It's that time in the week again; it's Author Take Over!!!
Please welcome back the amazing author (and a pub sister of mine); Carmilla Voiez.
Make sure to drop by her Amazon page to see all of her books and full biography. :-D
Thank you for letting me take over your blog again, Sabina.
So much has happened since the last time I was here and my writing has diversified. I am still ALL about the horror, but I'm using other genres to expand my themes as well. “The Ballerina and the Revolutionary” is one example. I released it under the name Milla V as it's suitable for a far wider audience than my horror stories and it has been very well received.
It deals with themes that recur throughout my work: self acceptance, sexuality (especially female sexuality) and free love. But it does so in a very different way to Starblood and Basement Beauty, a more gentle and soul searching way. I think it's the themes that allow my stories a cohesion that spans across genres from violent horror to sex-positive erotica.
In August I'm releasing a new anthology. Bloody Sexy, the dark side of desire. I love editing anthologies as it allows me to showcase work by great indie authors that might otherwise not be discovered. I am certain this book will be adored by lovers of horror and erotica alike.
I'll share some excerpts with you. One from “The Starblood Trilogy”, one from “Basement Beauty” and one from “The Ballerina and the Revolutionary”. I hope the people reading this will be interested enough to want to find out more. My blog can be found at http://carmillavoiez.wordpress.com and includes links to my books and radio shows, plus reviews and thoughts about life, politics and sex.
Excerpt 1 - The Starblood Trilogy
‘Lilith,’ the white-haired man calls to her. She turns to look at his thin, silk wrapped frame and weak, obsequious eyes. He is speaking again. The sound annoys her. ‘I felt it the moment you stepped from Chaos into Malkuth. The world trembled as your foot touched the floor. We all did. You have an army here, should you want it.’ What is he telling her? The words buzz around her ears like ravenous gnats. An army? What do I want that I might need an army? ‘An army.’ His eyes shine. ‘Yes, we want to change the world in your name. Stay here, please. Lead us into temptation.’ Lilith shakes her head. ‘You’re a liar and a misogynist. You want to follow because you want revolution, freedom and fire. If Samael or Asmodeus appeared beside me you would bow before them and, under their protection, spit at all I am and all of womankind. Why do you desire revolution when this world is already of your making?’ He bows his head, but not before she sees the hatred burning in his eyes. ‘You want power and glory,’ she says. ‘I see through you, into the black heart beating pointlessly in your skinny chest. You are nothing, good for nothing.’ ‘I am nothing,’ he agrees. He kneels before her. ‘Please, make me something. Let me serve you. Do you want him? I can call him down. What do you want? I will get it for you.’ Lilith strides into the kitchen. Everything sparkles; it is like magic. Drawing a heavy butcher’s knife from a chrome block, she touches the tip and runs a finger along the blade. ‘Sharpen this,’ she tells the man hovering in the doorway. He looks at her then sets to work, gathering a wand and leather strap from a drawer. The knife sings as it is sharpened. Closing her eyes, she lets its song fill her. ‘Knives. Wonderfully phallic, don’t you think?’ she says, more to herself than him. ‘Yes,’ he answers quickly. ‘People who carry knives are sexually repressed. It’s the act of penetration they crave.’ He blushes and turns away. ‘I’m sorry … here, it’s sharp now.’ She takes the blade from his extended hand. He does not meet her eyes. ‘You know what I did. Did you watch? Did it excite you?’ ‘No … I didn’t watch,’ he stammers, shaking his head. ‘Baron … my guide … told me.’ ‘Ahh.’ Losing interest, she turns on a tap. Water hisses into the sink, beating a frantic rhythm on the aluminium. She turns it off again and looks around the room, but her mind wanders upstairs. A smile makes her lips tremble then it grows into laughter. The man looks at her. His lips twitch in a silent prayer or chant. Is he afraid now? Good. She steps towards him, and he takes a step back then recovers himself. ‘I want to help you,’ he says. ‘We share the same dream: a world full of demons and magic, hedonism and despair.’ ‘You will help me,’ she tells him. She pats the flat edge of the knife against her thigh. The movement attracts his attention, and his jaw drops. ‘I’m more valuable alive.’ He looks as though he wants to say more, but his words fail him. Another step closer, she can hear his heart beating fast, the rhythm flawed; a beat skips and another echoes. ‘No! Please!’ he cries. ‘Satori, help me!’ His words are silenced by her fist. She smashes open his jaw with her punch. Terrified, he stares at her, his mouth hanging open. Tearing open her blouse, she reveals the swell of her left breast and pulls his gaping maw to her nipple. ‘Worship the terrible mother,’ she whispers in his ear. ‘For she gives you life and binds you to death.’
Excerpt 2 - Basement Beauty
Amalthea stood outside the unlit entrance to “The Pit” and breathed in the cool, pre-dawn air. One hand brushed wild curls from her mouth and tucked them behind her ear. They sprang back across her cheek immediately, untameable. As her skin acclimatised she drew jacket sleeves over her rich, honey-coloured arms. It was her post-work ritual: the time when she metamorphosed from a human doing into a human being. A movement at the edge of her vision attracted her attention and she turned towards the shadowy alley where the night club bins were stored. Her direct gaze didn’t reveal any ghoul, goblin, animal or person skulking in the darkness, watching and waiting for her to leave, but her mind created a sinister shape anyway. For the past six weeks the evening news had continually hinted at unnatural deaths city-wide and rumours of a modern day Jack the Ripper were rife. Now every alleyway had become hostile territory and every shadow a killer, preparing to strike. With her meditative moments, of simply being, stolen by fear of the impenetrable darkness, Amalthea decided to button her coat and get moving. Home wasn’t far away, a mere ten minute walk and at four am most of the drunks were already home, sleeping it off, or standing, unsteadily in taxi queues, waiting for chariots to return them safely to their beds. In fact, that was one thing that could be said about fear of the dark - it was good for the economy. Gentle but pervasive drizzle bejewelled her eyelashes and vainly attempted to flatten her hair. Street lights mutated into dancing constellations and pavements were dotted with quicksilver puddles. Amalthea’s boots leaked and the liquid made her toes squelch. Sucking and dripping sounds masked the noise of her footsteps and the perfectly matched slapping of shoe leather behind her. Of course, when she glanced back, the street was empty, but the moment she faced forwards she could feel his presence behind her, as always, matching her stride. He was the shadow from which she fled, unseen but perceived through all her other senses, making her hairline tingle - the man who wasn’t there. She had tried to tell Lynsey of this consuming fear, but her friend hadn’t understood, dismissing her fears as paranoia. She decided in the future to only mention this deep, primal knowledge to her diary and wondered for one terrifying moment whether his other victims had known they were being hunted, but had kept silent or were disbelieved until the moment their vacated shells were discovered. She considered why she had dogmatically given this disembodied threat a male gender then shook her head. It was perfectly natural; serial killers were almost always male, weren’t they? The one who kills me will probably be male too, she reasoned. Her scalp itched. Realising the utter pointlessness of another backwards glance, she balled her fists and marched onwards. Just five more minutes and she could lock the darkness outside, for what that was worth. A shriek broke through the pittering-pattering shroud of raindrops. It echoed between tall Victorian town houses, converted into flats and bedsits - a cat or a baby waking from a nightmare? She waited for a repeat of the noise until she became aware that she had stopped moving and was standing as still as a statue as the rain continued to fall around and upon her. The sound didn’t return. Shivering, she willed her right foot to make its journey, one step forwards and asked her hip to tilt and her knee to bend. Movement didn’t follow her commands so she concentrated on her left foot instead - still nothing. Swallowing hard, she wiggled the toes of her left foot. Water moved between skin and cotton; the sensation made her nauseous and she felt her stomach fight to keep its nutrients safe within its fleshy walls. ‘Just walk, Tay,’ she whispered. Rain hissed in her ears. Beneath her chin a waterfall tumbled onto her chest. Her face was hidden behind a veil of aqua. ‘Just walk… five minutes!’ Ahead of her a tree that overhung the path shook water from its leaves like a huge dog. Large drops splattered as they hit the ground. She wondered what waited beyond the tree, hidden behind the trunk and considered taking a longer route home, where the streets were less shadowy and the traffic more regular. Shivering from cold and fear, she watched as the heavy branches bent and purged until the urge to vomit returned. One hand stretched out to a rough red-brick wall beside her, knees bent and hips angled yet her feet remained bolted to the spot.
Excerpt 3 - The Ballerina and the Revolutionary
Opening the bedroom door, I inspected the empty room. Vivienne’s huge bed crouched in the corner like a monster ready to pounce. Shadows lingered at the edges, a dark audience to mother’s regular performances. The air smelt stale. It reeked of old perfume, sweat and sex. I marched to the wardrobe and opened the door. Frills burst forth from its bowels. I moved soft, delicate fabrics and checked behind them. No one lurked there. I pulled back the curtains and opened a window. Sunlight poured through the smeared glass, bouncing off Vivienne’s full-length mirror and flooding the room. Breathing slower now, I sheathed my knife and strolled to the bedroom door. Already the air smelled fresher. I turned around as I reached the hallway, glancing back at the rich fabrics and heavily patterned wallpaper - a true boudoir, a shrine to her pleasure. I sighed and moved to walk away when something caught my eye. Turning back to the room, I watched as the décor altered. Subtly at first - the colour of the light-shade, a change of carpet then everything looked different. And there was Mother, centre stage, on the bed, naked, thighs splayed and mounted by a huge man. Her flushed face fixed on me and I was a terrified ten-year-old girl once more. ‘What do you think you’re staring at?’ Vivienne demanded. ‘Maybe she wants to join in,’ the oily-voiced stranger suggested. My body shook. The man didn’t break his rhythm as he spoke. His flabby body still pounded between Vivienne’s thighs. Mother’s eyes looked cold and empty. I shook my head, denying what I saw and turned away in horror. I fled to my own bedroom, chased by my mother’s laughter.