The Deserted Woman Novels & Stories

"Though my husband died early and I became a young widow, the internal and external gazes surveilling and ensnaring me were obsessive and terrible, like the tongues of evil spirits." Her voice trembled. "Every night, my empty insides burned with terrible loneliness and a thirst for a man's embrace, but..." "To wear that flimsy shell of a virtuous woman, I had to thoroughly carve away my own flesh and live like a dead woman." She buried her face in the feral man's broad chest. "Yet coming to this uninhabited island where the world has been erased, those dirty eyes that hacked me to pieces have vanished without a trace."

“A woman?” I nodded. “In the vision, the castle in the Forgotten Lands is on fire, with blue fire, and there are broken walls, and dead Lycan bodies everywhere. There’s also this vivid stench of vinegar, and hushed whispers all around. It all felt cold, and I realized we were in the Forgotten Lands. There was a woman there with the most piercing eyes I’ve ever seen. She was standing in the middle of everything, naked, with blood dripping from her mouth. She was staring right at us.” “Right at the both of you or just you alone?” Clayton checked.

The silver had weakened her senses, dampened her strength, and made her wolf whimper in retreat within her mind. The scent of mildew, salt, and unwashed bodies choked her nostrils. From above, the heavy stomping of boots, harsh laughter, and the deep grumble of men’s voices echoed through the thick wood. A creaky door at the end of the corridor opened, letting in a flicker of torchlight. A middle-aged woman stepped in, plain-faced with dull brown eyes and a scarf wrapped around her head. She carried a chipped bowl of water and a chunk of stale bread on a metal plate. The woman set it down without a word, not even a glance. Serena stared at the food, stomach twisting—not with hunger, but desp

Scorpions and crawlies and all manner of dangerous creatures infested the dunes, but they were effectively stamped out and killed by the townsfolk. “You simply shan’t have her tonight,” whispered a doddering old woman, a bit too loudly, mind you, but she was a kind and gentle thing, and those around her nodded in agreement. The desert recoiled in disbelief, but pressed on in its advances, only to be stymied at every turn. What a distressing turn of events for the desert at large. Ah, but what an evening for Bryony!

🎀CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FIVE🎀 They stepped through the portal and found themselves in a jagged, desolate wasteland filled with towering rocks and sharp cliffs. Perched on a high stone peak was a woman in a flowing, blood-red gown, playing a haunting melody on a dark flute. She stopped abruptly when she saw them, lowering the instrument as she stood up with a slow, curious smile. "And who might this be?" she asked, her voice echoing off the stones.

My gaze plummeted downward, locking onto the source of this disturbing intrusion. There, in the dim light, a figure emerged, crawling laboriously towards me. It was a woman, her presence exuding an otherworldly aura that sent a shiver down my spine. Her pallid complexion gave her an ethereal appearance, accentuated by the disheveled mess of her hair and the stark nakedness of her form. She seemed vulnerable and feeble, her body consumed by a haunting sickness that emanated from within her very core. Desperation etched upon her face, she pleaded for help, her voice trembling with a mixture of anguish and hope. Each agonizing movement brought her closer, inch by painful inch, as she fought aga

Everything and everyone was the same, each pulsing heartbeat matched the other and each body secreted the heady, animal aromas that come from secret places and linger sweetly in the aftermath of desire. Yet there was a sound in the room that Kate couldn’t place. As her breath came more easily, as the stroking hands around her subsided into stillness, the noise seemed louder. Turning her head towards the fireplace, Kate searched for its source. Her befuddled brain refused to take in what she saw — it was as if she were back in Nero’s gallery of hidden desire and private pleasure. For in a chair by the fire sat one of the women in the portraits. Her eyes were closed in a pose of near-religious

They barked orders as though I were a thing, a body…not a woman who had just been pushed down the staircase of her own home by the man she loved. But I couldn’t scream….I couldn’t even blink. I was trapped within myself, silent and still, like a doll whose strings had been cut. Then came the quiet. The ambulance faded and The ER lights vanished. Time lost all meaning in the coma. I floated in a thick, endless, black conscious but disembodied state. Somewhere beyond the black curtain, I heard machines…a faint beeping, the shuffle of rubber soles and soft voices murmuring charts and vitals.

The man who stood there was one of our scouts, his face pale, his breath clouding in the cold air. “What?” I demanded. He hesitated, glancing toward the graves before lowering his voice. “We’ve received word… from the northern outpost. A woman was seen two nights ago crossing the border into the Frozen Wastes.” The wind cut through me like a blade. “Describe her.” “Dark hair. Eyes the color of storm clouds. A face…” He swallowed. “A face exactly like hers.” My heart slammed in my chest. Hope flared, sharp and dangerous. “Was she alone?” I asked.

Flying at last. *** Meanwhile, a shape reclines naked and profane upon a great stone chair within the derelict mansion in the woods. It feels the girl’s presence below, senses her meddling: the night music is gone, the buried woman’s sweet torment and titterings ended. No more wails to be had— The feminine form touches herself and shudders deliciously upon her sculpted throne of mortar and bones.