Oh, I know about your kind and so I’ll have to play.
It’s murder on the dance floor so you’ll just have to pray.
If you think you’re getting away, I will prove you wrong,
I’ll take you all the way, girl, just come along.
Hear me when I say `Stay another song’.
It’s murder on the dance floor, I’ll blow you all away.
Sophie Ellis-Bextor – `Murder On The Dance floor’
Red lights play over her skin as she moves to the music. Her warm scent floats to me over the crush of bodies on dance floor. From across this room filled with blood and flesh she still has the power to draw me to her.
All these others, the still-living, are no longer real to me. Former friends, köpa melatonin and schoolmates, all are like shadows to me now. How strange it seems that I once cared about them or what they thought of me. I can barely recall it, how it felt, even though it was just hours ago.
I’m different now, more powerful; I feel so strong. The force of the life around me touches me, flows through me. I’m connected, man, to everything! I can hear the creatures outside in the sky, in the grass, under the earth. I am linked to them, to their little lives.
Except for these, the ones I will feed upon. They must die so that I might live. Or at least survive.
Not everyone benefits from having a blog writer on their team. While a copywriter can increase your sales, ensure that content gets published, and give you great exposure, this can only happen if you let them work their magic. You see, copywriters aren’t project managers or creative directors. They are not typically on par with being paid by results, such as how many new clients you gain from their copywriting.
Therefore, if you find that it’s stressful, frustrating, and just plain maddening to get the blogging job done, you might need an editor, not a blog writer.
Here are three signs you just need your copy dusted off:
No one can capture your voice…no one
Copywriting is unique. Writing voice refers to the syntax used by a writer. It is specific from person to person – including verbs, vocabulary, and sentence structure. (Think, receptfria sömntabletter.)
If you’ve been through half a dozen writers and you still shake your head over everything they write…you might be standing in your own way.
Illyria cocked her head, gazing at her reflection in the mirror. She followed the thread of a memory, one of Fred’s memories, her form bleeding into a likeness of Fred. She stepped out of the bathroom and into the half shadowed stillness of the bedroom. Connor lay sprawled on the bed on his stomach.
“I wish to celebrate the shell’s day of birth.”
Connor turned over slowly, dragging the sheet up to a decent position just above his hipbones. His face curled in disgust. “I told you not to do that.”
Illyria sighed. “I do not understand your dislike for the shell’s form. It is almost as bad as Wesley’s was.”
Connor grumbled, sat up, tugging the sheet even higher. “Another name not to be mentioned before, during or after sex.”
Illyria walked over to the bed and stood looking down her nose at Connor. “That would imply that I may never mention either the shell or Wesley.”
Connor glared at her. “I thought you’d catch on quicker, being a former goddess and all.”
It was a perfect night. Best I’ve ever had, I think, unless maybe you count… no, that was pretty good, but this was better. Yeah, this was the best. I mean, it didn’t start out the best, but it’s how things finish that matters, right? And that night finished great.
There was a kitten poker game at Willy’s and I was flush. It had been a good week for me, business-wise. I don’t play if I can’t afford to lose. After all, you never know what you’ll be dealt in life or in cards. And since I don’t play when I can’t cover the loss, I hadn’t played in a few weeks. I really wanted a win.
By the time I closed up shop and got to Willy’s, the game was already underway. I said hi to the usual crowd. Y’know, Willy and Fred and Hairy and Splorkhaz. Good old Splorky. Rotten player, but a real good loser. He sends his kids to sell me Girl Scout køb melatonin cookies every year. He knows no matter how much I’m trying to lose weight I can never resist a tasty little Girl Scout. Snacking is my downfall.
“Have you ever acted in front of the cameras before?” Crowe asked, lounging back in his chair, looking at the couple in scary make-up before him. They had shown up on set just as he had come up short a few actors.
“No, but how bloody hard can it be?” Spike pulled Dru to him.
Crowe scratched his balding head. “Well, your make-up is great, though we usually don’t want the girls to look scary, just the guys. Men pay to see girls doing vampires, werewolves and gargoyles.” He got up and went over to Dru, cupping her chin, turning her face one way then the other. He smiled. “Then again a demon chick with a normal guy and slaappillen melatonine … whatever you’re supposed to be, could be hot. My writers could probably come up with some lines for you and this delicate piece of tail.” He smoothed Dru’s hair, missing her predatory smile. “After all, I’m down a few actors tonight. They’re supposed to call when they can’t make it but actors don’t have brains enough to tie their shoes.”
“Maybe something disagreed with them,” Dru said with a giggle. Spike shot her an amused look. They had guzzled down a couple of amateur porn stars after hearing about the shoot that was to be some kind of gothic horror flick.
Dawn stood undecided at the bar’s door. Should she enter? This was not the kind of place she frequented. In fact, had she not needed Spike so desperately, she wouldn’t be here at all.
But Willow had said ‘whatever it takes’ and Tara had warned earnestly against coming back without him. They were really angry, and rightfully so. Any other day she’d have claimed defeat and gone back home but this time Dawn certainly didn’t want to face the witches’ wrath alone.
She’d already gone to his usual haunts; the crypt, a couple of graveyards, some bars. She’d even gone to Willy’s and peeked through the door to make sure Spike wasn’t there. Instead she had seen only the usual clientele; little furry demons at the counter, some big scaly thing playing pool with game-faced vamps. Dawn had checked twice that particular corner, aware that often Spike liked betting against the bigger player and then beating him out of his money anyway. But he wasn’t there.
That’s how this night started, and that’s how it’s gonna end. No vampires, no demons. No zombies, which, when you think about it, is actually a good thing. I roll my shoulders a few times, trying to stay loose.
Sighing, I decide to pack it in. Grab my awesomely stylish new black backpack, and stuff Mr. Pointy back in. Jump over the few headstones on my way to the cemetery gates, and suddenly my joy is totally destroyed.
A screeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaam! splits the midnight air to my left.
All instinct now, I drop my bag, having grabbed up my stake again, and race toward the shrill noise.
Sprinting around a small mausoleum, I menace the horrible, noxious, vile… Xander that is flapping at Cordelia to “shut up, Cordy! It was just a rat.”
Sighing again for the second time in as many minutes, I tell the couple, “my kingdom for a monster.”
Dawn smiled as the rays of the sun gently caressed her wrinkled skin.
In the distance she could hear the sound of her grandchildren laughing as they played in her garden. Beyond that she could make out her son and daughters and their spouses chatting in the kitchen whilst doing the washing up. She would go to join them in a moment. But she felt so tired today. She decided to sit on the veranda chair a little longer, watching the sunset. It was her favourite spot, a ritual she practised every night.
She lent back into the chair, sinking into the cushions. But she found she couldn’t stop sinking, just kept going down and down, the world darkening around her as she kept falling and falling, panic rising in her chest as she plummeted. She suddenly felt very afraid, small and alone.
Lobby of the Hyperion, LA, CA, USA, Some days after the end of Chosen.
Buffy sat next to Angel in his old office listening to the Watchers drone on about the plans for the future. Giles and Wesley wanted to rebuild the Council as soon as possible… they had detailed plans.
Faith leaned against the desk and picked at her fingernails.
It was going to take a lot of work.
Angel was eager to help. And Faith… she just wanted to punch something.