Ree Vera: So glad to have you here! Tell us a little about yourself, Madelaine.
Madelaine: If I could sum myself up in a sentence, right now, I’d say: Nineteen-year-old aspiring author, the eldest of five kids, and officially crazy.
At least, my family thinks I’m nuts. I like to think it’s a writer thing.
I found my passion for writing at twelve when I wrote a 7-pg fantasy story for class, called Another Place, Another Time which I plan to, someday, expand into a full novel or series. So far, it’s waiting for me to dig it out of my subconscious again after seven years. Since then, writing has become a therapeutic exercise, a place where--out of the chaos of the day--I can find some sort of control and peace.
As far as what I write, I’ve dabbled in, primarily, romantic fantasy; though I’ve also completed an anthology of free verse poetry and an urban romance with vampire hybrids. Sometime in the future, I want to try my hand at writing an epic fantasy, using the Hero‘s Journey template.
Ree Vera: We all have our style, as writers. So what why should people read your work?
Madelaine: This is a tough question. I honestly don’t know how to answer this, but I suppose, off the top of my head, the reason why people should read my work is because of reader-character connection. Through my characters, I strive to strike a chord within the readers, make them connect emotionally with the character and the world I’ve put them in and--even if the character isn’t human--make them relatable to the reader as much as possible.
Ree Vera: What are you currently working on?
Madelaine: Too much at once. Blogging, taking notes for future projects and ideas, reading and beta- reading for a few close friends, my focus is divided and it can be hard to keep track of what exactly I’m working on at times.
Currently, though, my focus is set on my romantic fantasy trilogy: Hybrid Blood. Draft one of book one, The Key-bearer, has yet to be finished, but I’ve been busy planning the structure of book 2, Falling From Grace and cannot wait to start!
Ree Vera: Is there a place people can view your writing?
Madelaine: My writing has been taken off public sites due to publication risks, though, I welcome discussions on writing on my Facebook Page, and have been thinking of posting poetry and a short story or two on there. Below is an excerpt from an older idea, a possible novella I started, called Stare.
Thank you everyone for taking the time to learn about this incredible author. Please feel free to contact her! She is not just an amazing writer, she is one of the nicest people you'll meet.
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Stare (Chapter one)
The music pounded from the speakers and I watched her weave through the crowd, a shadow amongst solid bodies. The world was a flash of colors—pink, yellow, red, blue, and green—as the strobe light spun above us. The heady scent of perfume and cologne mixed with sweat as I followed her. "Her" was a statuesque brunette, a dark blue cocktail dress moulded to her curves and black heels on her feet. Curled hair framed a heart-shaped face, intensified a pair of wide blue eyes. She was one of them—a Burn Sister. She was delicious, a beauty—though if you got too close, this young lioness would bare her claws.
She made her way to the bar and snagged a stool. Her lips moved, a slight smile pulling at the corners, but I couldn't hear what was being said. The noise had made me deaf. The bartender poured her a drink—Sex on the Beach, by the look of it—and she tipped him, a sultry look in her eyes. The glass rose, clasped in one hand, to her red voluptuous lips and she tipped it just so, taking a long sip.
I melted into the crowd again, my eyes still watching her. She was keeping her eyes on me. I could feel it, the prickling at the base of my spine, crawling up. A shiver. This Burn Sister wasn't new to the job, she wasn't a novice and she knew it. She was flaunting it—enjoying the way I took the bait like a lovesick pup.
She was clever, but not clever enough. I watched as she threw her head back, laughing at something the bartender had said. Any moment now...
Then, she paused, and fell off the stool. Her glass shattered, booze and hair spilling around her like a halo. I smiled and took my leave as a crowd gathered around the dead girl. As I disappeared thorough the door, and into sharp October air, I could already imagine the distant scream of sirens, feel the chaos as paramedics gathered the woman up and carried her away.
One down, plenty more to go…
I exited the club and walked down the street, the air sour with the scent of rotting leaves. The silence was broken by a barking dog. I stuffed my hands into my pockets, the ring of keys jangling like her bracelets. The sleek black Porsche waiting for me a couple blocks down was hers. While she'd charmed the men and swayed with them across the floor, I had slipped my hand into her purse and stolen them. Earlier, I had seen her drive up to the curb, some obscure pop music slithering from the radio. Then, in silence, she slid out; graceful and poised, her earrings glittering in the yellow streetlight. She was paid well, this Burn Sister, and I'm sure she'd also had her fair share of men—been their trophy around the high and mighty, then got down on her knees in the privacy of a hotel room.
"And now she'll be a memory." I unlocked the Porsche and got inside, admiring the chic leather, breathing in deep the thick scent of female pheromones and expensive perfume. As the car purred to life, I allowed myself a moment of silence—not for the woman, not for what I'd done out of the goodness of my black heart, but for her nice ride.
Then I burned rubber, feeling the adrenaline flow, laughing as the tires screeched. If I had used a knife, or a gun—allowed her to see the smile as she died—she may have screeched, may have cried out to her God. May have wondered how a man could do such a thing...
I wondered now, as I tried to cleanse my memory of her, as I opened the window to purge the scent of her from my pores: how must it have felt to yearn for her body, hear her heart beat against her ribs...how must it have felt to know her, love her?
“Superficially, that's how,” Her love, like a candle, was easily lit, and just as easily snuffed. “I should know.” Catching my eye in the rear view mirror, I could see the lie in them—no matter how far I tried to push it back, it had always resurfaced: the memories, the stolen time, the pain. The wandering...
Her death—like a play—had been staged down to the very minute details. I had tracked her down, watched her every move, bribed and convinced people—orchestrated this little scheme until my Cinderella broke her glass of booze and the clock struck two AM. By the time the dancers gathered, this dark prince had slipped away in his black carriage.
As I parked the car at my hotel, found my room and turned the TV to the local news, I wasn't surprised to find camera lenses and anchors flocking the closed off area, trying to perhaps get a glimpse of the paramedics carrying the body away—to get a look at the concrete, juicy details. Cops surrounded the scene and ambulance lights were flashing—red and white, red and white. It looked very much like a macabre dance floor where instead of crushing, thrusting bodies, loud music, and suffocating heat; there was the ambulance lights, the cries and protests of worried and shocked people, and the procedures typical of a crime scene investigation. No one's words trailed me to the dark hotel room. They did not accuse me from the glare of the TV. Grabbing the remote and turning off the news, I was soon left to darkness. The shades were drawn and the lights off. Darkness was easy to hide in—no one could see me grab a beer in hands that shook, no one had to know how fast I drank it, no one had to see the sweat that peppered my neck and brow. I suppose it was guilty conscience, but it had to be done. She had to die.
Why...? they might ask. Even in this lonely darkness; I could see the focused eyes of the cops, the table, the dim light swinging overhead, their pressed uniforms. Looking past the cop, I'd answer Because I was killing her anyway—sucking the life from her. I did it because I loved her...
The cop would laugh, maybe sigh, and run a hand through his hair. His partner would grab my arm and hoist me to my feet. The handcuffs would catch the light and I'd be led to my cell—with a resounding clang, it would close on the world as I knew it forever.
Who would believe the word of a demon anyway?