Stardust Poems Novels & Stories

From the moment he had a sweet taste of Angel, the pure light to his unending darkness, he knew that he had to have her for himself. Rules be damned. *** Hell bowed to him and even devils cowered at his name. He was born in blood and crime, raised to lead Las Vegas' most ruthless mafia and with an iron-fist, he ruled. Yet, all it took to draw a consuming obsession from Christian De Novo was a delicious one night stand with a mysterious woman. Delicate and sweet, Angel Winchester was clueless to the world of crime and danger. However, all that is burned to ashes when a one night affair leads to a forced marriage between herself and a devilishly handsome monster.

Ariana Carl was a lowly omega of the stardust pack, losing her parent at a young age she was left to live all alone and become a maid in the castle. Living all her life all she wanted was to find her mate and live a happy life but fate has something different installed for her. Knox Delvoc; the Ruthless alpha of the stardust pack he rejected the lowly Omega he gets as a maid but chooses to keep her with him when he finds out she had a second chance mate, his beta he becomes possessive and treats her inhumanely. ~~~~~ "Where are you coming from? You are drenched in water and have a stinky smell." Ariana shivered where she stood by herself "I went outside to get some apples your majesty, you instructed me to get them." Throw those away and get your filthy body washed, get out of my sight!"

Tunnels deconstructs the individual’s Romantic fascination with ‘love’ or the grammaticality of beauty. Ideally, the ‘tunnels’ in the collection are subterranean love poems from the suburban imaginary. These seemingly syntactic tunnels travel through one’s literary imagination or heterotopic dreamscapes, and while αγάπη (Greek for ‘love’) inspires these rhizomic tunnels to navigate the abysmal ‘meta-spectacle’ of gesture, language or moment of poemness, the mind like the many-colored jeepneys of Manila, where driving past roast goose restaurants in Shek Kip Mei or spotting stilt houses in Kampong Kleang, attempt to explore the transgeneric textualities of the everyday, alongside the unstructurality of time and space, the littoral and the liminal.

While cleaning Desmond Maynard's house, I accidentally knocked over his mother's keepsake. He once told me it was his most precious possession. But when I picked it up, hundreds of love letters spilled out. There were beautiful poems, passionate lyrics, and heartfelt confessions. He had written one letter a week without stopping. On the back of each one wrote a line: To My Love, Bunny. The nickname rang a bell. It was his junior in college. Things started to make sense. I slaved away for 13 years, running his household and caring for his family, but Desmond never even said he liked me. That was because he already had someone he liked. I sorted the letters by date, put them back, and grabbed my phone to make a call. "Mom, I'm in for the marriage proposal."