For many years I've struggled with what genre I'd like to write in. So, I experimented with several. With the Dark World Trilogy, I learned very quickly how hard it is to write fantasy. To create a whole new world with intricate characters and histories was, I found, very exhilarating and fun, but also exhausting. I've written science fiction with Inhuman, and spiritual adventure with Genesis. My mom wants me to write comedy, but frankly, I'm just not that funny on paper. Nightmara, while not my best work, was the funnest to write.
When I was a kid, I was fascinated with the works of one author in particular, devouring nearly all his books before the age of sixteen.
I've always been fascinated with fear, and with being afraid. Perhaps it's twisted, but I love being afraid. I love a terrifying, psychologically warped plot that leaves you jumpy for weeks after you've read it. I love ghosts, monsters, and that feeling when you run up the stairs really fast because it feels like something is behind you. And, in turn, I love to scare people.
Hence my choice to write in the Horror genre. I've chosen Gothic Horror particularly, as I love the Victorian era. I may not remain in that genre forever, but dark ideas seem to be the most prevalent on my list of 'novels to write'.
For those of you who loved Dark World, don't worry, I plan to write more in that world in the future. :)
But for now, here is a small taste of Grave Alice: (Warning: adult content)
The dream began. How I would come to loathe, despise, and yet yearn for the nightmarish world inside my mind. It always started the same way, always the girl, the ghostly girl standing beside a glorious, shining apple tree. The fruit weighs on the branches, burdening them with their delicious ripeness; brilliant red skin glittering despite a sun silenced by cloud and gloom. She watches me from beneath a canopy of emerald fronds, glowers at me, hates me with eyes of smoldering obsidian. She is naked but for a filthy, threadbare shift; right strap torn, exposing her breast. Her arms hang stiffly at her sides, hands clenched in apparent rage, bare toes curling and uncurling in the black loam beneath her feet. Long blonde hair drapes her shoulders, twisting like golden corkscrews; oddly immaculate despite the condition of her dress. I could not, however, make out her face; all but her eyes are disfigured with what appeared to be black ink, as though scribbled out with a quill gripped by an angry hand. Perhaps if I’d known who she was, I could have interpreted what she wanted.
Thick, silvery fog rolls in around her then, like the cold breath of some huge, imperceptible beast. The girl appears fearful of the anomaly, placing a protective hand upon the tree. Silvery miasma plays about her ankles, twisting as it rises, moving serpentine around her body, bringing a moan to her lips as it disappears beneath her gown. Bewitched, the girl closes her eyes, steals her hand from the bark and begins touching herself, loving herself. Then, as if sensing the girl’s erotic preoccupation, another arm is born of the fog, reaching for the tree, wrapping smoky, sinister fingers about its trunk. Instantly, as would the touch of death, the leaves turn brown and the apples begin to rot, blacken, spoiling inside their shriveled skin. One by one the fruit falls to the cold earth, shattering as though made of glass, exploding into a million sharp and shimmering pieces.
The girl, one moment enthralled in the raptures of some phantom lover, suddenly screams a scream that tears my soul in two as the apple shards are swept up in the air by an unseen force and begin to impale her, slice her, cutting her into tiny bits, cutting and cutting until she falls upon the ground amidst the remnants of apples, herself but a puzzle of silver pieces. All that is left of her is the reflection of one of her dark eyes, blinking bewilderedly, trapped within each of the mirror-like fragments.
And then, just as swiftly as it had come, the fog morphs from white to black and into a writhing tornado. The ruins of the girl are pulled up into the storm and whisked away, her cries but an echo on the wind. The apple tree, wizened, blackened, crumbles and blows away like dark ash.
But where the roots of the glorious tree once held firm, amid the sludge and decay, germinates a tiny seed. I look to the sky, searching for the sun, awaiting it to surrender but a sliver of light, to nourish this insignificant life form.
The clouds darken and swirl, wavering like hypnotic mists, sunlight struggling to break through the wall. I feel myself crying as I kneel before the sapling, its curled body frail and barely hanging on. Somehow I know it is the last, the very last of its kind. After this, there are no more. No more beauty, no more fruit.
I weep, my hands over my face, rocking, pleading, but instead of the sky opening up to heed my prayer, the black tornado returns, the sharp fragments that shredded the ghostly girl tears me into pieces, setting me adrift upon the dark wind.
I am no more.
While the nightmare continued to vary amid the duration of my stay, the essence remained the same: a shattering of innocence.