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270 pages, Paperback
First published July 1, 2011
"Fathered by the He-wasp and by a man who decieved,
Mating the She-bird formerly free,
The gallwraiths and chromantis now fly,
Spewed from Her stone womb,
Wings shrouding all in shadow's hue,
Seeking, ever seeking, their mother
Fevered with dyscrasia,
The gallwraiths and chromantis now sail,
O'er the Land that pitch bleeds,
Feeding on color and beauty,
Seeking comfort through consumption,
Peace through melancholy,
Seeking, ever seeking, their mother"
"Red Lysis flexed his skeleton, his joints spewing black, pluming coughs, his bones glowing as embers, and his hair wrapped into antlers that sharpened with every wisp and tongue of flame. A flashing brilliant ruby he burned! And his ribs expelled torrents of ashen black debris and vomited a smoldering, dead hive that had been his heart. As the hive contacted the earth, it emptied petrified wasps that fractured like fragile statues of spent coal. Haemarr and his minions were no longer alive."
"She sucked blood as it gushed from a decapitated boy. Her wings remained furled behind her like a plumed, elegant robe. Thus exposed, her iridescent skin and peaked breast glistened beneath the sun while blood ran in rivulets down her belly. her arched legs exaggerated her royal grace and drew one's eye away from her taloned, pronged feet and her twisted fingernails and toward her beckoning hips."




I had given birth to a wild, awesome work of art while affirming my skills and self-worth as an artist. I could feel my soul bond with this earth [....]. It was part of me now and vice versa.
The art one creates, the subject of it, and the artist are three separate entities – though they imprint their souls onto each other. On rare occasion, the process of this sharing is orgasmic and resembles procreation; the product assumes a sentient thing, possessing some spirit of the creator's although ultimately a new being. These events are special, happening only a few times in one's life. Some artists are infertile in this regard.
These children of beauty are an artist's legacy, and I have had none ere now. To date, I had completed only minor feats of artisanship and had felt correspondingly worthless as an artist, so the present moment was indeed the pinnacle of my happiness. (p. 64)