Mere Primordium

My eyes flick open; closed; open.
Rough rock in the dark, dark so dark you can taste it.
The breath of the rising water kisses my shoulders.
Clear membranes slide over golden irises.
Nostrils seal, throat-flap flips over trachea .
Waves warmer than the cold, stale air close over my head, 
contour over skin.
I push out of the dark cave-warren into the heated blue waters.
The fronds of pale-green plants rise on spindly stalks 
that would never stand above this world.
They soar metres towards the surface, kilometres even.
I glide further down, the water grows cool, 
the hiss and pop of bubbles rising to the surface,
trickling from the stones to the right, 
the sound of pebbles shifting echoing around me.
The rough brown rocks below me look like cityscapes
from a future time and place, their curls and ledges mounting
above the black of sand even further ahead.
I go deeper, my undulating feet moving me steadily down, 
pressure pushing against the membranes of my inner ears. 
I dive away from the lancing blue light of the sun I have never seen.
I reach the black sands and move out, 
particles of volcanic rock scraping harmlessly against my belly.
I leave the fronds, the caves, the rock fields behind me,
gliding out into the icy dark, only the deep blue-black ahead.

Travelers Excerpt

As a rule, Nel didn’t often join the crew on their various excursions, whether they were drinking, eating, or swimming. She was good at faking, but at the end of the day, she wasn’t a people person. 
“I prefer my people buried bones.” The words crackled in the perfect loneliness of the night.
She thrust her hands into her pockets and trudged down the road towards the ocean. She perched on a rock to unlace her boots. The coarse sand felt smooth under her rough feet, and within a minute her clothes were a forgotten pile. The Pacific was cold for only a moment, the discomfort erased by a laughing yelp. Salt water lifted her, echoing the weightlessness of space, the buoyancy before birth. 
Her eyes found the Southern Cross in the sky, and she struck out, arms propelling her into colder, deeper waters. We might need our roots, but only as reminders. It was a leap that brought humans to the Americas—across Beringia, across the Atlantic and Pacific. It will be a leap that carries us to Mars, to other as yet unnamed worlds. She flipped onto her back, swimming a tiny metaphor for the belief twisted deep in her heart. Humans were explorers, right down to the base of whatever they called a soul.

A Dowry of Blood, by author and theologian, S. T. Gibson is an atmospheric and brutal revisiting of Dracula. Epistolary, Dowry is relayed in decadent, lyrical prose as Constanta, the first of Dracula’s brides, exhumes her tumultuous relationship with her husband, her immortality, and her faith. Each wife and husband they add to their family brings a new understanding to the already intricate relationship. As Constanta explores her inner and outer worlds, we’re treated to glimpses of history--plague, revolution, and industrialization--as vibrant as they are fleeting. This choice mirrors perfectly how our mortal world is viewed by the immortal predators who walk, not through it, but on its outskirts. 

Dowry was the perfect taste of darkness in a year that could not be sugar-coated. We are treated to a story of vengeance and despair as much as romance and lust, and Gibson crafts each facet with precision. It was an achingly honest depiction of the altered state living with an abuser becomes, and the myriad threads one uses to manipulate and control their victims. This was my first bite of Gibson’s writing and I can safely say I can’t wait to devour the rest of her work and all its blood, faith, and passion. 

Recommended to readers who don’t run from the darkness, but welcome it with open arms. 
5 out of 5 stars!