Words put together in a mildly meaningful order.

Escape

2009-02-01T03:10:00.000-08:00

I heard another deafening thump behind me as the soldiers tried for the third time to break down the thick oak door, they would get through soon. I cast my eyes around me at the long thin room I was in, the cold stone floor was covered in dust and debris from when they gutted the place and the walls were empty apart from some graffiti slandering a local gang. The only thing in the room apart from me was an old upturned table with one leg missing, it was as grimy, tired and broken as the human who shared its space. It hurt me to think that this place had once been my home and the only place that I felt truly safe but now it was being cracked open on the orders of people who also had once found a haven here. But those people had turned against the people who had helped them and there was only me left who knew their true nature.

Suddenly my vision clouded and my head rushed with full force, the drugs were starting to kick in but I fought back and stumbled through the once elegant glass doors that lead outside. The bright sun made me squint but the bitter wind knocked a little more sense into me. Like the Manor, the gardens before me had once been beautiful but now were nothing but an overgrown wasteland home to only helpless vermin and longing. I looked around me for a means of escape but through blurred vision it was all I could do to fight back the misty haze that was threatening to overcome me.

An almighty crash informed me that soldiers had finally broken through and reduced the grand old oak door to splintered piles of wood. The world swayed in front of me as the effort of remaining conscious mixed with panic. There was a tiny hidden gate at the far end of the grounds which leads out onto the hyperway and if I could only reach it then I might have a chance to escape. Problem was that my feet wouldn't obey me as the drugs started taking their true effect and I was rooted to the spot. I stumbled slightly forward and nearly plunged into the grass until all of a sudden I felt a strong arm around my waist lift me up.

Up and completely off the ground into the sky. My bemused self giggled at the realisation that I was flying but when I eventually thought to look around at my rescuer the drugs took their final hold and I slipped into unconsciousness.

Shooting in the Rouge Quarter

2009-02-01T03:06:00.000-08:00

It was quiet outside. I don't know why I noticed it at the time but silence reigned over the parked cars and not even the wind was whispering in the stillness of the night. The inhabitants had either not risen from their vile pits since the night before or weren't due back until the following morning and I was probably the only (live) person in the street with a steady job that didnft involve some kind of illegal import. (If you call buying whisky for my drunken manically depressed skunk of a boss, whilst occasionally trying to write an article amidst the mountain of junk on my shared desk a job.)

Outside, a stray cat screeched to a halt at the base of an ancient lamppost clawing at a mouse in her paws, ripping at the flesh yet her yellow eyes were kept fixated on the moon. She meowed and hurled the carcass to the floor, leaping at the battered Skoda in the drive across the road.

The light flickered out above me which told me two things: I couldn't finish the book I was reading and I needed to top up the meter. The cat screeched again as I threw my jeans in the general direction of the wardrobe and curled up under my covers, huddling in the oversized t-shirt I had lived in for the past two days. A gunshot sounded outside and there was sheer silence before a bloodcurdling scream that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, sounded through the stillness, shortly followed by another gunshot.

This was going to be a long night.

I remember running down the stairs pulling my jeans on as I went and then I grabbed my keys and leather jacket from the bottom of the stairs before flying out the door, slamming it behind me. Nothing else had stirred but I pelted down the street like I was being chased before I reached the alley. I knew exactly where to go, nowhere else in this neighbourhood would I hear I scream that said "help me" like that one did. It was so secluded in the dark alley and I wasn't surprised to find I was the only person out there that night, I was the only one in this god-forsaken pit who actually wanted more than the next shag, the next high or the next fight. There was just me.

That is unless you count the two corpses on the pavement.

There was a young man, around his mid-twenties I'd guess, sprawled against the wall with a bullet hole right between the eyes. He had a shock of blond hair which looked grey in the moonlight. The blood was already dripping onto the smart grey business suit he wore, Armani, I'd say l although from the way he wore it, despite being a corpse, it was a fake. No class, a pretender.

Then, in the entrance to the alley, at my feet was a girl. Bright blonde hair, strikingly pretty in a classy dress that made her look like she had come straight out of the 60s. Shame about the blood stains. It was sad really because she wasn't from this side of town, she didn't deserve to be shot down because she saw something she wasn't supposed to. She had probably just missed the last bus home and now she was just Jane Doe.

I called the police.

They didn't arrive until about and hour later and I was freezing from sitting on the curb, starring at the two bodies. Not that they bothered me, it's just worrying how much I'm now used to corpses in this town. It's meant to be the new millennium but it feels like I'm surrounded by 20s gangsters: sex, drugs, money and death. But that's The Rouge Quarter for you, whoever thought giving it a French name would make it any better was sorely mistaken.

"Oy! Robson!" Even the police where piles of horse shit. This particular moron was the DC I'd encountered before, he couldn't be bothered to make an effort in his job so he blames me for everything. I stood up.

"I called it in, Grenn. Don't even try and pin it on me, just do your job properly for once." He eyed me up again.

"I don't care, Robson, you're the only witness we've got" he replied.

"Since when do you use witnesses?" Sarcasm: always my best form of defence. He rolled his eyes and turned to watch the bodies being loaded into a nearby ambulance. DC Grenn was short, overweight and hated his job when first met him, he's still the same just older and, if it's possible, he cares even less.

"Just because you think you're a bigshot reporter for the daily rag doesn't mean you get to come to any old crime scene and take a few snaps," he said. I bit back a smarmy retort.

"I heard the gun go off," I said slowly. He looked up to see how serious I was, "I heard the scream and then the second gunshot." Cautiously he scanned the scene again, looking for a way out. That wasn't going to happen, I was the last good person in the Rouge Quarter and I'm not that good. I wasn't letting him win. "Do you really think I would've turned over and gone back to sleep after that?"

I saw the look on his face which said it all. This was the fourth shooting in the past 2 months and he was meant to be catching the killer whereas I was doing a better job through the press. Witnesses would much rather be anonymous tha threatened by the police and that was the way Grenn worked. The pen is mightier than the sword? It seems more people with open up to a nosey reporter than a drunken cop. That's what it was like in the Rouge Quarter, trying to choose the lesser of two evils.

DC Grenn flicked his cigarette onto the floor and stalked off back towards his panda car, ignoring me and my question.

Kill Claudio

2009-02-01T02:54:00.000-08:00

Thou hast so wrong'd mine innocent child... Thou hast belied mine innocent child... thy slander hath gone through and through her heart... The words of sweet Hero's father swam in front of Claudio's mind's eye as he looked out through the dark grounds to the church. Such anguished, angry words once sounded with grief and fury from Leonato's mouth now echoed in Claudio's ears, taunting him with his own dire mistake. How could he have acted so brash, so unforgiving, so cruel, when he knew in his heart of the pure sweet innocence that is... was Hero. The fall of that delicate girl was his doing and so on this night he was undone.

A gust of cold wind shook him out of his revelry and for the first time the moon's face shined outside of the dark clouds that hung forbiddingly over the estate. The celestial glow illuminated the landscape before him and lengthening the shadows so that were reaching out like deathly fingers to him. His own shadow stretched out to meet them, reaching through the dark and grasping at the gravestones. Slowly he took his first step of the terrace of the main building and began along the path through the graveyard. The path seemed to extend further and further into the distance and the squat ancient building of the church seemed leagues away at the foot of the endless boulevard of graves. The wind picked up again and the gusts of cold evening air made the trees quiver and the grass shivered underneath Claudio's feet. It seemed as though the occupants of the graves themselves were stirring as a fork of lightning speared the clouds casting ghastly shadows on his path. The lightning also illuminated the names on the headstones... Alfredo, a good husband... John, master of his trade... Helena, a caring mother... Juliet, taken before her time... Ernesto, he fought for what was right... Bernadette... Osric... Fleance... Emilia... Hero... Hero... Hero... Hero, Hero, HeroHeroHeroheroherohero...

Claudio snapped his eyes from the graves and a cold shiver ran down his spine as he realised he had reached the other side of the graveyard. The church stood ominously in front of him, taller than he had ever remembered it being, black bricks suddenly darker than ever and glistening in the oncoming mist. Towering stained glass windows showed images of horrific battles and evil gods and a sudden bolt of lightening crashed through one of the windows, dyed glass shattering on its flight through the air. A shower of shards rained down on Claudio scratching into his skin drawing drops of bright glistening blood and he took himself hurtling through the church door.
The door slammed shut with a boom bringing dust sprinkling down from the ceiling and as the air settled down Claudio peered into the dimly lit church. With a sudden unknown urgency Claudio pushed his way through the darkness down the aisle. His shoes clattered loudly on the floor as he rushed to the front of the church.

With a distinct crack Claudio dropped to his knee in front of the stone alter which loomed over him. A sharp shiver ran down his spine and a cold wind scraped the back of his neck. The air outside the old chapel was crackling with lightning still but inside the stone walls silence lay thick and heavy like an old untold secret. A gust of wind veered through the corridors behind Claudio, the ghostly moan echoing along the hallways before whistling through the doors of the chapel and with an ethereal power, extinguishing the torches inhabiting the walls. Almost in slow motion the darkness spread out from the walls into the centre, enclosing Claudio in her magic, her long shadowy tendrils draping over his arms and writhing up and down over his torso. Her grim touch left trails of goose bumps in its wake, sending strange and mystifying sensations rippling over his frozen body. In an instant her touch left him. The doors behind him slammed shut. Shaking, Claudio reached out for a candle and with a shuddering movement struck a match and wearily lit it.

"Hero..." Claudio's voice stumbled and cracked in the back of his throat, the word coming out quietly, choked with a sob. The light from the tiny flame burnt into Claudio's soul until the dark shadow of a hand reached out, stealing it from him. Again the darkness closed in on him, pricking, pulling and plucking at his pale skin. She rose further, spilling like ink into the air, dripping into his eyes like an icy tar stealing his sight. The darkness pressed on, her blackness seeping into his mind, gravelly whispers stirring just beyond his subconscious.

Taunting. The whispers were taunting him. Suddenly a barrier broke and the voices came flooding into Claudio's mind. Hero! You killed her! All your fault... always your fault... never forgive... never forget... your fault... my fault... everybody's fault... but not hers... not Hero's... sweet Hero... sweet, sweet Hero...

"Hero, sweet Hero..." coughing and sputtering, Claudio found himself face down on the cold slabs, the bare stone burning icily against the soft skin of his cheek. He slowly pushed himself up, jerking back down an instant later only to succeed in dragging himself up the second time. The silence was muffling even his shallow breathing, suffocating him in the darkness, as the air seemed to blur in front of him. She moved again, the darkness. She moved, flitting in and out of his peripheral vision. He tried batting her away like a wasp but his hand just swooped through the air. One moment of nothing gave Claudio the courage to speak out.

"The blame is not mine!" he shouted, only for the words to echo emptily back at him, distorting as they reached his ears. "I am not at fault!" Again the words were thrown back into his face but long after the echoes had faded their true meaning lingered.

A shadow above the alter caught Claudio's eye but it was no ordinary shadow, the light gently avoided it, white light gently flowed over its soft curves. Claudio's eyes were drawn, flickering to the feminine glow above the alter and there she was. A memory of Sweet Hero gazed down on him. Frozen to the spot Claudio watched at the translucent girl floated down towards him, her dress billowing out around her, the same beautiful white gown she had been wearing on that fateful morning.

Though she was but a hands breadth away from Claudio he could not feel her breath on his face or the warmth of her body. A single tear ran down her cheek and the tears continued to flow as she looked longingly into his eyes. A glint of red flashed in her eyes and suddenly her iris' flooded with a blood red light, her hair gushed black as jet and the stream of tears became blood. Dark eyes glared daggers as the harpy arched towards him and crashed into him with full force. A banshee's scream brought Claudio back as the harrowing figure in midair flew in faster and faster around him becoming more like a corpse, grotesque and pained as her gnarled hands groped at Claudio's face. Claudio dropped once more to his knees and closed his eyes tightly but memories of Hero's quiet voice probed his ears.

"You killed me, Claudio." She whispered, "You killed me. Why did you do this to me? I would never hurt you, Claudio. Not you."

"NO!" As Claudio shouted he snapped back to the cold empty chapel, coated in a cold sweat and jerked his head around glancing for any uncanny being. It was just himself in the dark stone room and the only sound he could hear was the rain tapping wetly on the slate roof.

Suddenly a pale hand snaked up from underneath his arm to his chest and another one joined it on the other side of his torso. He felt himself plunge into a cool embrace as he heard Hero's voice muttering quietly in his ear. He blinked and out of the darkness appeared another vision of Hero but this time bruises creating the perfect shape of a man's hands adorned her neck, her breath came out in pained rasps as she advanced on him. Unable to move from fear the ghosts kept coming at him, bloody, beaten, broken. Dead Heros surrounded him clawing at him, touching their cold skin against him whispering accusations and taunts. The one directly in front of him barely looked hurt anywhere but her eyes, they showed a painful hurt that could never be fixed whilst she stared into his own shamed eyes. She went to gently touch his cheek but as she did she choked, the breath came short to her lungs and her ashen hands flew to her throat. A look of terror crossed her eyes and then a look of deeper deeper hurt was there when blood came dribbling through the gaps between her delicate fingers, staining her fine white dress. The blood continued to flow, her tiny hands doing nothing to stem the bleed. Claudio could not move for the apparitions around him gripped onto his body, his arms, his legs, forcing his eyes on the sight not three feet away. The young Hero in front of him tried to scream but no sound was uttered, the whole ghastly event was playing around Claudio now in a deathly silence. In a feat of desperation the Hero, weak and feeble in front of him reached out to him with a blood soaked arm. Then disappeared. They all disappeared but in the brief moment before they did Claudio had seen the gaping hole in Hero's throat where the blade of a sword had done its deed. His sword.

Weakened, alone Claudio could do nothing but stare back at the alter is hope that something, someone will answer him. What question he was asking in did not know but nothing stirred in the small chapel, he was alone, ignored. With the stride of a broken man he stepped up to the alter and knelt to pray. But no words came to his lips, no thoughts to his mind┘ there was no one to pray for anymore, no hero. The storm outside continued. Hours seemed to pass with nothing but the sound of the rain and Claudio's own guilt. He could not bring himself to the selfish act of praying for his own well-being. He did not believe in his own heart that he truly deserved it and ever would again. Time blurred or stopped or ignored Claudio; time being of no relevance any more.

With a flash of lightning the torch flames burst back into life and Claudio stood up from the alter, all he could do now was to return to Leonato with his shame. After three steps towards the door of the chapel he stopped. Not out of his own choice but suddenly an invisible force was acting on him. He tried to compel his limbs to move forward but he actually felt hands as cold as ice gripping and pulling at his arms and legs. Sharp fingers tightened their hold, pinching into his skin making it more difficult still to move his limbs. Suddenly the invisible muscles jerked his arms outwards, crucifying him in the air, they then grabbed his legs pulling him into the air and flipping them over his head. He span for a moment in above the stone floor before the invisible hands gripped tighter, holding him upside-down, dangling four feet off the ground, his arms and legs taut in place above his head, his body spread-eagled in mid-air.

Frozen for a moment he could almost hear the beings around him thinking of what they could do with him then his limbs were jerked back around and he flipped in the air. Then he was curled around in a tight ball before being thrown cart wheeling through the air into the wall on the far side of the chapel, the creatures let go of him and he went smashing into the stone bricks and slid like a broken doll onto the floor. Before he had time to recover the hands seized him again and flung him into the air and brought him hovering above the alter. There was silence as the creatures loosened and tightened their control over him dropping him slightly every few moments. Bringing him closer and closer to the top of the crucifix that could spear him at any time. Then without warning they let him go, making him fly head first down the alter steps, skidding to a halt at the foot.

He heaved himself back to his knees trying to catch his breath then when he felt the presences had finally left he felt a hand clamp around his shoulder. His eyes rolled in his head and he turned to face whatever ghastly being was there, haunting him.

As he turned he came face to face with Friar Frances with a bemused expression on his face. "Young Claudio, Leonato has called for you."

Claudio blinked slightly before following the friar out of the church into the graveyard where the rain was no longer and the sun made him squint. As he left the old church his eyes told a different story, one of guilt and lost hope. Slowly he made his way back to Leonato, a changed man. Hero's eyes followed him as he walked on through the gravestones...

Bloodlust

2009-02-01T02:46:00.000-08:00

The cold air surrounding me whipped at my long black hair and bit into my pale skin ripping away any feeling I had left. The thin coat I was wearing was no kind of protection nor was the thigh length dress I was so fond of and of course tonight had to have been the night I chose to wear stockings. My mother used to tell me that stockings were the “socks of a prostitute”, my grandmother believed them to be the “devil’s apparel”, I however reasoned that either way sheer black hosiery looked hot. Admittedly walking down a cold dark alley didn’t exactly give me chance to flash a bit of leg. Suddenly a shiver ran down my spine and I snapped my head around to look back to the entrance to the alley. I figure was standing there, a familiar figure who’d I’d passed minutes earlier at the bar. He seemed somehow taller and thiner, more threatening, less human. Someone you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley in the witching hour. His hands were shoved in his pockets in a way that seems that he was at utter ease in the dark night. He brushed a hand through his hair and stepped over the threshold of the alley.

I turned away from him again and continued down the alley, I smiled remembering the gate at the other end, perfect for a swift escape. Two sets of footsteps echoed in the quiet shadows out of joint with each other, different species if you didn’t know any better. One set stopped.

I had frozen just a metre from the end of the alley, my hair was let go by wind and the gentle curls lay over my shoulder as still as my frozen heart. Yet more silence as his footsteps came to an end directly behind my own. The scene could have been from a painting considering the stillness as he breathed out. He hot breath swelled over my neck making my skin burn and in a movement that seemed sudden in the stillness he trail one angular hand over my hair to the base of my neck making my spine prickle.

Leaning right over my shoulder, his hot skin touching my own, he breathed in slowly and deliberately, taking in my scent. His thin hand snaked down my back and settled on my waist then with some force he gripped my waist, spun me and thrust me against the gate. The rattling sounded loudly but neither of us heard it. A guttural growl came from his throat as he pushed me into the wall with the full weight of his lean figure, I could not move, whether from force or fright. One hand worked it’s way deep into my hair and the other steadily followed the curves and contours of my body as he stroked down and settling on my thighs. Fingering the hem of my dress he buried his face in my neck, breathing deeply, his breath becoming more and more ragged. As his breath shuddered though his body once more his hips pressed into me, his lower hand now firmly grazing the top of my stocking on the inside of my thigh.

His lips brushed my neck bringing my eyes to the pale exposed skin before them, I was close enough to feel his pulse right there and suddenly all I could smell was lust and blood. That familiar energy once again course through my body and in one swift motion my incisors sharpened once more and I sunk my teeth deep into his neck, hot blood rushing over my tongue. The overwhelming taste filled me to my core with blood and as I drank, my visioned blurred, I was deaf, his scent filled my nostrils and we were one.

When I finally had drained him I examined his neck, I gently licked the two perfect bite marks in his sweet flesh, already mourning the passing of the high and dropped him to the floor. I breathed in the cold night air and with a stark realisation that my thirst was still not quenched I stalked off into the night checking that the subtle line of my stockings was still visible. Visible enough to create that perfect lustful temptation. The one that would bring me to my next Bloodlust.

Senses are an illusion

2008-10-09T12:57:00.000-07:00

The gun shot rang out in the silence of the shop. When you work the graveyard shift in a 24 hour conveiniance store not many interesting things happen and tonight had been particularly slow. So the gun shot had been somewhat suprising, in fact the last customer had ventured through the door for a cheap bottle of vodka at 1 am, 4 hours before the gun shot. The gun shot was the first thing I had heard since then... and the last thing I ever heard.

Philosophers contemplate the nature of time. How is it possible to explain how a Sunday afternoon drags on forever or even the phrase "time flies when your having fun"? Time may fly but not in my case and I'm certainly not having fun although I don't believe that I am currently having any emotions. My senses are dulled to the point where I can't feel nor hear nor smell anything... I may also have lost my site but for all I know I could be in a box six feet under. A dark thought, I know... but one contemplates these things. Another thought crosses my mind as I sit (although sit probably isn't the right verb) is that since when have I used the pronoun "one" or for that matter, since when I have known what a pronoun was?! I only work (worked? will work?) in a convieniance store because I dropped out of college... not usually one for speaking or thinking the Queen's english. Yet here I am, confined within the uneventful prison of my own thoughts. And it is a prison because since the thought of a coffin crossed my mind I feel that I am lying down in a confined space in spite of seeing or feeling nothing and having absolutly no spacial awareness. Panic begins to form on the edge of my conciousness at the thought of being trapped in a box.

Suddenly there is a crash nearby, I don't see it or hear it I just seem to feel it without it the use of my sensory organs and when I say "crash" I don't mean one thing hitting another. In my current state of existance a pindrop would feel like an explosion but all I know is that suddenly whatever space I am existing in is no longer just my own mind, there is someone, something else here. And I no longer feel nothing, I have the sense of standing in a vast area which seems to be nothing but a cold hard floor but it is there and exists. I feel also, that I have just opened my eyes even though I have greeted the same view of utter darkness and it is darkness rather than just the inside of my eyelids.

Turn the light on.

It's not a voice... more a thought sent in my direction. I try to reply but I have a distinct worry that I have no vocal chords.

Sound is an illusion.

Turn the light on.

I turn my thoughts towards creating a reply.

There is no light.

It is weak, feeble, just a whisper but I know the other being feels it and understands it.

Of course not.

Just imagine.

I don't understand what is going on but nevertheless I think of a light... specifically the hideous lamp that sits in the corner of my living room. It's a standing lamp, the stand itself it tall and thin made of chrome and the top is light a giant goofy lightbulb that casts an eery glow every time I switched it on. And then, out of nothing it is there, right in front of me looking like a silver metal stick poking out of the ground had just had an idea straight out of a cartoon. It's eery glow spreads until I'm in the middle of a brightly lit room but a room that goes on forever, I can't make out the outer walls and the ceiling seems non-existant. The whole place is bright white other than the voice. The voice who I can now see.

"It's sad that New Borns always wake up in darkness. It always makes me worry as to what the Human State does to a consiousness." I just blinked bemusedly in reply for the man talking (and he was talking now) looked exactly alike to Morgan Freeman except I don't believe Morgan Freeman has ever had the chance to wear my Uncle's purple flared suit from the seventies. I blinked again and took a moment to realise that I was still in my vile blue uniform from work with my hair in a hastily tied ponytail. A small voice at the back of my mind was saying "of course! you haven't had chance to change!" but I couldn't fathom the meaning of that and so I turned my attention back to Morgan Freeman.

"I know it probably seems strange but New Borns always find it difficult to adjust and so most have to visualise in order to cope. Light is an illusion but it helps to imagine. I presume you are seeing me as a seemingly random person from your time in the Human State. It won't make sense now but I believe it will in time." Morgan Freeman chuckled. "I remember when I got here for the first time. My Guide looked my high school geography teacher sitting in a bath of beans. Looking back it makes perfect sense but at the time I was rather perplexed."

"but what..?!"

"Time for questions later. We must leave your inner concious soon as I don't wish to prolong my presence here." He reached out a hand or I thought that he reached out a hand or possibly he sent the thought of it to me... either way I took it and he led me towards a small discreet door that I hadn't noticed before. He grasped the handle and looked back at me.

Welcome to the Real world.

Tristan & Victoria

2008-10-09T05:46:00.000-07:00

Victoria looked down at the crumpled note in her hand and back up and the foreboding building in front of her. The derelict warehouse stood ominously in front of her, black grimy bricks glistened slightly in the rain and the broken windows looked like sharp teeth in the moonlight. From a distance the entire place seemed dead but from where Victoria was standing she could here the dull roar of a crowd in the basement. The gathering where the note said it would be. Where Tristan would be; Tristan the vampire.

Victoria couldn’t be more uncertain as to why she was here. The note said to go down to the basement, apparently his name should be enough to get in and Tristan himself would be in there already. She’d probably been watching too much Buffy but she couldn’t help reassuring herself that Tristan was a good person hence so must be his... friends.

She jumped as a man suddenly opened the door in front of her; he was stocky and had greasy black hair which lay half-heartedly on his head. Dark hungry eyes peered at her through the rain before he grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly into the dim hallway.

“You must be Tristan’s,” he said with a strange smile and pushed her towards a staircase heading down into the basement, at the bottom was a non-descript door which she slowly walked through into the basement itself.

There were around sixty people in the shadowy room, mainly men but a few women too, gathered around the edges as if waiting for some kind of performance; the excited banter stopped as soon as Victoria stepped through the door. The black suited man who had brought her in stepped around her and greeted the nearest man, a scrawny nervous-looking lad.

“Good evening, Roman.” He gestured towards Victoria, “Tristan’s?” Roman, the vampire ‘leader’, nodded. Victoria nearly spoke up; “I’m not Tristan’s, I’m here of my own free will” but she has a strange feeling that wasn’t true. A walkie-talkie appeared in Roman’s hand and he spoke a brief inaudible instruction into it before pushing Victoria to the side, slightly away from the nearest of the crowd. At the far back of the room a door opened and two tall men... monsters... dragged in the bloody and beaten body of...

“TRISTAN!!” Victoria screamed and went to run towards him but two vampires appeared out of nowhere and restrained her, her usual strong wills disappearing. Roman stalked casually up to her; he was close enough so that she could feel his hot breath on her neck.

“Don’t worry; he’s still alive... well, in our own special kind of way. But he needed to be punished because he brought you here. An un-blooded one... in our domain, did he really think you would want to be one of us? No-one is this way out of choice... and yet you came. Maybe in a sick, twisted way you want this...” He scraped a strangely sharp nail down her neck making her quietly shudder. In an instant he thrust out an arm and seized the nervous lad’s neck bringing him closer, using the same nail he gouged a deep cut into the side of his neck and let the blood spray onto his hand. Raising his hand above her face Victoria couldn’t help but following it with her eyes, he flexed his fingers and the blood dripped onto her cheek. She recoiled in horror as he hissed into her ear, “like delicious teardrops...” The creatures behind her released her arms but Roman grasped at the back of her neck, holding her tight. He clicked his fingers at his bloodied assistant and the young man scurried off, seconds later he returned with a beautiful cut wineglass filled, glistening to the brim with...

Victoria gasped and squirmed in Roman’s grip but couldn’t move, Roman dipped a long finger into the glass of blood, stared at it for a moment before slowly running it along Victoria’s bottom lip leaving a shimmering trail of blood that traced down her chin and onto her neck. She was frozen to the spot, her eyes locked with Roman’s.

“No, Roman!! Stop it! You’ve gone too far! I’ve learnt my lesson!” screamed Tristan from the other side of the room. Roman cocked his head slightly and silently mouthed “no” before taking the glass and tilting it over Victoria’s mouth. She squirmed again in his grasp but his hand moved and grabbed her chin, shaking his head teasingly. The glass tipped and the thick crimson liquid rolled out of the glass and straight between her lips and sliced down into her throat.

Out of my depth

2008-10-09T05:40:00.000-07:00

I stopped to catch my breath and collect my thoughts. They must still have been following me, although the sirens were in the distance now, but maybe they had followed on foot. I took stock of my surroundings. I was standing in the middle of the high street; actually it’s more of a square than a street. It’s probably not the best place to hide but at least I could lose myself easily in the crowd, everyone seemed determined to get somewhere and I seemed to be the only one who didn’t know what to do or where to go.

Well, not the only one. There was a fountain in the middle of the square, just half a dozen metres away, which might have been grand and imposing once but now seemed to represent a public convenience… for pigeons. A family were sitting on one side eating chips and probably discussing which shop to visit next or whether or not to go to the bank. I turned away and remembered what I was doing.

I was being chased.

I spotted my chance in the building next along from the bank; the old library doesn’t seem to fit comfortably in with the rest of the 21st century but I headed straight through the door anyway. One thing I didn’t notice was the scruffy girl placing down her newspaper and disappearing down an alley to the side of the library.

Once in the library I let my eyes adjust to the dark and look around, it was just how I remembered it although I hadn’t been there for years; giant bookcases reaching the rafters and crooked tables strewn haphazardly in the corners. I headed for a small table at the back of the room and grabbed a random book from the nearest shelf before sitting down.

The bookcase creaks and before I register that fact another thing happens. I suddenly feel cold metal being pushed into the back of my neck; the unmistakable feel of the barrel of a gun, even someone who’s never experienced this would still understand the meaning of the metallic touch that sends shivers down the strongest of men’s spines.

The door of the library opens but a bookcase obscures my… our view but I still here a police officer address the librarian.

“Come with me quietly now and I won’t hurt you,” the voice behind me whispers. I don’t answer; it’s like being stuck between a rock and a hard place.

“I won’t hurt you,” my apparent captor repeats, “but they will”. My captor isn’t talking about the police but the police are defiantly not barging into the library for the good of their health, they have higher orders. Higher orders that probably contain the words ‘dead or alive’.

I nod my head slowly and the press of the gun disappears but before I think of making a break for it I hear a click and feel a gust of cold air. Suddenly I am dragged by the scruff of my neck down a passageway, the door swings silently shut behind us and I realise I have been taken into the bookcase that was plain and ordinary only a few minutes before. I realised that now, maybe, I was out of my depth.

E Company

2008-10-09T05:09:00.001-07:00

“Left flank! Forward!” Captain James McLeod ordered his men behind the nearby barn, which was their only protection from the raging gunfire. The field itself was a desolate necropolis after the fighting of the day, flies hovering in anticipation for McLeod’s men and a grey mist creeping over the horizon.

“Where’s the rest of E Company, Captain?” asked Jack of his commanding officer although he knew the answer already.

“It’s just us, soldier”, he said as he scouted the field, “The rest of the mission is up to us.” The rest of the men nodded in a way that only men who have seen such abominations and lived through it could.

“In the next dip of gunfire sprint for that ridge”, ordered their Captain, “And stay low!” The gunfire quietened and James nodded to his men, mouthing to them; guns at the ready. But they already knew that: they had been at Bastogne. Harry, the youngest private, had lost his best friend Billy during a race for the foxholes.

Harry sprinted first and leaped, skidding, behind the ridge. He checked his rifle and surveyed the enemy troops with the barrel. Jack was next to go running into their no-mans-land, gun clamped to his side, like a torpedo he landed next to Harry and mirrored his position. A few rounds of sniper fire whistled past Captain McLeod’s ear.

“Quickly Scott, go!” The raven-headed soldier started across but had only gotten two steps when a sniper’s bullet ripped through him like a hot iron.

Captain James McLeod cursed and turned to his remaining counterpart. Private Lewis, a replacement from D Company, young and scared, he’d been good friends with Scott. They raced over to the downed Private and slung themselves on either side of him. He wasn’t breathing. McLeod checked his pulse and shook his head. Lewis put his hand over his friends face and closed his eyelids as McLeod wrenched the dog tag from the dead soldier’s neck. They ran on to the remains of their company.

“Scott?” asked Private Jack. Lewis just shook his head and collapsed down beside Harry.

“What’s the next offensive, Captain?” asked Harry. The Captain thought for a moment before looking over the ridge and speaking.

“We take out the sniper then launch a load of grenades at the soldiers on the ground.”

The four soldiers were about to clamber over the ridge when a bullet sliced through Jack’s neck like a jagged knife. It sent him flying back four feet where he skidded to a half, scarring the earth. Even the Germans must have heard the blood curdling screams as the three soldiers ran to the private’s side as James inspected the wound. Jack grasped Harry’s hand in a vice grip.

“I don’t want to die! I can’t die!” he was shaking terribly, so his Captain could barely see the wound through the blood. An explosion cracked through the air behind them and the soldiers snapped their necks round but when the looked back at Jack his sad, glazed eyes were looking at something they couldn’t see. He slumped in Captain McLeod’s arms.

A moment later the wounded troop began to advance slowly on the enemy shooting as they went...

“Boys!” shouted a shrill female voice. “Dinner’s ready!” Three boys turned around.

“Aw... Mam!” said Captain James McLeod, “We were just about to advance on the German army!” he whined. The three khaki clad boys scampered back down the garden path back to the house. As they went back James’ Mom asked where the others were.

“They had to go home, Mam!” he said.

“Yeah”, agreed Lewis, “They got killed by the Germans!”

I never shall tire again.

2008-10-09T02:15:00.000-07:00

It’s ten o’clock and I’m only just getting out of school. I suppose it’s the curse of being a drama student but that doesn’t comfort you against the dark when you leave. The blackness folds around you like a shadowy cape that you can’t shrug off, and even the not easily spooked aren’t entirely confident underneath the moon. Walking out of the school gates I rubbed my eyes slightly, I was so tired I think If it hadn't have been so cold I would have slept where I fell. It was so cold however, that I just brought my coat closer around me and started to shuffle home. I breath out slowly and the cold air hit my throat, making my eyes water. I could hear cars in the distance, along with the muffled sound of the pub I had to pass everyday to get to home. So many people…

and yet no-one came to help.

In order to cross the road I have to walk under the canal bridge; on one side of me was the dark, dank, dripping brickwork, the other side was just cold black water. On any other night it would have been different, I'd have crossed the road to avoid going under the bridge but I was still buzzing from the rehearsal, earlier. So much so that I didn't hear him come up behind me until he had me in his grip. I felt his hot breath on my neck and a slight growl before razor sharp fangs sunk into my neck. I tried to scream, I tried to fight back but he was inhumanly strong and I slipped into the blackness.

I must say that it's a strange experience to wake up drowned. When you scream you realise you're breathing in water and you can't feel it... it makes you want to scream again but there's no release. Just more water, more water spinning down your throat like air. And that alone told me. Told me I was no longer of the living. It seems a strange thing to think when I am on the bed of the canal, underneath a bridge only minutes from my home. But I instinctively know that I can never go back.

Somehow I have no grief, no sadness, I am suddenly detached from my old life... it's a new start. But a new start in which I need to spend the entire day under water as to avoid the blinding sun that cuts through the water just metres away. I can feel the cold water biting into my skin but it's not an unpleasant feeling, as a human I would liken it to the warmth of the sun on your arms though the memory of that feeling fills me with a burning fear. I move my arm through the water in front of me, it ripples in front of me, dancing and swirling. I suddenly understand the unspeakable beauty of the natural world but with that knowledge comes a niggling hunger fighting for attention.

Hours later the light disappears from the water and I swim towards the bank. Surprisingly strong arms allow me to lift myself out of the water, my wet clothes clinging to me, the water dripping red with my own blood. An old lady walking her dog screams and basically runs on along the canal path when she sees my now skinny skeletal form, calm and pale in the moonlight.
Now I run. I run away from the village I grew up in, away from anyone who knew me and away from my disappearance that will be haunting my family and friends... my family and friends who now feel like strangers to me. I run to the main road and head towards the next town and on through time itself... miles and miles I run but I don't tire, I never tire.

And I never shall.