Vincent Blaire, world-renowned masked magician and Illusionist from Hell, carries his eccentricities with him everywhere he goes, both on stage and off. No one has ever seen him without his trademark mask and gloves, not even the love of his life. He keeps a cool distance, and while he would give her the world if she’d ask for it, he is always careful to never lay a hand on her.
Vincent is a master of avoidance, whether it be direct answers to questions or accepting his own emotions. He drowns himself in a cocktail of bourbon and opium whenever he feels the world crashing down around him, content to lean back and notice the beauty in the way it crumbles. When he loves, he’s unapologetically loyal, putting them upon a pedestal where they can do no wrong and nothing can touch them.
Vincent is as pale as he is tall (very). Though he enjoys the thrill of having all eyes on him on stage, he enjoys his privacy more. His favorite place to be is home, preferably with his wife breathing the same air as him, but lately those terms seem to be happening less and less.
Vivian Blaire, former prostitute with a fiery temper, has everything she’s ever wanted, but that doesn’t stop her from craving more. While she is married to the man of her dreams, the man she fell in love with behind a television screen, it’s not all she hoped it would be. When she can’t get him to meet her needs, she decides to sneak out to sleep with the very man who trafficked her.
Vivian’s mind is a mess at the best of times. She’s prone to full-on meltdowns where she will shatter everything in her path. Her favorite way to deal with past trauma is to rationalize it, jumping through hoops and leaps of logic with ease so long as she can bury it back down. She doesn’t see the trafficking she was subjected to as a bad thing necessarily–rather, it was her choice to get into the lifestyle. She was never looking to be saved.
Vivian is mixed race (Latina and white, if she had to guess), petite in height, midsize in stature. Her favorite place to be is a toss up between the kitchen (snacks are bae), the den (movies and trashy tv let her mind shut down), and her room (no boys allowed or something like that); though she will often find a reason to leave the manor for hours at a time to get her kicks.
The holidays have me in a slashing kind of mood. So instead of doing something illegal, I decided to slash some prices.
From now through December 24th, I’m running a sale on Zemblanity and Itsy Bitsy when you purchase from me directly!
When you buy from me directly, you’ll get a signed paperback and a bag of goodies from one candy-hungry-sticker-loving book nerd to another. Email me at mandakaywrites@gmail.com for more info!
The wedding is over, life is starting to slow down, and words are being written. I put off working on any projects for a good three months to get everything together, and just like when I stopped to move, the time away from my laptop was killing me. But now, I’m back, and more motivated than ever.
I still have some queueing up to do over here and on the socials, but while I’m padding time, I wanted to leave you something to sit and salivate over: my Pinterest mood board for my next (and, in my ever so humble opinion, greatest) work. I left you with a rough first chapter last time, and a playlist a couple times before that, so I think in a roundabout way I’m aiming to hit all the senses, but I honestly don’t know how to do touch and taste. Yet. I’ll figure it out.
Anyway, without further bullshit, here’s that sweet, sweet link to some sweet, sweet pics (there is a preview below but the good stuff is in the full version here). I hope they tickle your fancy as much as they do mine.
We fucked. I won’t waste my time lying to you, partially because I’ve never been one to paint myself in a favorable light, partially because I’m not great at lying. In all things, I find honest is the best policy, because if you get caught, the lie just makes the punishment that much worse. My shoulders and neck supported more of my weight than I would’ve liked to admit, and my guts felt like they were slopping around inside me and squeezing the air out of my lungs. Overdramatic? Certainly, but that didn’t change the fact that having my legs slung over his shoulders while he rammed into me made my face turn several shades of purple while I could hear the blood pulsing in my ears.
We fucked, and it wasn’t beautiful. It was dirty and messy and rough. If my life were a movie, they wouldn’t include this scene. It would be a fade-to-black, and the audience would let their imaginations run wild, and every single one of them would have been wrong. If my life were a porno, this scene would only show up on the seedy websites that you had to trash your computer after you got off because there was no getting rid of the trojan that bust down the door to the hard drive. You would watch this while touching yourself and a part of yourself would wonder if the disclaimer at the beginning was true or if you were indeed watching someone be raped on camera. Was this video illegal? Would the cops come busting down your door? Just how old was this girl? It said barely legal, but she looks younger than that.
In another place, another time, I would have been younger than that, but it wouldn’t have been marketed as barely legal because that’s not what brings in the big bucks. But that’s neither here nor there. At the end of the day, there was no camera, I was of age, and nothing was being done to me that I didn’t already want. It was sick, but maybe I was a little bit sick, too.
He let me down to change positions, and even though I liked the guy, I’m confident it had very little to do with me having a hard time breathing and very much to do with my legs making his shoulders a little uncomfortable from the strain. With swift but clumsy hands, he spread my legs apart, then changed his grip so that my left leg stayed high in the air and my right was planted firmly into the stained hotel mattress. Another strain, but he didn’t push me hard enough for my muscles to tear. He was a bit of a sadist, but he was no monster. Each thrust was more violent than the last, too deep for my liking, but my cries of pain just egged him on. The tears rolling down my face could have been real or could have been part of the act. It was hard to tell sometimes.
“Oh, Daddy, please no more,” I moaned. Even though he was old enough to be my father, he wasn’t, and honestly, that kind of roleplay weirded me out. Not just the pet name, but the begging. Struggling I could do. Screaming, hell, I was among the best in a few underground BDSM scenes. I could take any pain that was dished out to me and still make it to work on time the next day. Begging though… Begging just seemed too, well, intimate. Too real for my tastes.
But, ironically, beggers can’t be choosers and all that nonsense, so whatever Jonathan wanted Jonathan got.
“Baby Girl you’re doing so good for Daddy.”
I tried not to listen to him. His voice was nice, but the words that came out of his mouth whenever we did this killed the mood for me. He lifted my left leg further up, apparently stuck in a delusion where Baby Girl was a fucking gymnast and not just his former employee taking on a fantasy for his benefit.
“Fuck, Vivian, keep talking. God fucking damnit keep it up.”
Well, money was money, right?
“No please no more.”
“Like you mean it or I’ll shove it in your ass I swear to fuck.”
Motivation at its finest. I let what I wanted fall by the wayside, letting my emotions go with them. I did what I was known for back then—putting on a real horrorshow. I ugly cried and struggled to get away, all while pushing myself against him, letting him so far in me it hurt. I called him whatever he wanted me to call him, I begged him to stop, I let him imagine I didn’t want this even though I could feel myself getting closer to that sweet release that I was almost ashamed of.
And then he pulled out of me and shoved his dick down my throat just before he came. Fucking… That wasn’t part of the deal, and if I could do anything but gag around his length, I would bite down just to make a point.
Fucking Jonathan.
“Holy fuck that was good,” he gasped, making one final thrust against my face for good measure before pulling out of my mouth that I wished could turn into a Venus flytrap at just that moment to take the whole thing off. Instead, I wiped the slobber from my chin and glared at him.
“I told you. No ass. No mouth.”
He had the audacity to smirk at me while he rolled off the bed to retrieve his clothes from the grimy floor. No apologies to be found, but if I’m being honest, I think I would be more concerned if he did. Jonathan was a long list of adjectives that I would gladly put into a giant spreadsheet if I had enough time, but asshole didn’t necessarily equate bad. Like I said, I liked the guy well enough. If I didn’t, I would have stopped coming a long time ago. We didn’t have an obligation anymore to do these sorts of things. That tie had severed.
“Same time next week?”
I rolled my eyes and groaned as dramatically as I possibly could, pouting up at him as I reached blindly for my own clothing.
“Come on, Viv. You liked it.”
I did. But I also didn’t. It was complicated.
“Hey I gotta go. Text me when you’re free.”
He kissed my forehead and was out the door before I had a chance to put my bra back on. He had to go. Sure he did. Always in such a rush conveniently after he got off. It wasn’t that I was jealous.
My phone pinged right on cue, the funds for the room transferred to my Venmo.
It wasn’t that I was jealous. It was just that he never took it upon himself to do the walk of shame to the front desk. Somewhere in history women took it upon themselves to demand equal rights and going dutch and paying for things themselves on behalf of all women without the courtesy of asking the rest of women everywhere if that was what they wanted. Lord knows I didn’t sign up for it. Not to mention—
“Oh fuck.”
How could I forget?
I threw my clothes on and rushed out the door, not caring if it closed behind me or not. If a druggie took the opportunity to sneak in and shoot up before the poor excuse for cleaners made it to that sweltering sex hole, so be it. Not my problem.
The guy behind the counter (serious chi-mo vibes from the mustache) took his sweet ass time accepting the payment as if we hadn’t been down this road at least twelve dozen times before (yes you can take it from my phone sir you just have to hit the god damn button on your register and no I will not accept anything you are trying to offer me just cash me out and let me go), but thank heavens the transaction only took five minutes instead of the average eleven, but it was still too long for me to make any sort of much needed headway.
The black sedan was in my name, but it was far from mine. I don’t know if it felt that way because I hardly ever drove it or if it was because I didn’t pay for it with my own money. Maybe a little bit of both. Maybe that’s why I felt like there was a rock in my stomach despite everything. I jumped in and sped off, checking the time to see if I had enough of it to warrant stopping by somewhere to pick up something, anything, but I was already late and couldn’t afford to make it worse.
I sped down the backroads that would have taken anyone else longer to reach their destination, but my foot was lead against the pedal. It was just half past six and traffic on the main roads would still be a nightmare as people filtered out of their day jobs. A part of me envied them as I reached the city limits. What I wouldn’t give for their sense of normalcy. Of course, that’s how things always worked, wasn’t it? You get what you asked for, what you wanted at the time, and then you realize it’s not what you wanted at all.
For a split second I fantasized losing control of the vehicle and rolling six times off the side of the road, only to be found a couple days later by a passing tourist who got lost on their way to one of those back door access only clubs that were super exclusive. I’d either be dead or be on my way there, but if I were on my way there, I’d only end up in the hospital and receive the best of the best care until I was well enough to go home. Or maybe, just maybe, something would go wrong while I was there, and the final thing I would hear would be the drone of the heart monitor just before I lost consciousness and took my last breath.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?”
Your guess is as good as mine.
The driveway seemed longer and more ominous than I remembered, but I think that was less to do with the actual driveway and more to do with nerves. I cut the lights early out of habit, even though it’s pointless. There’s no hiding this.
I checked my hair in the mirror before I got out. It looked a mess. So did my makeup. No time. All I could do was hope I didn’t walk in smelling like sex.
Not that he would know what that smelled like.
I take a deep breath before stepping out. In with the good, out with the bad. It’s colder outside here than in town. The sky always hangs low in the air, overcast without the promise of sun rays to break through the gloom and doom.
If I didn’t know better, I would be as bold to say it was something to do with him.
There was no quietly opening the arched front door. The solid metal trimmed wood was too heavy, the hinges too squeaky. This home was less mansion and more medieval castle, but less fairy tale and more gothic Dracula. The aesthetic was a little on the nose, but I just reminded myself that at one point in my life, this was exactly what I wanted.
“Hey, sorry I’m late,” I announced to the darkness within as I muscled the door closed. “Traffic was an absolute nightmare.”
Silence answers me like an old friend. Maybe he’s sleeping? Maybe he forgot, too?
“Rush hour is something awful. Everyone all in a hurry to go nowhere,” I reason with the quiet.
Shut up, Vivian, you already know you can’t lie for shit. Not to him.
The sconces on the walls sparked to life one by one, and at one point in my life, I would have been amazed at the magic show that was just for me. Don’t get me wrong, the effort was still novel, but a part of me only felt annoyance (and maybe a little bit of dread) as his footsteps echoed down the hall. The first thing the light caught was his suit, slim and trim and fashionable if you were into the gothic vampire look. He was all dark and eccentric; he was not a modern century man, but a Transylvanian prince frozen in time. Today he chose a full matte black mask that swallowed the light. I could barely see his eyes through the shadows.
He doesn’t say a word, not a single sound, as he stares down at me. I brace myself out of habit, not for anything he’s ever said or done but for everything that’s ever happened before he ever knew I existed.
I try to meet his gaze, but ultimately fail. Just another thing to add to the list.
I hear him take a breath as if he’s about to speak, but after a few seconds he flicks his wrist and the door opens behind me (never mind that I struggle with the damn thing every time I leave this house or mansion or castle or whatever it’s supposed to be called). I sidestep out of his path, and he moves past me, closing the door behind him with such force (naturally without touching it) and the candles extinguish.
I’m left alone in the dark. I almost wish he were the type to lash out. Getting angry is more than what I’ve been getting. Getting angry at least would let me know that he cares, even a little.
I catch myself rolling my shoulders, back and forth, up and down, as if I can shrug all these feeling festering inside me away once and for all. You’d think I’d know better. Fuck, you’d think I’d be used to it by now, or that if it bothered me so god damn bad that I would up and quit. One way or another, you would think I’d learn by now.
The only thing I’ve learned thus far in life is that I’m a fucking idiot.
I would send a passive aggressive text if he had a cell phone, but he doesn’t. He’s stuck in the 18th century. I’d have better luck reaching him by bird. A part of me wishes I had the know-how—I definitely have the pettiness!
It’s official! I have physical copies! Why is it Amazon always rushes books your way when you’re buying from them, but if you’re getting author copies they take their sweet sweet time?
Eh, I think we all know the answer to that.
and there’s more where that came from, babyyy
You can now purchase Zemblanity here in paperback and as an ebook. Or, if special is more your style, you can contact me and I will ship you a signed copy with some freebies. Shoot me a message via the contact form, Facebook, or email for more information!
I really love making playlists for books I’m working on, and I wanted to share the one for my current WIP. I’ve talked about it a little before, but the main thing you need to know is it’s not like Zemblanity or Itsy Bitsy. This is new uncharted territory babyyy.
What Should Have Been Love is a dark romance about a former prostitute and an edgy magician. Toxic doesn’t even begin to describe their relationship.
Anyway, here is some music that is serving me some heavy doses of inspiration. I hope the songs stir something up in you, too. 😉
Okay, so long story short, because I have like, eh, five minutes. I did one press release thing with a newsletter that gets sent to a BUNCH of people and was a little miffed because they cut out the link to the book (what is the point of advertising if there’s no link to the think you are advertising asdfghjkl; don’t get me started on this). Anyway, I took another look at it after I calmed down and decided it didn’t work anyway because it was essentially just the back blurb with a few less sentences for length.
So I wrote up another one.
This one I’m going to use to (hopefully) try to get Zemblanity into a local bookstore. And maybe sweet talk them into letting me do a signing. Or sweet talk them into not letting me do a signing because I am nervous and awkward af and the thought of speaking to people ESPECIALLY if it’s something revolving around me or my work just makes me that much more nervous and awkward af. It’s a vicious cycle. You get it.
Anyway, point: Imma paste it below, and I would love some feedback.
Hold Onto Your Teeth…
Itsy Bitsy author and NPHS alumni, Manda Kay, released her first novel length horror, Zemblanity.
From an early age all the way into adulthood, Allyson Alexander has never been like most other people. She’s quiet, withdrawn, and does her best not to cry acid that summons monsters from another dimension to wreak havoc on those that have wronged her. She thinks she has them under control, but the body count keeps rising, the pile of teeth keeps getting bigger, and she’s running out of excuses. Unless this loaner at heart can learn to accept the help of a stranger who’s been following her every move, everything she knows and loves will be destroyed.
One reviewer said Zemblanity was “one of the best horror books I’ve ever read… If you look at it from different perspectives, sometimes it’s hard to tell who the villain is and who the hero is. I was surprised that the book had anxiety and negative aspects to life as well! Manda described everything in great detail, which I really loved! All in all, it’s a really good horror/fantasy and I think you should read it!”
For bonus chapters and updates on what Manda Kay is working on next, follow her on Facebook @lovealwaysmandakay or visit her website at mandakaywrote.wordpress.com.
Good? Bad?? I’m going to try and stop in later this week to do this, so if you have any suggestions, lay it on me.
Timothy Rienford did not sleep. He tried. He tossed. He turned. But the fact of the matter was that the couch wasn’t even a fraction of the comfort that his bed would provide. He couldn’t bring himself to lay with his wife, though. It didn’t matter that his dick didn’t end up in another person this time. She wasn’t going to believe him. He was stupid to think otherwise.
And, honestly, who could blame her?
fun fact: rienford was originally going to make up half the book. i loved him and his arc. cutting him until the bitter end hurt me more than you could imagine. Photo by Collis on Pexels.com
No marriage was without its problems. That’s a phrase he liked to repeat to anyone who cared enough to listen. Nobody was perfect. Everyone made mistakes. What he didn’t like to acknowledge was the fact that some mistakes were bigger than others, and his was near the top of the list.
He didn’t think of himself as a cheater. Cheaters had motives and plans and schemed their way into other people’s beds. Rienford did none of the above. Every time he woke up next to another woman, it was after something out of his control. He’d go out with the guys and have a few too many. He’d weigh his options through the haze of smoke and strobe lights, and ultimately make the wrong choice. The music flowed through him and their perfume awakened something inside himself that could not be tamed. That was the difference between him and other men, though. Other men hated their wives and girlfriends and were scoping out the playing field. Rienford always loved his wife.
When they started out, sure, perhaps he took advantage of her young love and planted a few lies here and there, never imagining they would grow. He was faithful for seven years and counting, but to Tish, it didn’t matter. It didn’t stop the doubt festering in the back of her mind.
Rienford wiped the tears from his cheeks impatiently. This whole thing didn’t hurt as bad as he expected. A little weight on the chest and nothing more. For now, he was feeling fine. A little sad, a little distracted, even, but fine. The hurt hadn’t absorbed yet.
Normal would have to find a new normal.
He smiled to himself, to the ceiling. What was he talking about? What was he thinking? This was just a fight, just like any other they’ve had and just like all the ones they would have after today. They’d get over it and move on with life. Come morning, she’d crawl up next to him on the couch and whisper how sorry she was, or he would give her a hug while she gave him the cold shoulder in the kitchen until she broke down and accepted his apology. All he had to do in the meantime was get some rest before work and wait the tide out.
His thoughts wandered on and on like this, until at last his eyelids were too heavy to possibly keep open any longer. He closed them, then peeked back open; one long blink. Again, the same motion. He stared at the popcorn ceiling, watching the way the lights from the street flickered and moved as cars drove by outside the window. Again, the same motion. But this time, he faced not his ceiling, but something big, something black and hooked and pronged, its fleshy throat wet and exposed, its teeth lining the sides of the open hole, and a long, purple, almost black tongue hanging down, almost touching his hand.
Rienford jerked his hand to his chest, sitting up and scooting away from the thing that loomed over him as fast as he could manage. He blinked, faster this time, and found nothing there. Nothing but the empty room.
It was his imagination, nothing but an overworked brain after a long, stressful day at work. All he needed to do was get the images, the hallucinations, out of his head. Just think of something else. That easy. Like watching a funny movie after a horror flick before going to bed. Same exact thing. That was all it was, just one big bad dream.
He stared at a fixed point on the ceiling, not letting his eyes dart this way and that, because every time he did he swore there was something moving just out of the corner of his vision. Happy thoughts. He stared and thought back on when he graduated college. His mother stood in the crowd, trying her best to blend in with everyone else even though she couldn’t have felt more out of place. A big black woman in a sea of California diet blondes. When the rest were busy snapping photos of their sons and daughters, his mama looked only at him; the only thing blocking her view was her own tears running down her plump face. He’d steal glances her way while he walked up to the podium to get his diploma. Only glances, lest her pride seep into him and make his heart swell just as much as hers. He’d never seen her so happy in his life. The cancer took her six months later. God rest her soul.
Rienford smiled as the tears ran down in little streams to the shell of his ears, gathering there until they runneth over onto the fabric of the couch. He closed his eyes, and saw a snake thing with a dripping tongue. It licked the man on the ground until nothing but bone fragments remained. He couldn’t smell the death initially, but it wafted his way in due time. A mix of scents, like when his wife threw a few different wax melts into the warmer. But this was bleach in hot water, burning hair, something acidic, something a little like sour milk, an underlying sweetness. It made his stomach churn.
Rienford’s eyes shot open. The room was dark. Quiet. His heart pounded behind his eyes. Again, he closed them. And again, he saw it. It slithered here and there with its crescent moon head, its empty eye sockets. Its tongue, long and flat, moved in and out of the hole in its neck. Every drop of saliva left a burning hole in the ground.
And Death stood before him, not draped in black robes and a scythe, but in a plain sundress and army boots, extending a long, bony finger in his direction.
He opened his eyes once more, sitting up fully, swinging his feet around to the side of the couch so they rested on the floor, trying desperately to ground himself. There would be no sleep tonight.
He wanted nothing more than to walk to the bedroom he and Tish normally shared. He wanted to touch her shoulder, to shake her gently to consciousness. He wanted to confess everything; everything he saw, or at very least thought he saw.
Would she believe him? Not a chance in hell.
Had roles been reversed, would he have believed her?
There was a card in his deck he could pull if he wanted to, but Rienford had a gut feeling that it would only make matters worse. Bringing another woman into the matter would only seal his fate as a cheater and conspirator. It’d be best for all three of them if Abbigale remained a secret.
He should have called her. Plain and simple. He would have come home a hero instead of whatever this was. Instead of being banished to the couch, he’d be in bed with Tish, worshipping her body like when they first got married and the getting was still good.
Rienford’s dreams were all the same that night. Restful sleep did not come, and would not come ever again. By morning, he was shivering and soaked with sweat.
He walked to the bedroom, quiet lest he wake Tish. She clung to his pillow tight, eye makeup dried against her cheeks and fists and sheets. Her mouth, even in sleep, was set in a frown. He sat at the bottom corner of the bed and just watched for a long while, letting his thoughts roam between his marriage and that skeleton girl in the alley. Death punctuated everything.
Rienford got up from the bed and went to the shower, setting it to something just shy of scalding. On one hand, it upset him to make her so upset. On the other hand, there was this grim sort of satisfaction in seeing that makeup smeared everywhere. He didn’t like the feeling, but it was there.
He’d let Tish have all the space she needed. She’d come around eventually. When he was done, he wiped the steam from the mirror, smiling at his reflection. He didn’t do anything last night, and sooner or later, she would have to accept it. She’d either get over it or die angry.
Zemblanity is finally available on Amazon! It was actually available a few days ago, and I had thought I made a post in queue about it. I did not. I was mistaken. Whoopsies.
That’s not the point, though. I mean, it is, but I’m not going to let it spoil my day. Also, the real point is I wanted to get on here to let you know that in the coming weeks, a few bonus chapters are going to pop up over here that ultimately got cut from the final product. Cool, right?
So if you’ve read my not-quite-so-charming tale of a neurodivergent megalomaniac, and you are just itching to know what the hell is the deal with that Timothy Rienford fellow, well, have I got a nice little assortment coming up for you! Also, fun fact, Rienford is my favorite character in the whole thing. He’s my complicated sad confused drug addict. I have a soft spot for those. And it killed me to scrap his chapters (half the damn book). But, ultimately, I think it was for the best, because even though he was my favorite, his story just wasn’t as strong as Allyson’s, and I went in a quasi different direction for him that just worked better in the long run.
Anyway, yes, you can find a few installments of some sweet, sweet Rienford coming up over here on Sundays for the next several weeks! In the meantime, if you haven’t bought Zemblanity yet, what are you doing??? Get yourself to this link and click it!!
Manda Kay Writes 