Freedom of Choice

In the depths of her sorrow
She paid for tomorrow
In rivers of crimson
On white.

How the tiles once sparkled
Now sticky and darkled
Screamed her choice to the moon
That night.

As her eyelids grew heavy
Flesh rent like a levee
By emotional storms

Her wounded spirit now free
Peace she sought to now be
No more secrets from which
To hide.

Another Quote From “The Association” (Cassie and Zeb)

“You sir,” I said, doing my best to sound serious, but failing in grand fashion, “are damaging my calm.”

I was giving it my best, but a harsh and serious face is apparently beyond me.

“Only damaging?” Zeb replied with his lop-sided grin.  “I had hoped to utterly destroy it.”

He slid the back side of his fingers down my cheek and moved in closer until I could feel his breath against my lips.  Only then did I realize that I had already closed my eyes and turned my face up towards his.

An excerpt from “The Association”

“You with your meager power do not concern us. We who have lived forever will consume you and take your power as our own.”

Even as the moving shadow held me flat against the floor, forcing me to listen to that nasty voice that was like a hundred hungry creatures all saying the same thing at once, I concentrated as hard as I could on that flame inside me. If these things were going to eat me, then I would make sure they had some serious indigestion.

(More to Come . . .)

{From “The Association” – Book Three of the New Sight Series}

The Act of Giving In and Other Painful Games

I’m restless tonight and I’m not sure why.

My skin practically crawls with it and still I lay here.

My mind won’t shut down as it makes images form shadows

All the while playing scene after scene of banal circumstance

Enough to make me want to scream or cry

And still I lay here.

Would it make more sense were I to be frozen by fear,

jumping at every sound,

cowering beneath my covers as I awaited my fate?

At least then I might have reason instead of the antipathy that plagues me,

that fills me with disgust for myself.

Yet still I am restless

at least beneath my skin

where throngs of spiders converge in a mad dance to drive me over the edge.

And still I lay here

Awaiting his approach

Knowing that he will visit,

yet again.

My body his playground,

my soul his toy,

my strength lost and useless.

And still I lay here.

A metallic chain with an explosed link.


I feel you in the quiet places of my soul;
Slipping around the edges and hiding in the dark corners of my mind.
If I close my eyes and breathe
concentrating on the rise and fall of my chest
I can almost feel your fleeting touch move my hair
or slide down my cheek.
Is there still love there?
Do you long to caress me as you once did?
Or, instead, are you drawing energy in tiny sips
until the day you can finish
what you started before

Even now I wonder if I would resist.

There were good times, at least I think there were.
I don’t know if memory serves me true or only
some sad, romantic version
I longed for like
the oxygen your hands refused me.
There you go again,
brushing past my hair,
igniting a flame in my belly that I have yet

Perhaps tonight you will come to me in my dreams.
In the darkness you will hold me,
loving me in ways you found too difficult in life.
I think I will let you.
If you embrace my heart,
I will follow you into the dark
and we can be together
as we always


Calling out for your input! Serious request!

Ok, everybody, I’ve got a serious question – it’s for research. Please either answer here or private message me.

My question: If you could experience a time in your life where you feel you were at a crossroads and either made the wrong decision or wonder what the outcome would have been by making the other decision, what would that decision/experience be?

For instance: You had the opportunity to go on a date with someone that for whatever reason you didn’t go but have always wondered what might have happened. OR The job you didn’t take (or did) and things didn’t turn out like you’d hoped. Maybe you wished you had gone to prom.  Maybe you think if you hadn’t done one thing in whatever situation then someone else might not have been hurt/promoted above you/whatever. That sort of thing. Whatever it might be, if you think it’s silly or not, I’m interested in everyone’s honest thought, idea, or choice on this subject.  I would also appreciate it if you could let me know if you are male or female – important for the research.

The opportunity to experience the “road not chosen” would not in any way affect your current life when you “awoke” from said experience – no butterfly effect – it’s just a way of seeing what might have been. I would very much like to know everyone’s choices. You do not have to be descriptive or go into heavy detail – just the what and why of it would be greatly appreciated and extremely helpful.


Servitude to a Muse

Come to me,

On my blank and empty page,

Speak to me,

Your words of longing and loss,

Touch me,

Where only solitude has ever known me,

Fill me, carress me, hold me, guide me,

Entrance me,

Be with me forever in my darkness,

Tempting me with your words,

Tasting me with your secrets,

Becoming me,



FOR A LIMITED TIME – Get a copy of the first in the New Sight Series for ONLY $0.99

To celebrate the upcoming release (and pre-order) of the second book in the New Sight Series entitled “A Brighter Light”, I am offering the first book, “Opening the Veil” at a reduced price of only $0.99.

Go grab your copy today and catch up on the series being hailed as “Unique and engaging”, “A Great Mix of Paranormal, Mystery, and Suspense with a nice dash of humor”, “A Excellent New Addition to the Paranormal Genre that is finally NOT about vampires or shifters”

You can find “Opening the Veil” either in the “My Books” section of this website or clicking on either of the pictures below.

Thanks and enjoy the read!

C. L. Clark

Book 2 CoverCover

Working Through

Afternoon sun seared the exposed skin at the back of her neck in much the same way that she had broiled the steaks the night before. Although Connie knew the sunburn she was receiving was going to give her a great deal of pain that evening, she couldn’t stop what she was doing. If only she had remembered to replace her wide brimmed gardening hat after the wind had stolen it away from her a couple months back, then she wouldn’t have been forced to wear his useless ball cap that only kept the sun out of her face. He, of course, would have reveled in her forgetfulness, pacing around the patio behind her, berating her endlessly for her stupidity.

That thought caused her to stab the trowel into the sandy soil with more anger than she thought she was still capable. After all, she had made her way through all of the stages and had come out the other side with a healthy amount of acceptance. That’s what the therapist had told her was the finish line.

“There are five basic stages of grief,” the therapist had told her with a matter-of-fact nod. It was that nod more than anything else that had convinced Connie that all she needed was to get through those stages and she would be okay.

“The first,” the woman continued, “is denial, which I’m sure you can agree you have already experienced?” The therapist’s voice had risen at the end of the sentence, as if it had been a question that Connie herself should have certainly agreed with, but then she continued talking without waiting for a response. “The second stage is anger, the third bargaining, the fourth is depression, and acceptance signals the end of all that misery. There are no steadfast rules or timetables for how you will work through all of these stages. Some may last longer than others, but I am here to help you work through them.”

Connie hadn’t actually gone back to visit that woman again. That therapist had had a look in her eyes that Connie had seen endless times before coming from her husband, Mitch. The one that said, “You’re dumber than a box of rocks, Connie Stanfield. If it weren’t for me here to clean up your messes you would be sniveling in the corner wiping your nose on your sleeve like the baby you are.” No, she was done with that look for good.

Setting the trowel down, she pulled her heavy gloves on again and taking as much care as possible, moved the prickly pear cactus back into position. It was difficult working the sandy ground, but she managed to get it into place without any serious scratching through her long sleeved shirt. Wiping the beaded sweat from her forehead, she picked up the ground cover plants and tucked them in around the base of the cactus before filling in the rest of the soil. Her sense of accomplishment swelled as she looked around at all she had done since beginning that morning shortly after dawn.

“How’s that for not being a sniveling little baby?” She muttered, moving her kneeling pad down the line to continue the planting.

Of all the stages, anger had been the longest and hardest to get through; not unlike the sandy and somewhat rocky soil she had been digging in all day. In fact, since the night that Mitch announced that he was divorcing her, she realized that she had danced back and forth between the various stages and anger on multiple occasions. An emotional waltz that had left her at times begging him to reconsider and at others curled up under her covers in tears and misery, only to swing back around to such seething hatred that she was certain steam must have escaped from her ears.

It was during one of the seething moments, when she couldn’t bear to hear one more nasty word come from him, that she had sprinkled his steak with rat poison before then covering it with sauce. He hadn’t noticed a difference and had eaten with gusto, stuffing his face with the tainted meat and veggies. Connie had watched him as she slowly ate her poison-free food, thankful that he had stopped talking for once. Mitch had seemed to really enjoy his meal, at least up until the moment he began choking and blood had begun dribbling from his eyes. He had looked up at Connie with a pleading face, but was unable to put his voice to his request. Connie had smiled at him and took another bite of her steak.

Shaking her head slightly to disperse the gruesome memories along with the last vestiges of anger, she looked down into the hole before her. With a wry grin she pushed some soil over the dead face of her ex-husband and settled the last cactus on top of that. With a quick nod she thought, “acceptance is a beautiful thing.”