Written-on-the-fly Vampire Story...

Dear fellow Literoticans,


In the name of reaching a hundred posts and, subsequently, an Avatar, I have decided to write a story here on the message boards. If anyone finds this inappropriate, I apologize - but don't just look at it as a blatant way to make it to a hundred posts:

look at it as an exeriment in writing. A completely improvised story, with no editing. Sounds like fun.



I will therefor begin what I will call...

MODERN GOTHIC

...yeah, that's a decent title.

Here we go.


-Caulfield

I'm ready for you, Riven.

Oops, I mean, I'm ready for it, the story. Umhmmm.

You can write a whole story on your fly?

Um, Hi.....my name's Caroline. You come here often?

MODERN GOTHC

Downtown, on the eighth floor in the old bank building on King Street, two men sit in a large open room on elegant, high-backed chairs. Between them are a chess board and two half-full rock tumblers which reflect the easy light of a few floor lamps. The shiny hardwood floors reflect the smooth sheen of one of the men’s black leather shoes. The other is wearing an old pair of white sneakers.
Chris Gains is the man in the expensive shoes, playing for black. Thom Cutty is the man in the sneakers, playing with white. Cutty, with his graying hair, moderately kept beard and tiny glasses confidently trades a pawn for Chris’s knight. He takes up his rock tumbler of ice and his favorite cheap whiskey and takes a sip, eyeing his companion, who casually takes the pawn and lights a cigarette. Black paper with a gold filter. Natural tobacco. He can taste all the chemicals in others.

YAY!! I love 'gothy vampire stuff' *gets her popcorn and sits infront of the story teller* can we join in? like add on to the story? *laughs* damn im weird!

MODERN GOTHIC

Carolyn - I'm not sure, but I'm certainly willing to try.

Click to expand...

Chris, in his fitted, plain black linen dress shirt with the crisp collar and expensive pants, looks to be around twenty-six but his eyes bely a maturity that cannot be guaged. He opens a folder tucked beside his chair and leafs through it as Cutty ponders his next move.
“You could at least concentrate on the game,” Cutty says, picking up a pawn, changing his mind and putting it back before withdrawing his hand.
“Do you honestly believe it could be there?” Chris asks, replacing the folder by his chair. Cutty takes off his glasses and pushes back his wiry hair, wiping his brow. He regards Chris for a moment with pity, scanning his expensive pants, expensive shirt, the silver cross around his neck, perfect skin and finally settling on his blue, blue eyes. So blue.
“A better question might be ‘do I think it exists?’” Cutty eventually says.

MODERN GOTHIC

“I’m already halfway.” Chris shrugs as Cutty finally moves his queen out of her hiding spot. Chris’s eyes scan the board for only a moment before looking back to Cutty.
“Which is worse, Father? To be hated by God, or to hate Him?”
“I don’t follow.” Chris doesn’t look to the board as he moves his rook.
“God doesn’t hate you. You can visit his churches, you can hold his symbol against your chest,” Cutty motions to the cross at Chris’s neck, “but your existance is an insult to him.”
“I would change it if I could, Cutty, but suicide’s a sin.” Cutty replaces his glasses and stares intently at the board.
“The point, my friend, is that you have succeeded in allowing God to continue to love you, but perhaps it is more important that you love him in return.”
“So you don’t plan to move?” Chris takes a quick drag from his cigarette before taking up his own glass.
“This glass…” Chris says.
“You’re not halfway there, Father. You’re halfway away.”

MODERN GOTHIC

“Is this glass half-empty or half-full? Forgive me if I don’t share your cynicism.” Chris takes a sip and sets the glass back down before standing and shrugging into his overcoat.
“The game is not over,” Cutty says, taking off his glasses again.
“Make your move.”
“You’ll never be rid of her, Father. It’s useless to try.”
“So you and the rest of the World constantly remind me.” Cutty finally moves his queen again. Chris takes a quick drag from his cigarette and replaces Cutty’s knight with his bishop.
“Checkmate,” Chris says, taking up his folder and double-checking an airline ticket before placing it in his inside breast pocket. “I have a flight to catch.”
“Even if you do find the answers in Italy, Father, what do you expect it to change?”
Chris smiles and considers for a moment before answering;
“Everything.”

(an aside)

<sighs>


This is gonna' take a while.

That's a good start.

A good prologue, anyway...


CHAPTER ONE:
lady venom

NOW THE FEEL THE TRANCE OF THIS GODDESS, VICIOUS VIBRATIONS
LAPDANCES, VENOMOUS SERPENTS OF TEMPTATION
AWKWARD BALANCE, SCARS ON MY BACK FROM HER TALONS
AN EVIL EVENING, DRINKING BLOOD BY THE GALLONS
DRENCHED

MODERN GOTHIC

Sit in a coffee shop somewhere. Smell the greasy bacon and greasy eggs.

Smile politely to the woman who runs the till, and her husband. His fat paunch filling out the apron nicely as he smokes his cigarette and slides greasy eggs onto a gritty plate. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of a hairy arm and places an order up on the rack.

Toast. Two eggs. Sunny side up. Four strips of bacon. He hits the bell and yells “pickup”.

Look out the window. See the people not looking back. All the pretty people.

Kill'em all.

All their pretty dreams. Their pretty eyes and pretty necks and pretty clothes. Going on about their pretty lives. They don’t look down at the young homeless woman who begs in the doorway.

“Spare change?”

They don’t look down. They don’t give a damn.

The girl smells of vanilla and cigarette smoke. Her clothes smell faintly of the new chill in the air.

“Spare change?”

“The worst evil in the world,” my father told me once, “is the indifference of good men.”

Smell the greasy bacon and greasy eggs. Smell the greasy husband in his greasy apron.

I think of better times.

Thank God I don’t eat.

I’m more of a drinker.

* * *

MODERN GOTHIC

She was so beautiful. Peaceful. Solemn. Pious, even.

Better times.

I found her walking through the Piazza del Duomo. Warm nights in Florence. Better times. She was breaking a loaf of bread and spreading it about the pidgeons that gather along the Piazza floor. She can’t afford to buy decent clothes and she’s sharing her bread with the pidgeons.

Slit'erfuckin'throat.

Her scent was clear and crisp and perfect, even from the cafe on the other side of the Piazza. It spelled out clear, crisp and perfect letters in my head; V. I. R. G. I. N.

* * *

MODERN GOTHIC

* * *

You can follow someone from a hundred and fifty yards by scent. The winding labyrinthian streets of Florence demand that one cuts it to around fifty.

She lived in a tiny apartment on a tiny street. She sat on the steps of her building and talked to her landlady about the weather, bending down to her shopping bag to produce a few pale yellow flowers, and handing them to the landlady.

The old woman cries out and claps the virgin to her breast. She tells her that she loves her, and wishes her such good fortunes as would put a king to shame.

Gut'er.

From across an ocean, the voice jumps through my head.

Rip'erfuckin'heart out.

I approach them calmly, my hands clasped behind my back.

The old woman tells her how sorry she was when our virgin's father died.

So sorry.

Kill'em both.

I feel my fangs extend. A hot, aching need inside my bones.

* * *

Some of the Council’s scientists once examined the properties of an extended fang.

It was hard enough to cut glass, and weighed an ounce and a half.

They stimulated some Turn’s thirst and ripped it out of his mouth.

The Council’s like that.

* * *

The girl finally looks up at me. She smiles. Killher.

The girl speaks in polite, heady Italiant: "Good evening, father."

I reach down and touch her cheek. She shivvers. But I am warmed to the depths of my non-soul. She is pious. She is pious.

SNAPherNECK.

Silverluna said:

YAY!! I love 'gothy vampire stuff' *gets her popcorn and sits infront of the story teller* can we join in? like add on to the story? *laughs* damn im weird!

Click to expand...

Tells Silverluna to scoot over and share her popcorn..LoL
I love me some vampire stories

MODERN GOTHIC

The old woman slaps my hand away. She is agape. For a moment, I would adore killing that old woman.

But I don’t. I reach into my jacket and remove a few hundred million lire for the child. A couple more for the old woman.

I leave. "Are you alright, father? You look pale."

Getback there an’snaptheir necks!

* * *

I Go back to the Piazza del Duomo and look at my apartment, on the opposite side of the Cathedral of Florence.

Chris, why do you fight me so? she whispers in my mind.

I just want to get home. I’m barely looking where I’m going. Someone who feels to be carved out of granite clashes with my shoulder, and as I apologize in Italian, I’m interuppted by a laugh.

“Chris Gains!” he shouts, laughing. “I haven’t seen you since the fifties! Man, you haven’t changed a bit.” I take a moment to switch to English.

It’s Tyler Overwater, an old… “aquaintance” from North America. He’s massive – six-foot-six, and he could kill you with as much exertion as it would take to light your cigarette.

“Hello, Tyler,” I say, plastering an effortless fake smile on. “Long time.”

MODERN GOTHIC

He’s a reasonably handsome fellow, with slick black hair and a bad goatee. I don’t particulary agree with his sense of style – a long brown leather cowboy duster in these hot Florentian nights.

“Damn, you look good, Boy!” he smiles, holding out his bare hand to mine. For a moment, I reach to shake it, but he suddenly jerks it away. “Whoah! Hold on, I forgot – you’re like, Mr-No-Touch. Sorry man, I forgot.”

“It’s alright – at times I forget too.”

He laughs again.

“Why are you in Florence?” I ask. I ask because Tyler nororiously loathes Europe. Most likely he’s here on business.

“Business,” he grins. “Some suckhead sucked some other suckhead’s familiar or something. I gotta’ bring ‘im in to bleed ‘im.”

“Charming,” I say, lighting a cheap French cigarette. “Still a mercenary, then?”

“Not no more, man, I’m an official agent of the Council.” He holds out a tattooed hand bearing the mark of the Inernational Investigation Agency – the Council’s army of walking, talking doberman pinscers for hire. I smile and nod. Just smile and nod to Tyler – it’s all he’s worth.

“Well, I don’t envy the Turn you’re after.”

“Don’t get all superior, Chris, you’re a Turn yourself.” Now I laugh.

“Christ, Tyler, I’m barely a Turn at all,” I grin. He doesn't grin back. And as I pat him on the back, he shys from my touch. One might even say he jumps. “See you around the world, Tyler.”

* * *

I seen Fly and vampire in the same sentance had to investigate

* * *

Back to my apartment across from the Duomo.

Go upstairs. Strip down to my slacks and undershirt. They call them wifebeaters back in the States.

I’ve never had a wife. And there’s no such thing as a marriage after you’ve turned.

Ka-chink. I snap the tab off a can of pig’s blood and pour it into a rock rumber.

You can buy pig’s blood at any butcher shop. Doesn’t matter which side of the Atlantic.

I take two tablets of iron and break them with a fist into the glass. Mix it with a pinkie.

A syringe slips into a vial of adrenaline and draws out 50ccs.

I empty the syringe into the rock tumber and mix it with the needle.

Mixing, mixing with the needle.

85ccs of hemoglobin. Mixing, mixing with the needle.

* * *

MODERN GOTHIC

* * *

Standing by the window, sipping my blood and looking out over the Piazza at the Duomo. It rises elegant and proud out of the city and smiles at me.

My left hand reaches into the undershirt and removes a silver cross, fingering it gently as the rock tumbler shakes in my right. The thirts has me. My fangs clink hard against the glass as I take fast swig and swallow hard.

My heart is crashing against my ribcage. I can hear the fresh blood rushing through my ears. My vision is becoming tense. Perfect.

I can see and smell and hear the whore sitting at Café Ilsabono across the Piazza. I can smell the disease on her. I can smell the HIV in her system. I can smell the heavy scent of semen on her breath, even underthe merlot she’s drinking.

My face twitches into a snarl.

It’s got me.

Silverluna said:

YAY!! I love 'gothy vampire stuff' *gets her popcorn and sits infront of the story teller* can we join in? like add on to the story? *laughs* damn im weird!

Click to expand...

sure...no one wants to do that with my story.

MODERN GOTHIC

I glance out the window left, then right onto the empty Piazza below before launching myself out, down four stories onto the street. I can smell her.

She permeates me. The pidgeons scatter long before they ever hear me coming. I slip through the centre of the Piazza and sit down at the empty chair across from her.

She welcomes me with a smile and asks how I’m enjoying the warm weather.

I ask her through tight lips if she’d like to see my apartment. Then pay for her drink as I escort her back. She asks how I keep my skin so perfect.

I can smell the disease. She’ll be dead within a year.

Inside my apartment, she’s upon me as if she has a thirst of her own. She claws off my undershirt and leaves hot kisses across my chest as she unbuckles my belt.

see...told you this would work...


actually, you can write it in word then cut and paste...

that way if you want to ( I don't so...) you can run it thru the spell check...

MODERN GOTHIC

I want to drink this woman. For a moment, as I look down at her breasts, full and straining against her blouse, I imagine I might like to have her sexually as well.

As she reaches inside my slacks to grasp my manhood, I can feel it already hard and demanding against her gentle hand.

“Oh my, father!” she says. I remove her hand and she stands.

She looks dissappointed, and before I notice exactly where she’s off to, she’s opened my refrigerator. She screams. I suppose finding two dozen cans of pig’s blood and various blood products will do that to anyone.

Quickly, behind her, clapping a hand over her mouth, I drag her back to the living room and push her against the open window sill. I wisper smooth and harsh in her ear;

“I will not kill you. I will not hurt you,” in sharp, easy Italian.

I release my hand and she screams again. The hand claps back over her mouth.

“I will not hurt you,” I whisper again. “Do you believe me?”

She nods, her eyes huge and teary. “You are sick,” I tell her. “You are dying. Do you know this?”

She nods. She’s shaking.

“I can help you. I will not hurt you. Do you believe me?”

She nods. She’s still shaking, but she nods. I release her mouth and she remains frozen against the window sill. She’s staring. She’s shaking.

“Don’t be afraid,” I tell her. [/I] “It’s all alright. Don’t be afraid.” [/I] I slice my tongue open with a fang as a hand slips around her waist. “I’m going to help you.”

I kiss her, long and hard, and as she kisses back she recieves a profusion of blood, fast and hot, slipping down her throat. She moans, her eyes crying out, her hands pounding at me. I hold her tight until I can’t smell it on her any more, then release her.

We collapse to the floor, and I wipe an amount of blood from my lips as she does the same. She looks broken, her head cocked at an unnatural angle as her breasts rise and fall in quick, short gasps.

“Tomorrow,” I tell her, “Get another blood test.” I reach into my jacket to throw a few hundred million lire at her. “Then find a new profession. If I see you selling your body again I will kill you.”

She quickly gathers her things and leaves.

I’m not sure if I mean it.

* * *

I really wanted to go to bed tonight at a reasonable hour.

Damn.

MODERN GOTHIC

* * *

She’s the third I’ve cured in as many weeks. I promised myself, this time in Florence, I would be less active. Keep to myself. Don’t draw attention. Study the texts and find a cure.

Now after two years, the voice from across the ocean seems correct;

There’sno cure.

I’d had more luck at Cutty’s back in North America.

* * *

MODERN GOTHIC

* * *

That’s why now I’m sitting in this coffee shop in the New World, smelling the greasy bacon and greasy eggs. There was nothing left for me in Florence. What I have to do is here.

Any vampire created after 1750 flocked to America. A new world of new opportunities where the streets are paved with people no one will miss. I fled America. Across an ocean to Europe where maybe the voice in my head would be quieter. But I could still hear Her. Quieter, perhaps, but just as clear.

Her voice the exact same as it had been sixty years before. “Don’t you like me, father?”

Don’t you like me, father?