They say that people go there when they're ready to die. They say Death himself is a patron. That's where the tavern gets its name. Azrael's Stop. Watering hole for the Angel of Death. But that's just rumour. Ceph doesn't trade in rumour. He just serves drinks. Except, of course, that every couple of weeks, someone dies at Azrael's Stop. Azrael’s Stop is an experimental fiction and music project, about life, death, and friendship. It is the story of a mystical tavern and how the people who go there develop over the course of a year: Ceph, the seventeen-year-old bartender who has seen all his loved ones die; Tom, the depressed old man, whom death will not take; Rye, who visits every day, though he died a year ago; Nael, the blind minstrel who saw war too young; Lona, the mysterious hunter of the dead; Trin, the girl who refuses to deal with her past; and the crow who watches over it all, cawing only when someone dies in Azrael's Stop. Azrael's Stop is part of a larger storytelling project by Silverstring Media, Inc., and is best enjoyed accompanied by the Azrael's Stop Official Soundtrack, which includes music referenced in this story. To learn more, and to purchase the album, go to http://azraelsstop.com This is a preview; the first several chapters are available to read here for free! To get the whole story, it's available as an ebook from http://silverstringmedia.com/store or get more information at http://azraelsstop.com

Vampires of legend couldn't possibly exist in our world. They would have had to adapt and had to do it quickly in order to blend in and to survive. There are a lot of myths that are plain silly and I get to poke fun at them with a close examination of why and how they're so impractical. Face it, certain aspects of the vampire legend don't hold up to close observation and logic. We're going to take a look at love, life, dating and whatever else comes into my mind. I love vampires, but there are just a few things that annoy me about the way they are characterized... it's just so impractical. Especially the sleeping in coffins thing... For a more in-depth look at how the legends of the vampire could change in modern times, read my novel HOW NOT TO VAMPIRE, which is the story form of this kind of examination. Here I get to just list the facts and rant a little... but just a little.

"Del" wakes up drugged in a seemingly empty hospital -- locked in a room. Everything she has ever known has been deleted: her memories, her identity, even her name. But then the night visits start and she begins to be tortured by memories that could not possibly hers: the tragic memories of several victims of the CIA's infamous MKULTRA project. EXCERPT: The bed lurches, and swings and I am gliding. A cold breeze rushes in on the stagnate room as lights float over me as I try not to stir. Electric currents course through my body. I’m certain Fill will notice the goose bumps on my arms as we swing round a corner and my flesh begins to crawl. The rat runs wild in my stomach like it’s being chased towards a trap with poisoned cheese. Fill must notice something is up. He slows down my carriage and bears down on me. I can make out his shadow through my lids, his head hinged to mine, and I suppress the instinct to pinch my eyes shut. “What are you up to?” he asks with a voice greased with the sound of motorcaws. He stares down at me for a moment, but then jingles the keys again. My heart starts to thump. I hear the turning of the handle. What am I so afraid of? And how can I be afraid of something I don’t even remember what it is? At the head of my bed again, I feel Fill over me. He grips either side of my pillow. The dry edges, I pray. I can smell the man of him now. Somehow, I know it is a smell I have bathed in in the past. I can’t believe he doesn’t hear the pounding of my heart, see it beating violently against my chest. But it’s not Fill I’m afraid of. I’m numb to his attention. It’s the door that scares me. Or, rather, the total blackness behind it. “Go get ‘em tiger,” he says as wheels me in. I can feel the rat dig his heels into the walls of my stomach, and scramble up my esophagus, clawing its way through my throat and out my teeth.