness, who hungers for the day when his immortal race may rise again to dominate and enslave humankind. But, will his own seductions resurrect in him a passion and love, like none he’s ever known?

Samuel … the timeless wanderer, the vagabond, who remakes Trista in his own image. His only hope is to free humankind from their impending fate and destroy his brother, once and for all. But, as his feelings for Trista deepen, will he be able to send her and the immortals race to their extinction?

Both need Trista, desperately. And both will attempt to manipulate her in any way they can to achieve their desired ambitions.

Trista is now confronted with a difficult challenge: to do what she feels is morally right within her soul, or to follow her reckless spirit and forlorn heart.

Each, could mean her destruction. . . Either, could mean the end for humankind and darkling immortals alike …

Only time will tell …

Blood Dreams
A work in progress
Pami Tianna Filley© 2014

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

Blood Dreams Copyright © 2014 by Pami Tianna Filley. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Please, go preview our books, and then please, take the time to purchase one or more of them … thank you!

Our books went on sale July 2, 2014.

You can purchase our books at: http://www.amazon.com/ and type the name, Tianna Filley or D.R. Filley, in the search engine, and our books will come up for purchase.

Or you can click on the title of the book below and it will take you directly to that book:

A Love Of A Lifetime

Twisted Tales Collection

Youthful Musings: Poetry of Love and Loss

Shadows of Premonition

Hearing from you is essential, so if you would like to comment, or have any suggestions, please contact us at – TiannasBooks@gmail.com.
©2014

A Love of a Lifetime

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Friday, September 12, 2014

You can’t get a cup of tea big enough or a book long enough to suit me. –C. S. Lewis

Synopsis

A Love of a Lifetime is a story of love beyond shallowness, looking beyond physical differences and loving who the person is. Sable is a bright, caring woman, who while very beautiful, also is slightly scarred emotionally, as well as physically. Caden is an often gruff, but loving man, who has been waiting for his special woman to be able to accept his love.

A Love of a Lifetime

A Love of a Lifetime

Just a little taste of Chapter 4:

Please Be Warned: When I write my romance books, they are written with an edge of erotica! 18 years and older!

Sable decided a little bravado was needed to get things back on track. “If you’re afraid to share your home with me, just say so. I’m sure I can rent some lonely, impersonal hotel room for the twelve, long, interminable weeks.” She looked up at him through her lashes, her lower lip turned down and pouting.

Caden admired her pouting lower lip and her acting ability. He paused for a moment, imagining catching her lower lip with his teeth, nipping her lightly. “You are welcome to stay there if you want. But I’m not planning on returning to California right away.” He decided to make that perfectly clear in the beginning. But again, she surprised him.

“I’m glad to hear that, Caden. Even though I’ll be working long days, we will still be able to spend time together.” And the devil in her insisted she add, “Since we’ll be living together.”

Sable got moved from Tori’s parents’ house amid a flurry of protest and lots of help. They insisted she continue to stay with them, even though Tori would be leaving with the tour company soon. And since she really only had her clothes, some books and her portable computer, it really didn’t take long at all to get into Caden’s apartment.

Of course, Mr. Rainey had been worse than her own father about her moving into a man’s apartment. But after he had a talk with Caden on moving day, he was much better. And neither man would reveal just what it was they had sat and discussed for an hour in the Rainey’s faded living room. Sable finally decided it really didn’t matter. She was lucky to have discovered such wonderful friends in Tori and her family. And even though Christmas was still more than twelve weeks away, they wanted her to promise to spend it with them.

Sable chose the empty bedroom that was across the hall from Caden’s, rather than the one that was next to his. She thought the view out this window was better, and there was also a very small balcony that seemed to have been added as an afterthought. The room was decorated in soft shades of peaches and sea foam green, on a background of off-white.

It was just as lovely as the rest of the apartment. But she had to admit, as she lay on the bed that first afternoon, just three days after Caden’s agreeing to her idea, she was curious to see Caden’s bedroom. She wanted to see where he slept, and where he bathed and shaved each morning. She wanted to see if he was fastidious in his placement of his personal possessions, or if he laid them down haphazardly as she did most of the time.

But what surprised her the most, as she rolled to her side and curled into a ball, was that she was curious at all. And maybe it was more than just curiosity, which she was sure she could handle, but what if these feelings were just the beginning of something deeper. She had avoided any emotional entanglements for so long, that she was unsure of her emotions in this area. She had separated her life into work and friendships. She doubted her ability to handle a relationship with any man, let alone someone as dynamic as Caden. As she stared out the window, tears slowly coursed down her cheeks onto the peach down comforter. Maybe she should just turn tail and run. Not just to California this time, but maybe all the way to Europe. She knew Sofia and Lawrence would welcome her. But even though she was scared, she knew that she couldn’t run anymore. It was time to face all of her demons, and decide what to do about them.

She drifted into a restless sleep, from which it was Caden’s voice that woke her several hours later. “So this is where you’ve been hiding? Mrs. Jennings thought you might have gone out when she wasn’t looking.” He walked over and sat down next to her on the bed. It was impossible not to notice the tear stains on her cheeks and the pillowcase. He unconsciously reached out to gently rub at the dampness on her face. “Do you want to talk about it?” He asked her.

Sable smiled and caught his hand in her own, which for once was not encased in a glove. She pressed his palm against the soft skin of her cheek. “I’m just fighting ghosts and goblins from the past. I’m fine now. ”Then she saw Caden’s eyes go to the rough, scarred skin on the back of the hand that held his. She had always been careful to conceal her scars, even from him, until now. She was unaware that she held her breath, until he raised her hand to his face, and pressed his lips against the lightly puckered skin.

As he heard her slowly release her pent up breath, he allowed his lips to open slightly, kissing the hand again. This time as her eyes met his, he let his tongue sample the taste and the textures of her skin. He enjoyed seeing her pupils suddenly constrict in surprise, and then dilate. And as he began a gentle sucking on the skin of her hand, her eyelids drifted shut. He slowly turned her hand over and pressed his open mouth to her palm this time.

It was Sable’s soft moan and shifting to her back that had him moving over her, bending down to take her slightly parted lips with his own. As he deepened the kiss, stroking his tongue across her lips, then deeper into the hot recesses of her mouth, she shifted over on the bed. Caden aligned himself next to her. He knew he was stepping into heaven.

Sable felt the hard length of him against her side. She felt so hot, so restless, yet drowsy, sort of. She couldn’t seem to put her thoughts together. She felt Caden’s hot lips on her neck, then they came back to claim her lips again. She couldn’t keep a soft cry from escaping her lips, but she thought she also had invited him to take more. She hoped that’s what she had said anyway.

His large left hand slipped beneath her sweater, over the occasional puckered skin of her stomach, until it rested just below her breast. She had removed her bra right before she had lain down. He seemed to be waiting for something, Sable wasn’t sure what.

She shifted ever so slightly, and her waiting breast filled his hand to overflowing. Her gasp of satisfaction was lost beneath his mouth. He squeezed her gently, once, then twice, a little more firmly, feeling her breast swelling with passion from his touch. He had to see her, to touch her with his mouth, now. He must have spoken out loud, because Sable tried to protest.

But the sound was lost as he enveloped her right nipple with his mouth. The suction increased, slowly at first, until he drew her whole nipple deeply inside his mouth. Her back bowed off the bed, unconsciously offering him even more. Which he could not refuse, and turned his attention to her left breast. Suckling her left nipple with gentle pressure, alternating between teasing licks of his tongue, he began squeezing her right breast again. Her breasts swelled to an unbearable fullness. She pressed his head to her with both hands. She felt she was burning up inside, going crazy. And then his hand deserted her breasts and slipped back down her stomach, undoing the zipper of her jeans. His fingers trailed down her softly curving tummy, and paused at the very top of her mound.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

A Love of a Lifetime Copyright © 2014 by Pami Tianna Filley. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Please, go preview our books, and then please, take the time to purchase one or more of them … thank you!

Our books went on sale July 2, 2014.

You can purchase our books at: http://www.amazon.com/ and type the name, Tianna Filley or D.R. Filley, in the search engine, and our books will come up for purchase.

Or you can click on the title of the book below and it will take you directly to that book:

A Love Of A Lifetime

Twisted Tales Collection

Youthful Musings: Poetry of Love and Loss

Shadows of Premonition

Hearing from you is essential, so if you would like to comment, or have any suggestions, please contact us at – TiannasBooks@gmail.com.
©2014

Just Believe!

I Love Writing!
Amazon.com

We are cups, constantly and quietly being filled. The trick is, knowing how to tip ourselves over and let the beautiful stuff out.– Ray Bradbury

I caught myself daydreaming today. I suppose this is the effect that comes when you start thinking about where your true dreams are hiding. My dream has always been to write books. I have had it planned out to every minute detail and yet, to a certain degree, it remains just a dream. I simply wonder if this will actually come to full fruition one day … it is surely within my power to change the course of my life – can I do it?

All of this daydreaming took me back to when I was in Middle School. It sort of inspired me to embrace the future like a child again. I want to remember that feeling once more and put into action a plan to honestly follow what I know in my heart is my true destiny.

“Adults are just obsolete children and the hell with them.” ~Dr. Seuss

Yes, the great Theodore Geisel said “the hell with adults” and I completely agree. We complain, we worry, and we dissect every look or word from another person, we try to manipulate it into some meaning that will either help us or hurt us as we climb the proverbial “ladder of success”, that won’t necessarily reach a hill of beans in our lifetime. If there is at least one thing I have learned from my few great successes and even greater screw-ups as an adult, it is the fact that once we reach a certain age we completely forget about the very joy there is in living – in playing – in tasting the air around us to find the silly flavor of the day!

I am a woman who has been to hell and back (the darkest of depressions, divorce, unemployment, the list is too long to keep going) and I have learned on this journey that life is so worth the living if you simply stop and take a moment to look around. In a time when we have it made so easy that, technologically speaking, we don’t even have to take one foot outside our homes and interact with the rest of the world, because it can all be brought to our doorstep with the push of a button, we should look for the simpler things in this life that will connect us with all that has been before and all that is still yet to be.

Yes, I seem to be waxing philosophical today. To be honest I think it has to do with the time I spent in my kiddies classes. What an eye opener! I knew a little of the madness I was to expect when walking into a classroom of twenty-four 8-year-olds. What I didn’t expect was how, at such a young age, this group of children was wiser in their playtime than the time I have spent lately with other adults. Truly. The innocence of sharing, of being relatively color-blind and accepting of all who come into their little world, of smiling with not only their little mouths (something we all do when we must, but have learned to fake) but also the purest intention of smiling with their eyes … now that is a sight to behold. I get a taste of it from my younger nephews, nieces and cousins , but when you multiply that by twenty-something – well, let’s just say that for that brief moment, I could see the future and know that this world might have a fighting chance of being a good place again.

Ah, but the cynic in me comes out … the adult in me starts to tear at that pretty picture … yes, they are innocent and lovely now-but give them a few years and the darker side of the world will creep in and turn them too. As old FDR once said, “the only thing we have to fear is fear itself…” and it is indeed fear of the unknown that makes children grow up to be the adults that Dr. Seuss said to hell with. So, is this an endless cycle that cannot be stopped? Do we have to allow the anger of the world around us seep into our own skin to make us turn into angry adults who end up raising angry and fearful children? I certainly hope not.

As I said before, I am taking the time now- before it is too late- to believe and find the joy. I want my own children to believe that anything is possible in this life. I am slowly but surely working on making my life better so that as my kiddies grow we can grow together enjoying everything that the world has to offer; I want to learn from them how to see and accept again. Some may call this action a little crazy- a little naive; regardless, I would rather look outside my door with love for what I see, than a sort of prejudice for my surroundings- the people and the places. The choice is completely mine- the choice is completely yours- for how you want to live your life… to be the obsolete child or to be a person who still believes that no day should go by without learning something new- without finding the excitement of being alive!

I believe this quote is by Mavis Leyrer, and I will continue to work at living by it as well-

“Life’s journey is not to arrive at the grave safely, in a well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, totally worn out, shouting “Holy shit, what a ride!”

I do believe Dr. Seuss would approve of that statement as well!

I have a few stories and some poetry books that have been available for FREE. Won’t be free forever, so NOW is a good time to get them!

Look to the left in the ‘Box’ it say’s flash_widget! Just click on the one(s) you want:)

BookArt

A quick preview again:

I must add, that when I write my romance books, they are written with an edge of erotica, but just like in real life, isn’t all true romance?!

Paper Hearts – is about two strangers who recognize a common bond after they discover their parent’s old love letters. Together, they find the path of the future winds directly through the halls of the past. Paper Hearts is a romantic story much like, A Love Of A Lifetime, they both are romance stories, yet, different in many ways.

The Pier – it’s about immortality, and living beyond one’s lifetime. It’s endearing and heart tearing. It’s a story that will make you think about life & about the beauty in people.

Broadcast Blvd – is about an old woman struggling to hold on to life, while her mind plays tricks on her. This story is very much like the stories in the Twisted Tales Collection I wrote. Each story, of course, is written with a twist! And I promise you, you won’t be disappointed!

Feelings (Poetry) – This collection of poetry from Pami Tianna and David R. Filley, coming straight from the heart. ‘Feelings’ is a very small sampling of Youthful Musings: Poetry of Love and Loss, except with an emotional look at the perspective of a man & woman. ‘Feelings’ is romantic, loving, self-reflective and honest, but always full of emotions. I know you will truly enjoy!

The night fog that hovers in the forest has wrapped itself thickly along the three marked trails. Perhaps, if you wait a while, it will disperse, and you can explore the trails. For now, though, the only thing that waits for you in the heavy mists is danger and you need Shadows of Premonition it’s about a rookie police officer, Victoria Young who is out to make a name for herself. Young starts having premonitions that lead her to make unexplainable breakthroughs in cases that she is working. Can she control this gift/curse or will it consume her? Who can she trust with her amazing gift? How will she explain the knowledge she comes to possess?

I suppose you’ll just have to read them to find out more!

These are works of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

Broadcast Blvd Copyright © 2014 by Pami Tianna Filley. All Rights Reserved.
Paper Hearts Copyright © 2014 by Pami Tianna Filley. All Rights Reserved.
The Pier Copyright © 2014 by Pami Tianna Filley. All Rights Reserved.
Feelings (Poetry) Copyright © 2014 by David (D.R.) and Pami Tianna Filley. All Rights Reserved.

No part of ANY of these books/stories/poetry may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

©Pami Tianna Filley and/or David (D.R.) Filley Books 1996 – 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Pami Tianna Filley and/or David (D.R.) Filley Books with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Now on to Kindle!

Please, go preview our books, and then please, take the time to purchase one or more of them … thank you!

Our books went on sale July 2, 2014.

You can purchase our books at: http://www.amazon.com/ and type the name, Tianna Filley or D.R. Filley, in the search engine, and our books will come up for purchase.

Or you can click on the title of the book below and it will take you directly to that book:

A Love Of A Lifetime

Twisted Tales Collection

Youthful Musings: Poetry of Love and Loss

Shadows of Premonition

Hearing from you is essential, so if you would like to comment, or have any suggestions, please contact us at – TiannasBooks@gmail.com.
©2014

Free Four Short Stories!

I Love Writing!

The novelist’s greatest joy is to write the novel, but the novel’s joy lies in the mind of its reader. — Carley Eason Evans

For those of you who don’t follow my Novels, Novellas, Ebooks, & Poetry, Tianna’s Books page on Facebook, have not been to purchase our books on Amazon.com, have not taken the time to read through what I write here, or visited Goodreads to see my blog, you may not have noticed that I have a few stories and some poetry books that have been available for FREE. Won’t be free forever, so NOW is a good time to get them!

Look to the left in the ‘Box’ it say’s flash_widget! Just click on the one(s) you want:)

BookArt

A quick preview again:

I must add, that when I write my romance books, they are written with an edge of erotica, but just like in real life, isn’t all true romance?!

Paper Hearts – is about two strangers who recognize a common bond after they discover their parent’s old love letters. Together, they find the path of the future winds directly through the halls of the past. Paper Hearts is a romantic story much like, A Love Of A Lifetime, they both are romance stories, yet, different in many ways.

The Pier – it’s about immortality, and living beyond one’s lifetime. It’s endearing and heart tearing. It’s a story that will make you think about life & about the beauty in people.

Broadcast Blvd – is about an old woman struggling to hold on to life, while her mind plays tricks on her. This story is very much like the stories in the Twisted Tales Collection I wrote. Each story, of course, is written with a twist! And I promise you, you won’t be disappointed!

Feelings (Poetry) – This collection of poetry from Pami Tianna and David R. Filley, coming straight from the heart. ‘Feelings’ is a very small sampling of Youthful Musings: Poetry of Love and Loss, except with an emotional look at the perspective of a man & woman. ‘Feelings’ is romantic, loving, self-reflective and honest, but always full of emotions. I know you will truly enjoy!

The night fog that hovers in the forest has wrapped itself thickly along the three marked trails. Perhaps, if you wait a while, it will disperse, and you can explore the trails. For now, though, the only thing that waits for you in the heavy mists is danger and you need Shadows of Premonition it’s about a rookie police officer, Victoria Young who is out to make a name for herself. Young starts having premonitions that lead her to make unexplainable breakthroughs in cases that she is working. Can she control this gift/curse or will it consume her? Who can she trust with her amazing gift? How will she explain the knowledge she comes to possess?

I suppose you’ll just have to read them to find out more!

These are works of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

Broadcast Blvd Copyright © 2014 by Pami Tianna Filley. All Rights Reserved.
Paper Hearts Copyright © 2014 by Pami Tianna Filley. All Rights Reserved.
The Pier Copyright © 2014 by Pami Tianna Filley. All Rights Reserved.
Feelings (Poetry) Copyright © 2014 by David (D.R.) and Pami Tianna Filley. All Rights Reserved.

No part of ANY of these books/stories/poetry may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

©Pami Tianna Filley and/or David (D.R.) Filley Books 1996 – 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Pami Tianna Filley and/or David (D.R.) Filley Books with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Now on to Kindle!

Please, go preview our books, and then please, take the time to purchase one or more of them … thank you!

Our books went on sale July 2, 2014.

You can purchase our books at: http://www.amazon.com/ and type the name, Tianna Filley or D.R. Filley, in the search engine, and our books will come up for purchase.

Or you can click on the title of the book below and it will take you directly to that book:

A Love Of A Lifetime

Twisted Tales Collection

Youthful Musings: Poetry of Love and Loss

Shadows of Premonition

Hearing from you is essential, so if you would like to comment, or have any suggestions, please contact us at – TiannasBooks@gmail.com.
©2014