Tuesday, October 25, 2016

Author Spotlight! Mason Sabre & Lucian Bane - Cuts Like An Angel

Cuts Like An Angel – by Mason Sabre & Lucian Bane

He never called the helplines. The one time he did, it was to say goodbye ... to anybody, before leaving the world. Rosie … that was her name. She’d given it when she wasn’t supposed to. She said things that made him burn to live.
And he would. He’d find a way to hide his darkness so that he could dance with her, just a single dance, in the liquid sunshine of her laugh.

And maybe … maybe he’d taste her. But only once.

Cuts Like An Angel
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Snippet from Cuts Like An Angel

**“You don’t need to do this.” Rosie fought down the tremble in her voice with the anonymous caller. “And don’t you dare hang up again. I mean it.”
After many seconds, he whispered, “Or what?”
She shot up out of her chair. “Or … I will be very angry. And hurt,” she dared, no longer caring about how many professional lines she’d crossed. “I mean it. Tell me your name. I told you mine, now I want to know yours.”
“Rosie,” he finally whispered, like he pitied her. “Promise me you will be good to yourself. And not blame yourself. Promise me you will dream good dreams and make them come true.”
“I will not make that promise,” she declared, pacing. “And you will not hang up. You will do the right thing and march yourself to a hospital and get help.” She paused her steps and waited in the silence with her hand over her mouth, feeling his fingers slipping from her grasp.
“You’re crying,” he murmured in quiet awe.
Shit. She wiped her face with her arm. “Yes, I am,” she admitted with a nod. “It’s just … you have to believe me when I say there is hope. There is always a way … you just have to fight. God damn it,” she whispered, “what is your name?” If she could get that, she was sure it would give her more leverage.
“Rosie.” His voice broke in sadness, like he’d done all of that a thousand times over and was sorry—sorry none of them had worked. But sorry for her, not himself.
“Promise me you won’t do anything stupid,” she said softly. “That you will wait until tomorrow before you do anything and that you will not hurt yourself. Promise me that.”
The line clicked.

The rain was heavy against the window, but the rat-a-tat-tat was more rhythmic than annoying. It had a calming facet to it. William watched the droplets on the glass as they slid down idly, like tiny water warriors on the glass. One droplet landed, clinging until the one above lost its grip and slid down the window pane, taking others with it. Sometimes a new droplet would land directly onto the one clinging for presence, for its space, the territory that belonged to it—only for a moment. Like people in his life … coming, going, never really clinging on.
The rain—Mother Nature’s song if anyone cared to listen, the music of her heart. Rain water falling, echoes in the otherwise silent night. The rain fell from the drains at the edge of the roof, the guttering overwhelmed from all the storms they’d had recently. The night almost cried for him—tears that he could no longer weep himself. Tears for the boy under the stairs.
The water flowed, echoing into the empty alleyway below at the side of the house—tiny tin drums of nature’s orchestra.
In the garden, his mother’s tulips held cups of water, bowing only when overburdened by the weight of it and then spilling over.
The notes of the night song played through the darkness, and soothed William’s skin. He raised his arm, staring at it with the moonlight that came in through the window. He traced his fingertips along each cut, some new, some old—all of them holding the invitation to play in mother nature’s band. He could bring the painful edge to the music, the part of the song that made you cry.

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