Tag Archives: romance


I went gallivanting to a different website, but came back to my old hunting ground. In the meantime, I wrote two more books in the Kynd Series. “Lover in Darkness” and “Lover in Chains.” Both continue the tales of my sexy gargoyles. Check ’em out!

LOVER IN STONE, Installment No. 11

Installment No. 12  #hell #gargoyle
Angelia stood with Merrick’s pack in her outstretched arm, watching the Chimera sift through his emotions, seeing his mistrust shift to resentment as he reached toward her. She felt a pang of sadness for him, especially after having seen how affectionate and unguarded he’d been with his fellow Gargoyle only moments before.
The greeting had been a private moment, and one she guessed not many on the outside ever had the chance to see. That Merrick would let her witness it? A squirming twinge played in her belly, expunging the sadness, as she recalled the easy smile on his handsome face.
Like Darken’s eyes, Merrick’s had glowed warm, reminding Angelia of smooth-worn rocks on a sun kissed beach. He had looked down on her without masking his joy at seeing his friend, and her heart had stuttered at the sight of him.
If only she could elicit such affection from him.
Okay, so for now she’d be content with the bone he’d thrown her by not hiding his affectionate side, and ignore the tormented rage he was currently exuding the closer he got to her.
She was brave, darn it. She’d give him a bone, too.
“We should be going. The longer we take getting started, the—”
“The farther down we’ll have to go,” he snapped, snatching at his bag. But she didn’t let it go, and they both stood holding the bundle between them, united for an electric moment.
Was she feeling the heat of Hell, because it was getting awfully warm under her clothes.
Merrick’s smooth jaw ticked, his nostrils flaring like he was smelling something.
Dear God.
Angelia released her grip, and stepped off to preoccupy herself with adjusting the straps on her own backpack, making sure it fit snug, making sure the Chimera couldn’t see the flush on her cheeks, which she was sure was there, if the burning of her face meant anything.
She didn’t dare look at him, but started off, too self-conscious to look back. Yet each step that led her closer to Hell fluttered her heart, tingled her skin, like she was nearing her destiny. Which she felt certain was somehow entwined with that of the Scriptum.
And with the Chimera. Who was nothing like she imagined him to be.
Aside from her inexplicable fascination with the Kynd, Angelia knew she was just as prejudiced in her thinking as the rest of the world. She thought the Chimera chosen to guide her would look as hideous as those fashioned by the hands of man and mounted onto old buildings and churches.
Surprise, surprise.
She hadn’t expected him to have a Gargoyle form, or to have a physique like he posed for GQ in his spare time, or to have eyes that left his soul wide open when he let his guard down.
Not that she’d meant to, but she had seen the depths of his anger as she’d gazed into the slate of those eyes, and had felt like a trespasser. Never mind she’d yearned to drop the bundle she was holding to kiss those tortures out of him.
Well, she couldn’t overlook that part, actually—her cheeks still burned hot enough to remind her. So, she trucked along, oblivious to her surroundings while images of the Chimera and his leonine grace dominated her thoughts.
Merrick didn’t immediately follow Angelia. He stood as if planted as he waited for his heart to slog back to its natural rhythm.
Which it wouldn’t do so long as he kept thinking about the woman’s kind gesture and utter lack of retaliation. If she’d have just plunked his bag at his feet, he’d have understood. He would have bitten out some sarcastic comment and dragged her delicate ass down the path after that damned book.
Instead, she’d been nice, and that scraped at his rage without feeding it, confusing him. Ergo, his rapping heart.
Angelia’s backside grew incrementally smaller while he stood grounded like an idiot.
Finally taking off after her, he lied to himself that he didn’t want the view of that round ass a lot closer to him than it was.
He was merely concerned she was getting too far ahead of him for her own safety. They weren’t yet in Hell, but the rim around it contained its own dangers. For being one of the Literati she seemed awfully blasé about stepping across the threshold into the Vestibule.
Surely she wasn’t ignorant about what resided in the antechamber to Hell. It didn’t matter that all around them, stretching as far as the eye could see, was nothing but vast prairies of trampled grass, and an unattainable horizon, charred blood red.
The grass beneath their feet wasn’t merely crushed, it was macerated, the dents and crescent prints of unshod hooves and bare feet tattooed into the pulverized sod.
Yet, still the human walked on.
Undaunted or unaware?
Merrick wasn’t sure, but his mane thickened so the ends of it curled along the collar of his leather jacket. He wanted her safe.
For the deal I’ve made with Anton.
Yes. Of course, that was the reason why. It had nothing to do with the way his eyes kept drifting downward to watch her wiggling ass. Nothing whatsoever.
The woman swatted at bothersome flies, slapping one of the biting insects at her neck, which piqued that unfamiliar urge to protect her and made his chest too tight.
Scanning the plain they traveled across with renewed wariness, Merrick ignored his body’s reaction, and loped to catch up with her, even though he hadn’t a clue what he would say once he closed the distance.
He didn’t do small talk. He had spent too many centuries by himself to have mastered the art of chatting.
Yet, the second the smell of lavender drifted into his nostrils, his tongue loosened like a flapping sail in a stiff wind. “So, how does a human find herself as one of the Literati, anyhow? You’re no withered husk.”
~S.C. Dane
~Installment No. 12 coming March 7, 2015

LOVER IN STONE, Installment No. 6

Cramming his anger deeper into himself, Merrick freed his curiosity from its coffin. He had to see how this unusual sitch played out, so he ventured deeper into the room.
Was the woman the Vampyre’s lover?
His full Chimera seethed to be let loose from its singular Gargoyle form, and Merrick pushed aside the unfamiliar fluttering of his gut. The female put her arm across the ancient one’s back, and gently caressed her cheek along his shoulder.
No. There was nothing sexual about the woman’s giving of comfort. This was Anton’s human child, the one he and his wife had found and raised as one of their own.
Ignoring his relief, he stifled a derisive grunt. Well, not exactly as one of their own. She was human, not Vampire. She had been raised on milk and solid food, not blood. Quite the sacrifice for a pair of leeches, considering the babe would have made a delicate meal.
A smear of blood on Anton’s pallid cheek had Merrick eyeing the ancient one a little more carefully.
The Vampyre wept.
He’d seen many things in his long life, but never that. Maybe he felt a little sorry for the guy.
Just a little, though. He wasn’t about to go overboard with the sympathy.
“Merrick, you’ve come. We thank you.” Godrick’s voice chimed like a crystal bell, arresting everyone’s attention, including that of Anton’s daughter. She lifted her gaze to Godrick while she still hugged her father.
Worry flashed in those dark blue eyes.
What fine, dark eyes they are. Nearly black, but with enough blue to make Merrick think of iridescent ink, reflecting the reds and golds from the flames of the wall sconces.
A man could get mired in those liquid pools.
If one were just a man.
Merrick again rolled his shoulders beneath the heavy weight of his leather coat, and returned his attention to Godrick.
“You summoned. I answered.”
Anton gently extricated himself from Angelia’s embrace to take his place upon the dais with the rest of the Triumvirate. The human woman moved to stand closer to Aro and his nearsighted crones.
She settled herself a little off to the side, and Merrick thought her a flowering apple tree in an orchard of shriveled trunks. She wasn’t tall, but she had soft curves that caressed his sharp eyes. Her scent wafted toward him like nectar, squeezing his ball sac with an urgency he’d never known.
Rather than think on that gripping conundrum and gnash his teeth into powder, he diverted his attention to the dynamic duo, the two Ghouls sitting with the head of the Literati.
Each one had devoted his immortal life to knowledge, and the Ghouls’ bodies had withered in their pursuit.
Would this be the woman’s fate?
He surely hoped not. Idiot. He was being an imaginative fool. What did he care? He may have stood in that room looking like a human male, but he wasn’t.
Not even close.
So he could drag his eyes off Anton’s daughter for two seconds and pay attention to the Triumvirate and the mission they’d hired him for.
Yet, his tongue slid across the bottom of his sharp teeth as he thought about what he’d like to do to that woman’s skin, which seemed creamy as, well—cream. A lustful twinge gripped his balls anew.
Forcing him to adjust his stance to ease the crush of his stiffening erection in his leather pants. Godrick blabbered on about something. Merrick tilted his head to focus on anything other than the bulge growing behind his buttons.
“You have agreed to descend the Circles of Hell to retrieve the Scriptum?”
“I have,” he growled, biting down on the Your Excellency part. The Vampyres weren’t his, and they sure as hell weren’t excellent.
“Good. Then you and the human woman Angelia will depart as soon as you collect the supplies we have prepared for you. We expect you to return to the surface within seven days’ time.”
The room bloomed red before his eyes, his strident erection forgotten.
What? The Triumvirate and Literati expected him to tote a living human through Hell? Were they daft?
Such a risky undertaking had only been done three times before, and two had been under God’s protection. Well, Virgil’s more precisely, but Dante’s guide had been acting with permission from the Big Man Himself. The third brainfart had just been one lucky son of a bitch.
And these morons expected him to lug around a human female as he navigated The Circles?
“You’re out of your blood starved minds.”
Two members of the Triumvirate stiffened, while Anton drew his palm across his eyes, his distress evident. But it was Aro, the scrawny head of the Literati who whined in his ear.
“Our like cannot touch the Scriptum. It will only allow itself to be handled by humans. You will need her, Gargoyle,” he sneered, his contempt for the Kynd advertising like a red button blaring for Merrick to punch it.
Which gave Merrick just the little push his rage needed to resurface. He flashed his fangs, his sheer size cowering the bloodsucker as he lunged, halting a paper’s thickness from Aro’s stricken face. “You take that tone again when you say Gargoyle, leech, and you won’t have eyes to read your precious Scriptum.” His words were barely audible within his guttural threat.
Aro cringed from Merrick’s crushing weight, bending backward on one supporting leg, cutting a fabulous imitation of a café table.
It was all Merrick could do not to twist Aro’s anemic neck in his hands. They itched to do it, too, his claws emerging to better hold the skinny straw in his grasp.
Wresting control from God only knew where, he turned his attention back to the three on the dais, forcing his seething fury back into its cage.
“With all due respect,” he snarled, not caring that he patronized the ruling Triumvirate. He barely respected the ancient Vampyres. He was as old, if not older than those three who presumed authority over him.
Merrick only answered their call out of concern for his Kynd. Because if the Scriptum held the secrets rumored to be etched upon its pages, then they had as much, if not more right to it as the Literati. He would return it to that order of haggard crones only after his brethren had their chance to study it.
Maybe not even then.
“I can’t drag a human through Hell,” he argued.
Even if she smells as good as she does. “It will be dangerous enough without having to keep something–” Merrick ground his teeth and cleared his throat, his derision clear. “I mean, someone else alive while I’m doing it.”
~S.C. Dane
~Installment No. 7 coming Tuesday, February 17, 2015

Lover in Stone, Installment No. 4

Installment No. 4
#gargoyles #shifter #romance #MFRWauthorscdane
Oh, man, this is so not good. Angelia stepped into the room, yet no one acknowledged her presence. Not a good sign at all considering the occupants of the room were hypersensitive Vampires. They continued arguing as if she wasn’t there at all.
Aro, her boss, paced. His violet eyes snapping, his fangs barely sheathed.
Upon the dais abutting the far wall of the gallery sat two of the Vampyres of the Triumvirate, Godrick and Kristov, who watched him march, bemused expressions clapped onto their faces.
The third Vampyre of the Triumvirate, her dear father Anton, remained on Aro’s level, leaning against the wall, his blonde head resting on his arm. The lesser Vampire ignored Anton, preferring to address the Vampyres on the raised platform instead.
“She is a sworn member to the Literati, do not forget,” Aro fumed, barely veiling his threat to the ancient members of the Triumvirate. He shook with his insubordination, yet couldn’t seem to help himself. “She has pledged her oath,” he seethed, his fangs lengthening.
“She is merely human!” Anton raged, slicing across the room with his claws unsheathed. The Vampyre veered from his assault at the last second, swirling back to his original post along the wall, his control tamped. “She will never survive this mission,” Anton hissed, his demeanor deflating as if his body wasn’t like iron.
Angelia barely tracked her father’s averted assault on her boss it happened so fast.
“She is my daughter,” he groaned, not caring to shield the torment of his dilemma from the others in the room. Or from Angelia, whose heart strangled in her breast to see him so defeated.
To heck with tradition and protocol. Angelia clapped her jaw shut and went straight to her father to comfort him.
She couldn’t not. He was extremely upset. She could see it in his silver eyes, the centuries weighing heavy in them when usually they sparkled bright.
The sight of them turned her blood to freezing slush.
This meeting was about her and her blunder with the Scriptum. They were convening to decide an appropriate punishment. So, what mission were they talking about?
Anton’s fingers curled around her hand, and for an instant, Angelia didn’t know if she felt trapped or comforted. But she held her ground. Whatever retribution was due her, she’d face it. Even if she was glad her stomach was empty so she wouldn’t vomit. Much.
Puking wasn’t exactly a hallmark of bravery, so she took the tight smile her father gave her, and let him lead her to a wooden chair situated a little off-center of the room.
To sit? Oh, heck, no. She wanted to bolt.
But that would make her a coward, and she already had a long list of inadequacies chalked up against her. Angelia took the seat her father offered.
Then watched him trudge to the dais like a man heading for the gallows. She gulped past the knot gripping her throat.
Okay, she could do this. She had signed on with the Literati knowing full well what was expected of her. Of course, her father had been beyond livid when she’d done it. He’d threatened to kill Aro as soon as he’d found out she’d daubed her blood to the contract. He’d accused the Vampire of treachery and deceit. Even went so far as to say the only reason Aro would want his daughter was because she was human.
A lovely revelation that stung like a mother. Yet, she’d refused to cry over it. So what if that was the only reason Aro and the Literati wanted her. For once in her life, being human had some merit. And Anton’s fears that she’d be traipsing all over the world, going into places where only her kind could go? Remained unfounded.
Angelia hadn’t left her desk for ten years. No Indiana Jones adventures for her. Nope. Since her debacle with the Recovery Team, she got the drudgery, the research where the only excitement came from getting off her stool to stretch her back.
The Scriptum had been the first and only thing she’d ever been assigned to because she was human, and that was because Aro and the other Literati couldn’t pry their greedy little fingers under its cover.
And I’ve bumbled my one chance to prove my worth.
Her shame and guilt overrode her fear like a three hundred pound jockey.
“Aro, sit.” Godrick commanded quietly. But then, his authority wasn’t to be breached, so he didn’t have to raise his voice. The chairman of the Literati plunked his butt at the long table, his alabaster fingers drumming on his briefcase.
Angelia cringed inwardly. Inside that briefcase would be her contract, with her stamp of blood on it.
“Angelia Delacroix.” This time the voice that spoke carried a soft undertone, and it did wonders to soothe her. Which would be the intention, of course. Kristov had always been kind to her.
“Yes?” She sat up straighter, facing the Triumvirate. Her poor father had paled beyond pale, throwing wide the door to her fear so it crept back in subtle as an elephant.
“We are sorry for having kept you in the dark while we weighed our decision.”
Angelia decided to study her boots rather than watch Anton suffer. If she was going to face her punishment with any dignity, she couldn’t look at him. Not if she wanted to keep her backbone, spindly as it was.
Because he was her Papa. She’d cave like the weak little girl she was, and he would happily bundle her up in his arms to comfort the both of them.
She knew that. Anton adored her.
Even after his son had been born, Angelia still resided in the same cherished place of his heart.
“Is there anything you can tell us about the disappearance of the Scriptum, Miss Delacroix?”
Huh? Angelia dragged her gaze off her shit-kickers to gawp up at the Triumvirate. The disappearance of the Scriptum?
“She doesn’t know a blasted thing,” Aro griped from behind her.
Angelia turned to her boss, still too stupefied to play catch up.
“She was completely unconscious. And we did a mind sweep.” Aro swept his hand out, indicating the two Literati Ghouls who sat like well-preserved, sagacious corpses at the long table with him. “She knows nothing of the theft.”
“The theft?” Angelia’s jaw finally worked just enough for her to say something, but it fell back open as she stared at her boss. This meeting wasn’t about her punishment? She felt the one-two punch of relief and panic. “The Scriptum has been stolen?”
She didn’t need a verbal answer. Anton’s distress hadn’t been about the punishment she was going to receive, it was about this mission. And—ding, ding, ding—her brain finally grasped what was taking place.
She was being assigned to retrieve the Scriptum. Hence, the mission Anton had referred to. Angelia swung around to look at her father, her worry for him beaming out of her eyes now that her cowardly butt was no longer on the line.
“Miss Delacroix, it is our understanding you are the only one capable of retrieving this artifact. Is this so?”
Angelia turned her attention to Kristov. The only one? “Yeah, I guess. I mean, I’m the only one who can read it.”
Which didn’t exactly mean she was the only one who could retrieve it. Did it? Excitement revved in her belly, tingling her skin.
Was this finally it? Was this her chance to prove her worth, to show everyone she wasn’t entirely useless and clumsy? She’d waited a decade for her Indiana Jones crusade, and now it seemed as if it was finally going to happen.
She bowed her head so no one would see the flush of anticipation coloring her cheeks.
“You will not be expected to endure this treacherous journey alone, Miss Delacroix, if you should accept the terms of your contract.”
Blah, blah, blah…treacherous journey?
Okay. She needed to get focused here. Indiana Jones and his stunts were fictional—she was about to embark on the real deal.
“You will be escorted through Hell by Merrick the Chimera, the Guardian to Hell’s Archway. Is that acceptable to you?”
Angelia didn’t know whether to collapse into her chair from fright or shriek like a teenager at a rock concert.
A Chimera.
Taking her straight to Hell. The real Hell. Not the figurative one.
The information rendered her dumb. She didn’t know how to respond. Her emotions hovered, immobilized by the colliding of two climactic moments in her drear life.
It was a few moments before her situation finally melted over her, and she sucked in a fortifying breath.
Okay. Right. She could do this. She had been waiting ten years for such a chance, and had always known that the places she could pass where Aro and the rest of the Literati wouldn’t be pleasant.
Hell as a destination had traipsed across her imagination more than once.
But a Chimera to guide her? She’d be safer than a glass of holy water at a Literati Convention.
But wait. Kristov had asked her something. She glanced up, not hiding her confusion, or her embarrassment.
“I’m sorry. Could you repeat the question?”
“We asked whether your escort would be acceptable to you,” Godrick repeated, his patience a trifle thin. She couldn’t blame him. As much as he respected Anton, he had always wondered how the Vampyre could be so smitten with a dull-witted human.
“Ah, yes. Yes, it’s acceptable to me. I mean, yes. He is acceptable.”
~S.C. Dane
~Installment No. 5 coming Tuesday, February 10, 2015.

Gargoyles or Sexy Guys? Lover in Stone, Installment No. 1

Hey, Folks!
It’s been awhile since I finished “Wolf Love” and you’re probably wondering where the heck the new story is. Chew your fingernails no more! Here it is:

“Lover in Stone.” A paranormal romance dripping with spicy love scenes and a spicier man. Or, Chimera, in this case. What the eff is a Chimera? He’s a triple threat kind of beastie–three yummy creatures in one.

In this story, our Chimera is Merrick, who’s Gargoyle, Lion, and Angel. Don’t be put off by the Gargoyle portion. This is a paranormal romance. Men are hot, hot, hot. Forget what you know of ugly gargoyles. Mine are hunks of granite with a capital G.

Now, I’ll shut up, so you can get reading. Installments will come twice a week: Tuesdays and Saturdays. Yeah, I know today is Wednesday, but I was anxious to reveal “Lover in Stone.”

Here’s your blurb and the Prologue.


To the world they are the Grotesques—hideous chimeras and gargoyles of stone. But before they are locked in their granite prisons, they are Kynd——magnificent beings condemned to prowl the nightmares of every realm.

Their tortures will doom them to stone.

The love of a Chosen One could save them.

For more than two thousand years, Merrick has borne the misery of being the guardian to Hell’s Archway. He has witnessed millions of condemned souls, slaughtered thousands of trespassers, and his enraged despair is pushing him to the brink of becoming what the world expects his Kynd to be.

Go to Hell. A mission the Triumvirate instructs Angelia Delacroix to undertake, and she doesn’t blink twice. Not when she feels it’s her destiny to retrieve the Scriptum, an ancient text stolen from the Literati and absconded with to the bowels of that infernal cauldron.

As the pair quest for the Scriptum, will Merrick surrender his battered heart to the beautiful Angelia? Or will he succumb to his rage, dooming himself to his stone fate for all eternity, and his Chosen One to the innermost Circle of Hell?

Lover in Stone


            “So it is written?”

            “It is, my Lord.”

            “And sent forth?”

            “To Earth, as you instructed. But?”

            “Speak freely, Alielle.”

            “If the Scriptum is not found in time?”

            “Ah, your fears are well grounded, old friend, but let us have Faith.”

            “But if it is found not by whom you have intended?”

            “You play devil’s advocate.”

            “I do.”

            “Then I have a worthy companion in you, Alielle. All will not be lost.  There is still hope, even then.”

            “Yet, if the Chosen One and the scriptum are not united?” 

Then its secrets will remain locked.”

            “But Your Kynd, my Lord.”

            “Ah, yes. My beloved Witnesses, angel. There lies the conundrum of Free Will, even for them. They will suffer until they decode their own Truth.”

I fear for them. Even if they free themselves and choose sides, they may not find Love. For all their discretion, my Lord, they are a fierce lot.”

            “So they are. But have faith in Love, Alielle. It has power even you cannot imagine.”

            “And you trust the Kynd will gain knowledge of it? That they will discover Love, along with their Chosen One? That seems improbable, with all due respect.”

            “It will take a Miracle.”

            “I hope you are joking.”

            “Faith, Alielle. Take courage in our Kynd and their ferocity. For still they are Witnesses, and see much.”

            “I hope you are right.”

            “I love them, too, angel. Let us pray they learn firsthand what it means to love, to understand the elemental joy of sacrifice.”

            “Sometimes, I think Lucifer is right. You can be cruel.”

            “Not cruel, little one. You shall see.”

            “As it is written?”

            “You are a wise angel, Alielle. Bless Our Kynd. Yes, as it is written.”

~S.C. Dane

Next Installment coming Saturday, January 31, 2015.

What the Deuce Does South Africa Have To Do With Romance?

What the deuce does South Africa have to do with Romance?

That’s my question, because what I know about South Africa I could fit in a thimble.

But I do know Charmaine Pauls, my featured Romance author, hails from there, and she’s a beautiful person inside and out.  So, maybe she resembles her country in that respect.

No doubt she’s complex. A woman who can write like she does, and travel the globe is by no means simple. See for yourself, as I let Charmaine speak for herself:


Charmaine Pauls was born in South Africa, has lived in France and currently resides in Chile. She used her travel experience of different parts of the world as backdrops for her romance novels Between Yesterday & Tomorrow (2011), Between Fire & Ice (2012) and The Winemaker (2013). When she is not writing, the ex-communications and public relations practitioner loves to look at the world through the lens of her camera.

Here’s a blurb from her novel Between Fire and Ice:

Cy is heir to the powerful empire of his parents, a mining enterprise in Chile, South America. Their future power depends on his ability to produce an heir himself, a daunting prospect, as the human race is becoming infertile. But Cy’s mother – a brilliant, cold-hearted scientist – left nothing to chance, when she, in the year of her son’s tenth birthday, headed a project to artificially inseminate a fertile woman. At thirty years of age, Cy is instructed to marry Elena, who his parents surrogated and adopted for one purpose only – to have his baby. 

Elena was hidden in a secluded cloister in the ice-lands of Patagonia, where the nuns, renowned for their mysterious magical practices, taught her the art of meditation and healing. A cruel education ensured that Elena submitted to her destiny, namely to give Cy a child.  But soon Cy will learn that there is more to his bride than shy submissiveness. Under her gentle beauty hides a powerful woman who can give Cy the peace he is yearning for. She holds the key to his heart, and for once, he may just begin to believe in the destiny that had been preached to him all his life.

Whets your appetite for more, doesn’t it? If so, then check to the right of the main blog page, and click on the Between Fire and Ice book cover. You’ll find a full excerpt and the buy links.

Visit Charmaine Pauls if you would like to read more, or know more about her. www.charmainepauls.com

Happy reading!

~S.C. Dane



Even the word has a sibilant, beckoning quality.


It’s a delicious word. One to be licked from the skin; a pleasure to hood one’s eyes to, to arch the back.


Free your mind of Hollywood’s stereotype, because what I’m talking about here is the true Siren. The woman who, no matter what she looks like, has that innate fire which sparks interest in any room she walks into.

She’ll either be loved for it, or jealously reviled.

And doesn’t care which.

Because she knows she has that sparkle, and nothing–nothing–can extinguish it.

“Seductress.” Taken from Women Who Ravished the World and Their Lost Art of Love by Betsy Prioleau. It was the “Lost” part of the title I was worried about, and it gave me pause.

Is the Art of Love truly lost?

Edourd Schure said, “[In prehistory] women dominated man. She was a fascinating magician before whom his soul trembled…From her sprang poetry, music, and all the arts.” (Prioleau).

So, where is our Creativity? Are we so caught up in Commercialism we’ve lost touch with our panache; that vigor for creativity and vibrant chutzpah. Are we cookie cut-outs of the industry and what it markets at that given time?

And where are these men who once worshiped us?

Have they become too frightened during our quest for equality they’ve dropped their ball(s), so to speak?

Yet, we are not equal. I no more want to be a man than he wants to be a woman. Like milk and Oreos, we are separate entities, but undeniably go together. Mash the two and you get unworkable goo.

Unless you handle it right. Then you get ice cream. A blend of erogenous yummm. Sure to hold up under the licking of any fiery woman and her lover with the balls to take her in hand, or…

I’ll leave you alone with the image.


Resurrected in a niche of women not afraid to proclaim their natural-given talents, and shout to the world “I am a Romance Novelist/Reader!”

These individuals have unearthed the primal woman and her man; they have brushed off the proverbial dust and have reminded us that “You don’t have to be born beautiful to be wildly attractive.” (Diana Vreeland/Prioleau) and “Tis Woman that seduces all mankind.” (John Gay/Prioleau)

Enthusiasts of the Romance genre are the true Sirens, whose flames we warm ourselves to time and time again. They “Do as the goddesses did.” (Ovid)

Or in our modern case, they light up rooms and every stultified heart within it.

~S.C. Dane