Saturday, December 22, 2012


Each year at Yule they gather ‘round,
orphan girls to try the crown.
Hands extend to see which one
will take the power, come undone,
be remade, another thing,
twisted body lengthening
grown large and full, ripe until
she’s fit to be the perfect tool,
a mate unto the Master made
whom every demon, angel, shade
shall fall before, fear, obey.

To the world the Chosen One
gives the morning and the sun –
but not the son, oh no, not He,
for ever shall she sterile be,
this the bargain and the price,
the child-bride, our sacrifice
for fragile peace.

Tuesday, December 18, 2012


Back against concrete, Marcel looked over the lights of Toronto. He’d risked much for this view and the people below. Walking past, most did not see him, an apt punishment for hubris. He’d never railed against being doomed to walk the Earth. It was, after all, the mission he’d accepted before his fall.

“They wait for a fat man in a sleigh to bring them love.” The familiar voice dripped with disdain.

“They’re born with love, brother. It’s why you hate them.”

“One of many reasons.”

Marcel looked again on his city, before entering a fight he could not win.

Yet more background from my current WIP. Angels keep popping up everywhere. It's disconcerting, as I'm not overly fond of them and trust them not at all - nor should you.

Friday, December 14, 2012

Give and Take

I tried to keep my blood from hitting the circle, knew when it did, hated (loved) what came next. Aching from crown to heel, mouth filled with hot copper – such familiar comfort – I tugged on the thread connecting us and commanded Nate to sleep, the first offensive spell I’d learned.

His eyes filled with murder before he slumped to the floor. For wounds inflicted, I did not catch him.

I cleansed the circle, crying, same as I had the night I’d been orphaned. The lab wasn’t sterile when I left, Nate over my shoulder, but it would have to do.


Wednesday, December 12, 2012


by Colleen Foley

I remember Seth punching me hard and shoving me into the circle. Blood poured from nose and mouth onto the sigils. I felt something rise in me, beast-like, spitting and growling.

Then something else came. It burst through the fragile seams of mind and body, with one purpose: to go home.

“Follow it. Find it. Hunt it!

I did beat him then, hard and long. …so good to give up my weary attempts at holding onto etiquette and civility when what I wanted was an orgy of blood and bone and pain.

His and mine, together.

Like always.

Like brothers.


Desperate Measures

I didn’t know if I should leave or start the ritual. Nate was quickly turning into something… not-Nate. No time to waiver.

Circle scrawled in hasty charcoal, only the meeting of the seams precise. Sigils followed with words from my mother’s book, voice weary, spell accurate. No time to falter.

Reaching for the needle, I looked too long on my brother, saw the animal in him rise. No time to avoid the punch.

Brain rattled, I returned the favor, aim true. His blood free flowing, I shoved him into the circle, magic etiquette be damned. No time left at all.


Monday, December 10, 2012


By Colleen Foley

I remember little after Seth stuck me. Razor sharp flashes of half formed thoughts searing behind eyes that wouldn’t close. Etiquette demanding that I not beat him bloody, I clenched my fists and tried to think. My mind was already weary with struggling to maintain.

I felt as if someone had poured adrenaline straight into all my major organs; every part of me was hard…eager. Restraint unraveling seam by seam…

“your blood…permission. And your help. Please.”

Seth stepped back as I growled. I shook my head hard. Tried again and managed to spit out one word, hoping he’d understand.



Thursday, December 06, 2012


Universities are plagued with lax security, side doors left unlatched by weary graduate students heading for beer, bed, or both. The lab was ours.

Nate stumbled as though drunk.

Blood in a needle from my own kit.
Blood on a cold glass slide.
Black seams like stained glass.

“It’s a virulent strain of Pump.”

No reply.

I looked up. Nate stood, fists and jaw clenched.

There was no etiquette to guide me. I plunged ahead, blind. “There’s a way to track the practitioner, using your blood, but I need your permission. And your help. Please.” Before it’s too late.


Give Me Something To Break

By Colleen Foley

I dropped my head, listening to the birds chirp through the grey/red haze ripping my mind. It hurt.

I knew why Seth needed my blood. It made perfect sense. But damn if I wasn’t feeling threatened, angry, and mean into the bargain. This isn’t me.

He was right. He was my brother. ‘Nuff said.

“Okay, Madam Nightingale, we’d better hurry and jab me. This thing ramps up aggression, I think, and since I’m already a son-of-a-bitch…”

Seth hit the gas hard enough to spew gravel.

He said nothing for a while and then, softly, “It’s making your jokes suck, too.”


Tuesday, December 04, 2012


The boy was pretty, six feet of chiseled grace laid out by absinthe. Madam prefers supĂ©rieure to green. I’d not find out which he was.

I favor wormwood tea, better to prolong my passions, if a bitter taste for the men.

Parched lips parted with a plea.

I could not grant him any release, however fine that act might be. Under Madam’s ministrations, I’d chirp for mercy, confessing all.

I kissed him though, enjoying the rise. “Fear not, young buck. After a jab or two, she’ll leave you whole.”

He relaxed, poor fool.

I never said she’d let him live.