'If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.'

taste_buds
Holidays provide a built-in excuse for indulgent entertaining. This all-purpose foodie community covers everything from homemade hangover cures to dinner party menus. Need quick advice? Get five-minute snack suggestions, low-fat ingredient substitutes, and even measurement conversions. Delicious recipes garnished with humorous advice. Yum.

naturesbeauty
Always on the lookout for compelling images, we were delighted to discover this flourishing community of artists who share a love of nature. Honoring the subject with photographs, paintings, sketches, prose, poetry, and other creative works, you'll be simultaneously riveted to your monitor and inspired to run helter skelter towards the nearest wooded dale.

A man fell in love with Jeanne, and she tried to love him. But she complained that he uttered such ordinary words, that he could never say the magic phrase which would open her being.

- Anaïs Nin, Under a Glass Bell

She said to Lark when the others had gone, "What makes me rage at myself was how stupid I was."

"I did tell you you ought to keep the house locked."

"No--Maybe--That's just it."

"I know," said Lark.

"But I meant, when they were here--I could have run out and fetched Shandy and Clearbrook--maybe I could have taken Therru. Or I could have gone to the lean-to and got the pitchfork myself. Or the apple-pruner. It's seven feet long with a blade like a razor; I keep it the way Flint kept it. Why didn't I do that? Why didn't I do something? Why did I just lock myself in--when it wasn't any good trying to? If he- If Hawk hadn't been here- All I did was trap myself and Therru. I did finally go to the door with the butcher knife, and I shouted at them. I was half crazy. But that wouldn't have scared them off."

"I don't know," Lark said. "It was crazy, but maybe . . . I don't know. What could you do but lock the doors? But it's like we're all our lives locking the doors. It's the house we live in."

They looked around at the stone walls, the stone floor, the stone chimney, the sunny window of the kitchen of Oak Farm, Farmer Flint's house.

"That girl, that woman they murdered," Lark said, looking shrewdly at Tenar. "She was the same one."

Tenar nodded.

"One of them told me she was pregnant. Four, five months along."

They were both silent.

"Trapped," Tenar said.

Lark sat back, her hands on the skirt on her heavy thighs, back straight, her handsome face set. "Fear," she said. "What are we so afraid of? Why do we let 'em tell us we're afraid? What is it they're afraid of?" She picked up the stocking she had been darning, turned it in her hands, was silent for a while; finally she said, "What are they afraid of us for?"