FAIL

NaNoWriMo was a massive fail this year, for a number of reasons. The main reason is that I made a mistake with my choice of story. I chose the zombie manuscript, which I had started for NaNo two or three years ago and failed, thinking I could make it work this time. The problem was, I had no passion for it. Last year I did all sorts of pre-writing for 'Blood Moon', which I did finish. This time, I was all 'eh'.  And it showed. I just didn't care.

Lesson learned. 


Better luck next time, maybe.

NaNoWriMo DAy 8

Word Count: 14,582

I did a little better today. There isn't this urgency to write like there was last year. Then, I was thinking about the story all day, and had done some massive pre-writing. As I stated in an earlier post (I think) I didn't do that this time.

I'm almost at the end of rewriting, and while I know that I want all the characters to converge outside the city, I'm not quite sure how that will happen. The real bummer is that when I started this thing several years ago, I hadn't heard of The Walking Dead, either the graphic novel or the tv show. Now, I've changed from calling the zombies deadwalkers  (too close to walkers} to rotters (thanks, Kirstin!). Floaters and bloaters were also suggested, but I think I'll pass on those.

The truly ironic thing is that I never used to like zombies (not that I really like them now) and thought every movie/book with them was dumb. Now look at me.

I'm not confident I'll reach 50,000 words, but I'll keep plugging away.

Excerpt:

Jeremiah slips into his coat and buttons it, the silence like a living thing. A living thing with teeth. Marie watches him without speaking, but she doesn’t have to say anything because it’s already been said. Already he’s shrugging off the past hour, letting it slide from his shoulders, from his mind. It has to be this way.

            “Take whatever you want,” she says, her voice low and ragged. “You always do.”

            He doesn’t respond. He won’t allow himself to be drawn into it. Not again. It’s just the way things are. The way they have to be.

            Grabbing his pack, he quickly empties it, organizing the things he’s leaving her in trade and the things he’s taking: ammunition: four boxes of rifle shells and two for his pistols, followed by water (he refills his jug) and some canned vegetables and fruits. He’s not greedy.

            “That’s it, Marie,” he says finally, when he’s ready to leave. “Is there a back way out of here?”

            “If there was another way out of here, I wouldn’t tell you.”  She’s standing in front of the unmade bed, her hair wild, and she’s opening and closing her fists.

            “Marie…”

            “Why’d you have to come here? You just used me, like always.”
            “You’re wrong,” he says, not looking at her. “I just wanted to trade. You wanted something more from me, like you always did.”

            “And what’s wrong with that? Do you think I like being alone? Do you  think I like it when men come in here to trade and end up taking what isn’t for sale? Do you, Jeremiah? No, you couldn’t possibly understand, because you don’t care about anyone but yourself. You never did.”

            Jeremiah shakes his head. It will do no good to argue with this woman, who might be slightly unhinged now, which isn’t surprising. This basement room, while an amazing accomplishment, is not a place to stay mentally healthy. He has had enough of this windowless hole, and he’s had enough of her, too.

            “Well, I’ll see you, Marie.”  He heads toward the door, a little worried about what she’ll do.

            “You bastard.” 

            He turns around just in time to see her grab a pistol and point it at him, the barrel shaking while tears course down her cheeks.

            “Get out,” she screams while he struggles to undo all the locks. “Get out before I blast you to hell where you belong. I hope a rotter bites your head off, Jeremiah Stone.”

            He slams the door closed just as a bullet slams into the metal door not two inches from his head. It doesn’t punch through, but leaves a large blister, which is quickly joined by six more.

            Moving as quickly as he dares, he heads for where he thinks the stairs are, but a shuffling noise from that direction causes him to duck down another hallway. He presses silently against the wall, knife in hand, because being quiet is the only way he’ll get out of this place. As his eyes adjust to the dimness, he sees a group of what he is sure are rotters shuffle past. How the hell did they get down here?

            When they start pounding on Marie’s door, Jeremiah knows he can’t walk away. Pulling out his rifle, he steps out into the hallway. To his horror, the door bursts open beneath the assault, as if she hadn’t reengaged the locks.

            Light floods out, illuminating the ragged figures as they move into the room. When he bursts inside the room, the first thing he sees is Marie sprawled across the bed, the mattress beneath her soaked red, but not from the rotters who are fighting over which one gets the prize. The smell of gunpowder is strong, and when he spots the pistol beside her hand, he melts back into the hallway, not sure if he should feel better because her death wasn’t as horrible as it could have been, or if he should feel like crap because she killed herself.

            Just another sin to add to the load he already carries, he figures, climbing the steps two at a time. He’s definitely going to hell.

 

NaNoWriMo Day 7

Word Count: 12,396

I wrote a little over 1,000 words today. I hope to do better tomorrow morning.

NaNoWriMo Day 6

Didn't  get much writing done today, due to lying in be a little too long.

Word Count: 11,463

I plan to do much better tomorrow!

NaNoWriMo Day 5

Word count for today: 10,565

It's going well. Some passages I don't change much, because I can't write it any better, while others have been completely redone or even cut.   I remain optimistic.

Excerpt:

Jack snatches the sheet off the bed and opens the window, punching the screen out. As it falls, he quickly knots the threadbare sheet around one leg of the bed, convinced that it’s not in his best interest not to meet this Reverend Moon, whoever he is.  Relying on his luck, because it’s all he has, Jack swings his legs over the windowsill and begins lowering himself down the side of the house just as the door bangs open.

            Two men thrust their heads out through the window, looking down at him silently, with vacant expressions. Jack finds their stares unnerving, and loosens his grip on the sheet so that he slides down even faster, his bare feet barely touching the smooth siding of the house.

            One of the men disappears from the window and Jack gets a bad feeling in his gut. Sure enough, the tension in the sheet abruptly slackens, sending him hurtling down. Luckily the window above the back yard, which although has dead and dying grass and plants, is still a softer landing than the sidewalk would have been.

            Jack rolls as he lands, his fingers grabbing at the sheet, which has followed him down. Jumping to his feet, he jets out of the yard, the air cold on his skin. There’s a wooden privacy fence surrounding the yard but that poses no problem, because the gate is wide open and he hurtles through it and then he’s on the street, still running as hard as he can, the sheet flapping behind him like a white tail.

            By the time he slows, stitch in his side and his lungs burning, the house is far behind him and he’s in the warehouse district again, which is really annoying because no way in hell does  he want to meet up with those Lord of the Flies jokers again.

            Tying the fabric toga-style around him (yay for frat parties), Jack pauses to get his bearings. There’s a faint scent of the river beneath the usual reek of rot and sewage, and it’s toward this he starts walking. He could really use some fresh (fresher) air, and then maybe he can find a way out of this damned warehouse district and into the main city where there’s hopefully some food.

            It’s not long before clothing tops even his desire for food, the wind whipping through the buildings, his feet sore from walking on the cracked cement. It’s slow going, because if he cuts his foot, he’s dead.

            “Come on, Lady Luck,” he mutters, hunching his shoulders. “Don’t fail me now.”

            As if the fickle lady has heard him, he rounds a corner and stumbles, nearly falling headlong onto the street. Cursing, he regains his footing and looks around to see what it is.

            “Oh, God.” Jack turns away from the corpse, the sight of its half-eaten face making his empty belly churn, but not before the practical side of him notes the size of the unneeded clothing.

NaNoWriMo Day 4

Today's word count:  7789

A good day writing. That extra hour really made a difference today. I was able to 'sleep in' and then have a nice amount of time to get some more words down on paper.

An excerpt:

 

-8-

           

            It’s simpler than he thought to find Marie. Once he finds the church (Moon’s church, they called it), which is only a few blocks away from that house of weirdness, it’s easy to get to the  Tower, which is an old hotel. The streets are quiet and empty, the back of his neck prickles constantly as he creeps along the street. Empty cars, trash, corpses. The same things he’s been seeing since he entered the city. And the smell—he’s looking forward to fresh air, that’s for sure.

             After seeing all those people?rotters? pouring out of the church, Jeremiah’s in no mood to dally, and he gets as far away from that place as he can, Gabriel’s words about Moon and that he can control the dead make him even more jumpy. The sooner he gets his ammunition and gets out of this hell hole the better.

            He approaches the hotel slowly, calmly. As eager as he is to get out from in the open, he knows that haste will only cause him to make mistakes, mistakes he can’t afford to make. This place is huge, at least twenty stories. No glass remains in the windows that he can see, the blackness like blind eyes. Carefully, fingers tight on his pistol, he enters the Tower.

            Dead, stale air seasoned with sewage greets him, and it’s a moment until his eyes adjust to the low light. Broken tiles and glass crunch beneath his boots, too loud in the stillness. Sweat trickles down his face. This is a perfect place for rotters, too many places to hide.  As if hearing his thoughts, a figure lurches out of the shadows, broken face snarling, grey hands outstretched, ready to grab and tear. One shot and the thing goes down, face gone and that nasty, rotten smell filling the air. Jeremiah’s head whips around as he looks for more, where there’s one zombie, there’s ten more, and it’s only a matter of time, a few seconds, before they converge.

            Cursing himself for wasting a bullet, Jeremiah hurries to the stairs and yanks it open. Fresh, cool air washes over his face, startling him. Fresh air? Puzzled, he moves into the stairwell, letting the door shut behind him. This place is getting to him, he’s making stupid mistakes, like shooting that rotter instead of using the knife. Now he can hear them, milling around behind the door.

            Suddenly the stairwell is flooded with light, sending shards of pain into his eyes. He flings up his arm, startled.

            The ratcheting of a shotgun, loud in the enclosed space, makes him freeze.

            “Don’t move.” The voice is female and strong, accompanied by cold metal jammed into his gut. “Who the hell—Jeremiah? Is it really you?”

            “Hello, Marie.” He finally opens his eyes and smiles.

            “Well, I’ll be damned. This is pretty much unbelievable.”  Dropping the shotgun, she shakes her head, a grudging smile on her face. It leaves quickly and the shotgun comes back up.

            “What are you doing here? Are you alone? What do you want, Jeremiah?” Her blue eyes are hard, as hard as they were the last time he saw her, hard to hide the hurt, he knows this, knows he’s responsible.

            “I’m alone,” he says, taking off his hat and rubbing his tired head. “I just want some place to crash for a bit, and I need some supplies. Ammunition. Food and water, if you have it.”

            “You know I do, or else you wouldn’t be here.” Turning on her heel, she descends the stairs, leaving him to follow, or not.

            She’s thinner than the last time he saw her, of course, her blonde hair cut to her ears, the way she holds the shotgun practiced and easy. He’ll have to step easy now, watch what he says.

            At the bottom of the stairs she waits for him, mouth an impatient line.

            “I wish you hadn’t riled up the rotters, Jeremiah. I would have thought you’d know better.” 

            “Will they be able to break down the door?”  He stays close behind her as they trot down the hallway, finally stopping outside the boiler room.

            “Eventually,” she says, unlocking the door and holding it open for him.

            It’s amazing, what she’s done to this place. The walls are lined with boxes and cans, bedding and so much stuff that for a second he’s in awe. In one corner is a double bed, neatly made, with a bookcase beside it. There’s also a camp stove and jugs of water. She’s been here a long time, he thinks.

            “Marie, you’re amazing.”

            “Ha!” She locks the door, sliding bolts, lowering a bar, before turning to face him. “I’ve always been amazing, Jeremiah,” she says, hands on her hips. “Why has it taken you so long to realize it?”

            He slides his pack off to the cement floor, an unfamiliar smile tugging at his lips. How long since he actually smiled?

            “I waited, you know,” she says, her voice soft. “The whole place was going to hell, people fleeing, and what did I do? I waited. It was almost too late by the time I realized you weren’t coming for me, that we really weren’t that epic love story I thought we were.”

            “Marie, I—”

            “Don’t. Don’t say it. I know you had to take care of your family, but it would have been nice to have been on your mind, too.” 

            “You were. When it happened, you were the first person I thought of, Marie. I swear it.”

            She stares at him. “Where’s your wife, Jeremiah? And your son? Did you save them?”

            “I—I tried.” He drops his head. “Aiden was at school. He—I got there too late.”  Jeremiah grits his teeth, remembering the way his wife had screamed when they finally reached the elementary school. The building had taken a direct hit, instantly reducing the brick building to nothing more than rubble.

            “And your wife?” Her implacable questions stir up the pain, the guilt again.

            “She refused to leave.” It’s all he can say, the only words he can force past the stone in his throat.

            “Refused leave with you. I can understand that, after she found out about us.” Marie nods. “You tried to persuade her to leave, using your logic, but you didn’t count on a mother’s heart. What was she doing, digging in the rubble? That’s what I would have done, no matter how hopeless. Not you, though. You couldn’t handle the guilt of being too late to save your son, and so you left your wife. What happened to her, Jeremiah? Is she still alive? Did you go back for her? What did you do?”

            He says nothing, black shame making him tremble. He’s forgotten this about her, the way she could see right through to the ugly part of him and make him hate himself.

            “You went back when the guilt finally became too much, and you found her, right?”

            Jeremiah shakes his head, speaking with effort through stiff lips. “No, I didn’t find her. There were no—living people there. Not anymore.”  His fingers caress the butt of his pistol, the pistol that’s become a part of him, the strongest part. The only part.

            “You always were late to the party, Jeremiah.” The mocking tone cuts to the quick, and in two strides he’s in her face, grabbing her arms, his voice shaking with suppressed rage.

            “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You have no idea what it was like for me, knowing I’d failed my son, and then having to put a bullet in my wife’s brain to stop her from eating me. You didn’t have to do that.”

            “No, I didn’t,” she spits, trying to twist out of his grip, but he only tightens his fingers, digging into her flesh. “I was too busy trying to stay alive, trying to believe what my lover had told me, that he’d come back for me and we’d get out of there together.” Her eyes shoot sparks at him. “But you didn’t come. I waited and waited, until the rotters were at the door, until it was too late, after everyone but me was left. You forgot about me, Jeremiah.”

            The rage leaks out of him then, because she’s right. He’d been so consumed with pain and guilt about his wife and son, that any thought he had of her blew right out of his head.

            His hands drop and the takes a step back, but she throws herself against him and takes his face in her hands.

            “But I don’t care,” she whispers, her face so close to his. “I don’t care, because you’re here now, and now is all that matters.”

NaNoWriMo Day 3

Current word count: 6196

I finally feel like I"m getting somewhere and not just regurgitating the old story. I've changed some events around, like having Jeremiah save Zeke after he goes into the city, instead of before. Also, added some scenes with Gabriel, Liam and Jeremiah, to lead up to their meeting later.

It's been a good writing day despite not getting up at 4:30 like I wanted to this morning. Since it was Saturday, I had plenty of time to write. Yay for Saturday!

Should do well tomorrow too, with the extra hour.

NaNoWriMo Day 2

It's not going too bad. I'm still rewriting what I already have, which is what I did last year, too. Only difference, last year I had done a lot more prewriting--character sketches, scenes, etc, so I knew exactly where I wanted the story to go. This year I just wasn't into it. For some reason Halloween preparations took up a lot of my time.  I do know where I want the story to go, what I want to happen to the characters--sort of. Hopefully I'll get to 50k by the end of November.

So far today I've written 1812 words for a total of 3507, with 46,493 words to go. Always nice to know that!

Here's the opening paragraph, which may be familiar to some:

The head explodes like an overripe cantaloupe, rotten brains and clotted blood spraying across the side of the sagging porch. A horrible stench permeates the air, thick like fog. The zombie killer calmly reloads the rifle, takes aim and fires again, just to be sure. Sometimes it takes more than one bullet.

Yes, it's zombie/end of the world/survivor stuff.  Ought to fit right in with all the other books out there, yeah?

NaNoWriMo

It's that time again, when for 30 days people churn out a 50,000 word hunk of writing.  I'm in again, working once again on what I started for NaNoWriMo a few years ago (started and failed).  I'mnot really into this like I was last year, not sure why. But I will keep going, because I'd like to get this story out, because I think it has potential. I mean, who doesn't like dead things walking around in a post-apocolyptic world?  No one, if you look at the current state of published novels.

So, we will see how it goes. At the very least I will make some progress and get back into the habit of writing, now that summer is over and the long winter stretchs ahead.

Sigh.

here and there

This writing thing...it sure is hit and miss. I've recently dragged out the zombie novel, the one I started for NaNoWriMo a couple of years ago. It's going okay. It has multiple POVs, the first time I've attempted this. I like it. It's kind of fun. I think it's a little easier than the single POV. Maybe. At any rate, I'll be using Remnants in November in an attempt to finish the first draft.

At least I know what I'm writing about is what's being published now. I get so disgusted in the library in the YA section. It's all witch this and wizard that, ghosts and vampires (toothless) and junk like that. A regular story about normal people is pretty hard to find. It's gotten so that I don't even check out any YA books anymore, and that used to be the first place I'd go. If I do choose in that genre, it's from the stacks, an older book.

I've read 99 books since January. Cool, yeah?

The Dead Boy

            The dead boy lies curled on his side, head resting on one arm. His bare feet are blue, nearly purple, his eyes closed, lashes long and dusty against his pale skin. Dressed only in a black T-shirt and faded jeans, his abandoned body lies in stark contrast to the rest of the forest.

            Dawn draws nearer, the first faint rays of sunlight filter through the trees. Birds are beginning to sing, and the first hungry ants  venture out from their nests. As the day heats up flies will arrive to perform their mating and propagating rituals, lovingly depositing their eggs into the soft parts of the body.

            How did the boy come to be here, lying so peacefully in the grass? A closer inspection reveals that perhaps he is not so peaceful after all. His brown hair is matted and much darker on the back of his head, noticeably not from poor hygiene.  

            It’s a shame, really. Such a good-looking boy reduced to a pathetic bit of motionless flesh. Surely someone, somewhere, wonders about this striking teenage boy, maybe a skinny girl with a gap in her teeth and a flutter in her belly whenever he passes in the hallway oblivious to her existence because he’s one of the beautiful people and doesn’t waste his time with mere mortals.

            An unfair assessment, perhaps.

            Two boys enter the woods. The dead boy wants only a walk through the forest, time with nature in the peaceful quiet. His friend has another agenda, his heart filled with more than mischief. Jealousy has taken root, crowding out any friendship he might have felt for the dead boy. It’s a girl of course, a lovely smooth-limbed girl with butter yellow hair and moss green eyes. It’s always a girl, isn’t it?

            The friend lets the dead boy take the lead, following him carefully over fallen trees, their sneakers crushing ant nests and scurrying beetles. He waits for the perfect opportunity. His belly churns with excitement and dread, his hand continually checking the pipe wrench in his back pocket.

            It’s not hard to visualize the next moments. The dead boy will stop, leaning against a tree, ask his friend where to now? He likes the woods, likes the deep silence that reminds him of the time he spends with the girl, because she too, likes the forest. In fact, that’s where they shared their first kiss, an innocent fumbling of lips and tongues.

            All this passes through the boy’s mind as he gazes up through the canopy of leaves. It seems fitting that his last sight is of the blue sky, doesn’t it?

            His shoes, though. What happened to his shoes? Perhaps it wasn’t a jealous friend after all. Maybe the boy was kidnapped, snatched as he walks home after school, his mind full of the girl or baseball practice or what he’s going to eat when he gets home, because his stomach is growling.

            The blue van has been following the boy for two blocks now, its occupant waiting for the perfect moment, the perfect opportunity to perform his devilish deed. It starts to rain, the water sheeting down in ridiculous amounts, a veritable flood.

            Of course the boy accepts a ride, why wouldn’t he? It’s a small town, a safe town, nothing bad has ever happened here, and never will. It’s this delightful innocence, this wholesome ignorance that works in the evildoer’s favor, and dooms the handsome boy.

            When the evildoer has finished performing his evil deeds in the back of his blue van deep in the woods the boy loves, he gently lifts the dead boy in his arms and carries him even deeper into the forest.

            The dead boy’s head lolls, his eyelids shut tight against whatever terror he experienced in his last moments. Blood soaks the murderer’s sleeve, blood from the boy’s crushed head. When the murderer at last places the boy on the forest floor, he carefully arranges the body, his fingers lingering one last time on the smooth cheek.

            Horrifying, yes?

            The dead boy  cowers against the kitchen door while the beast  foams and roars at him, for once again the boy has done some perceived wrong, although he truly has no idea, can barely understand the incoherent ranting.

            Then it happens: the beast grabs the dead boy and slams him against the doorjamb, his head bouncing off the wood with bone crunching force. He tries to fight, but it’s no use. The boy slithers to the floor, his eyes sliding shut, his bare feet stark white against the dark linoleum.

            The beast stands above him, glad for an instant that the brat is finally quiet, then afraid when the boy doesn’t move or make a sound, not even when it kicks his shoulder with its steel toed boot. This is a problem. Despite the mother’s constant bitching about the boy and the messes he makes, he is her child. The beast realizes he must dispose of the body, cover up his crime (but was it even a crime? Even a stepfather can discipline, can’t he?). Working quickly, the beast finds a ragged towel and wraps the boy’s splintered head, then picks him up and carries him outside to his rusty truck. It has to hurry; the mother will return soon from the bingo games at the church, and it wouldn’t do to for her to see this.

            The beast cleans up the stain on the linoleum, tosses the bloody rags into the trash barrel as he passes by. It has a plan, a foolproof plan, it believes. The dead boy is known for spending most of his time in the forest, so it won’t be much of a stretch to leave the body there.

            By the time the beast is driving back home, it’s whistling and thinking about the baseball game in town tonight. Perhaps it will go.

            Poor dead boy. Is there no one who loves this poor thing? Is he disposable? Forgettable? Regrettable?

            The girl with the butter yellow hair. What of her? Will she miss the boy she kissed in the forest? Maybe she’ll keep her memories of him in her heart, pull them out when she feels especially lonely, close her eyes and feel his mouth on hers again while the wind blew her hair across both of their faces. I love you, he said, his eyes so soft. You’re the only one who understands me. That memory, yes, that’s the one that she’ll cherish forever. Or at least for a while.

            The drunken mother. Is it possible she will ignore the fact that her only child is missing, and her husband of a few years avoids her eyes when the subject comes up? Perhaps it will be easier to pretend the boy has run away, taken a Greyhound to another town where he can do what he wants and she can drink all she wants without feeling his judgmental eyes every time she picks up a bottle. If he could have just minded his own business, kept his mouth shut, kept his hands off of crap that didn’t belong to him. She doesn’t blame the beast for his anger at the boy, and is secure in her knowledge that of course the beast would never actually hurt her son, not really, not beyond a swollen lip or a broken arm but that was an accident and it doesn’t count. The boy is hard to get along with, always wanting something to eat, new shoes, paper for school, so annoying all the time.  So when she comes home from bingo, twelve dollars richer, she slips a little on the damp linoleum as she hurries to the cabinet for her vodka, a question flitting through the back of her mind (who mopped the floor?) and then it’s gone. The clink of ice cubes in a glass is as comforting sound as the noise of the television in the family room where her husband slouches on the broken down couch with a beer in one hand and the remote in the other.

            After a few days, a week maybe, the mother will rouse herself enough to wonder where the boy is, spurred along by inquiries from the school and even the yellow-haired girl, the bravest thing she’s ever done, stopping by to ask about him. Another day or two of dithering before the mother calls the police to report him missing, and then she must answer as to why she waited so long, the chances are not good to find him alive after this long, the first 24 hours are crucial.

            Now the dead boy is hardly recognizable, the insects having done their work with the help of rain and sunshine, and one night a hungry coyote who sniffed around before escaping with a bit of flesh. Soon the dead boy will join the dark forest, finally at peace.

Lazarus

*published in Nocturnal Ooze magazine, 2004




The moon hid behind a cloud the night I buried you. Blackness hid my face from those who would not understand, those who might condemn my actions. You lay at my feet, wrapped in a bloody sheet from the bed we shared, while I scrabbled at the hard earth with my bare hands and the autumn wind froze my naked body.

Clods tore the fingernails from my fingers, and my blood mixed with the dark soil. I cried a little then, despite the sureness of the ritual. It was not easy to look upon your poor face, so still and serious in death as you were not in life. You were always quick to smile, quick with a witty word that never failed to make me laugh.

The grave I dug was not deep, but it sufficed. As I rolled your limp body into the hole, one of your hands slipped free of the wrapping and brushed my bare foot. Kneeling down, I gently brought it to my dry lips. Soon, I murmured, kissing your cold skin, soon we will be together again.

When you were covered with dirt, I raised my arms to the night sky and spoke the forbidden words, the words that would raise you from the dead, as Lazarus was raised so long ago. By rights I should have allowed your kin to bury you, to care for your body as family did. But I could not bear the thought of you lying in the cold ground forever.

Your father and mother called me witch, and rightly so. I saw the distaste and contempt on their pudgy faces when you brought me home, so proud someone as beautiful as I could love you.

How could I not love you? You with your shiny black hair, your laughing blue eyes, your hard body that made me tremble. We will wed, you told me, no matter what my father and mother say. How well I remember that day beneath the apple trees! You were so earnest, so sure the obstacles were not unsurpassable. Our love would conquer all. And I believed you.

So we came together, despite your family, despite the townsfolk who hated me. They grew to hate you as well, for you dared call them fools, and worse, for their superstition. You did not believe me a witch, and I did nothing to prove you wrong. You made sure they saw us together, saw how much I needed you, how much you needed me.

When they brought your lifeless body and dumped you on the ground at my feet, I did not cry. Not even when they told me those wretched lies, lies that I knew were not true. An accident, they called it. Never mind that your best friend pulled the trigger that took your life, the same best friend who swore revenge against me when I shunned him. How much the betrayal must have hurt you, for you were ever a trusting soul. Trust me now, my husband. What I do, I do for love of you.

I did not cry as I cursed those men. I cursed their foul man parts, their children, even their fat wives who sneered at me in the marketplace. The earth seemed to shake, and the murderous cowards fled, and I was left with you, my dead husband.


How the tears fell as I stripped the red stained clothes from your beautiful, broken body. I brushed your silky hair, washed the blood off your bruised face, kissed your chilled lips.

My knife was sharp; it did not pain me too much to draw the blade across my leg. Dipping my fingers in the crimson flow, I wrote the sacred symbols on your body and chanted the unholy words. And then I wound your body in the sheet, and dragged you to the burying ground behind our house.

I slipped my dress over my head and that is when I saw the lights. The townspeople came carrying torches, coming for me. I did not run, only waited beside your grave.

There she is, the men shouted, and the torchlight gave their faces an inhuman quality. Burn the witch, burn the witch, they chanted, and I smiled. They could not hurt me. I knew you would save me.

I did not struggle when they grabbed my arms and tied me to the willow tree that grew outside our bedroom window. The kindling they stacked around my feet did not frighten me and I stood defiant and proud.

The cold wind howled, and the fools looked around nervously. They did not realize that nothing could save them now. You had awakened.

I watched you emerge, watched you rip the grave clothes from your body. I rejoiced as you destroyed those who had tried to destroy our love. Blood spattered on my face, on my dress. Finally you dropped what used to be a man and turned to me.

You shuffled slowly to me, and I strained against the cords that bound me. You reached behind me and broke the ropes and I fell into your arms.

The smell of the grave filled my nostrils, but still I kissed you, thrusting my tongue into your cold mouth. Even death could not keep us apart.

I felt your arms on my waist and pressed against you. I looked into your face and saw your dull, sunken eyes, and I was afraid. You did not smile and opened your mouth to speak.

Why have you brought me back from the grave? Your hands gripped my arms painfully. I am in hell, and you put me here.

I tried to speak, but I could not. You grabbed my face, pinching my skin.

There is no love, you told me. Only hatred and loathing and death.

Tears leaked from my eyes and wet your soiled hands, the same hands that once touched me with love. I begged you to think of our unborn child, the babe I carried within me. Even that did not stop you, did not make you remember the love we once shared.

Your fingers tightened around my throat, and I tried to scream. As my vision darkened, you began to smile.

(c)2004 WS Ribelin

The Passing

“Will it hurt?”

Barlow turned from the window where he’d been watching the moon rise. The vampire sitting in the throne-like chair was young—painfully young, Barlow thought, wincing. He couldn’t be more than twenty years old, maybe less. A pity the one who turned him hadn’t chosen a more mature victim.

“Some,” he said, and the vampire shuddered.

“I don’t want it to hurt.” He shifted in the chair, ran his fingers through his auburn hair. He was dressed like a dandy, all ruffles and velvet, a beautiful young man in the first flush of youth. Closer inspection revealed dark circles beneath the blue eyes, a down-turning to the merry red lips, slumping shoulders.

“You won’t suffer,” Barlow assured the vampire. “I’ll prepare the draught.” It only took a moment to combine the herbs with the holy water. Opening a leather pouch, he withdrew a round wafer, clenching his teeth at the burning in his fingertips. Working quickly but carefully, he dropped the wafer into a goblet and heated the herbs and water on a small brazier. When it was hot, he poured the mixture into the goblet and stirred it with a tin spoon.

The vampire watched all with an expression of curiosity mixed with fear.

“I want to tell you why I’m doing this,” he said, voice shaking. Barlow turned to him, an expression of mild interest on his unlined face.

“That isn’t necessary,” Barlow replied, setting the goblet down on the table. "That you desire peace is all I need to know."

“Someone told me you write names down, for….for later.”

“Yes. I’ll fetch the Book now.” Barlow hurried into his sleeping chamber, chiding himself. It wasn’t like him to forget the Book. He opened a worn chest at the foot of his pallet and lifted out the Book, purposely averting his eyes from the other things inside.

When he returned to the main room, the young vampire was standing beside the table, gazing into the goblet. He snatched back his hand when Barlow bustled in.

“I’m supposed to drink that?”

Barlow narrowed his eyes. “You came here seeking solace. I am prepared to give it. You must be prepared to receive it. Are you?”

The vampire shrugged. “I just want to know what I’m going to drink,” he persisted. Barlow resisted the urge to rip the vampire’s head off and counted to ten instead.

“Please have a seat,” he said soothingly. The vampire was agitated, which was no good. If he drank the draught now, his passing would be even more painful. “I will of course explain all to you.”

Dubiously, the vampire sat back in the chair. Barlow caressed the leather cover a moment, relishing the smoothness against his skin. He opened it slowly, turning each delicate page with care, until he reached the passage he sought. As usual the irony of the situation was not lost on him. To think he’d spent his mortal life cursing this Book and its followers, only to realize the truth when that life ended.

“ ‘For we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ; that every one may receive the things done in his body, according to that he hath done, whether it be good or bad.’”

Barlow looked up into the puzzled face of the vampire. “Do you realize there’s a punishment awaiting those who die in their sins?”

The vampire bowed his head, gripping the armrests with white fingers.

“Even for us, the so-called damned…tell me your name so I may write it here in the Book.” Barlow turned to the blank pages in back. So many, so many names, he mused, running his fingers down the elegant script. Who will write my name?

“I am Lucius,” he murmured in a trembling voice. “Am I truly damned? Is there no forgiveness for even one such as I who longs to repent?”

Barlow nodded. “Yes, Lucius, there is forgiveness; the Book says that whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be given eternal life.”

The boy shook his head. “Eternal life I have, old man! I want eternal peace. I want to be free from the bloodlust. It calls to me, even whilst I sleep. I dream of it, the crimson flow, the tearing of flesh, the sweet goodness—” He made a strangled noise, eyes flaring red.

“How long, Lucius, since you last fed?” Barlow watched the young vampire struggle for composure. His torment was great—why else had he come to Barlow for solace?

“A full day. Please,” he begged, falling to his knees beside Barlow’s chair. “Please, end my torment lest I go mad.”

“Of course, my son,” Barlow said, laying his hand on Lucius’s head. “ ‘Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.’”

“Can it be true? Can there be peace, even forgiveness for me? I—” He faltered. “I’ve done such terrible things. Surely God has turned His face away from me.”

“Never, Lucius. God holds us all in the palm of His hand.” Barlow reached for the goblet. “Surely as a child you were taught the dogma of Christ, that He turns no one away.”

“I…it’s been so long. I’m not sure…” Lucius’s face twisted and he shook his fist at the ceiling. “God in Heaven! Why do You torture me so? Give me relief, give me peace.”

Barlow gripped the vampire’s thin shoulders. “It is not God who tortures you, Lucius, but another who stalks about as a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.” He held out the warm goblet. “Drink, Lucius. Drink and enter the joy of the Lord.”

Hesitantly, Lucius took the offered cup in both hands, eyes wide with hope. “Truly? When again I open my eyes I will be in Paradise?”

Barlow gazed into the vampire’s face. “Truly, my son. I wouldn’t lie to you.” He could see the indecision and fear in the boy’s face. “Do you fear death so very much?” he asked softly.

Lucius blanched. “I am unworthy. My faith is weak.”

“Then drink, Lucius. In order to have faith, you must first embrace it.”

Lucius raised the cup to his lips and began to drink. After the first swallow his eyes nearly bulged out of his head. Smoke curled from between his lips and he clawed at his throat, stretching out a beseeching hand toward the older vampire.

“I am sorry,” Barlow murmured, turning away. Behind him the vampire’s agonies continued, guttural screams and thumping he couldn’t bear to watch. Barlow’s nostrils flared as the odor of burning flesh and hair permeated the air and the sudden silence made his shoulders slump.

Always, always it was like this. If only there was some way to ease the passing, to make that last journey easier. Guilt pricked when he recalled the hope on the boy’s face when assured there would be no pain.

The sounds stopped abruptly. Barlow fetched a whisk broom and tin dustpan, steeled himself, and walked over to the remains of Lucius. Such a waste.

“Bravo, Master Barlow,” a low voice said from behind him. Barlow whirled and saw a black-cloaked figure standing in the shadows. “You nearly had me convinced.”

The figure gave a dry chuckle. “Until the poor sod burst into flames, that is.” The cloak was flung back, revealing a tall, thin man dressed in somber clothes. Although well-cut and of fine cloth, the shirt and trousers said the man wasn’t one of the nobility, but rather a well-off peasant.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” Barlow demanded. “And how is it you know my name?” He peered at the man, trying to discern features. He took the candelabra from the table and held it up.

“Who I am is of no importance, Master Barlow, although I am certain you know of me.” The candle glow illuminated an aquiline nose and sharp cheekbones.

“Vlad,” Barlow murmured, nearly choking. The Impaler. What did he want?

“As for how I know your name, why, do not the very walls whisper of the solace offered by Master Barlow and his draught of peace?” Vlad chuckled again. “Although the reality is somewhat different, no?”

“I…I mean no harm,” Barlow stammered, nearly dropping the candelabra.

“Of course not. You merely offer what solace you can to the tormented fools who actually believe they are not damned.” Vlad’s lips parted, revealing shiny white fangs. “I have been frequently amused, I admit, at the stories that reach me during my travels. Did you know, Master Barlow, that even in the far Orient your service is known?” He walked over to the table and fingered the herbs lying there. His hand paused above the leather bag.

“This, though…this is most disturbing.” He turned pupil-less black eyes upon Barlow. “The Host is not meant for our kind. And yet…I can sense it on you. In you.” Disgust cured the vampire’s lip. He let his hand drop to his side. “I do not understand.”

“Neither do I,” Barlow admitted. “I tried many things before this. Things that left those who trusted me howling in pain, or worse.” He shuddered. “Despite what you saw, the passing is relatively painless. And I am only honoring their desire.”

“Relatively painless compared to what? A wooden stake to the heart?” Vlad sneered. “You need not justify yourself to me, Master Barlow. I know what you are, and you are a sham.” He swept his hand across the table, sending herbs, the leather bag and various bottles crashing to the stone floor.

“You offer what you cannot deliver, as that pile of ashes learned to his everlasting sorrow. Think you he is singing with the angels? You are a fool. He is screaming with the demons, and you sent him there.”

“I—I did not—”

“Better had you taught him to control the bloodlust.” Vlad pointed a black-tipped finger at the cowering vampire. “How many, Master Barlow? How many have you sent to the abyss in the name of God?”

Barlow sagged to the floor amongst his herbs, sick at heart. The truth stabbed like a wooden stake. His faith disintegrated like Lucius’s ashes.

“There is no god of the Bible for our kind,” Vlad said quietly. “There is only the god of blood, who lives inside every one of us. To serve him is to live.”

Long after Vlad had left as silently as he had arrived, Barlow lay on the floor, trying in vain to recapture his belief.

Gone. All gone. His eyes fell upon the leather bag. Stretching out his fingers, he pulled it close and undid the drawstring. Only two Hosts remained. Barlow reached inside and withdrew a pale disc.

His skin began to smoke as it began burning through his skin. Grimacing, he raised it to his mouth and placed it on his tongue.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.



(c)2007 WS Ribelin

Let Them Eat Cake

A rather sick story from 2004, published in Nocturnal Ooze Magazine (now defunct)

          It was October 30, our father’s birthday. Traditionally, all of us kids gathered at the family mansion to celebrate the day, birthday cake and all. It was something I had always dreaded, especially since Mother had passed on. Father had become even harder to deal with. But now, God rot him, he was dead as well, and today was the reading of the will.

Missy hadn’t wanted to read the will on that day, saying something about bad luck. She always was the nervous one. Not that he didn’t make me nervous. On the contrary, I think I walked around with a permanent hunch to my shoulders, anticipating a blow or sharp word.

Anyway, James and I managed to convince our sister that Father’s birthday was the logical choice, as it would be exactly a year since he departed and also, he’d set it up with his lawyer that way, so it didn’t really matter what any of us wanted.

I arrived last, as befitting my position as the youngest, parking my late model clunker next to the others in the driveway. Father had been firm in his belief that his children make it on their own with no help from him or his money. Selfish bastard.

Rain pelted the top of my head, plastering my hair to my skull. I couldn’t help glancing over at the family cemetery, my eyes drawn to the last stone on the end. Strange. The grave looked disturbed…I shook the thought right out of my head. That was such impossibility it did not even deserve attention. The rain was playing a trick, that was all.

Inside I handed my dripping coat to the butler whose name I could never remember, and walked down the hallway, my heels loud on the polished floor.

The library door opened beneath my hand, and the familiar smells of cigars and old leather filled my nostrils.

James and Missy were there, standing in opposite corners, unhappy looks on their round faces.

“What the hell took you so long?” James demanded, raking a hand through his thinning hair. He looked the business man in his three piece suit.

“I’m here now, so let’s get started,” I said, and took a seat. Missy gave me a horrified look.

“What are you doing? You can’t sit in that chair,” she hissed, eyes almost popping out of her head.

“Sure I can. Who’s going to stop me? Father doesn’t need it anymore.” I grinned, and my sister made a noise and covered her face.

“L…leave her alone,” James said, and I shrugged. I stroked the smooth leather of the armrest, thinking I might have to take it with me. I could use a chair like that in my office.

“Ahem.” Mr. Jennings cleared his throat. “If we could get started now?” Mr. Jennings had been my father’s lawyer for the last thirty years, and he was one cold S.O.B.

My sibling pulled out chairs as far away from me as possible, and Mr. Jennings stood by the fireplace and opened a folder.

“Let’s dispense with the formalities, shall we? You three are here because of your inheritance.”

“Of course we are,” James said, leaning forward. “So let’s get on with it.” He rested his palms on his thighs and waited.

“Very well,” Jennings said, placing a pair of reading glasses on his patrician nose.

“As you know, I’ve been your father’s legal advisor for a very long time. And, if I may take the liberty, I have also been his main confidant.” I rolled my eyes, trying to look bored. My shoulders were tight, though, because I knew my father wouldn’t pass up one last chance to screw us over.

“His last request to me was… how shall I put it?” Jennings paused and looked at each of us in turn. His eyes were so black the pupil wasn’t visible. Creepy.

“Come on, Jennings,” I interrupted, tired of the melodrama. “Out with it. What do we have to do to get our hands on the cash?”

Jennings wrinkled his nose at my crudeness. “Simply eat a birthday cake,” he said, and motioned behind him. The butler hurried in carrying a large silver tray. On the tray was a cake. A cake covered with blood-red frosting.

“Eat that cake? That’s it?” Missy sounded amazed, and relieved. She sat up a little straighter in her chair and actually smiled at me. I didn’t return it

“That’s it,” Jennings said, smiling unpleasantly. “Although there is one thing you should know about this particular cake.”

“What’s that?” James asked warily. He, too, suspected something. Our father was fond of practical jokes, the malicious kind that made people cry.

“Your father insisted on being a part of the cake, if you’ll pardon the pun.” Jennings laughed, and James grabbed his arm, wrinkling the elegant black suit.

“Quit playing games, old man, and tell us.” Jennings narrowed his eyes and yanked back his arm. James didn’t back down, though, and I felt a moment of admiration for my brother. There was a backbone in there somewhere after all.

“Very well. In order for the three of you to receive the money, you must consume the entire cake--every single crumb.”

“And if we don’t?” Missy asked, eyes darting nervously. She twisted a strand of her mousy brown hair around a finger, a childhood habit our father had tried in vain to break. One of the only times he’d ever failed.

“Then your share will be divided between the remaining siblings, provided they meet the terms.”

“So there’s a chance one of us could get all 50 million,” I said slowly, and Jennings nodded.

“Minus my fees, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Oh, and there is just one more thing,” Jennings said, and he was really enjoying this. “As I said before, your father wanted to be a part of this, and he is. He’s at the center of the cake.”

“At the center….you don’t mean….” James stuttered, face white.

“Yes, I do mean. The cake was baked with your father’s head in the center.”

Missy screamed, fingers tangled in her hair. James’s mouth was an O of disgusted surprise. Me? It didn’t surprise me. Or at least not much. It was just the kind of nasty, tasteless joke my father had always enjoyed playing on his children.

Fascinated, I went closer, unable to take my eyes off of it. Even Missy crept closer, hand pressed to her mouth.

Across the top of the cake, piped in white frosting, was a message: Love, Daddy. I wondered who had actually dug up the grave and baked this nauseating dessert.

“He can’t do this, can he?” Missy pleaded, tugging on Jennings’ sleeve.

“Madam, he can do whatever the hell he wants.”

“I hope its chocolate,” I said, feeling a grin playing around my mouth.

“I can’t do this,” Missy whispered desperately, digging at her face with her lacquered fingernails.

I picked up the knife the butler had provided and brought it down right through the center of the cake. The blade made a loud clunk and Missy moaned and swayed.

James looked at me grimly. “Let’s get to it.”

“Righto, brother. One piece of birthday cake coming up.” I sliced him a thick piece and tossed it on one of my mother’s antique china plates. James picked up the plate and stared at it. Chocolate had never been his favorite.

“It’s your mother’s recipe,” Jennings commented, and Missy did faint then, falling to the carpet with a muffled thump. Neither of us looked around.

“I’m going to win,” James told me, eating his piece in two bites. I ate mine in one and dug into the cake with my hands, stuffing my mouth. The cake had a funny taste, but I’d eat anything for fifty million dollars. Hell, I’d lick the plate clean for that kind of money.

“You haven’t the balls,” I said, and he tore off half the cake, exposing part of the head. Rotted skin, now cooked through and through, clung in places to the forehead. The bone shone wetly in the dim light and I heard James swallow hard.

“What’s the matter? Gonna toss your cookies?”

“Bite me.” My brother grabbed another handful, and this time what was left of our father’s face stared out at us. Yellowing teeth grinned through bits of chocolate, and I laughed.

“Hey, look! Dad’s enjoying the cake, too!”

“You’re disgusting,” James said, nostrils flaring. He kept swallowing, choking down the vomit I knew rose in his throat every time he took a bite.

I have to give my brother credit, though. It wasn’t until a long, grey hair got caught in his teeth that he gave in and puked all over the priceless Persian rug. But I didn’t mind; you can buy a lot of rugs with fifty million dollars.

Now my father’s skull sits in the center of my desk in the library. It is very shiny and very smooth. And when I take it in my hands and lovingly run my tongue over the coolness, it tastes ever so slightly of chocolate.

         

         

          (c)2004 WS Ribelin

Feline Fatale

Sunset.


I awake. Not gradually, but all at once. Climbing to my feet, I stretch my muscles, warming them for the task ahead. Lightly, I jump out of the box and nudge open the closet door.

My pupils adjust to the brighter light painfully, although the room would seem dark to him. I cock my head, listening. Ah, he is in the kitchen, preparing my dinner, no doubt.

I pad down the hallway noiselessly, passing each familiar room. There are no pictures of me, and no mirrors hang in any room in this house. It was part of our original arrangement, that.

Pausing in the doorway, I watch him cutting the meat at the counter. It is always beef, freshly cut. I like it bloody. Saliva squirts in my mouth, and I yowl, startling him.

“Alexis, you scared me.” He smiles and reaches down to touch me. I arch my back beneath his strong hand, wind my body around his ankles.

“Are you hungry? Of course you are.” He sets the plate on the floor beside me and I can’t help it, I snatch the meat and begin to chew. He chuckles, but I don’t mind.

We have been together a long time, he and I. He rescued me one rainy night soon after I was transformed. He must have known what I was, for instead of offering me milk, he soaked a rag in his own blood and gave it to me to suck.

Many years have passed since that night. His hair, once black as ebony, reflects the snow, and his strong shoulders are stooped now. Still, he is strong, my human.

“My, what a hungry little lady,” he croons, going down on one knee beside me. I growl in warning, and he chuckles again.

“Not to worry, Alexis my love. I prefer my meat cooked.” I lick every last drop of blood from the plate and sit back on my haunches. Time for a bath.

“I’m getting old, Alexis,” he says, washing the plate in the sink. “Today I visited the doctor.” I turn one ear towards him while I finish my bath. “It doesn’t look good. It’s eating me alive.”

Disinterested, I sniff out the water bowl and lap it up. My human continues to talk, filling the air with a comfortable noise.

“And I’ve decided that I don’t want to sit around waiting to die.” Idly, I wander around the kitchen, meowing. He’s starting to bore me a bit. Usually we go for a ride in his vehicle, or I sit on his lap while he watches the box. Tonight is different, though. My human seems restless.

Soon I must hunt. The bloody meat suffices, but I crave fresh, hot blood. The choosing of each victim was something else I enjoyed. Pretending to be a mortal, I meowed and purred, allowing my potential victim to caress me. These humans never seemed to suspect one so beautiful as I. I never killed, though. Just a deep bite, a few sucks, and I let go, partially satisfied. Then I sought the next giver of blood, and the next, until my belly fairly groaned. Only then did I seek my box, my haven, my home.

“Alexis,” my human says, bringing me out of my reverie. “You have been the best thing in my life.” We are in his bedroom, only a few feet from my box. He sits on his bed; I leap up next to him. He strokes me absently with one hand while he fiddles with an object in the other. I look closer; the object is one I have seen only a few times. It is of black shiny metal, I do not know its name. My human sighs deeply, and a murmur of disquiet rolls through my body. My whiskers twitch; something is not right. I sense anxiety and fear, two emotions my human rarely exudes.

“Good bye, Alexis,” he says, rubbing my head where I like it best. “I love you.”

BAM! Shrieking, I jump off the bed and zip out the window he leaves open for me. I run until my breath is ragged, that horrible noise still ringing in my ears.

My human. What was the significance of the noise? I have to find out. I creep back stealthily, for flashing lights have surrounded my human’s abode.

I recognize none of these humans, and want to scratch them to death, sink my needle sharp teeth into their soft flesh. Instead, I creep around to the window and jump up on the sill.

My human lies on the floor, and the wondrous odor of fresh blood fills my nose. But something is wrong. The blood smell emanates from…my human. Several humans gather around him, yammering words I cannot understand. None notice me. My heart beats fiercely with an unknown emotion, my eyes burn.

I stay there, watching, until my human is taken away and the night begins to wane. Finally I leap to the floor, and circle the stain on the floor. I sniff, filling myself with the scent of the only thing I ever loved, the only thing that ever loved me. I realize there is one way my human will always be with me.

Licking my whiskers clean, I climb into my box and close my eyes.

**author's note: This was one of my first stories from 2003.