So, I decided to test the waters and see how comfortable I am putting my writing up here. Most of my writing is derived from the very vivid nightmares and dreams I have. That or they are based off of someone with a terribly traumatic childhood, so I am a bit nervous about putting them up here. But here goes. *holds breath*
I'm going to start out with one that I wrote for my English class last year since I can't seem to find my flash drive and all of my writing that hasn't been for school is either on my flash drive or my boyfriend's computer. Neither of which are at my disposal right now. This is called A New World. It's a story I had to write last year based on using nothing but types of imagery. And yes, it is about a vampire.
Warning: The theme is slightly sexual and it does have ideologically sensitive material. In case anyone doesn't want to read something like that.
The air was cold and wet, the rain falling in heavy sheets. A young man ran through the city streets; the run down broken windows only a blur, a newspaper over his head to help shield some of the rain. As he turned into a back alleyway, his foot sunk into a deep puddle, soaking his already drenched torn up blue jeans. Cursing under his breath he looked up at the sky, grayed from pollution, the light from the street lamps dancing playful across his vibrant green eyes. Pulling his black zip up hoodie tighter around him he looked back at the ground, and proceeded through.
Behind him, a woman walked silently, her long curly black hair soaked, water bouncing off of her pale white skin, radiating in the dim light of night. Her old worn combat boots made no sound as she kept her dark blue eyes locked on the boy, her black velvet dress clinging to her lean frame. As the man stopped for a moment, the woman grabbed him and put her hand over his mouth so he couldn’t scream. ”Don’t…scream…or I’ll kill you for real…” she whispered in his ear, her voice soft and luscious. He struggled and bit down on her hand, drawing blood, but her only reaction was to giggle. “Silly boy. That doesn’t hurt.”
As thunder clashed and the rain got heavier, she latched onto his neck, teeth puncturing the skin, sipping his smooth warm blood, caught in a euphoric lust. The more she drank, the less he struggled until he could no longer move. His body became limp and his vision faded; she pulled away, licking his blood from her lips and smiling.
“Now…be a good boy…” and without another word she tightened her grip on him and descended into the night, taking him to the outskirts of the city where she lived alone in a long forgotten mansion, standing tall in all of it’s gothic beauty.
As they reached her front door, the boy opened his eyes and looked at up her. She was caring him tenderly as if he were a small child, and upon seeing his eyes open, she smiled at him, her fangs glistening in the moon light against her dark purple lipstick. Closing his eyes, his body went limp once more. Carefully, she inserted the old looking key into the door and walked in, locking it behind her.
Upon entrance, her lips showed happiness for they were curved into a smile, but her eyes showed sadness, their dullness making her look lonely. Sighing, she walked through a large foyer, the floors old creaky wood covered in a thin layer of dust, the walls made of cold stone. Candles hung in black cast iron holders and many dark yet beautiful paintings sat upon the walls. Setting out for an empty bedroom, she slowly walked up the large spiral staircase, elaborate detail put into everything the eye came across. Walking into a room decorated much like the rest of the house, she gently laid him down on a large four poster bed made of ebony on top of the soft dark blue satin duvet, propping his head up with a big plush pillow. Smiling, she left the room, closing the door behind her. “Sleep well my boy. Come tomorrow night, I explain.”
Sighing she entered her own room, looking just like the other’s, yet completely different. There was no carpet on the floor, but just the old wooden floors; the smooth stone walls barren aside from the two or three candles sitting upon a dark wood shelf. The bed was small and plain, covered in dark purple satin sheets; all of the other furniture wasn’t much different. But what made this room different from the rest was the large window at the opposite end of it. The window supported a seat took up almost the entire wall; large black drapes framed it, making it look like a picture out of a gothic postcard. Yawning she sat and looked out at the scene. It had been a long time since she had any company in her home; though whether or not this could truly be called a home was up for debate, for home is where the heart is and given she had no heart that beat, well, there was not many places it could really exist.
As the night loomed on, seeming endless and forsaken, the rain beat down ever so rhythmically, and the ancient vampire drifted in and out of slumber; her mind flashing back over the past few centuries. As the first rays of dawn began to approach, she awoke with a searing pain on the back of her hand. Hissing, she jumped up and pulled the drapes shut, blocking out any assassin sun ray that may wish to be the total end of her. Lazily, her hand already beginning to heal itself at a rapid rate, she climbed into her bed, drifting off into an anything but peaceful sleep.
In the meantime, the man was just waking up, trying to shake the events of the past night off as nothing more than a bad dream; a nightmare of all nightmares. His head pounded with the depth of a bass drum and his neck cried out with pain where he had been attacked. Panic arose in his mind as he began to look around, his thoughts not comprehending the surroundings. This was not his small and tidy two bedroom apartment in the inner city. This was not his bedroom with its’ light tan walls and cool island setting. And this was more certainly not his futon that he was so used to sleeping on. But as he looked around, he noticed that all of his possessions he had had on him the night before were all in the room. He was still in his clothing; his keys and wallet were both on the small bedside table, everything still in tact. Even his newspaper which he had been using as an umbrella was still present. Carefully and silently he slipped his shoes on, leaving the rest of his possessions lying where the lady had placed beforehand. With the curiosity and diligence of a cat, he crept out of the room and into the foreboding hallway, constantly looking over his shoulder with paranoia at anything that may jump out of the shadows. After searching a few rooms, he felt himself beginning to appreciate the beauty of the one majestic but, much like its master, fallen home.
As the night began to proceed the day, there was still one room he had not yet explored; a very plain looking door at the end of the foyer downstairs. The door looked as if it had not been open in nearly one hundred years and as his curiosity overrode his fear, he stalked up to it and began to turn the handle. Yet before he turned it in a complete circle, a hand clamped down upon his, the cold pressure of stone against his back. “I…would advise against doing that if I were you.” Said the same seductive voice he had heard the night before. Turning around quickly he found himself pinned between the vampire and the door, fear sweltering through his veins.
“Who…who are you?” he asked, trying to keep his voice from quivering. She simply chuckled in the back of her throat, a chuckle that made his skin crawl and the logic in his head scream at him to run; however, he found he was unable to move, captivated by the sadness in her eyes. “Who am I?” she asked, “I am the one meant to show you a world as you have never known before. A world that no other human has ever experienced and lived; however…this comes at a price, as does everything in this dawning of a new era.”
His heart beat quickened and the blood pulsed through his veins, intoxicating her with a drug so much more pure than anything that could ever be bought upon the streets. He tried to find his voice, but as she pushed herself closer to him, her lips brushing the tender skin of his neck, he found all her could do was hold his next question in the look he gave her; a look that asked her what the price would be though he already knew he did not have a choice as to whether or not he wished to pay. A smile danced across her lips as she read his question, her tongue only barely touching the lobe of his ear now. “Why...your blood of course.” And without so much as another word, she clamped down on his neck in the same fashion she had the night before, tasting his drug like the sweetest wine every to have been fermented. Pulling away she giggled and pulled him back into her arms, his body falling limp. “Don’t worry my pet,” she whispered, “Soon you will be able to withstand the feed and you yourself will grow stronger. Until then, rest.” And with that she retreated nobly into the shadows to place him to rest once more.
And I wanted to go ahead and put up one more short story. Another one that I had to do for class. Except this time we were given a topic and we had to choose a line from a poem to base our stories off of. My theme was rally and my poem was 'Success is Counted Sweetest' by Emily Dickinson. So naturally, my short story is named after the poem. This one has a VERY different feel than my last one too. Unfortunately, it isn't as good as it originally was. The day it was due, I wasn't going to be in class because I was leaving early the next morning to head out to a thespian conference nearly 7 hours away. So I was typing it up and going to email it to my teacher so that it would still be on time. Unfortunately, just as I had finished it and was about to email it, my computer shut itself down. It took me nearly an hour to get it back up and running and I was having trouble getting any documents to actually open. So I copied the file (since I had saved it) to a flash drive and went to work on another computer. However, when I opened the document on my step dad's lap top, it was blank. It was 2 in the morning, I had to get up at 5 and my document was blank. So I ended up sending a pleading email to my teacher at about 2:30 when I couldn't get it to reopen on my own computer to see if it was there to give me an extension and let me turn it in when I returned the next week. Thankfully, she wasn't as much of a hardass as other AP teachers are and she gave me my extension, but by the time I was able to write again, I had lost the role I was on. Much sadness.
Often there are times when one needs to step up and say, “Hey. This isn’t right, let’s do something about it!” With fists in the air, you march down the cold, rain filled streets, shouting your cries of revolution. You wonder what the point of fighting a war you don’t believe in is because there are so many better things you could be fighting for. This is why we started our meetings. It started with just a few of us, but quickly, it grew to massive proportions of people who wanted to speak out against what they thought was wrong and speak up for what they felt was right; this was their night to do it.
The clock chimed and I jumped up from my chair and, as I slid into my coat, I walked out the door. The air around me was cold and brisk. I pulled my jacket closer as I headed to the warehouse, blocking out the raging sounds of sirens. I was smart enough to know that if I paid too much mind to them, I would be labeled as suspicious; even more so than I already was with my leather jacket, draped on my lean male figure and my mohawk reaching for the stars.
As I put my hand on the door to slide it open, I stopped and took a deep breath. The loud chatter inside made me smile; I knew they were all here to help in my cause. Finally, I slid the heavy door open and all went silent. As I walked to the front, everyone split, making a pathway, all eyes on me. As I walked, I realized that they were all dressed similar to me; jeans, combat boots, leather or jean jackets and they all had the same glint in their eyes: the glint of revolution.
As I reached the front, I turned around and took a deep break. “In Emily Dickinson’s poem, ‘Success is Counted Sweetest’, she says, ‘Not one of all the purple Host who took the Flag today can tell the definition so clear of Victory.’ What we are here to do today is raise our flags- our fists- into the air and achieve our victory we have set out. We will march down the streets and tell the blind man of how he was robbed right in front of him. We will work and fight to make things right; for our generation, and that of our children and our children’s children. We will not let a greedy man hold us down, making people believe that he is working for the common man when, in reality, he is working to make himself richer and others even more poor than they already are. We are going to march down these dark streets, and we will shout out our victory, for we will bring about change and we will win!”
As I looked around, every face before me was still as stone and then, as if a light had burst from inside of them, they all cheered out with their fists in the air of how right I was. And as I smiled at the revolution beginning before me, I knew, that we would attain victory, no matter what.
Last edited by Illeana_NightRain (2008-09-17 20:28:22)