Nenia Campbell

I'm as lucky as a bed of oysters on cioppino night.

All right,_ she said a little sarcastically. __ was going to assume you liked eating babies and sacrificing virgins, but I might as well ask, what do you do for fun?___ languish in sin,_ I replied in the same tone. __ take my babies rare, and my virgins over easy.

One doesn't need to be taught fear when one is the hunted.

Vampires are fond of their games. But the games that They play are different than the variants that I'm familiar with. The rules were made to be bent, broken, shattered__nd somebody always gets hurt.Always.

You are my star and you have made me see,_ he tells her, __nd I am the air beneath your wings, never rending, never ending.

Knives and candlelight,_ he said, __ow romantic.

A story unwritten is without beginning or end. But in its potential lies another story; and in the heartbeat before pen meets page, both stories exist at once, reflecting endless permutations of the other, before one of them disappears forever.

That's how it started: a series of small hurts and excuses between two people that built up slowly, widening over time to form a vast and yawning divide.

Most creatures run when they sense danger. People grab a six-pack and a folding chair.

I was afraid and knew I had every right to be, but he had awakened a part of me that no longer cared.

You would do well to guard your tongue, lest it be stricken from you.

Knowledge is a rope, and you're weaving a noose out of it. Leave some slack for the enemy.

I'm not going to force you into anything you don't want. But I'm also not going to take a vow of chastity and pine away for you, or whatever the hell it is that men do in romance novels these days. I have needs. I'd rather satisfy them with you, but if you don't want me I suppose I'll just have to find someone else. Might take me a while, but I'll make do. I always have before.

What was it about us, as humans, that drove us to make apologies for beautiful things?

All lines are gray in the dark.

I was cyber-bullied before all those Myspace-related suicides, so my school principal wasn't really impressed when my mom complained about what was happening to me on my Xanga blog and on AIM chat.__et your life sorted out, you fucking scitzo [sic] dyke tranny bitch,_ one comment might say.Another comment would say something like, __ know she's reading this, she's so pathetic.__nd, perhaps most frightening of all: __'m going to fuck you up until your mother bleeds.

Hatred is as easy as slipping on a well-worn woolen cloak. If only it provided the comfort of one.

People say hate is like a poison _ but they're wrong. It's like a drug. You never forget your first hit, how it seduces you with its strength and power, and takes you completely by storm. It colors your world in light and meaning, until you wonder how you ever managed to get by without it. And then, eventually, you get to a point where you can't. It takes over your life, until hating becomes your reason for living.