Elle Lewis

  REMEMBER, THAT I AM THY CREATURE; I OUGHT TO BE THY ADAM; BUT I AM RATHER THE FALLEN ANGEL, WHOM THOU DRIVEST FROM JOY FOR NO MISDEED. EVERYWHERE I SEE BLISS, FROM WHICH I ALONE AM IRREVOCABLY EXCLUDED. I WAS BENEVOLENT AND GOOD; MISERY MADE ME A FIEND. MAKE ME HAPPY, AND I SHALL AGAIN BE VIRTUOUS. People often ask me, "what do you have tattooed on your arm?" My response is always the same— "It's a passage from my favorite book, Mary Shelly's Frankenstein." How can a book impact someone so much that they would want to permanently have the words inked into their skin? I'd like to share why. But, its very personal. And sad. And dark. But sometimes, dark things are beautiful. They connect us. Remind us why light and love are precious. I immediately felt a connection with the creature in Frankenstein. I'm not going to recap the book. But, if you haven't read it, you should. It's beautiful, utterly beautiful, in the saddes

Cave of Swallows (A King of The Ghouls Origin story) Part 1 The Decent David tugged on the repelling line, the muscles in his arms bunching. A fine sheen of sweat coated his skin.           "See?" he said. "Sturdy as hell. You're not going to fall." Evelyn peered over the edge, taking in the enormously wide circumference of the cave. It cut into the surrounding forest, a huge mouth determined to gobble up the sky and everything in it.           She frowned. Their guide, Winston, nodded to her encouragingly, his dark eyes like chocolate jewels under the brim of a faded baseball cap.           "I wish we would have vacationed with our friends along the coast," Evelyn stated unhappily.           David smiled, blue eyes sparkling. "Where is the adventure in that?"           "Touring the country, seeing the beach, that is the type of adventure I want, rather than jumping into a cave that literally l

REPROGRAM By Elle Lewis (a King of the Ghouls chronicle) Gunnar pulled up the collar of his jacket. Rain pelted the street, mingling with hot steam billowing from putrid storm drains. Rain was supposed to be cleansing, rinsing away filth. But not in this city. The streets of Vanda were so old, so encrusted with dirt, that the rain only created rivulets of sludge.           Gunner walked briskly, muck splashing onto his knee-high leather boots. Buildings climbed into a dark polluted sky, bright neon lights and projected advertisements cutting through the gloom. High above, the lights of air traffic flickered.           Gunner passed a small food cart, hot trays smoking with delicious scents. His stomach grumbled painfully. He trudged on, winding through tight alleys and congested streets, keeping his eyes down. His comm buzzed.           Gunnar pressed his ear piece. "What?"           Zephyr's bell-like voice reverberated inside his ear. &quo