Fynn is an ordinary 17 year old kid. Going to school, but has severe social anxiety. Asher can't deny his smell. His blood is just sweet. But will Fynn commit to eternity with Asher? Or will he turn him down because his inability to love/ be loved properly?

This story chronicles the tale of a orphaned young man named Matthau and his new-found tutor, Hekkala. All his life, Matthau has known that he was different, but just how different, he could never have imagined...

I love him why can't he see that? Why am I nonexistent?

This is a collection of my poetry. It's not the best that you'll find, but hopefully someone will be able to relate to it. And if not, maybe you'll just like them.

No a todo el mundo le toca vivir una gran historia de amor...

Tagebuch...September...Freitag...15:00h.....
letzter Grillabend...

Boaahh

Klamotten,
Arbeitssachen,
Akten, Laptop,
in die Ecke geschleudert.
Hatte schon auf der Fahrt nach Hause,
einen "Kühlen Blonden" im Kopf.

Oh ja,
ein kalter Kasten Pils ,
am Liegestuhl parat,
den Grill auch vorgeheizt
auf 180 grad.

Spear Ribs und etwas vom Nacken.
Auch Steaks vom Haifisch,
egal wie teuer.
Heute wird nicht gespart
sondern aufgetischt.
Und es gibt auch Nachtisch.
Denn auf der Garten-Terasse,
ist heute eine Fete angesagt.

Behind all your stories is always your mother's story. Because hers is where yours begin. A mother is the truest friend we have, when trials heavy and sudden fall upon us; when adversity takes the place of prosperity; when friends desert us; when trouble thickens around us, still will she cling to us, and endeavor by her kind precepts and counsels to dissipate the clouds of darkness, and cause peace to return to our hearts. Today I am writing my mother from inside a body that used to be hers. Which is to say, I am writing as her daughter. 

I rounded the corner and stopped.

All of the prisoners from the war were kneeling on the ground in front of the king, who was pacing back and forth in front of them. Each of them had their eyes focused on the ground. Even the boy’s.

“How ironic,” King Baqoure was saying, “You, who praise yourselves on fighting better than any other army, are captured by the very men you say you fear. You, who murder people every day, couldn’t even kill my men. You, who harm your own people, just to ensure your own safety, are now the ones who will be harmed. You-”

“Lies!” someone said, just barely above a whisper.

All of the prisoners flinched and glanced out of the corners of their eyes.

The king stopped and looked behind him, down the row. He hadn’t seen who’d said it.

“What was that?” he sneered

The boy I had seen earlier met the king’s eyes. “What you say is not true. We are not barbarians. We are not villains. We defend our city from those who are a threat! We do not kill people because we want to. We kill people because we have to!”

King Baqoure laughed a little, “Are you trying to tell me that you are good people?”

The boy glared at him. “Yes. Better than your people.”