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“An unusually large, rare, golden wolf trotted out of the timberline, circled the area warily, and sat down on its haunches only feet from Jacques. It watched him steadily with its strange golden eyes, completely unafraid. It seemed not to be affected by the fire, the lightning, or the Carpathian male. Jacques watched the animal equally intently, certain he was facing more than a wolf. The creature did not make an attempt to use the common mental path to communicate. It simply watched him, taking in the bizarre scene, the golden eyes never wavering. A humorless smile curved Jacques’ hard mouth. “If you are looking for action tonight, I am too tired to oblige you, and far too hungry.” The wolf’s shape contorted, stretched, shimmered in the smoke of the fire, and soon a large, heavily muscled man was facing Jacques. His long, shaggy mane of hair was blond, his eyes golden, his body perfectly balanced. “You are Jacques, brother to Mikhail. I heard you were dead.” “That is the story going around,” Jacques assented warily. “You have no memory of me? I am Julian, brother to Aidan. I have been away these last long years. The far-off mountains, the places without people, are my home.” “The last I heard, you were fighting wars in distant lands.” “When the mood is upon me, I fight where it is needed,” Julian agreed. “I see you do also. The vampire lies dead, and you are pale beyond imagination.” Jacques’ smile was grim. “Do not allow my color to fool you.” “I am no vampire yet, and if ever I fear turning, I will go to Aidan, and he will destroy me if I cannot do so myself. If you wish to take blood, then I offer it freely. The healer knows me; you can ask him if I am a reliable resource.” There was the slightest of smiles, a self-mocking humor. “What are you doing in these parts?” Jacques asked suspiciously. “I was traveling through, on my way to the United States, when I heard the butchers were back, and I thought I would make myself useful to our people for a change.” Jacques found himself admiring Julian’s answers. This was a man not in the least worried about anyone’s opinion or impression of him. He was self-contained, at ease with himself. It didn’t bother him at all that Jacques was suspicious, that he was firing questions at him. Healer, hear me. I have need of blood, and this one before me, Julian, the golden twin, has said you will vouch for him. No one can vouch for one such as Julian. He is a loner, a law unto himself, but his blood is untainted. If Julian turns, it will be Aidan or I who hunts him, no others. Avail yourself of what he offers. “Did he give me a good recommendation?” Julian’s smile was frankly sardonic. “The healer never gives good recommendation. You are not his favorite, but he agrees there would be no harm.” Julian laughed softly, put his wrist to his mouth and bit, then casually reached out to offer his life-giving fluid to Jacques. “I am too much like him, a loner, one who studies too much. I dabble in things better left alone. I fear Gregori has given up on me.” He didn’t sound worried about it.”

“An up-close portrait of middle-class Nigeria exploring the boundaries of morals and public decorum. Pitched between humor and despair, with stripped-down, evocative prose, A Bit of Difference bristles with penknife-sharp dialogue, but its truths are more subtle, hiding in the unspoken. Ultimately, A Bit of Difference explores – with a hint of mischief–the problem of how to look like you have no problems when you have abundant problems–the universal problem of the socially-motivated classes.”

“An upsurge in new cases, the highest number for one twenty-four-hour period yet, and an alarming rise in the contact curve. People who hadn’t been hit were getting bold. They were getting bored, going next door to talk to the neighbors, thinking things weren’t really that bad, gravitating back toward normalcy. Several shopkeepers opened their stores, defied the police to send them home, claiming the whole thing was blown out of proportion. They found out, soon enough, but by then other cases were breaking discipline. Another day, another big rise in new cases and a doubling of contacts.”

“An urbanite does not become a civilized person just because he has had an education. What one assimilates in the city is book-learning and knowledge derived through emulating educated men. But that alone will not make him a civilized person. A man of simple tastes becomes complex through education because he desires to become complex. That is why a lot of educated men enjoy vulgar and obscene things. The cinema has become a vulgar philistine art form. The enormous motor car with its bloated body is a vulgar vehicle. It is difficult to create a complex thing without some vulgarity and grossness. Amongst the things valued by the educated, it is difficult to find things untainted by vulgarity. People who cannot distinguish between grossness and refinement are not uncommon among the urban educated because for many, the measure of civilization is its complexity.”

“Ana supposes she should be thankful for the anguish in her life. She should appreciate the formative pain forced on her under the guise of necessity and be grateful for the endless cycle of endings and beginnings. Death and resurrection. Every new experience ended in the death of her former self. The first time Ana had died was the night she was taken. That night marked the death of her innocence and the beginning of her new life. Her immaturity had been the next thing she had to sacrifice. Hardening herself in order to survive, sharpening her resolve and suppressing her disdain. Learning to inflict pain—training to kill. The day she met Katya was the only death she had welcomed. Katya reminded her there was life beyond the academy. Those crimson curls, a mirror image of the mother she had lost. Hope. Katya was hope. The last time she had died was the morning she escaped. Desperation had led her down a dark path. Her morals had been the last part of herself she had killed in order to live. The minor aches and pains seem so mundane in comparison now.”

“Anaesthetic Aesthetic by Stewart Stafford Crumbs infesting my bedsheets, Sleeping sand in all the cracks, As a hijack tick on a giant horse, Awakened by deadening thudding. Body falling down the elevator shaft, Can you stop that instantly, friend? I cannot focus on all my work here, You should have water to cannonball. And another stiff just fell down that, Cool, go ahead if you have to leap, You won't see me cleaning that mess, Shattered carcasses, basement floor. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

“Anais Nin responds to the age-old question of why some people are compelled to write: We... write to heighten our own awareness of life, we write to lure and enchant and console others, we write to serenade our lovers. We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection. We write, like Proust, to render all of it eternal, and to persuade ourselves that it is eternal. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth, we write to expand our world when we feel strangled, or constricted, or lonely. We write as the birds sing. As the primitive dance their rituals. If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don’t write. Now, please read that one more time. But this time, substitute the word “live” for the word “write” and there you have it—the point that’s always been right there in front of our nose.”

“Anais Nin writes that anxiety can kill love. “It makes others feel as you might when a drowning man holds on to you. You want to save him, but you know he will strangle you with his panic.” Ain’t that the truth. I see that look on others’ faces when I’m drowning in one of my spirals. I know that many of the loved ones I’ve turned to, or allowed in to witness me in this state, have had to swim away from me and look after themselves, leaving me to drown. I’ve always feared that they think I’m going to strangle them emotionally with my complexity. So I usually send them on myself. Sometimes, though, when I put in the work, my anxiety has seen love grow, not die. And so, anxiety can be the very thing that pushes us to become our best person. When worked through, dug through, sat through, anxiety can get us vulnerable and raw and open. And oh so real.”