'Sup everybody. Drood is continuing to be boring as hell. I just checked the dates and holy shit, in three days I'll have been reading it for a whole frickin' month. Ugh. I've got Thursday off, so if I really plow through the ending maybe I can beat the one-month deadline.
Anyways, given the relative silence recently I thought I'd throw up an old story from one of the writing groups I used to be a part of. I dropped out of them earlier this year because I was embarking on a big writing project which has taken up a heap of my time and energy. I'll have more details on that 'big writing project' reasonably soon. Hopefully. (Ooo, mysterious!)
So this particular story was for the --- how can I put this? --- vastly sillier of the two writing groups, and the theme was Trashy Vampire Fiction. It may or may not be the funniest thing I've ever written, but it's certainly the dopiest. But before we begin, here's a little something to get you in the mood:
Remember, if you think the story sucks, you can always scroll back up and gaze into R-Pattz's horrifyingly dead eyes. On that note, enjoy!
First and Last Thoughts
Doctor Isabelle Lee’s first thought was that the girl was terrified. Her second thought was that the boy’s hairstyle was ridiculous. It swept upwards in artfully asymmetrical swoops and swirls, like a disaster of post-modern architecture, or like a half-melted soft-serve cone from McDonalds. Her third thought was that, despite the hair, he was smoking hot.
It was nearing four a.m., and nearing the end of her shift in the E.R. It had been a relatively quiet evening: most of the drug-related gunshot wounds and stabbings had had the good grace to be D.O.A., and she’d even been able to snatch moments of sleep in between signing off on them and sending them down to the morgue.
All her tiredness disappeared, however, as she gazed into the calm young man’s limpid green eyes. She put his age at about sixteen, but his eyes seemed older somehow. His skin was white, the pure white of a blank sheet of paper, as though there was no blood beneath the surface to stain it pink. His lips, however, were brilliant red, and the contrast with his skin was dazzling. They were like juicy fresh-picked strawberries perched atop a dollop of thick, luscious cream.
Isabelle became suddenly aware of her own skin, and began to feel hot underneath her scrubs. For a brief moment, everything was forgotten—the hospital, the injured girl, her boyfriend Lorenzo waiting at home in their cramped apartment—everything was lost, except for him, and her. Isabelle’s heart beat a tattoo against her ribs.
The boy smiled, a perfect dimple cleaving his hard, masculine chin. ‘My girlfriend caught her tongue on something,’ he said. ‘Could you take a look at it?’
His voice was unusually deep, and it shook through Isabelle like the bass in a nightclub. It took her a moment to register what he’d actually said.
‘What?’ The world—the cruel grey world—came flooding back. ‘Oh, yes, of course. So, uhh, what seems to be the trouble?’
Turning to the girl, Isabelle again saw in an instant that something was scaring her out of her wits.
‘Mppffhhmm,’ she mumbled, refusing to open her mouth. Isabelle pulled up a stool in front of her and laid her hand on the girl’s knee.
‘It’s okay. You’re safe here. What happened?’
In answer, the girl opened her mouth, revealing that her tongue had been shredded to ribbons. She was a beautiful girl, Isabelle reflected. Or, more accurately, she would be beautiful if her mascara hadn’t dripped to form black tear-streaks on her cheeks, and if her hair wasn’t in disarray, and if her clothes weren’t torn …
‘We were making out …’ The boy was stealthy; he had crept up behind Isabelle without a sound, and his deep voice purred into her ear. Just hearing him say the words ‘making out’ in his Barry White-esque timbre made her lose herself. A shiver ran down her spine and she shifted on her stool. She grew damp, and not with sweat.
Staring blankly into the girl’s open mouth, at the half-cooked bolognese that was all that was left of her tongue, Isabelle surrendered to the boy’s lustrous voice. She let out a whimper.
‘… and I grazed her tongue with my fangs …’
As he spoke, the boy hooked a finger underneath Isabelle’s pony-tail and draped it over one shoulder, exposing the back of her neck. The faint whisper of his breath on her skin made her arch her back in delight.
‘… and I tasted her blood …’
He stroked Isabelle’s tight pink flesh. His fingers were icy cold, like frozen sausages left to thaw in the kitchen sink of her burning skin. She shuddered at his touch, closed her eyes and leaned back, biting her lip to keep from groaning out loud.
‘… and it tasted good. Once a vampire tastes blood, his thirst is almost unquenchable, he can’t be stopped …’
Wait … fangs? Vampire? Huh? Isabelle opened her eyes and the boy’s pale unearthly face was mere inches from hers. His skin was smooth as marble, and just as cold. But his eyes, despite their agelessness, were warm. She was overwhelmed by his beauty, by the sheer perfection of his astonishing face—he was like a perfect meld of Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp, Zac Efron and all three Jonas Brothers. She felt a monstrous heat growing inside her, a heat that Lorenzo had failed to make her feel in years.
‘… but I love my Lydia …’
The girl, her fear replaced by something close to joy, stroked the boy’s pale hand.
‘… so stop I did. It almost killed me …’
He smiled. Even the sight of his snow-white fangs couldn’t mar his angelic beauty. Isabelle gasped and writhed in delight, intoxicated by his very presence. The heat inside her was building to a crashing crescendo.
‘… and now I’m sooooo hungry,’ the boy crooned.
As the two pin-pricks of his fangs sank into her neck, as her life drained away, as her orgasm sent great rolling waves of hot pleasure that wracked her body like a lifeboat in a storm, the last thing that Doctor Isabelle Lee ever thought was: it was worth it.
And then she died.
THE END
Story notes:
- In all honesty, this barely qualifies as a story. It's more like a Trashy Vampire Anecdote, or something. Even the wizard one, which is shorter, at least has a beginning, middle and end. This is too slight. It's just kind of a run of gags.
- A shout out to my good friend Kerls, whose series of Bad Fiction Friday Arvos over on his blog A Totally Irrelevant Title made me more willing to throw up something that's deeply terrible.
- I still giggle at the frozen sausages metaphor. I do wish that sentence was phrased a bit more elegantly though. Ah well, can't win 'em all.
- I hope you laughed at least once. If you didn't, I'm not as good a writer as I think I am.
- I genuinely have no idea what the Jonas Brothers look like.
Cheers, JC.
currently reading: Drood by Dan Simmons
books to go: 97
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