Saturday, May 20, 2017


La idea de traducir al castellano WAND-LOSING & OTHER THINGS YOU SHOULDN’T BE DOING me ha estado rondando desde hace rato. El problema (como podrán observar desde el principio) es el pedazo de título que tiene la historia.

Yo soy el primero en soltar barbaridades cuando veo traducciones de títulos poco inspiradas como LOS JUEGOS DEL HAMBRE o LAS CINCUENTA SOMBRAS DE GREY, pues los títulos de estos libros literalmente significan mucho más de lo que la simplista traducción al castellano implica.

Así que ya ven que para mí no es fácil, soltar una traducción titular como PERDIENDO VARITAS Y OTRAS COSAS QUE TU NO DEBES HACER porque legalmente suena un poco pendeja, aparte de que es aún más larga que la propia en inglés (bueno solo una palabra extra, pero ya era una verborrea para empezar).

Por lo tanto, he barajeado un par de ideas, y me gustaría que ustedes den su opinión, no sólo sobre las opciones que presento, sino las que se les ocurran, porque yo siempre ando abierto a las posibilidades.

Visiten mi cuenta de Instagram para que vean las opciones.

Ahora, volviendo al caso de la traducción… cuando yo escribo en inglés trato de usar un inglés universal más allá de regionalismos (a menos que el personaje sea de un lugar específico, como por ejemplo el sur de los Estados Unidos de América), pero la cosa se complica cuando pensamos en castellano.

Solo el “fuck me” lo decimos de un montón de maneras diferentes. ¿Entonces de qué versión del castellano me agarro? Si pongo “follame” me tocar tirarme todo desde la península. Si pongo “cógeme” (que para mí sería la opción menos regionalista) habrá quien se confunda pensado que significa otra cosa… Se me ocurre que podría usar un eufemismo como “párteme” o “rómpeme” pero eso no siempre es factible con algunos protagonistas porque sencillamente suena ridículo o contrario a la esencia de la persona. 

Ya veremos.

#WLOTYSBD #títulos #ficción #traducción #español #gay #bilingüe #hombres #men #fiction #castellano #escritoresdeinstagram #iamwriting #escribiendo #authorsofinstagram #gabbodelaparra #opciones #options 

Monday, May 1, 2017


May 1st is a magical day. Known as May Day, but also as Beltane, it's the day when pagans celebrate the return of the sun after its winter imprisonment.

Here's a little bit of Magic Mischief from SEPTIMA LUNA.

“You can say the words in any language, as long as you visualize the doors opening and what army you want out.”

“What if I say banana and imagine the door, ma’am?”

“It doesn’t work that way because banana doesn’t mean door in any language.”
The infuriated emoticon in her mental text was about to explode. Angel could see the vein throbbing on her temple.

“And what army do I want again, ma’am?”

Angel noticed her effort not to stamp her foot and slap him. He was on his knees (after all), making a diagram to produce the doors of the gate on the temple’s ground with a broken piece of clay from what he assumed was an ancient pot at the appropriate distance to receive the hit.

“You want the Spartan Army that defeated Xerxes.”

“Oh my, like the movie?”

She almost growled, “Angel, after Leonidas was killed, the elders used a gate to summon an army. I need you to focus on the elders’ requested spiritual army.”

Many spotlights had been rearranged to illuminate the area where Angel worked, obliterating the full moon above them. It made him sweat like the proverbial pig, even if he knew for a fact that real pigs didn’t sweat a lot, and that’s why they wallow in the fucking mud so happily.

But a go-go boy was used to being in the limelight, so in a Septima Luna’s-fifteen-minute-break moment of inspiration, he took off his shirt and flung it triumphantly toward one of the armed trolls on his periphery. It landed on his helmet (like an ill-fitting mantilla), and Angel saw the other guards’ trembling shoulders trying to hold their laughter at their comrade’s expense.

Angel scratched his head, pasting the most puzzled face he could command. “Ma’am?”

“What now?”

“If this open sesame thing works, what am I doing with the army again?”

“You’re getting on my last nerve.” She made a signal, and the guards flanking Malachi kicked him on the back of his knees and Malachi crumbled. The butt of a machine gun found his head. “If you have a shred of intelligence within you, you’ll stop your nonsense right this second.”

Angel sprang and poked Tau's sternum with his forefinger. “Listen carefully, you sodding bitch. They touch him again, and the only coordinates that fucking army is going to find is inside your bleached ass. Let him go.” He marched toward Malachi and pushed the helmet-covered faces of the two guards with his hands, making them stagger in their surprise.

By the time every guard reacted and all weapons aimed at them, Tau yelled, “Don’t.”

Malachi wobbled, helped by Angel, toward where the doors had been drawn. “He stays by my side, and you control your gorillas,” he hissed when she was within hearing distance. “Or I’ll use your own weapons against you.”

The pallor on her face showed she had understood loud and clear. She nodded, her eyes narrowed and menacing.

“Are you all right, sweetie?” Angel let Malachi crouch beside him.

“Where is your heavy accent?”

“Gone with the bitch, darlin’.”

Malachi’s chuckle squeezed Angel’s heart. His resolution to destroy Juggernaut grew firmer. He would use their own army to destroy their headquarters and every single motherfucker inside it. The twenty thousand possessed soldiers would make the place confetti in seconds, and then he simply sent back the spiritual army to limbo or released them of their duty, whatever stroked his fancy by the time it was done.

“You.” Angel pointed at Tau, his eyes narrowed too. “Move away. Your face irritates me.”
She glared at him and stepped backward until she was stopped by Martan holding her upper arms and keeping her plastered against his massive chest. She resisted for a second, then stood motionless but never defeated; her furious scowl screamed it.

Using up the abandoned piece of clay, Angel united the bottom lines of the traced opening. He put a hand on each door and concentrated.

“Open, gate of wonders, and bring me the ghost army the elders of Sparta summoned to avenge the death of Leonidas at Thermopylae. The soul of revered Antinous Ephebus, beloved of Publius Aelius Traianus Hadrianus Augustus commands it.”

Angel chanted this for a while, deciding to hold Malachi’s hand and visualizing immense doors (like a cathedral’s) slowly moving open to spill their secrets, over and over again.

A rumor similar to a billion exhausted sighs resonated around them. The clay-outlining emanated a golden glow, its light becoming brighter and brighter by the second, and the ground shook. More than side to side, it trembled in an up and down undulating exhalation.

Until that moment, something inside Angel had hoped this hinky situation was just a bunch of malarkey. That everything was nothing but the opium dreams of mad people. Now, as the earth spread, spewing a vomit green glare, Angel steeled his heart to conquer his destiny (definitively not the time to poop his pants), because the screeches coming from the gate were bloodcurdling.

It was Julius Caesar who said “no one is so brave that he isn’t disturbed by something unexpected”, and this shit surely was bewildering.

The first ghostly figure emerged amidst the puke-like radiance, nothing was discernible but a head and shoulders— the rest of the body was an elongated amoeba.  Angel shouted, “The soul of revered Antinous Ephebus, beloved of Publius Aelius Traianus Hadrianus Augustus, commands you.”

With a short bow, the apparition acknowledged him and floated toward him, giving berth to the next surfacing soul. The yelp of the first stricken guard made Angel lose some of his concentration, and as more guards fell to the rattling ground, he heard it above the shrieks from the opening.

In similar but green SWAT outfits, men zip lined from almost silent hovercrafts. Malachi gurgled, hit by something and let go of Angel’s grasp, his hands searching his neck. Angel forgot about the spirits and the door and the destruction of Juggernaut, Malachi could not leave him there like that.

“Kai!” Angel beat Malachi’s chest with closed fists. “No, no, no.”

Someone grabbed Angel by the waist; he thrashed and kicked, screaming to return to Malachi. Was that blood on Malachi’s mouth? No, this couldn’t be happening. He would go insane.

As he was pulled to a hovercraft, he saw the green SWATS overpowering the black SWATS. The first luminous apparition did something that Angel could only associate with a shrug and returned to the glowing hole, pushing the other entities down as if they were impertinent children trying to escape a radiantly fenced play yard. The gate morosely closed, its creepy lights and noises becoming mute. 

The Neolithic stone complex turned into an amorphous shadow below him. He could not find a trace of Martan or the countess; he could only distinguish Malachi’s unmoving body at an odd angle in the middle of the chaos, shrinking until it was nothing but the luminous drop of a bad memory.

“It will be fine.” The man holding him said in what Angel supposed was a soothing voice; as comforting as a voice coming through a tricked-out motorcycle helmet could be.

Still, the voice seemed familiar, but Angel didn’t care.

As Angel was tucked into the back of a hovercraft, all he wanted was for this to be his day to leave the land of the living and be back on Mnajdra, dying beside Malachi.

*Get your free copy of SEPTIMA LUNA here

Friday, April 21, 2017


For those familiar with Magical Realism, the title of this post would ring a bell since it echoes LOVE IN THE TIME OF CHOLERA by Garcia Marquez, and I’m gonna spoil the end for you, it does have a happily ever after, even if the road there was beyond rocky (it was frankly torturous).

Now, a friend of mine used that expression when we were commenting about the recent breakup of two porn stars. It’s truly sad that every time two (or more) people involved in porn start a public relationship a not malicious but severely real countdown begins.

I like porn, but it is also part of my research as an erotic romance writer, and, in all my years following and enjoying that craft, I have not seen a porn couple or throuple last more than two straight years.

“Straight” as in continuous not heterosexual.

I know gay men are complicated, heck humans are complicated, yet sadly, we seem to be more incapable of commitment that other people. Nevertheless, my extensive research into the human nature and love conditions has shown me that usually, jealousy is a big component of breakups. And in all fairness and realness, jealousy is the grotesque child of insecurity.

Call it whatever you want, but you cannot be jealous unless you are insecure. When you are sure of who you are and who the person beside you is, there is no reason for jealousy. And jealousy is also a cousin of control issues, even if you want to try to make it feel more like a distant long lost relative— they are very effing close.

A very smart lady told me once, long before same-sex marriage was even on the map anywhere in the globe, that gay men made a life together because they wanted it since there were no papers or children to tie them up. Her words were not just wise but inspiring. And that is one of the reasons I believe jealousy is insecurity because nothing ties another man to me more than his own decision to be beside me; it doesn’t matter if that decision is based on love or something else. Heck, love has levels, and you never love the same way (or with the same intensity) twice; simply because not two human beings are the same, ergo you cannot repeat love.

But coming back to porn couples which are the real topic of this post, here insecurity and jealousy have hate sex to create a messed up hybrid that always becomes a murderer. In many cases, Dude One is already doing porn when he meets Dude Two and they “fall in love” with the almost immediate consequence of Dude Two starting to do porn too. Nothing wrong with that, if Dude Two has the balls and confidence to play that field because it is not easy in the same way an open relationship is not for everyone; it takes a very healthy dose of cojones and confidence (totally making this a title for a book Cojones & Confidence) to be in an open relationship, so it’s even heavier to be with a person who not only fucks other people but do so for the entertainment of millions of strangers.

To say that jealousy is natural is to deny humans’ ability to be reasonable. Do you think the husband of any actress cheers when his wife kisses another man on screen? I don’t think he cheers, but I am pretty sure he does not feel jealousy (or shouldn’t at least) because it is her job, especially if she had it before they met.

Obviously doing porn is the far, very nasty extreme of that situation, but it completely applies. You shouldn’t be jealous of a situation that existed before you arrived, and if you accepted it at the beginning why change your mind mid journey and make a fucking mess?

True, many people enter a relationship with the (sometimes not conscious) plan to change the other person. This in itself is, if you want to use business terms, “cause for immediate dismissal.” The whole concept of entering a relationship with an agenda, beyond that of make yourself and the other person happy, should instantly handicap your eligibility for a relationship. It’s not fair for the other person or yourself because when you cannot accomplish that “transformative” goal you become a bitter, nagging, horrible piece of whining crap. No one needs that kind of shite in their lives.

But again, in the world of porn, this situation is even more evident and sad. Porn is a micro cosmos in the same way Hollywood stardom is, and many people get invested in these relationships because they give us something that is fantasy and (in many cases) hope. Many fans would see it as a beacon of possibilities: if these men who earn their living fucking on camera can make it, how I (who do it in the confines of my bedroom) cannot?

We see ourselves in the successful relationships of these handsome men, and when they don’t work it affects us both consciously and unconsciously because every time your idols fail a part of you also fails.

Not all humans have the strength to sort fantasy from reality; you just need to see the rants and hate on Social Media when public figures breakup or do something people at large consider untoward. We don’t know these public figures; heck probably you have never been in the same breathing space of these people, but you defend or hate them passionately because they are a reflection of what you hope to be. That is not a bad thing, but it becomes a stupid thing when you turn your whole life upside-down for something that (in the end) doesn’t have anything to do with you or your reality.

But that passion turns back to jealousy, insecurity, and control issues. We adore these people, but we are also jealous of them, and they make us feel insecure, and we hope we could control them. Not a healthy mix if you ask me.

It is not even know how to compartmentalize; it is to accept that we should not be invested in something we cannot change or control. We cannot change other people, whether celebrities or love ones. We cannot (and should not) control others— unnatural is one of the many words to describe that unfortunate scenario.

When you truly love, you accept. You also need to know how much you can accept for your own sake because the idea is not to become a yes man and take whatever crap the other person wants to give you; a relationship is something that goes both (and sometimes three) ways.

Before you can accept and respect another human being, you must be able to accept and respect yourself. When you become capable of that, you won’t be insecure, jealous, or controlling.

Let’s hope all porn stars get their happily ever after because they are human beings just like you and me.


#love #porn #socialmedia #hate #reality #fantasy #control #jealousy #humans

Wednesday, April 12, 2017


Apparently, since The Alpha’s Gifts, the Triads have been having conversations (I honestly don’t want to use the word debates here) amongst them and decided to change the schedule of the upcoming books. So far, I don’t know the final lineup, only that CLOCKWORK VENDETTA is the one to open the year… and they have me seriously working on it… *wink wink*

#fiction #ebook #gay #threesome #yearofthetriads  #steampunk #mmromance #menofgabbo #iamwriting #gabbodelaparra

Friday, March 31, 2017


During a critical moment in WAND-LOSING & OTHER THINGS YOU SHOULDN'T BE DOING, Rezzu goes to his sister for answers. Here's what happens.

“I have no answer for that.” Keda Enoa Ki Muselet, future queen of Mireeh and Rezzu’s sister, shook her head. “If you hadn’t run, you wouldn’t have all these questions eating you.”

“So, you’d have stayed to face the man after he had his finger up your ass when you came in his hand?”

Keda Enoa seemed to consider this, tapping her forefinger over her chin. A trait she had picked up from their father, Kekoa Muselet.

Rezzu rolled his eyes. “Are you serious? You have to think about it?”

“Well, for starters, I wouldn’t have put myself in that situation.”

His sister was insufferable sometimes, but she had a point there. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t have shaken her if she were physically in front of him.

“Besides, you are an adult. It’s not like you can’t have sex with a willing man. What’s so special about this governor?”

“I-I am not supposed to do something like that. I-I haven’t…”

Her eyes went wild. “Brother, you are not a virgin, are you?” Her puzzled face was unbearable. “I thought you were knocking boots with that technician on the Logandi!” She was flailing her arms as she walked about her chambers, moving in and out of the screen. “I’m NOT a virgin. How can it be possible that you’re one?!”


“What?” She stopped her frantic pacing and turned to the screen, catching his astonishment. “Oh, hush. Father said it was natural. How do you know if you like something if you don’t experience it, huh?” She moved closer, flattening her hands on the console, her face occupying almost the entire screen. “Kalhya is so fucking dreamy. Tell me you fucked him, brother. Tell me you did!”

“We… never… actually…”

“Oh, Sweet Meha, what a waste! If I had a cock I’d be putting it in every hole available. WHY AM I NOT A MAN!!!??”

“Would you calm down? This isn’t about you.”

Keda Enoa sobered up. “You are right. What you need to do is stop being a wuss and act normal. It wasn’t a big deal, you two just went with the flow. If I’d seen three hot guys doing it, I’d have totally gotten carried away too.”

“The Alettans think we are here to invade them.” Rezzu wasn’t a wuss. The whole thing had been just a political mistake. He needed a way to clear the air, and his sister wasn’t helping. She was the political strategist, not him.

“But that’s not the case, so what’s your point?”

Rezzu dithered and did not answer.

“OH NO, you like-like him. You like this governor, and that’s why you’re so freaked out!” She jumped and giggled, clapping her hands. “I knew it was something else. You have faced all kinds of dangerous stuff without batting an eye, and this is what’s gonna make you go all wimpy? I knew it. I knew it.”

“Would you stop being obnoxious for a whole standard minute and help me here with what’s really important?”

“And that is…?”

“How do I go about telling him the truth of our mission on his planet?”

In a blink, she was the wise older sister and future queen he needed. “The only way it should be done— complete and without adornments.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re most certainly welcome, Captain,” Keda Enoa uttered, almost aloof. Then with a wicked grin, she giggled. “Now I have to go and tell Father you like-like a boy!” In a flutter of teal and pink, she left the screen empty.

Rezzu pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “I’m not gonna kill her. I am not going to kill her.” He was not a regicide; although, technically, she wasn’t queen yet.

The Colviri normally lived for more than two thousand standard years. At twenty-six and twenty-five, they were just mere children, even if their bodies and minds were of adults. Rezzu should cut his sister some slack; he had more pressing matters to attend to.

*Get your free copy here:

Wednesday, March 22, 2017


A secondary (and yet important) character in SCHADENFREUDE, Phillip N. Eckhard, better known as Eck, is there to entice and inform you in equal measure since he's the hottest newscaster of Meridian.

Here's how he encountered Droser Sundew (one of the main characters of SCHADENFREUDE) for the first time.

The meeting never happened. The guy wasn’t where he was supposed to be, probably spooked by all the commotion at the plaza. Droser neared his building in the east side of Pontus almost two hours later thanks to the pandemonium throughout the city. The last thing Droser expected to encounter was Phillip N. Eckhart interviewing people on his stoop with two recording devices floating around him and covering his every move. The street lights seemed spotlights trained on Eck and his acolytes.

Droser had to do a double-take, not just because, even surrounded by people debating between stress, frustration, and attraction, Eck’s aura remained that of a grounded and self-assured person, but because it had that golden serpent like the auras of Star, Bunny, and the bank teller. Whatever it meant, these four seemingly completely different people shared something in common.

Were they all mutations? Nah, Antha had said there was something preternatural in Star. Were they all related somehow?

Boundaries’ fearmongers approached from the left sidewalk in their white robes and green cords, waving their blood-red signs and chanting some religious nonsense. Their auras trembled with conviction and despair, and they weren’t wrong, the thing they feared the most was a reality. Still, this group had something Droser hadn’t seen before. They all had the same inscription on their cardboard signs: REPENT FOR THE END IS AT HAND. Droser couldn’t shake the feeling he had read that somewhere before. They also had ashes covering their faces. Talk about outré displays.

Anyone would think that when these two groups converged it would become a wailing festival, but Droser saw how the tides veered in a different direction for Eck’s admirers. Soon anger shone dangerously, and they started to boo the white robes. The recording devices moved to record both groups, and Droser sidestepped to avoid the inevitable confrontation. Part of him wanted to witness the morons pummeling each other, but he wanted more to call Orfeo again until the stubborn asshole answered. He needed privacy for that.

Surreptitiously, Droser reached the lobby’s entrance, but against his instincts he turned to look at the unfolding melee (it was too much of a temptation), and caught Eck’s eyes as someone, taking advantage of the chaos, ripped his cotton candy pink shirt apart, pulling him into the fracas. Signs swung, punches flew, and Eck’s eyes begged for help. Droser was ready to leave him to his fate, and he remembered the golden serpent in the reporter’s aura. Maybe it meant something worth knowing, and this was his chance to investigate.

Droser lunged forward, giving silent thanks to his Fae ancestor since the Bardagamaður (one of the few perks of that sprinkle of Supra in him) slowed the movements of the people fighting around him. He maneuvered around the jabs and kicks, grabbing Eck’s thick upper arm and pulling him out of the commotion.

“Secure the doors, none of those people live in this building,” Droser ordered the building’s computer as Eck and he looked at the riot from behind reinforced glass. They saw how the two hovering recorders were used to smash faces. More people were joining both bands, and police sirens could be heard in the distance.

“At once, Mister Sundew,” the computer agreed serenely.

“Thank you. It would have not been good to start punching viewers,” Eck said, heaving.

“Are you kidding me?”

What a pompous jackass. Droser narrowed his eyes as another surprise emerged from Eck’s aura. The man was saying something, and his aura projected a completely different thing. Deep inside, Eck was concerned for the safety of those outside— not for what they would have thought of him if he had violently defended himself

Your aura revealed your state of mind, and very few people were able to contradict with their mouths what their auras showed brightly. Droser got distracted by the tribal sun circling Eck’s right nipple. His eyes moved lower, and there were words tattooed, like the stanza of a poem or the chorus of a song (because it had a certain rhythm to it), but it wasn’t English. On the left flank, the face of a lion stared back at him menacingly, his mane flowing toward the center Eck’s defined abs.

“Ahem.” Eck cleared his throat. “As much as I appreciate you ogling me with such enthusiasm, it would be nice if we could go to your apartment so I could borrow a shirt or something.”

“There was no enthusiasm,” Droser uttered harshly.

Eck arched an eyebrow. “If you say so.” He didn’t physically shrug, but his voice was a blatant shrug.

“I can still throw you outside to join your viewers.”

“That would be most disappointing.” Eck winked.

“Save your charm for someone who might actually enjoy it. C’mon.”

They walked toward the bay of elevators. They entered, and, as the door slid close, Droser kept his eyes pointedly forward after he put his thumb on the recognition pad, and the metal cage sped upward. He could feel Eck’s eyes on him, though.

“You’re cute.”

“You haven’t seen my shotguns.”

“Is that a proposition?”

The mirth in Eck’s voice was sunny and preposterous. Droser remained looking forward. “You’re not my type.”

“I am everybody’s type.”

“And I’m not everybody.”

“Touché.” Eck chuckled.

Since Droser wanted Eck to cooperate when he started questioning him, he came up with a peace offering, even though Droser could always drug Eck’s ass with a cool truth serum he had stashed in his interrogation kit. “What are those tattooed words?” Droser asked, as the doors opened on the seventieth floor and they exited the elevator, turning right to his apartment.

“It’s the first stanza of Baudelaire’s ‘The Cat’,” Eck offered proudly.

“You have it in French.”

“Of course, all the known translations are rubbish. Besides Je parle parfaitement le français.”

“The only thing I can shoot in French is Voulez-vous coucher avec moi? And everybody knows that.”

Instead of going with the opening Droser had stupidly given, Eck placidly said, “But you are not everybody.”

“You’ve got that one right.” Droser laughed in spite of his reticence to encourage Eck. He thumbed the apartment’s recognition pad.

The door opened, and the house computer greeted him happily, “Welcome back, Droser.” It took a heartbeat to do facial recognition. “Welcome, Mister Eckhart.”

Eck stared at Droser askance— then smirked.

“What? You are on the media all the time. The computer would have recognized Madonna too. Don’t flatter yourself.”

Eck guffawed. “Shit. If Madonna ever comes to your house please give me a call. I’ll be here in a jiffy.”



“I need to make a call.” Droser waved Eck away. “First door to your left. I don’t think I have anything that will actually fit you, but maybe a vest could cover your nipples at least.” He rolled his eyes.

“I’m sure I’ll find something.” Eck smiled and walked toward the bedroom.

His round ass looked good in his navy blue dress pants, but for Droser it was too perky, too in-your-face. There was only one ass worth of occupying his thoughts. He needed to call Orfeo. He activated his communicator and made the request.

Miraculously, Orfeo answered. “Are you all right?” He sounded truly concerned but didn’t activate the image function, and there was loud music in the background. Although, it was not happy music; it was Madonna’s (how déjà vu -ish) First Life “Love Tried to Welcome Me” song.

“I’m good, but that in the background is depression music.”

“Oh shut up. Nick Cave’s ‘O Children’ would have been worse.”

“You do know your depression classics,” Droser chuckled, “and perhaps I have the keys to the gulag. ’Cause your gun is not little, but it’s lovely.”

Droser had to admit he sounded a lot like Eck. That wasn’t a good thing, but something inside him just went cheesy around Orfeo.

“I’m going to hang up if you don’t stop the corniness.”

“You never gave me the chance to say good-bye.”

“Say it then.” Orfeo lost all signs of the original concern in his voice.

“I need to say more than good-bye.”

“What for? The city is going to hell in a basket after the frigging Supras broadcasted Star. People will lose faith in the boundaries and the motherfuckers will attack. We’re leaving before that happens. That growing thing between us doesn’t have a place anymore. Not after what you did and what’s coming.”

“If you’d just give me a chance to prove I’m not a total asshole.”

“Only half?”

“I’m pretty sure you could live with half an asshole beside you.”

“We met at the wrong time, Droser.”

“Everything happens for a reason.”

“That’s what Star says.”

“Then believe her.”

“I’m not going to force it. Say it.”

“Say what?”



“Take care of yourself, Droser. You can be a complete asshole now. So long.” Orfeo disconnected the communication, leaving the dark screen mute.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Droser turned around and found Eck staring at him with an uneasy grimace.

“Seems like whatever that was didn’t work out,” Eck said softly.

“It didn’t.”

“Well.” Eck shrugged. “How do I look?”

Some Eck Facts

Born in the Petrarch borough, Eck received his Master’s degree in Communication at the University of Meridian in 2121. A year later he became the first human journalist allowed to do a report on Assignment Day (this is the day in the Vampire Area when roles within the community are distributed and it’s done when humans reach the age of 14). After that story, his career has been steadily upward.
Now he has a show entitled “In Twenty Questions or Less,” where he tackles Meridian and national issues, reporting many times directly from Suprabeing controlled areas. Charismatic and energetic, he supports quite a few charities as a silent contributor. 

Wednesday, March 15, 2017


"Dad, why are there no pets in your stories?" Bella asks. 

"Hmmm... never really thought about that before..." 

"Well, I think it is time you have a cat character. I wouldn't mind being your inspiration... Especially for that one with all the guns and explosions..." Bella looks at her left front paw, exposing a nasty, daddy-scratching claw. 

"So, you want to be in ARZANALE?" 

"One of the big guys looks kind of Russian. It would be a nice cliché if he has a Russian Blue kitty..." Bella arches the muscle over her eye ('cause cats don't have eyebrows...), and her whiskers twitch condescendingly. 

"He's Belgian!" 

Bella rolls her eyes. "Europe— same difference." She shrugs. 

"I'll think about it..." 

"You can use Chance in the one with the blimps..." Bella nods toward Chance, who's quietly pondering the mysteries of the universe, eyes closed, portraying a very convincing statue. 

"Clockwork Vendetta?" 

"That's the one. They could use a fluffy thing like him to soften all that lion testosterone." 

"Shouldn't you be in that one? They have feline gods' temples." 

"Nah. I'll be lost amid all those claws and manes and roars. I'd rather be where I'm more visible. Shame you're not writing anything with witches. I'd totally crush it as a familiar." Bella narrows her eyes as if I am unable to get an undisguised hint. 

"But you are my familiar!" 

"Dad," Bella looks at me like I need to be petted, "being your familiar is not my day job. It's a hustle..." 

#Bella #cat #kitty #daddysgirl #dog #Maltese #familiar #dayjob #hustle #fictionalcharacter #gabbodelaparra