He was beautiful. The way he moved on stage, his hips, his hair, the way his eyes concentrated on the words flowing from to the microphone to the crowd. She'd watched him on the television, heard him on the radio. His voice was so wonderful. With her heightened senses she could feel the timber of it rumbling through her every time a song came on. She knew months ago that she had to have him.
She was in the concert, now, watching him. Her bright, blue eyes were hidden behind wing tipped glasses, but it didn't matter, he would notice her. The crowd screamed loudly at the first notes of the next song, so deafening was it, she actually cringed from the pain. Her slender, pale hand pushed back the mane of her hair that had fallen over her shoulder as she was pushed closer to the stage. In her two hundred plus years on this plane she had never lost her cool, she wouldn't start now.
She wasn't human. Not even close. She appeared to be one, when she chose, beautiful and come-hither, but she was not what she looked like. She was a predator. Something ancient and evil, according to scriptures, and she fed on the life-force of men. She had had a few females, but the men were all so much better. She loved their essences, their strength, their taste. It fueled her. THEY fueled her. And their screams, when she finally showed them her true self were the dessert at the end of the meal. She wondered, idly, if he'd scream.
She stood among the crowd of females, generic compared to her. She was beautiful. Her long, black hair cascaded down to her hips, her breasts were large and her waist thin. The curve of her hips into her slender thighs usually drew eyes away from her perfect face with alabaster skin. She had a perfect smile hidden behind plump lips. At first glance no man or woman could tell her succubi true form lurking beneath the polished surface of her flawlessness.
The concert raged on, not a dull moment, every girl in the crowd becoming hoarse and sweaty from their screaming and jumping and pleading. Some stood with quivering lips, their make up smeared down their cheeks as they wept from joy at seeing him. She smiled coolly to herself, knowing she'd have him and they'd be left wanting. Despite her nefarious plot she let herself enjoy the music, the band behind him, the guitars. But it was his voice. Oh his voice awakened something deep inside her, a lust she'd not felt in years.
The night drew to a close and the crowd began shuffling out. She stayed calm and smoothed down her skirt, primped her hair, made sure the bright red lipstick on her thick lips was flawless. The she began her plan. She walked to the nearest security man and introduced herself. Her name didn't matter. They all fell under her spell. One after another they let her deeper and deeper backstage. Finally she reached the door she had dreamed of for months. She knocked.
The white door with the golden star upon swung open. He smiled at her. She tried to act shy, let her cheeks flush at the sight of him. His black hair in disarray and his lopsided smile made it easy. She looked up at him and smiled back coyly, giving her name. Her spell had already trapped him in her web. After looking her once over he introduced himself as she walked inside and the door closed behind her, "Well hello, miss. I'm Elvis Presley."
For Vixi
Monday, October 28, 2013
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
Hope In A Dead World (Original Short)
The spindly trees were bare, their leaves fallen and gone. Against the grey winter morning they looked like skeletal hands reaching toward the heavens, pleading for salvation that would never come. The color had left the world, it seemed, and everything was grey and white. Inches of snow covered the ground the same way the thick clouds hid the sun. M's pack was heavy with cans, the latest plunder from a family that hadn't been able to stay undead hands from tearing their bodies asunder and leaving them to come back to roam the earth as moaning corpses. There was five, three of them children. M put them to rest.
After leaving the smoking and bloody remains of Haven, he had been traveling north, hoping to reach another colony, but the encampments he'd run across had all met similar fates. Dale, the other survivor of Haven, and him had parted ways weeks ago. Dale opted to go south in hope of finding something more near the coast. M didn't dash his hopes by telling him he'd been on the south coast when the Great Panic had hit. There was no one left there; no one left to recant the screaming and fires that had engulfed almost everything.
The road ahead of him was barren: no cars, no RV's, no bodies. It seemed this lost highway had been spared the burden of hundreds or thousands of bodies that the dead were sure to have left behind. M's hand checked to see if his machete and knife were clear in their sheaths, before pulling his jacket closed against the freezing wind that whipped past, kicking up swirls of white and making them dance like gleeful ghosts celebrating the fall of man.
Off to each side of the four lanes he walked were nothing but flat lands, the trees a good hundred yards past that. Though nothing seemed to move, M's eyes were keen and never relaxed, constantly searching and scanning. He had put his own hope on a trickle, preserving it, like precious water in the desert. Just as he was about to dare to let another drop of it fall, fate seemed determined to justify his greediness with the lacking commodity.
Not fifty feet in front of him a figure rose from the drift, half caked in white, half caked in dry, black blood. The front of the thing's clothes was ripped open, displaying a half frozen, ghastly wound from which it surely had died. M didn't suddenly halt - that would draw its attention - instead he moved slowly into crouching, using the flurries as cover, keeping his steady pace toward the zombie. M's hand went smoothly to the blade taped to the strap of his pack, drawing the matte black instrument.
The creature was facing just left of M's position so it didn't see him until it was too late. With practiced precision, and the distance a mere 20 feet, the throw was easy. The arm with the weapon in it coiled at the shoulder, tensing muscles and tendons, keeping the blade in a solid grip. Like a rattlesnake striking, M's arm unfolded at blazing speed, loosing the knife. The tip whistled through the air, landing with a solid 'thunk' in the undead's skull, cutting off the beginning of a moan.
Silently it crumpled into a heap upon the frozen pavement like a marionette with its strings cut. Though the immediate threat was ended, the danger was far from over. M stayed as still as the dead body with the knife in its temple for a moment, straining his hearing against the persistent wind. It felt like an hour as he waited, scanning for signs of more of them. None came. With a slow exhale, M stood and continued his walk, pausing only for a moment to retrieve his knife and return it to the sheath. Time seemed to resume its grinding pace, as soon the grey sky was bruised red, purple, and pink with the sunset.
With a rope and some cleverly placed knives, M climbed a tree and sat down to his dinner: a can of chili with a faded label. He made no fire, shed no light, and was near silent opening the stubborn can to get at its contents, eating as he secured his pack on a limb, along with himself. Night came and went quickly, the morning beating down its golden rays upon his face and waking him from a dreamless sleep. The morning routine went into effect: cleaning his blades and rifle, repacking everything, and checking the map he had to determine his location.
The silence in a world ruled by the walking dead is easily broken. As fewer people inhabited the Earth, the old, familiar sounds of life now seemed alien; so much so that the sound of an engine roaring up the abandoned highway was enough to make M grab his rifle and stare wide-eyed at the disturbance. The faded blue SUV blazed past his safe spot in the tree. The windows were tinted, hiding its driver. It took him fifteen whole minutes to recover, replace his rifle and climb higher to investigate the direction from which the vehicle had come.
The scope on his rifle revealed something he thought he'd never see again: strings of black and white smoke slithering their way up the sky from the horizon of dead trees. His breath caught in his throat, and he let a golden drop of hope fall. His hands were shaking so bad from excitement, he was barely able to maintain his grip as he scrambled down the trunk of the tree where he'd made his perch the night before.
As he landed heavily on the iced earth below, he heard something that made every hair on his body stand on end: moans of dozens of corpses. The vehicle woke every snow-covered corpse in the area, and they were all converging upon the road in search of a meal. For the first time in a long time, M ran. Headlong into the gathering hoard he dashed, unsheathing his machete and knife, ready to carve his way to that camp - to his new, possible home. Impossible seemed only a vague concept now. Another drop of hope.
After leaving the smoking and bloody remains of Haven, he had been traveling north, hoping to reach another colony, but the encampments he'd run across had all met similar fates. Dale, the other survivor of Haven, and him had parted ways weeks ago. Dale opted to go south in hope of finding something more near the coast. M didn't dash his hopes by telling him he'd been on the south coast when the Great Panic had hit. There was no one left there; no one left to recant the screaming and fires that had engulfed almost everything.
The road ahead of him was barren: no cars, no RV's, no bodies. It seemed this lost highway had been spared the burden of hundreds or thousands of bodies that the dead were sure to have left behind. M's hand checked to see if his machete and knife were clear in their sheaths, before pulling his jacket closed against the freezing wind that whipped past, kicking up swirls of white and making them dance like gleeful ghosts celebrating the fall of man.
Off to each side of the four lanes he walked were nothing but flat lands, the trees a good hundred yards past that. Though nothing seemed to move, M's eyes were keen and never relaxed, constantly searching and scanning. He had put his own hope on a trickle, preserving it, like precious water in the desert. Just as he was about to dare to let another drop of it fall, fate seemed determined to justify his greediness with the lacking commodity.
Not fifty feet in front of him a figure rose from the drift, half caked in white, half caked in dry, black blood. The front of the thing's clothes was ripped open, displaying a half frozen, ghastly wound from which it surely had died. M didn't suddenly halt - that would draw its attention - instead he moved slowly into crouching, using the flurries as cover, keeping his steady pace toward the zombie. M's hand went smoothly to the blade taped to the strap of his pack, drawing the matte black instrument.
The creature was facing just left of M's position so it didn't see him until it was too late. With practiced precision, and the distance a mere 20 feet, the throw was easy. The arm with the weapon in it coiled at the shoulder, tensing muscles and tendons, keeping the blade in a solid grip. Like a rattlesnake striking, M's arm unfolded at blazing speed, loosing the knife. The tip whistled through the air, landing with a solid 'thunk' in the undead's skull, cutting off the beginning of a moan.
Silently it crumpled into a heap upon the frozen pavement like a marionette with its strings cut. Though the immediate threat was ended, the danger was far from over. M stayed as still as the dead body with the knife in its temple for a moment, straining his hearing against the persistent wind. It felt like an hour as he waited, scanning for signs of more of them. None came. With a slow exhale, M stood and continued his walk, pausing only for a moment to retrieve his knife and return it to the sheath. Time seemed to resume its grinding pace, as soon the grey sky was bruised red, purple, and pink with the sunset.
With a rope and some cleverly placed knives, M climbed a tree and sat down to his dinner: a can of chili with a faded label. He made no fire, shed no light, and was near silent opening the stubborn can to get at its contents, eating as he secured his pack on a limb, along with himself. Night came and went quickly, the morning beating down its golden rays upon his face and waking him from a dreamless sleep. The morning routine went into effect: cleaning his blades and rifle, repacking everything, and checking the map he had to determine his location.
The silence in a world ruled by the walking dead is easily broken. As fewer people inhabited the Earth, the old, familiar sounds of life now seemed alien; so much so that the sound of an engine roaring up the abandoned highway was enough to make M grab his rifle and stare wide-eyed at the disturbance. The faded blue SUV blazed past his safe spot in the tree. The windows were tinted, hiding its driver. It took him fifteen whole minutes to recover, replace his rifle and climb higher to investigate the direction from which the vehicle had come.
The scope on his rifle revealed something he thought he'd never see again: strings of black and white smoke slithering their way up the sky from the horizon of dead trees. His breath caught in his throat, and he let a golden drop of hope fall. His hands were shaking so bad from excitement, he was barely able to maintain his grip as he scrambled down the trunk of the tree where he'd made his perch the night before.
As he landed heavily on the iced earth below, he heard something that made every hair on his body stand on end: moans of dozens of corpses. The vehicle woke every snow-covered corpse in the area, and they were all converging upon the road in search of a meal. For the first time in a long time, M ran. Headlong into the gathering hoard he dashed, unsheathing his machete and knife, ready to carve his way to that camp - to his new, possible home. Impossible seemed only a vague concept now. Another drop of hope.
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Fall From Understanding (Original Short)
'Everyone's allowed to slip once. Right?' that's the only thought Michael had as he stood at the broken out window on the 37th floor of a building he'd ducked into while running from hunters, staring at the expanse of night and much shorter buildings before him. The warm blood still coursed through his veins, though he'd fed over four hours ago. The door at the other end of the empty floor burst open with the help of a few bullets to the lock that had been thrown closed behind the man fleeing. Michael's short hair fluttered around in the updraft of the unhindered wind up so high, his eyes that saw better at night watered from the dry gust. Heavy boots fueled the growing panic welling up in him as his clothes whipped against his body like it wanted to escape the situation he was currently in. Apparently fashion designers are afraid of heights, too. Shouted orders to stand down cinched the decision.
With a grunt Michael threw his thin body out the window, spreading his arms and legs in a hope to steer him onto a nearby rooftop. 'Birds must be mad.' A thought screamed as he squinted his eyes against the force of the gale of wind caused by his falling. The overpowering howl in his ears wasn't enough to drown out the gunshots that rang out from the window he'd just left. None of the bullets touched him as he descended, rocking his body back and forth against the invisible force in an attempt to steer himself. As fast as he knew he was going down he couldn't help but marvel at how slow it seemed to feel. He took a minute to consider how he'd gotten here. The man was sick, beyond helping by any medical profession, and suffering. From the short conversation between them the man confessed he'd have to suffer in his condition for months to come. Then he begged Michael to end it. Michael obliged, making it quick. Even in the most profoundly intimate moments one tries to have eyes are ever watchful. A hunter had been passing by the park bench, where the man that suffered no longer, had been laid to rest for the final time. Michael was in the middle of saying a prayer when the screaming started, quick barks of orders, shouting for his compliance.
Michael tried to explain, but the laws were ironclad. One man chased by many tore through the giant park in an attempt to flee, knocking people over, kicking up dirt and grass alike. Normally Michael would've been able to outrun any normal man, but the ones chasing him weren't normal. They were bred and trained to hunt Michael's kind: Vampires. Half of downtown was in an uproar over the stray bullets and smashed windows, parking meters, cars, marble pillars, and one poodle. Although, Michael admonished, the poodle was the hunters fault. And all for an ancient law made thousands of years ago between vampires and humans dictating that any vamp that fed on humans was considered rogue and due for termination. The methods have advanced from wooden stakes with a silver tip to bullets filled with liquid silver, garlic, and a powerful anticoagulant. A single bullet in the right place could leave a vamp a smoldering, smoking, pile of ash. Thus far none had hit their mark, luckily. After near an hour of running at top speed the men chased the vampire they pursued into an abandon building. They probably thought they'd trapped him. Had it not been for the combination of opportunity and fear, they would have been right.
437 years on this earth and it might end tonight because of an act of mercy. Funny. Michael marveled at how fast his landing was upon him. With a body shattering slam he met the hard gravel roof, just missing the unforgiving ledge, of the building across from the window he'd just jumped from. His entire body was on fire. Bones were broken. He was bleeding. But with that warm blood still in him he would heal in a few minutes at the sacrifice of a few of his usual abilities. He managed to twist his body to look up a the surprising distance he'd just fallen, his eyes straining with agony. He was able to see the men pursuing him curse and go back inside, none able to do what he had just done. He let sleep take him for a minute or two, bones cracking back into place, wounds sealing, pain still present and blazing, but ignorable. When he regained his senses he stood and limped down the stairs, dark thoughts clouding his thinking. If they want a war they got a war. He was committed to the idea. War on the humans. In the name of a misunderstanding. Blood will run. Immortal and the like. He would see to it.
With a grunt Michael threw his thin body out the window, spreading his arms and legs in a hope to steer him onto a nearby rooftop. 'Birds must be mad.' A thought screamed as he squinted his eyes against the force of the gale of wind caused by his falling. The overpowering howl in his ears wasn't enough to drown out the gunshots that rang out from the window he'd just left. None of the bullets touched him as he descended, rocking his body back and forth against the invisible force in an attempt to steer himself. As fast as he knew he was going down he couldn't help but marvel at how slow it seemed to feel. He took a minute to consider how he'd gotten here. The man was sick, beyond helping by any medical profession, and suffering. From the short conversation between them the man confessed he'd have to suffer in his condition for months to come. Then he begged Michael to end it. Michael obliged, making it quick. Even in the most profoundly intimate moments one tries to have eyes are ever watchful. A hunter had been passing by the park bench, where the man that suffered no longer, had been laid to rest for the final time. Michael was in the middle of saying a prayer when the screaming started, quick barks of orders, shouting for his compliance.
Michael tried to explain, but the laws were ironclad. One man chased by many tore through the giant park in an attempt to flee, knocking people over, kicking up dirt and grass alike. Normally Michael would've been able to outrun any normal man, but the ones chasing him weren't normal. They were bred and trained to hunt Michael's kind: Vampires. Half of downtown was in an uproar over the stray bullets and smashed windows, parking meters, cars, marble pillars, and one poodle. Although, Michael admonished, the poodle was the hunters fault. And all for an ancient law made thousands of years ago between vampires and humans dictating that any vamp that fed on humans was considered rogue and due for termination. The methods have advanced from wooden stakes with a silver tip to bullets filled with liquid silver, garlic, and a powerful anticoagulant. A single bullet in the right place could leave a vamp a smoldering, smoking, pile of ash. Thus far none had hit their mark, luckily. After near an hour of running at top speed the men chased the vampire they pursued into an abandon building. They probably thought they'd trapped him. Had it not been for the combination of opportunity and fear, they would have been right.
437 years on this earth and it might end tonight because of an act of mercy. Funny. Michael marveled at how fast his landing was upon him. With a body shattering slam he met the hard gravel roof, just missing the unforgiving ledge, of the building across from the window he'd just jumped from. His entire body was on fire. Bones were broken. He was bleeding. But with that warm blood still in him he would heal in a few minutes at the sacrifice of a few of his usual abilities. He managed to twist his body to look up a the surprising distance he'd just fallen, his eyes straining with agony. He was able to see the men pursuing him curse and go back inside, none able to do what he had just done. He let sleep take him for a minute or two, bones cracking back into place, wounds sealing, pain still present and blazing, but ignorable. When he regained his senses he stood and limped down the stairs, dark thoughts clouding his thinking. If they want a war they got a war. He was committed to the idea. War on the humans. In the name of a misunderstanding. Blood will run. Immortal and the like. He would see to it.
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