The Mysterious Man – Ep. 11 of The Marquis

Forced to face the dangerous Marquis in the dark tower, fear took hold of Saphira. But it turned out the Marquis wasn’t there to hurt her, but to disclaim any fault in her best friend’s supposed death. And he doesn’t stop there. He has truths for Saphira that will shake everything she thought she knew, including information about a mysterious enemy.



I measure him up and down. Tall and strong, dark eyes intense and sovereign in his ivory face, he looks honest and confident, and even a shade respectable. I decide to at least assume he’s telling the truth.

“Say I take that for a fact. What do you suppose the ‘mysterious man’ was after? Why did he need to get inside the asylum?”

“The sewers underneath the asylum link to the catacombs under this manor. He wanted access to those sewers and therefore to me. He wants my head.”

A revelation hits me. “You think the mysterious man is Ivan Basarab. The Slayer.”

The Marquis snorts as if insulted. “The Slayer. Undeserved distinction for a coward who fights from the shadow. He’s afraid to face me for real.”

“You think he succeeded in breaching the sewers?”

“If he did, it’s irrelevant. I secured them from halfway to here. But I do have something more on Basarab’s true identity. I think he’s a Northville local.”

A shock. “Say what?”

The Marquis continues. “Your friend Vivien Grant clearly knew him. Her mother too. I also think that he was a member of the group that raped and killed Catherine, and that gave me over to the people who turned me into what I am today.”

The pathos with which he speaks the words, the fearlessness in “rape” and “kill” and “what I am today” emphasize his entitlement to revenge. I surprise myself indulging him. And accepting his theory. Tension dissolves from my body as I begin to understand things. I let go of my knees.

“When you proved to be stronger and deadlier than the other serpents, you became dangerous to your makers,” I draw the conclusion. “Then you went independent. That’s when they must’ve activated Basarab, the Slayer. He’s always been one of them.”

The Marquis smiles a disturbingly charming smile. “You’re very bright, Saphira.”

“So Ivan Basarab is a false name for a man we already know.” I attempt to ignore how his praise makes me feel.

“That’s right.”

He looks hard at me with those impossibly black eyes that seem to hypnotize me, only that this time I’m sure he’s not trying. Silence settles between us for moments in which I just stare, unable to rip my eyes from him.

“What are you thinking?” He whispers, lowering himself so close that his bitter-sweet breath touches my face, the mattress and the pillows giving in under his weight as he leans on his hands. I feel lost.

“I’m wondering why I find it so easy to take your word for everything,” I whisper.

His expression deepens, his eyes now flooding mine. It’s hard to breathe, they seem to weigh on me.

“Because I may be a villain, but I’m the only person without a reason to lie to you. All you ever got from me was the truth. You’re beginning to trust me.”

I let my gaze wander all over his marble face.

“I must be really stupid.”

“By no means. You’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, actually. And I wish to win  your complete trust.”

“What use do you have for it?”

“It’s the key to your affection.”

My heart flutters. “You desire my affection?”

“Ardently,” he says, his eyes lowering to my lips.



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Truth – Ep. 10 of The Marquis

Engaged with the Marquis against her will, Saphira tried to escape, but has been intercepted and witnessed her best friend’s house burning. After a talk with the girl’s mother she’s drawn the conclusion that her best friend’s fate was the Marquis’ work – as a warning to her, among other things – and now, once again in the Marquis’ power, she must face him. But this meeting will reveal another side to the story that Saphira didn’t expect.


From fire-fighter to cop to nurse I get transferred back to Zed’s hands, who drives me back to the Marquis’ manor in silence. I’m dizzy and coughing and convinced that the man Mrs Grant referred to is the Marquis, and that Vivien had discovered his secrets, which put her in death’s way.

I’m shaking as Zed escorts me to my chamber in the tower and seals the door behind me, pulling three heavy locks from the outside. In a fit I take off my soot-smeared clothes and brace myself, rubbing my arms up and down nervously and chewing on my lower lip until I taste blood with ash. Curling between the cold pillows on the bed, feeling dirty and drained, I stare at the ragged canopy hanging over me as my mind spins around Vivien. My head snaps to the door the moment it creaks open, and the Marquis enters the chamber.

I retreat to the bedhead and brace my knees, but lose control of my shaking as he approaches. My lips are dry and cracked, yet the tip of my nose drips sweat. Those black eyes, demonic in his pale face, scare me to death, but for the first time he doesn’t try to numb me with his hypnotic powers. His neckline is open, revealing part of his marble-like pectorals, lean but strong and smooth like serpent muscle.

“You really believed you could elude me, Saphira?” His voice is calm and slithery. I can’t bring myself to speak. My vocal cords seem stuck, and my arms lock painfully around my knees. I wouldn’t be able to let go if I wanted to, I’m so afraid.

“There’s no way out of this for you but the one I provide,” he says and stops still, staring hard at me. For moments he looks a statue of marble with eyes of coal, a deceivingly handsome monster.

“What will you do with me?” The question comes out of my throat in a hoarse whisper. I think I recognize a shade of hurt in his eyes.

“Why Jeremy Simmons of all people?” He demands.

“He –” I cough and lock my fingers into my wrists. The marks left by the cuffs hurt, distracting my attention from the fear and restoring my ability to speak. “He was the only one who offered an alternative.”

“And did you consider the consequences in case his alternative went wrong?”

I ponder. “I didn’t.”

“You didn’t.”

He walks around the bed and stops by my side. I sink my fingers deeper into my wrists, but can’t keep down the fear anymore. He’s too close now. I expect him to grab my hair and pull my head back, then push his serpent tongue deep through my mouth to my inner organs and rip out my stomach like he did Pukov’s, but what he does is sit by me, a humid coldness emanating from his body. I know he’s warm in his human form, so he must be in an intermediary state between man and serpent. I shudder with horror.

“A few weeks ago, your friend Vivien Grant began seeing a myserious man,” he says, his voice dazzling my senses. “They met only at night. Always around the lunatic asylum, according to what the police discovered by now, but he kept cloaked and hooded, and no one other than Vivien ever saw his face. Last time they saw each other they also entered the asylum. The place is as fortified as a high-security prison, as you sure know, so Vivien must’ve used her good relations to some of the personnel – which is what the mysterious man needed her for. After he got what he wanted he tried to dispose of her and any proof of their relationship, and caused the fire. The girl’s mother was probably supposed to die in it as well, but managed to escape.”

He looks into my eyes, the blackness of his gaze chilling. I can’t imagine how I could ever accept his closeness while “sober” of his hypnotic powers, he’s such a perfect blend between man and beast, so unnatural. His beauty is of a rather fantastic than human nature, and it’s hard to put up with for a normal person. “He has you mesmerized,”He has you all fooled,” Mrs Grant’s words come back to me. He must wield immense power over the psyche.

“Mrs Grant says Vivien didn’t trust the ‘mysterious man’. So she couldn’t have helped him,” I manage.

“He must’ve found some way to persuade her. Blackmail maybe?”

“No way. Vivien is – was – as clean as an angel.”

“Then maybe threats? Against her family, her friends?”

“You should know,” I hiss between my teeth.

“Saphira, I never lied to you. I don’t have to, you see, because I’m in a position of power. So believe me when I tell you – I’m not the mysterious man.”


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Blood Trails – Ep. 9 of The Marquis

Forced by the dark and dangerous Marquis into an engagement that serves his purposes of revenge, young artist Saphira finds herself at a crossroads of emotions – dread and attraction, which she blames on the Marquis’ mysterious hypnotic powers. She yet decided to try and escape him. She left with Inspector Jeremy Simmons, but the Marquis’ head of security, Zed, intercepted them. Behind Zed Saphira saw something burning, and when she identified what it was despair packed her.


Jeremy throws open the door on his side, pulls out his gun and points it at Zed over the upper frame.

“Stop right there,” he calls out, and Zed does as told. Yet nothing in the security guard’s face changes. His eyes remain steely, as if Jeremy’s action doesn’t catch him off guard, but he chooses not to react. I know how fast and deadly Zed can be, I’ve seen him on the night the Marquis killed Pukov. I know that, if he decides to, he’s quicker with that gun than Jeremy can imagine. But right now nothing of all this matters.

I throw my door open, scramble out of the car and start running, stumbling and falling and getting back up, losing my shoes and calling out Vivien’s name. Her house is burning a few streets up, and the smoke grows thicker as I approach. People run in all directions, yelling and coughing in scarves and handkerchiefs they hold at their mouths. I’m dirty and coughing by the time I reach the corner closest to Vivien’s house, where I’m forced to stop.

Through thick smoke I see fire fighters in red-and-white jackets and helmets hold bulky hoses, calling out urgent commands at each other. The tension sends a clear message – they’re doing everything they can, but they’re not optimistic. Flames surge with a roar from the window on the first floor where I know Vivien’s room is, and a woman yells somewhere close.

Even though I can’t see her right, by some mysterious mechanism in my brain I recognize her as Vivien’s Mum, and feel my way to her, keeping contact with a wall through the thickening smoke. The woman is being held back by two people, one a fire fighter by the jacket and helmet, the other civilian. I wrap my arms around her waist, making her turn around and burst into even more violent crying. Noticing she knows and accepts me, the fire fighter and the other man let go.

“Saphira!” Her arms now go around my neck and squeeze me so hard it adds to the clogging of the smoke. Despair and adrenaline feed her strength, and she doesn’t even attempt to control it until she decides she needs to face me. By what I can guess through my teary eyes her own are red, her dark hair messy like a witch’s and her voice that of a woman gone mad with pain.

“That monster –” she coughs – “He wanted to destroy all proof and he destroyed my girl in stride. He destroyed her, Saphira!”

It takes a few moments of her coughing and hysterically repeating, “He destroyed her,” until I gather myself enough to make sense of what she’s saying.

“Who? Who destroyed her, what are you talking about?”

“She wanted to unmask him, and he disposed of her. I warned her to stop the chase, I knew he was dangerous. I’ve been married to a monster like him for decades.”

That Mrs Grant would think of her husband and Vivien’s father in those terms is completely new to me, and I’m taken aback. The memory of Vivien opening her arms to stop me as I hurried to the stairs that led to the dungeons last night flashes in my mind as my lungs constrict and spit out the soot in violent coughs of my own. “Saph, we need to talk.”

“Who are you talking about, Mrs Grant?” I manage in a bruised voice.

Mrs Grant’s lips move, but a burst of flames from the house covers the sound. I wince and stagger, yet find balance again and repeat the, “who,” which for some reason Mrs Grant takes as a refusal to believe the name from my part rather than a genuine question.

“He has you mesmerized,” she admonishes. “He has you all fooled. But her he couldn’t charm, she discovered his true rot.”

“Everyone clear the street,” a fire-fighter calls, running toward us with arms spread wide as if to protect us.

“Run!” another one calls in the distance just before a huge explosion deafens me and sends my head spinning. I can’t hear anything but the buzz in my ears, and see people moving in slow motion as Mrs Grant pulls me to the ground and glass shards fly over us.


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Hyperion Episode 8 – In the Moonlight


Hyperion is on a mission to slay the Swine, a powerful Night Wraith. Yet in the last episode he found himself compelled to save his target’s wife, Ligia, from rape by one of her husband’s men. Hyperion killed the attacker, and now he has to dispose of the body, which he takes deep in the woods. Yet in the moonlight there’s more than Hyperion’s wraith that comes to life. Enjoy the story as secrets even Hyperion doesn’t expect reveal themselves “In the Moonlight.”


The Weasel’s body now lifeless at my feet, I hide my face deeper under the hood. This is the part where I become a real monster, and I don’t want Ligia seeing it in my eyes. I don’t want her to know I’m no better than her husband.

Without a glance at her or the widow, I grab the Weasel by his ankles and drag him over the sill. The adrenaline is still alive in my blood, and I must take advantage of it while it lasts. I jump over and sling the body over my shoulder, but as I advance into the darkness my feet begin to sink in the thick snow, the cold and the strain catching up with me. It’s been a draining night.

By the time I reach the heart of the woods I can’t feel my toes or my fingers. My lips are split and start to hurt. The ground is too frozen and too hard to dig anything resembling a tomb, so I give in to my other monster impulses. I take the Weasel’s knife – dented and blunt – and start around his face, applying more strength than I would with a good blade, and more skill.

He’s already rigid and barely bleeds as I cut around his forehead and cheeks, making sure he’s unrecognizable. I rip his shirt open with the same bad temper he ripped Ligia’s, shred his pants and underwear, and I chop him open. The cold neutralized his smell, but the warm insides of his body are an odor bomb.

I wait for a while in the frosty shrubbery to see if wild animals take a chance on him. They don’t – they prefer their prey wounded but fresh. They will devour him eventually nevertheless. Food in the winter woods is scarce. Still, if he doesn’t fall prey to fangs, by the time anyone finds him he’ll be long forgotten anyway.

The break helps refill my tanks just enough to start back towards the old widow’s house. I remember the story about the orphans in the widow’s barn, and I decide to seek shelter there. For that, I have to take a path through the village to cross to the other side of the woods, and so I have to pass by the well. When I do, my heart leaps in a way no wraith could ever cause it to.

Ligia stands in the moonlight with her back at me, her blond locks falling free down to her waist. I approach, the snow crunching under my feet. Apart from the sound of it there’s an unfamiliar pounding in my ears. Maybe I’m worried about the consequences of her leaving her house. What I know for a fact is that I can’t believe she honors the midnight meeting she suggested even under the circumstances.

“What if your husband returns and doesn’t find you?” I admonish when I’m close enough. Not too close, I don’t want her feeling the stench of death on me.

Her frame straightens and stiffens at the sound of my voice. She spins round, and her bright blue eyes meet mine, the blush in her cheeks like roses on porcelain. The sight stirs me, and I feel the urge to shield against it. I square my shoulders, putting on a forbidding face.

“He’s –,” she babbles a bit and gathers the afghan around her like a shy child. “He’s not coming back until morning. It’s not the first time he goes out like this.”

I give a stiff nod.

“I mean he’s at –”

“No need for explanations,” I interrupt, doing my best to sound unfriendly. It makes her feel embarrassed, and my stomach clenches. Not what I aimed for. “He’s seeing other women, I understand. You don’t have to give me the details if they hurt you,” I add a little softer. This encourages her.

“Hurt me? No, they don’t hurt me. I’m happy to have him away.”

She walks closer and looks me right in the face. I take a step back and she stops.

“I’m sorry about the first night at the citadel,” she says. “I didn’t realize you were . . . You’re not going to tell him, are you?”

“I just killed a man in his house, right before your eyes. Do you think I’m in any position to expose you?”

Her eyes wander all over my face, greedy and relentless, and I realize my hood is off. I want to pull it back on, but it seems awkward and pointless. It’s too late.

“Then we keep each other’s secret.”

I don’t reply, and keep my gaze fixed between her eyes. It helps me look distant, but something very strange happens inside of me.

“The widow’s lips are sealed as well,” she whispers. “She said she prepared the old Father’s chamber at church for you, it’s warm and cozy now, and she will be attending to you. I will as well, if you wish.” Her cheeks go even redder and hotter despite her breath turning to steam in the cold. I’d like to breathe in that steam.

“No. It would cause trouble for the both of us.”

Now she feels embarrassed again. She sinks her head.

“No it is, then. But if I may ask – why did you do it? Why did you save me?”

“Just an impulse. I came to see your husband, and –”

“You came to kill him,” she cuts off. It doesn’t really surprise me, the widow must’ve told her. I decide to restrict the answer though.

“It’s not that simple.”

“I understand. No need for explanation on my side either. Just know that whoever seeks to free this place of the Swine – freeing me of him in stride – has my complete and purest loyalty.”

She walks by me and stops by my side. She’s too close.

“Father Jacob. Is that your real name?”

“It’s the name they gave me in the monastery.”

“But not the name your mother gave you?”

The words make my jaw lock, but Ligia is patient. She doesn’t move until I speak again. “My mother was young. She had big dreams and daring ideas. She picked a more pretentious name.”

“Tell me. Even if it’s the last word you ever address me,” she pleads, her voice sweet and broken. It blows my shield into pieces.

“Hyperion,” I hear myself before I think it.

“Hyperion,” she repeats. There’s a kind of reverence in her voice. She seems to take my name with her as she departs, while I remain motionless by the well under the moonlight, my heart pounding, my face burning. The adrenaline races through me, but this time it isn’t anger or bloodlust. It’s something different. Something new to me. And strangely pleasant.

To be continued.


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Saphira Episode 4 – Bewitched


At the Marquis’ ball Saphira has learned that, apart from being a murderer, the young man is slowly taking control over the entire region. Soon there will be no place for her to hide. She attempted to leave the ball when her way was blocked by one of her overly insisting admirers. Then something that happened behind the man drew her alarm, and now she finds herself in a very perilous situation.


The young Marquis walks close behind the piranha Vladimir Pukov and stops him with a hand on the piranha’s shoulder. Something flashes in his other hand –metal. I only see it for a second or two, but it’s enough to make things clear – he can kill the piranha in cold blood, same as he did the man at the Royale.

“I have to step in,” he says. “You’re heading too confidently towards my date.”

At that word both the piranha and I look puzzled from one to the other, then to the Marquis.

“My apologies,” the piranha says, his shoulders slumping, his baldhead glistening with sweat under the chandelier. He has no idea that he’s facing a murderer, but he’s intimidated nonetheless. It’s the first time I see the bastard humbled, and it feels good. “I didn’t realize you and Miss Lothar –”

“Apologies accepted,” the Marquis replies before the piranha finishes, then offers me his arm. I’m afraid of the consequences of a refusal to take it, so I do without a thought.

He sweeps me with elegance away from the staring piranha. Surprised faces and Venetian masks draw from our path as we glide among them, and I become ashamed of my appearance. Most women look glittery and flamboyant but decent, their dresses long, so I feel more like an escort than a lady in my short golden cocktail dress, my hair unrestrained down my back. It’s too much, maybe even ostentatious. Inside I’m shooting reproof at my mom, who I now notice on the side, a happy smile on her face. Dad must be ecstatic at the sight of the Marquis and me together too.

In order to sheathe our heading for the exit, the Marquis stops here and there and introduces me to people I know already. They’ve been spending their holidays in this town for years, but one fact is indeed new and shocking to them as it is to me – I’m the Marquis’ girlfriend. Some of them would’ve considered their own daughters, sisters or themselves a far better pick, especially since they’re leading rich sharks in London and Paris. They have some difficulty swallowing the info that a bankrupt artist from the province has won the freaking lottery with the Marquis’ interest.

I have even more difficulty. I stare up at the Marquis’ face as he speaks, and find myself compelled by those dark, murky eyes. The way his hair frames his head, rich and glossy, it enhances the youthfulness of his features and the menacing feel of his gaze. I’m all too aware that he was ready to kill a man just minutes before. The scene of him removing his gloves after taking that man’s life at the Royale comes back like a stinging warning, and fear makes my muscles clench.

It’s baffling how he manages to lead the way amidst the crowd and then out of the banquet hall without anybody noticing. A line of people who look like guests but must actually be the Marquis’ staff close behind us like a human wall as we leave through a narrow – and secret – exit. My heart pounds in my throat as he takes me up dark stairs to the tower, an architectural ghost.

“Why are we going there?” I manage, breathless with anxiety.

“Don’t be afraid,” his voice resounds close. It makes me feel drunk, and I know he’s got a grip on my senses again. The fear subsides, and my hand relaxes as he takes it in his. The touch of his skin electrifies me.

I’m little more than a zombie with a crush by the time we reach the room at the top, the door creaking open like an old cell grate. The place looks a dungeon, the walls black and foreboding. The Marquis leads me slowly to a niche to the side, lights a candle, and holds it up to illuminate what I expect to be a wall. But when the painting I made of him reveals itself in the candlelight my senses shudder out of the trance, and I reawaken to reality.

I’m standing in the manor’s oldest tower with a murderer, looking at my best-kept secret. The Marquis seems to read my mind.

“You took mine, I took yours.”

“How did you even know about it?” I whisper, trying to hide my fear. I’ve painted it in repeated fits of nightly obsessions after the day he visited at my parents’ house, he shouldn’t even know of its existence.

“Your father. I suppose he wanted to make it clear to me that the chances stood high for the two of us.”

I’m embarrassed and enraged. “He had no right.”

“He had a reason.”

“He just wants to see me married to someone wealthy,” I spit. “I understand you’re as filthy rich as they come, so he’s doing his best to bring us together. That’s as noble as his reasons get.”

I can feel the warmth of him close behind me, and my knees threaten to melt. I struggle to keep control. My jaw tightens as my thoughts run in errant circles. The Marquis bends his head so that his lips touch my ear, sending a thrill all through my skin.

“You think it’s a good idea to put your father in that light? I understand tonight you learned what I do with greedy bastards.”

My head snaps to the side, and I stare at him baffled. A smile draws his young lips, and I feel an urge to kiss him. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood.

“Yes,” he says, “I know what was discussed at your table.”


“In my business I have to keep spies everywhere.”

“You mentioned your business before. What is it exactly?”

“Direct again.” He looks up at the painting and raises the candle. “Let’s talk some art first.”

I decide on direct once more. “You want to know why I painted you?”

“Oh, I know why you painted me. It’s how you did that I find intriguing.”

I look up at the portrait too. It shows him in his full beauty. I’ve been waking up at night with the urge of plunging into the oily colors, forgetting the brush and working on it with my fingers, wishing to feel him, to become one with him so I can understand him. I felt possessed, pushed into it by some evil force, moving like a nut case until I fell exhausted and smeared with pasty color all over, my eyes puffy and heavy.

“How did it get here?” I whisper.

“Your father helped. After you left for the banquet tonight, your maid opened the door to my people, who packed it and brought it here.”

“They were fast.”

“They always are.”

“What’s your name, Marquis?”

That smile again. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

He looks me in the face, and I’m lost in the depths of his eyes, glittering dangerous in the candlelight. “Because it would give you power over me.”

“Are you a demon, then?”


“You’re mocking.”

“You’re shaking.”

I haven’t realized that he walked to me while I retreated, and now I bump into the wall opposite from his portrait. I’m hot and start sweating, yet I can’t control my shivering.

“Why do you do this?” I whisper. “Why do you tell people I’m your girlfriend?”

“I’m making this serious. Otherwise you’d think I’m playing with you.”

“I don’t want us to be serious.” The words hurt as they leave my mouth, because in truth I desperately want him to kiss me.

“What do you want?”

“I want you to leave here and never come back,” I lie blatantly.

“I can’t do that, Saphira. Not after everything you saw.”

“I saw the end of a murder, yes. But not exactly what happened. I’ll keep my mouth shut, I assure you.”

“It’s not only what you saw at the Royale.” He’s now too close, and I feel high again. “It’s what you see in me. What you put in that portrait. And what you might reveal in other works too.”

“That is the portrait of a young man, nothing more.”

“That portrait is a confession. You don’t realize this, but it talks too much. You won’t be able to hold back, you’ll reveal more in time.”

I want to keep the line of replies open, but the Marquis’ next move stuns me. His arm winds around me and presses me to him, his other hand stroking its way up the halter under my dress. My heart jumps and my breath catches as his lips, warm and soft, take over mine. My head spins, and I can’t help touching him, letting my hands knot in his hair. He retreats before my passion breaks out of control, a satisfied smile on his face. I know immediately that he’s aware of his power over me, that he’s aware I’d go all the way.

“Not yet, Saphira. Not yet.”

He withdraws in the dark, leaving me shaking with desire. I’m under his spell, and I barely realize where I am until the door creaks sharply, bursting open. My head turns in its direction, and I see the last person I expect to see.

To be continued.


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Hyperion Episode 7 – Bloodlust


Hyperion has been feared in battle. The creature he turns into in his fights is fierce, draining, and impossible to tame when provoked. In this scene Hyperion returns to his target’s house to save the man’s young wife, Ligia, whom he might’ve put in danger. The situation he encounters surpasses his expectations and he is no longer capable or willing to control the wraith inside.


The Weasel has Ligia pinned against the wall, one hand ripping her shirt open and grabbing her breast. I can see it all through the window – it’s the only one lit. My senses spike free, my hearing now sharp enough to pick up every sound in and around the house – only some old furniture creaking in the main room, and two guards outside the front door. Not wraiths. The Swine took the heavy weight with him when he left. The Weasel must’ve stayed behind as indoor guard, and does the hell of a job attacking the boss’ wife. Ligia struggles and screams, her blond ringlets whipping the air around her.

“You’re doing this, you little bitch,” the guy spittles through his rodent front teeth, “unless you want your husband to hear more of you and your lover-boy the priest.”

“Nothing happened with the priest.” The despair in Ligia’s voice makes my blood surge. But it doesn’t seem to touch the Weasel at all. On the contrary, it makes him want more. He looks her in the face and grins.

“And who’s the Swine going to believe? He’s sort of lost interest in you anyway, he’s at the brothel as we speak.”

Ligia scratches him with a cry, and he slaps her hard in return. She covers her cheek with her palm, and I zoom in on her teary eyes in an impulse.

“I’ll fight all the way,” she tries to defend herself. “How will you explain the bruises to your boss?”

“I doubt he’ll tell the difference between mine and his own.”

That second I spring forward from the shrubbery toward the window, but a new element stops me in my tracks. I see the old widow launch into the room and push the Weasel with all her strength. He’s short, skinny and a bit hunch-backed, but the women are still no match for him. He sweeps the widow with one arm, sending her sprawled on the floor, and returns his attention to Ligia.

I can’t take any more of this. All pain and discomfort from the last hour is forgotten, my blood now hot with adrenaline. All I need is minimal input from my wraith to unhinge the window frame soundlessly and slither inside without the Weasel noticing. The moment he faces me I’m already close enough to squeeze his balls, the other hand covering his mouth and pushing him against the wall.

“Hello there,” I hiss, relishing the wide fear in his eyes. He stinks badly of alcohol and excrement, and his clothes are dirty. My nose creases as I look him up and down. “You and water are mortal enemies or what?”

He mumbles something behind my fingers, and I can’t resist the temptation to hear his fear too. I want to take it in through all my senses before I kill him, letting it recharge me.

“If you scream I’ll kill you slowly and painfully,” I say as I free his mouth. He’s surprised at the sudden freedom and stares dumbly at me before he gathers himself.

“What are you doing here? How come –,” his voice cracks. He clears his throat and tries again. “What are you doing here?”

“You presumed to know already.” I give him my evil grin. “I’m lover-boy.”

The Weasel’s jaw drops. “But you’re a priest. You said Catholic priests –”

“What does it matter what I said? You accused this woman of having an affair with me. So why are you surprised to see me here on a night her husband is away?”

“I –”

I don’t give him a chance to find his words, and punch him hard in the face. I hear his jaw split, so I grab his nape and press my hand on his mouth again before he can howl. The pain and inability to let it out makes powerless dread expand his pupils like a drug addict’s. Now I have a grip on the back of his head and the front of it, as well as on his full attention. I bring my face real close to his, so that he can get a good look at the creature under the priestly hood.

“This is what this woman felt as you prepared to rape her.” I give him a few seconds to feel it. Then I pull the arm behind his neck to the right, and the one on his mouth to the left. His head fires to the side, his spinal cord snaps, and he falls dead on the floor.

To be continued.


Liked this? Share your thoughts and feelings in a comment. Hyperion’s whole story will be published in a Christmas Story Book for Adults, so stay tuned for Gift Promotions and other goodies. This Story Book for Adults will also be quite fit for a Christmas present – stay tuned for the reveal of the cover versions on the 1st week of December, and you’ll see how come.

The picture featured in this article is considered for the cover, so let us know your thoughts about it.

Enjoy Hyperion’s former episodes on this site 1, and my muse for Hyperion’s fabulous works here.

Buy Hyperion’s whole story here.



Hyperion is a man with a dark and dangerous secret. His mission is to eliminate the Swine, the corrupt mayor of a village by the Dark Forest, who is more than just a man himself. Provoked by the Swine’s vile nature and the man’s treatment of his own wife, Ligia, Hyperion had trouble restraining himself and sticking to his plan. He managed to keep it together until he left his target’s house, and let the creature inside manifest only when he reached the depths of the woods. But there has been an unexpected witness. Enjoy the adventure in episode 6, and discover more of Hyperion’s mystery.


The Mad Widow walks down the riverbank, then turns and looks at me over her shoulder. Her eyes tell me to follow. What she just witnessed doesn’t seem to as much as surprise her, let alone scare her. She must be truly mad. I have to make sure she doesn’t talk around, so I swallow the embarrassment and drag myself in her wake, with no idea what to do about her.

Naked and drained of power, I’m shivering. It feels bad, very bad. By the time we reach the old woman’s place in the woods I’m all frostbitten. She leads me inside her hut – no more than a big wooden tent actually – and I immediately focus on the cot by the fireplace. The ember is warm, and the spot the coziest one in the world right now.

Without asking for permission I crouch on the cot like a wounded animal, letting the warmth soothe my body. Every bit of it hurts, and I can’t think of anything else until I feel the scraping touch of sack material on my back. I turn to see the Mad Widow covering me with an old quilt and reaching me a mug of milk. I drink slowly, letting the hot liquid melt my insides, hands locked on the mug. My tongue is too damaged to feel the taste of poppy, but I soon recognize the effect – I’m calm, warm and sleepy. It must be obvious in my face, judging by the Mad Widow’s smile.

“There’s enough in there to knock you out,” she says. “But you look only comfortable.”

She wears a kerchief to cover her head like Ligia, but she’s old, and it fits her. Her eyes are dark and seem much livelier than you’d expect from someone as worn, let alone crazy.

“I’m weakened. But I’m still not fully –” I stop. I don’t know how to put it.

“Human,” the woman finishes the sentences for me. The way it comes out of her mouth, I feel exposed and angry. She turns, rolls up her sleeves and starts working on the kitchen-looking niche, as if nothing extraordinary happened.

“You’re not really a priest either, are you?” She continues just as calm.

I don’t answer. She turns and sits at the table with a mug of milk of her own, looking down at it.

“Something like you can’t come from God.”

“I don’t come from the devil either.”

“Too bad. You’d have to sprout out of the devil’s very lap to defeat the Swine.”

Weren’t it for the poppy, my blood would quicken now.

“You presume to know my purposes.” I keep my voice low. “May I ask how come?”

“Imagine you saw the mayor transform from a fat-bellied bastard into a nasty slithery thing. You’ve barely processed the shock when, a few months later, you saw the new priest turning into the same kind of monster in the woods, only muscular and steely. He’s new in the village, and you know the mayor doesn’t like him. What would you believe?”

“Some of the mayor’s men are monsters too,” I say through gritted teeth. “I could be one of his minions.”

“No, you couldn’t. I saw you with the old Father. I know he’s against the mayor. He let you take over the parish in his place, and left. From my end, it looks as if he set you out to do what he doesn’t stand a chance of doing himself.”

The woman sees too much. I try to stand, but my legs give in after only a few seconds. I’m going to need at least another hour until I’m strong enough to leave. Chills course down my spine, and I gather the quilt around me. The woman looks me in the face for the first time since the woods, and a bitter smile stretches her hatched lips.

“Am I a liability now, Father?”

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

“What are you going to do?”

“It depends. How do you imagine the Swine’s future?”

“Are you asking me if I’m a supporter?”

“I’m asking if you’ll tell,” I whisper, seeking to catch her eyes. She avoids my gaze again, and her features distort. She seems to be fighting back tears.

“Nobody in this village would tell on someone who’s here to rid them of the Swine. You’ve been in his house, you’ve seen his pack – he brought those men with him when he came here. Those men and the village drunkards are his only faithful servants. He practically took over by force. Killed my husband in the process.”

Her shoulders shake as she sobs, and I feel an urge to go over. Just be a little closer to her. But that moment a big shadow appears in the doorstep – I catch it from the corner of my eye. It’s the Village Bully, wearing a tame expression on his virtually furry face. He’s carrying a priest’s garment on his arm.

“The Old Father came to see me on his way out of the village,” he says. He looks a bit puzzled as his eyes wander from the widow to me. “He said you’d be here, and that I should bring you this. There’s more in his stash at church.”

I don’t even wonder how the Old Loon learned what happened. By now I know he has his ways, not always natural, and rarely orthodox. But the man’s next words make my stomach clench. He actually addresses them to the Mad Widow.

“You might want to go see Ligia. After the young Father’s visit the Swine gave her some serious bruises.” Here he turns to me, and I can see he’s sorry to bring such news. “He says prevention is always better than treatment. His right hand saw the two of you talk yesterday, so –”

My blood quickens, I don’t even listen anymore. His right hand. The Weasel.

The widow’s fit of anger breaks mine. She wipes her tears and cusses, gathering quickly what she can, throwing her afghan over her shoulders and pushing the Bully out of her way. He feels he owes me an explanation.

“She takes care of orphans.” He sounds moved. “They gather every morning at her barn, and she feeds them. In warm seasons they sleep there too, but in winter it’s impossible. She and her husband raised Ligia, who’s like a daughter to her.”

My stomach twists painfully. “Ligia is an orphan?”

The Bully nods. “Fate hasn’t been nice to her. Her parents died in a fire that consumed half the village when she was little. The Mad Widow took care of her and the others. Later, when the mayor came, they all crowded to get a job at his house, ‘cause it meant food and clothes. Her looks helped, she got hired along with two others. Later he married her.”

“Poverty forced me into it. That monster forced me into it,” Ligia’s words from our first meeting come back to me. The need to make sure she’s not in deadly trouble wins over the pain in my limbs. I stand, holding to the edge of the cot and to the table. The quilt falls off, but I don’t have time to be shy. I extend my hand for the priest cloak.

The Bully – I decide to rename him Pitbull ‘cause of his features – looks me up and down with an open mouth.

“This isn’t a circus, give me the clothes,” I urge him. He moves too slow, and I snatch them from him to make a point.

“Jesus, mate, what clawed you like that?” He says as I tie the rope around my waist, covering the scars.

“What does it matter? I’m standing here, aren’t I?” I push him out of my way and, unlike the widow, manage to haul him on his butt. He scrambles up and follows me, a string of questions shooting out of his mouth. He doesn’t relent until I’m exasperated enough to slam him against a tree trunk and squeeze his throat so tight he goes as red as blood.

“Drop it,” I hiss, and let him slump by the thick, gnarled roots.

It’s pitch dark when I reach the Swine’s house. I seek cover and move as lightly as my strained body allows until I find what I’m looking for. Adrenaline surges through my muscles as I see the danger. This could be it.


Liked this? Share your thoughts and feelings in a comment. Hyperion’s whole story will be published in a Christmas Story Book for Adults, so stay tuned for Gift Promotions and other goodies. This Story Book for Adults will also be quite fit for a Christmas present – stay tuned for the reveal of the cover versions on the 1st week of December, and you’ll see how come.

Enjoy episode 1episode 2  episode 3  episode 4 and episode 5 on this site, and my muse for Hyperion’s fabulous works here.

Pic source.

Buy Hyperion’s whole story here.

LILA Episode 3 – The Twist


Lila Banks is a financial spy for the F.B.I. Her target, Andrey Jones, is a young Wall Street broker who was ahead of Lila’s moves, and maneuvered her for his own purposes. In episode 2 they met again at a conference, and Lila realized she had a crush on him. She was wired, but the Chief’s warning came too late – two men in black flanked her from the elevator as she tried to leave, Andrey Jones blocking her way back. Enjoy the suspense in Episode 3, and a twist that will surprise you.


The two men in black suits drag me from the elevator to one of the rooms, and throw me inside. They haven’t said a word after I’ve given them my wire and everything I had on me besides the dress and my underwear. My heart pounds like crazy, and my mind is frozen on one thought alone – I should’ve taken the fighting training when I joined the F.B.I. I refused back then, arguing that it was my financial tracker skills that got them interested, and that I’d hold on to my femininity. Now I’m at the mercy of Mr. Bad and Mr. Worse.

They take position by the door, one on each side.

“Take off your dress,” Mr. Bad says – shaved head and goatee, neck tattoo right above the shirt collar. I don’t react, looking at him with an open mouth, trying to process what he said. He repeats and approaches, and I automatically crawl out of his way. He gets me between one of the beds and the heating.

I barely understand what’s happening as he pulls me up and tears off my dress. Before I know it I’m standing in my bra, panties and stockings, no shoes, each of the men keeping me in place by one arm, crammed in the space between the bed and the heater. I scream and wriggle, desperate. I throw a look at the window, seeking the smallest chance at salvation. Beyond the reflection of a blond woman in black underwear struggling with the perspective of rape I see it’s bricked up. Panic spikes.

“This isn’t helping your situation,” Mr. Worse says, his grin somehow reptilian. With his free hand he grabs my jaw, and I’m even afraid he might shoot out a split tongue, but what he does is force my head to look in the direction of the door as I hear it open.

The room is L-shaped, and I’m at the end of the long line. It takes a few seconds of heart-hammering suspense until the visitors reveal themselves as Andrey Jones and the Vogue cover Monique Maurette. The woman wears a self-satisfied expression to go with her seductive powder-blue eyes. Andrey Jones is the same unnervingly attractive young man, but his gaze is different than I’ve ever seen it before, in pictures or in person. It’s wicked and even hateful as he and his companion approach me, looking me up and down and clearly relishing the sight.

“Well, well, well, nice package,” he says. His voice makes the finest hairs stand on my arms. “You’ll do well in the business.”

My mind doesn’t even try to dodge the meaning of his words. Prostitution screams out in my head, but I can’t believe Andrey Jones would risk that with an F.B.I. agent unless he’s mad.

“There must be better use you can put me to.” I hear myself as if I’m outside my body, merely a witness. It must be the shock.

“A power-negotiator even under the circumstances. I’m impressed.”

“You say that a lot,” I spit.

“You’re starting to resent me.” He approaches slowly, his eyes now fixed on mine.

“Would you love yourself in my situation?”

“I’d like to know what I have planned. So I’d ask.”

“I have a feeling you’ll tell me anyway.”

“Your sixth sense fails you.” He walks very close, I now feel his cologne and his breath on my face. Against all odds, blood rushes to my cheeks. The crush is still there. For a second I doubt my sanity, then I persuade myself it must be the shock again.

“Why are you doing this?” I manage, my voice faint, my skin numb to the two thugs’ grip on my arms. But not to Andrey Jones’ as he lets his long fine fingers run down my neck and my chest, now stroking my breasts above the bra line, electrifying me. His eyes are deep and dark.

“I could say because the likes of you support the likes of Jinx. I could say because people get sold and slaughtered as lab mice due to the likes of you supporting psychos obsessed with yachts, icy champagne and wanting a new whore every night. I could say that because people die like ants squashed under a brutish boot supported by the likes of you, but it would be a waste of words. You know all this. No, don’t be quick to talk.” His finger stops my opening lips in a hushing gesture. “You’re not paying for anyone’s actions now but your own. Before the F.B.I. you worked for one of these people. And you knew damn well what you were doing.”

“I never . . .” But he doesn’t let me finish. His eyes are narrow and angry as his hand turns from caress to a hard grip on my cheeks. My lips swell outward from the squeeze. I frown and whine at the pain.

“Don’t lie to me, Lila. I have your record. Chief Schwarz fished you out of an office where you found ways to cover financial payments to flesh dealers.”

“They billed for something very different,” I pitch, growing desperate. “When I found out . . .” But he doesn’t let me make my point. I went to the authorities, that’s how Chief Schwarz discovered me, I scream in my mind. But before the idea can make it to my lips Andrey Jones covers them in a vicious kiss. It stuns me. His mouth latches on mine, soon turning invasive. Seconds feel long, and my head spins.

As Andrey’s lips leave mine I must look like a dumbfounded sheep. This time I can see more in the darkness of his eyes – a spark of desire. For a moment there he looks taken aback himself, and he retreats fast to Monique’s side, who I now notice stares daggers at me. She seems not only mad, but surprised too.

“You were successful, Lila,” Andrey says, gathering himself. “You gave me the Jinx. Now I’m greedy. I want more. But you can’t give me more from the custody of the F.B.I. So I need you exclusively in mine.”

With these words he grabs Monique’s hand and retreats a few more steps. I hear the door open again, and people stomping in. Two men carry what looks like a stretcher with a covered body and place it on the floor at Andrey’s and Monique’s feet. They shuffle the cellophane off to reveal the corpse of Dr. Boyd, my direct boss at the Jinx. I release a scream, shocked and scared.

There’s blood coming out of his nostrils. His chest is bared – shirt open – tie soaked over his hairy stomach. There’s a still gurgling hole in his throat. I keep screaming as Mr. Bad – or Mr. Worse – push something in one of my hands, cuffing the other to the heater. Faster than I can register they all leave the room, while I scream myself numb. Andrey is the last to exit, looking at me over his shoulder for a moment. I see a trace of pity in his gaze, but it must be just desperate wishful thinking.

The door slams shut and I fall apart hanging by the cuff, eyes on Boyd’s dead body sprawled on the floor, gun by my side, with my prints all over it.

There’s soon more screaming from the corridor, as if there’s a massacre taking place. Just minutes later policemen storm in.


Liked this? Share your thoughts and feelings in a comment. Lila’s whole story will be published in a Christmas Story Book for Adults between the 15th and 18th of December, so stay tuned for Gift Promotions and other Goodies.

UPDATE – Lila’s whole story has been released in the Christmas Story Book for Adults.

Pic source.

Hyperion Episode 5 -Night Wraiths


Hyperion is face to face with the Swine, his target. Hyperion himself is a man with a mystery as dark as the Swine’s, and with power to match, but his target’s young wife, Ligia, makes things difficult for him. Plus that the Swine is not alone. In this episode Hyperion has infiltrated the Swine’s headquarters disguised as a priest there to replace to the Old Loon, but his cover threatens to fall and the odds to turn against him any second as the action picks up.


My jaw tightens in frustration. I’m forced to sit at the Swine’s table, his men standing guard around us. Ligia’s eyes are bright with panic while his hand sinks in her golden locks. It seems he’s playing with them, yet by the twitch of her cheek I know he’s causing her pain.

I drop my gaze and repress an urge to grab the knife from his plate and drive it in his throat. In a split second I’d have him writhing on the floor, but his minions would be all over me, and they’d eventually save him. Instead I clutch the wooden cross hanging by my neck to keep my hands busy. The immediate proximity of a holy object is uncomfortable, but my wraith is on low supply to avoid being sensed by the others, so it’s bearable.

“You’re too handsome for a priest,” the Swine grunts, and I sense him looking me up and down from under his sweaty frown. “You catholic holy men are obligated to remain celibate, isn’t it?”

I nod, and feel his scowl drop to my lap.

“Such a waste.”

“The sacrifice was my own choice,” I say through clenched teeth.

“An irony. You’re supposed to keep us safe from temptation, and yet you make one yourself. At least for our women.” The dark pressure of his wraith puts snapping strain on my bones. It forces my own wraith to pump itself through them, steeling them, coming to life. I let my shoulders slump, like a human would. Head bent, I fight to keep down the surge of power in my veins.

“Much gratitude for your compliment.”

“Don’t be too quick with that,” he says. “I don’t like your lot, but I can barely wait to see the old soul-pastor return to his office. At least he’s harmless.”

I crouch even more, looking the intimidated human. “I understand.”

“Where do you come from, boy?”

That word again . . . “The Cozia monastery.”

“How long have you been a man of God?”

“For as long as I can remember.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“I was offered to the monastery when I was a toddler.” At least this part’s true. I leave out the attempts at exorcism though.

“And will you return there after the old priest reclaims his office?”

“I’ll probably replace another servant of God in another village.”

“Is that what the monastery uses you for? Replacements?”

“It is.”

The Swine doesn’t feel very convinced to me. My eyes are still down, but my pores are open to register every wraith and emotion around. I pick up Ligia’s heart pounding. Fear released drops of sweat down her back. She believes my cover, and fears I might betray her attempt to seduce me. Having seen me with the Old Loon last night only makes all of this more credible.

The Village Bully stands behind me like a bodyguard. I’m thankful to the Old Loon for the second time in my existence for having poured his witchery into the man, otherwise this would be a damn good moment for him to expose my plot and get a dozen wraiths on me.

The Swine stands and walks to the cabinet. I can see his feet in the silk slippers, and I hear the sound of liquid pouring in glass. Only a moment later his hand pushes the drink under my nose. He wears rings with colored stones tight on chubby fingers. The drink is something local, the smell of alcohol pungent.

“I hear you don’t fast,” he says. The chair creaks as he retakes his place, his eyes drilling into my half-bent forehead. I should’ve thought about it – with the Bully’s intervention last night, more of his men took notice of me with the Old Loon at the bar.

“The old Father invited me. It would’ve been disrespectful to refuse him.”

“And it would be disrespectful now to refuse me. Raise your eyes,” he demands.

Slowly, with a tight grip on my wraith that wriggles inside like a viper on adrenaline, I lift my gaze.

The Swine’s face is an unpleasant sight. It’s round and sweaty and lecherous.

“I hope you take the other virtues required from a priest more seriously,” he says, his hand winding around Ligia’s nape and pulling her close. His move lacks the smallest amount of gentleness. I sense the concept is foreign to him, as is any delicate feeling. My muscles tighten, I struggle to keep control.

One of the men behind him draws my attention. The one on his left. A weasely face, his front teeth like a rodent’s, and chipped. He has the specific grin of someone who knows himself the hero for something. I understand he’s the main spy in the team, so he picked up Ligia’s and my slight exchange last night. And he told the Swine.

I gulp down the glass of alcohol, which burns straight to my guts.

“Infringing the requirement of chastity is a nearly unforgivable sin,” I say after I set the glass on the table. “It can get one excommunicated. I’ve been in the Church for many years, and I’m still a priest.”

The Swine looks me up and down again. “I’ll accept that for now. Just make sure the parish is well taken care of until the old Father returns.” He measures me from head to boots again. “I can’t believe I’m actually looking forward to it.”

Two of his men approach from behind. My back stiffens, but they stop in place, synchronized in the same angle.

“I’ll see you on Sunday at mass, Father Jacob,” the Swine says, and I stand to leave. The men, both of them wraiths, escort me the few steps to the door. I can feel the creatures slither inside their human bodies. When the door slams behind me I take a deep breath of freezing winter air, but the Village Bully’s touch on my shoulder unbalances the frail control.

His, “All right, mate?” and Ligia’s pained yelp coming from the house set my wraith springing forward like a spanned snake. My whole body steels. I can barely repress a howl, which sends me sprinting towards the first tree line of the forest, wanting to come as far as possible before I must let it out.

By the time I reach the woods my muscles feel like metal, and my skin scrapes the priestly garment, which is barely more than a rag anyway. It shreds in the race from the friction with my hardening and raking body. Bald trees flash by, and knotted branches whip my face. They’ll leave no mark, and I run free and naked, the blood pumping hot in my veins.

The clearing comes into sight, opening wider from between two lines of thick old oaks, and I know I’m close to the citadel. This should be far enough for anyone to mistake my cry for a wolf’s. By the water I let out a long, liberating howl, putting all my power and urge into it. With the last tones my wraith releases pathos and I slump on the shore, cheek now humanly soft on the frozen riverbank, eyes on the sharp animal nails retreating back into a man’s fingers. It feels so cold I’m afraid the skin on my face might stick.

I lift my head slowly and look up. A couple of quick dark eyes meet mine from the other side of the river, confused but not stunned. I know these eyes.

“You here?” I hiss.

To be continued.


Liked this? Share your thoughts and feelings in a comment. Hyperion’s whole story will be published in a Christmas Story Book for Adults between the 15th and 18th of December, so stay tuned for Gift Promotions and other goodies. This Story Book for Adults will also be quite fit for a Christmas present – stay tuned for the reveal of the cover versions on the 1st of December, and you’ll see how come.

Please enjoy episode 1episode 2 and episode 3 as well as episode 4 on this site, and my muse for Hyperion’s fabulous works here.

Pic source. 

Buy Hyperion’s whole story here.

Discover Your Calling – Part II

A few days ago I started a promotion campaign for people like you and me, who decided to have a go and turn their hobbies into business. Leave a comment at the end of this article with your own passions and hobbies that you’d like to make a living out of, and I’ll get back at you. The next article could be featuring you and promoting your self-made products or services. Another important set of news is that, together with my partners, I’ll launch a presentation campaign for these products and services on the German market on the 15th of September, with me translating your promotional material into German at no cost. Keep on reading for more details and seize the chance.

In only a few days since I’ve started this project I’ve encountered a number of interesting people who offer unique products and services that could inspire you too, if you only ever thought of becoming your own boss. The first two – a graphic designer and a jewlery maker – have been presented in the first article, available here.  Now let me mention one very important aspect – I DO NOT charge for advertising presently, these are people whose work and mindset I simply appreciate. And this post features another person in whose story and work I find inspiration – Elena N., a fashion designer based in Berlin.

Elena N., a painter who worked with Beuys-scholar Heinrich Koch, and a fashion designer trained in Düsseldorf, Germany, focuses on unique creations that aren’t your every day on the block. Her clothes are for the elegant and refined, for the woman who wants to be unique and not just another brand display doll among hundreds and thousands. Her design process is inspired by historical and conceptual research, while her subtle style features clear cuts and quality materials at – and I have no freaking idea how she manages this – more than reasonable prices. All of it Made in Germany. Check out her clothes at and let us know if you’d like an outfit made especially for you. Here is a taste of Elena’s upcoming collection:


And this is the person behind the creation:

Elena N

Take the chance and leave a comment with your own passions and hobbies, tell me what you think your calling is and I’ll get back at you. If you feel you’re destined for something bigger than what you have now but can’t put your finger exactly on what it is, let me help you with a free personal profile and check out this post.

And now, as I promised as present at the end of each article, here are your free reads for relaxation: “The Executioner” Part I, first 50 pages. The book will be relesed on the 4th of September on Amazon, and you can get the Kinde format for free on the first week.

Looking forward to your input!

Discover Your Calling

If at all, Freud was right about one thing: All of it starts in early childhood. Especially the labeling and filing into categories. Flash some decades later, and we find ourselves as plumbers, teachers, lawyers or jobless. But, despite the illusion of diversity, social and professional categories are narrow. Our profession or situation rarely tells who we are. It’s mostly the things we do in our spare time for fun, pleasure and relaxation that actually define us. The things that, even though often achieved with as much hard work as our job tasks, give us a sense of fulfillment.

I’m a teacher and writer, with special interest in people’s core personalities, in what’s unique about them and what they and only they can offer. Predispositions, talents, the passion and dedication people are capable of when doing what they love fascinate me, and I decided to do everything in my power to foster that. My goal is to help you bring forth what you have to offer, the products you make or the services you render. I’ll start by presenting two very special people and their work, that I appreciate profoundly:

Elisabeta S. is my cover designer. She’s a trained painter and actress, but her passion lies with epic graphics.  It was her talent and hard work that I have to thank for that my first two novels received exactly the covers I dreamt of (Still not decided on the cover for Part II). She put up with me day and night – And I thought I was an easy customer; as if!

final cover Ifinal cover 2final cover II

And then there’s a person whose story and work have touched many lives, not only mine. Corina A. A cancer survivor. The day she found out about the disease – about sixteen years ago – she went ahead and . . . founded her own company! She decided to spend the rest of her life doing what she loves, and guess what – It freaking kept her alive to this day. She not only beat the disease but lost so many pounds she forgot the count – she went from overweight to virtually skinny. A wise mind spoken through a bold mouth, adventurous and so funny that you could get a six pack only from spending a few days with her. She makes beautiful and unique jewlery and objects of decoration. Here she is:


And here is some of her work:


If you’re interested in more of Elisabeta S.’s and Corina A.’s products just let me know in a comment and I’ll put you in contact. I have great appreciation for both of these persons and their crafts.

As for me, I do in-depth profiling and I write. The first fifty pages of my upcoming novel “The Executioner” Part 1 are available here, and more chapters here. Part I is due on the 4th of September and will be up for a big givaway on the first week, maybe even longer. My characters are based on in-depth observation and research, since I’m a lover of human nature and character. This is also why I specialized in profiling based on psychology and medical astrology. For a free personal profile see this post.

Conclusion is, all good things started with a passion that couldn’t be boxed into a category. Let’s see some examples:

  • Toothpaste was invented long before the first dentist walked the Earth. More info here.
  • The best addiction counselors are experienced former addicts, not trained therapists. Allen Carr is a wonderful example.
  • The most successful mentors and life coaches aren’t teachers or professors, but people with a calling, with a passion. Take Marie Forleo, for example.

These people don’t fit in a category. They shape categories. They coin. They’re ice-breakers and pathfinders. And you can be one of them.

Leave a comment with your own passions. What do you enjoy doing? Is it writing, cooking, building, sewing, or something so new that it cannot be defined in a few words? Fell free to use as many as you like. VERY IMPORTANT! Feel just as free to advertise for yourself, if you already have a product or services. Tell us about it in your comment. Next time it could be your special products or services that are featured on this site. Looking forward!