And now for something completely different…

I’ve been talking to some friends over on Facebook about fanfiction. Is it a legitimate form of writing? Do you read fanfiction? What are your favorite ones, in what universes? 

My particular favorite is Labyrinth fanfiction. I could, and sometimes do, read it all day, instead of the hoards and hoards of books I’m supposed to be reading and reviewing. Hehe…Guilty pleasure. 

So let’s talk fanfiction. It’s a little bit of a controversy. I remember about four, five years ago author JJ Massey got caught stealing fanfiction and recycling it as her own, by just changing names and places. Literally, didn’t even try to rewrite. You may recall the JJ Massa debacle. Here’s a link to refresh memories. I’d link to my old myspace blog, but yikes…I’d have to go on myspace to do that.

What’s your view on fanfiction? Like it? Hate it? Don’t get it? 

Since I’m on a Labyrinth fanfic kick, share links to your favorite Labyrinth fanfic! Since we’re talking fanfic and I’m actually updating mine regularly, I’m going to post the first chapter of mine. If you have a fanfiction you’d like to show some love to, send me an email at, and I’ll post your first chapter and link to the rest. 

Mine’s not the average lovey-dovey, ushy-smushy Labyrinth fanfic. It’s not about Sarah pining for Jareth, or he for she. Him for her? It’s not entirely based on a cheesy (but awesome) movie set, with comical goblins bouncing about with rusty spears and rocks. I’m a horror author, so of course that is reflected a lil’ bit! There’s some mature content, so young eyes should beware. Or not be allowed to read this. ;P

It started out as an original story, got sucked into my obsession with Labyrinth, and may or may not be, in some other incarnation, an original fiction story. 


Sometimes: Fugue State


It’s always the same thing in the beginning of these fugues. I slip into the seizure like breathing, like inhaling. In the space of a blink I’m in the room, that cavernous chamber made of black stone. The consistency of polished lava rock, it glimmers darkly in the light from the single candle on the wooden table in the center of the room. In some visits, I catch a glimpse of a low, rounded-back throne far off at the end of the chamber.

The tall candle’s flame flickers wildly in the drafty space. Nestled in a jar made of frosted ruby-red glass, it casts an entrancing glow that draws me forward. The dancing light makes me smile, makes me feel warm and loved. It invokes memory of the king’s touch, and my body responds to those recollections. Leather against my skin, silk against my flesh, his lips kissing the bruises he inflicted and stealing away the ache.

But he’s never touched me, not in this room, not like that. The memories are from some other life. My body and my soul know him, but my mind does not. Like sticking my tongue in the gaps from missing teeth, I can’t help but explore that sensation. His name is on the tip of my tongue, as are the memories of our time together. But it’s just out of reach, and the candle beckons me closer.

My modern clothing is gone, my jeans and t-shirt replaced by a long, gauzy gown that gathers beneath my breasts in a high waistline and trails the tops of my bare feet. Underneath, I’m naked. The dress shows my cleavage. If I move just right, the light cuts through the fabric and shows the silhouette of my legs.

The blood-red candlelight flickers and dances. I can’t take my eyes off it. I stare until red spots dance behind my eyelids when I blink. I believe the candle is supposed to mesmerize me, to keep me entranced so I don’t notice how the king enters the room, the seemingly doorless chamber.

With a sensation like the air being sucked out of the room, he is suddenly behind me. He’s so close I can feel his body heat through my thin gown. I smell him, a captivating, subtle scent of night and amber, musk and vanilla.

I can’t turn around. I know if I do, the spell will be broken. He’ll vanish, and I’ll be stuck in this dark, sealed chamber until whatever magic he used to summon me wears off. Because I’m in the broken moments between minutes, time is nothing here. I can be here for months, weeks, hours, and awaken in my present life from whatever seizure possessed me, only moments afterward. More than being alone in the dark space, I’m terrified of being without him. Perhaps it’s a soul memory, but the loss of him is like the loss of self. I don’t know how he is, but he’s part of me. Has been a part of me since I was a child.

This is where the fugue state changes; sometimes he stays far away, at the edge of the circle of crimson light. Other times, he’s so close I can smell the leather of his gloves, his clothing. Sometimes he doesn’t say a word. He just touches me with gentle hands. Shoulders, arms, waist, hips…

Other times he talks. The conversations are always face-to-back. We speak of him, of me, of his magical realm and reign. We speak of our time together, the last time we were physically together. I can’t remember it, but the story feels right deep inside. As if I was once his and I’d gone away, sometimes, he begs me to come back until I hear tears in his voice and he can barely speak around the knot in his throat.

And sometimes…sometimes, he pushes me forward to the table and leans me over it. He lifts my gown over my hips and strokes and smacks my sensitive skin until I cry out. He uses his fingers and his mouth on me and takes me to the very edge of control. When I’m lying across the table, gasping and crying, begging him to take me completely, he just whispers, “Wait.” I hear it in his voice that he wants me as much as I need him.

He takes me over the edge, and I plunge into an indescribable carnal rapture that leaves my knees rubbery and my breath caught in my throat. The fire he’s stoked is nowhere near quelled. I grind against him as he strokes himself to release and comes on my back, growling my name.

Sometimes, he remains there, helping me stand upright and holding me close. Sometimes, he bids me close my eyes and turns me around, so I can bury my face against his shoulder and breathe in his familiar scent.

I don’t always come right back to myself. I can be stuck there until the magic wears off. I’ve watched double suns cross the sky and lavender moons gaze down at me from the skylights high in the stone ceiling. Usually, though, my king is merciful and releases me into my own world again.

Every time, I want him to keep me, to save me from this awful place of paychecks, rent and menial jobs for ungrateful employers. I want him to keep me close, to inebriate me with his cruelties and delights. He waits for me to say the words.

But I never can find my right words. I can always feel his disappoint and hear the sorrow in his voice when I fail. I come back to myself a little more broken.

So I search for the right words, words that will make a slave of a king, and queen of a dreamer.

 If you’d like to read more, I’ve got several more chapters up at and I’m updating regularly!

****Disclaimer** I don’t own Labyrinth or any of the characters, but the story itself is mine. It may or may not be under contract to a publisher (under a different title and obviously lacking ties to said movie). 


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