Real women don't love the richest guy in the world they love the guy who can make their world the richest.
~ Jazz Feylynn
My eyes hunger to read more books then time allows me to devour.
Putting on the collar is taking charge of unexpected situations. Keeping humans from taking control from me. To tell hunters that I'm not prey. Not a trophy by wearing the collar. I looked at the circlet again. Looking deeper, I see not subjugation, but a tool of power to control my fate in the world of man that symbolizes my ownership over both my nature spirit and wolf-self.
Looking deeper, I see not subjugation, but a tool of power to control my fate in the world of man that symbolizes my ownership over both my nature spirit and wolf-self.
I assumed this yoke would encase me as well as any another hobble. Only this one bound the mind.
Butterfly upon my hand, A voice of wonder within my mind, not my own but the butterfly's.
The annihilating strokes slashed across my penned heartfelt words.
A spiritual journey is becoming what one has always meant to be-come and always was. One with God's Spirit.
Twist a tongue, and tongue a twist how many twists can a tongue twister twist around the twisting tongue.
Welcome to Book-a-holic Anonymous.Hi, I'm Jazz and I am addicted to the written word. I love the smell of the blackest ink sliding across texture paper. My eyes squint against the loss of time within the pages of story. I don't think there's a cure for my compulsion to lose myself within life and times of those characters bound between the covers.
The ink line drawing flowed the cursive journey,created on paper canvas that brought the story to life.
Being a werewolf, an alpha more so, isn't about being aggressive over others but controlling yourself, the wolf's wild virus inside my DNA, and emotions that comes with the beast.
I swear it looked like she wanted her words to slither around us and go out the door unheard.
No electricity, fridge, TV or game console. I guess changing from human was enough fun and games for werewolves.
His eyes forward didn’t deviate from the off-road trail, his chiseled jaw gripped shut during the ride. He didn’t release any sound of explanation until we arrived.
Yes, Dad collared me before I was even born. Nevertheless, he made me the one in authority of the collar and myself.
Keeping her in her roots of greenness.
Maybe it's a green thing or a wolf thing or a short-circuit thing. I don’t seem to know anything.
Her blue eyes glowed headlight red into my leafy greens. Those eyes were freaky.
We feel fighting for dominance actually shows weakness. It's much harder to hold back the wolf than to let it have free rein.
That did explain his sucky home life growing up but didn’t excuse the way he treated others. Was there childcare for abused werewolves?
My nerves did a jitter dance, stuck between two wolves.
Her wild race caused the dried-up ferns, thorny plants, and low-hung tree branches—away from the lake—to grab at our clothing in the mad dash over the narrow packed dirt through the trees.
Be careful. The conditions are treacherous with mud-sucking tentacles pulling shoes and socks into the murky bottom while smearing grime on those who passed by.
Was there childcare for abused werewolves?
My nerves did a jitter dance
Fingers you, claws me, crossed hoping Dad sees it that way.
I got a whiff of minty fresh breath. Definitely not, what I'd expect from a wild wolf.
Now you're being ridiculous. If your mom changed into a carrot, I'd think she'd change back before someone ate her, werewolf or not.
Off Spruce, there was a little known trail. A savage gulley wound through acreage of older residential homes that met up with Green Rock Drive. A natural bouquet gust of wind assaulted me. The domestic and native encroached on each other in a battle for dominance at the edges of the cramped path's undergrowth. The tangy scent of wild onion and sagebrush intermingled with the verdant odor of wild geranium, blue flax, columbine and creeping pussytoes. The wild weeds spiced up the encroaching grass turf and the tamed floral honeysuckle vines and lilac bushes.
Tongue and hand tied, I was equally cut off and trapped in my own silent dark tomb.
Teachers' favorite color ink, splashed and dripped down his face a grisly reminder of mistakes bruising his life.
His eyes never blinked or wavered from mine, encompassing me in a field of control.
His eyes, if anything, gleamed even more bright, having found the treasure he sought.
One two, one two, Type a word or two. Arrow left, arrow right, Keep those fingers nice and tight.Keys up, Keys down,Move those digits all around.One two, one two, Type a word or two.
Widening blood puddles spilled from suffocating death wounds.
